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hetaliasunshine2009-10-14 11:52 pm
lynn-pryderi.livejournal.com) wrote in hetaliasunshine2009-10-14 11:52 pm
[Fanfic] Across the Pond
TITLE: Across the Pond
AUTHOR:![[profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lynn_pryderi
RECIPIENT:angelic_ink
CHARACTERS: America, England
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: America and England waking up together and going through their morning routines.
Arthur woke from dreams of fairies with the sunlight warming the back of his neck and Alfred’s naked back rising and falling silently beneath his arm. The sun was slanting in serenely through the tall windows, striping across the bed, silent and relentlessly pretty.
He lifted his head reluctantly. There was still plenty of time before their flight left. There was no rush…but it was already mid-afternoon in London, and that thought made it hard to go back to sleep, even if the bed and its other occupant were both maddeningly comfortable. Arthur rolled onto his side, back to the view of gleaming water, astonishingly blue skies, and waving palms.
Alfred lay stretched out on his stomach beside Arthur, one hand tucked beneath his cheek and the other hanging off the bed. His sleeping face was slightly smooshed against his own knuckles and his dog tags had gotten turned so that they rested between his shoulder blades, the thin chain leaving prints in his throat.
This boy had once been so much smaller--he had slept in a sprawled mess then, and he did now. Arthur watched him for a long moment, content just to listen to the younger nation breathing. This would be, after all, the quietest Alfred would be all day.
He reached out and smoothed his fingers gently down Alfred’s back, tracing the valley between his shoulder blades, and the ridge of his spine. The morning light coming in through the window showed how tan Florida had made Alfred. Arthur leaned over idly and pressed his lips to Alfred’s shoulder, tracing the curve of the back of his neck with his mouth, tasting soap and sunscreen and salt.
“Alfred,” he murmured into Alfred’s skin. “Let’s us both get up, lad. We’ve things to do.”
Alfred just made a sort of whuffing sound, not shifting at all. Arthur’s lips skimmed the blonde hair and reached the curve of his ear, tracing it gently. The corner of Alfred’s mouth twitched a bit.
Arthur leaned back a bit, then, and smacked a fist into Alfred’s shoulder; it made a dull thud, and Alfred hardly twitched. Arthur punched him again, knowing the younger nation wasn’t feeling it at all, until Alfred stirred.
“Iggy’s meeeeeaaaaannnn,” he whined, drawing his arms up under his body and turning his face into the pillow. Arthur bit down firmly on a smile.
“How old are you?” he teased gently, and flung the covers off Alfred’s naked body, getting a complaintative whine for his efforts. He punched Alfred’s shoulder again. “Come on, there’s a good lad.”
“Nnnghhhhhhh,” Alfred complained, and rolled onto his side, facing away from Arthur. “Hnnnnnngghhhh,” he added, and rolled again, half crushing Arthur beneath his back. Arthur squawked angrily and Alfred went defiantly limp, laying all of his two-hundred-some pounds on Arthur.
“Get off of me, you great lump,” Arthur shouted indignantly, his face muffled beneath Alfred’s shoulder. “You fat cow, you, can’t you be serious at all--”
“Relax,” Alfred mumbled, and rolled reluctantly off of Arthur, yawning. Arthur sniffed irritably but Alfred just hooked one muscled arm over him and dragged him into a hug. “Mm...g’morning, by the way.”
“You’re so childish,” Arthur said reprovingly, but Alfred just pushed his face against Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur smoothed the disheveled blonde hair gently, letting himself smile. “Good morning, love.”
Alfred didn’t say anything for a long moment, his eyes closed and his breath ghosting Arthur’s skin. Arthur didn’t rush him.
“Oh hey,” Alfred murmured suddenly, lifting his head and inspecting Arthur’s still-pale shoulder. “You’ve got freckles now. I guess that means you can’t tan after all.”
He giggled at that and Arthur pushed at him uselessly, trying to heave the heavier nation off of him. “Don’t laugh,” he said crossly, “I’m English, what did you expect?”
“No,” Alfred told him with a half-asleep grin. “There ain’t nothing wrong with freckles. I like ‘em. They’re cute.” And he started kissing them, leaning into Arthur until he’d flattened Arthur against the mattress.
“Augh, stop,” Arthur ordered him, half-heartedly. He couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him--it tickled, as Alfred’s lips teased the skin only very lightly.
“You got ‘em on your face, too,” Alfred observed, and raised his head, lips going for Arthur’s freshly-speckled cheeks. Arthur quickly put his hands up, and Alfred’s lips landed against his palms.
“Stop it,” Arthur told him firmly, amused. “If we start this again we’ll miss our plane later. You know we will.”
“Aaw,” Alfred said disappointedly, and sat up, unpinning Arthur. “Fine...can we do it in the hotel, then? After the meeting and everything, I mean.”
Arthur rolled his eyes and sat up as well. “All right,” he said, trying to sound grudging. “Go take a shower, you great lump. I’ll get breakfast started.”
The look Alfred gave him was nervous. “I like this house,” Alfred began.
“I’m not going to burn it down,” Arthur told him crossly, and got up off the bed. Alfred didn’t look convinced, so Arthur relented. “Fine. I’ll go shower, and you make breakfast. I don’t want any bacon-flavoured anything that isn’t in fact bacon, though, understand?”
“Okay,” Alfred said brightly, bouncing up off the bed. He snatched his glasses and his bathrobe off the chair beside the door and strode out, pulling it on. Arthur headed for the bathroom, thinking that compromise might really actually be key to a good relationship after all.
It was still early, but already bright and hot outside. A breeze came in off the river, tugging at Alfred’s hair gently as he picked up the paper. He could see the thin strip of blue barrier island across the water, which lapped at the shore not twenty yards across the sun-bleached, narrow asphalt road. It’d been a while since he’d come to live in Florida for a bit, and he’d forgotten how nice it was.
He went reluctantly back inside, wondering if Arthur liked it at all--it was so different from England.
He set the coffee maker working, and put a mug of water in the microwave to boil for Arthur’s tea; of course there were no kettles in the house. The fridge was mostly empty, too, but that was because Alfred had been here only a few days--but there were eggs and thick strips of bacon that he laid in a large pan and started cooking over the range.
The smell was heady and inviting; he stood there rolling the pan gently over the heat, inhaling deeply. The bacon was just finished when Arthur reappeared, in underwear and a crisp white dress shirt.
“It does smell good,” he admitted, coming over to peer into the pan. Alfred found himself just looking at Arthur for a moment, at his straw-blonde hair and the freckles that had appeared on his cheeks where his British Isles-white skin had resisted tanning. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said they were cute. He hoped, actually, that they wouldn’t fade; they made Arthur look a lot less stuffy, and a lot younger.
Arthur glanced up at him then, and for a moment Alfred just smiled vaguely at him. Arthur raised a thick eyebrow.
“Go shower,” he said. “I’ll set the table and finish the tea, all right? I can do that much.”
Alfred chuckled and passed him the pan, hurrying to shower.
The kitchen table was set when he came back into the kitchen, wearing just his boxers; Arthur had poured him a mug of coffee, and was sitting with tea in one hand and the Press Journal in the other, reading.
“Clamfest?” Arthur asked skeptically, as Alfred sat down and reached for his coffee, already cramming bacon into his mouth.
“Mm,” Alfred mumbled, surprised, and swallowed. “Is that soon? We should go.”
“What is a Clamfest?” Arthur asked guardedly, sipping his tea with grace. Alfred started shoveling spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee from the canister on the table.
“It’s just a festival,” he explained, “the locals hold it around here every year. People eat clams, and there’s music and carnival games. There’s the Frog Leg Festival sometime around here too--oh, I could go for some fried frog legs and gator tail.”
Arthur made a face but chose not to say anything. Alfred gulped down a mouthful of coffee and said, “You do that, but it’s good, I’m telling you.”
Arthur looked at him skeptically, and then at the paper. “Florida has some interesting...culture.”
“It’s different than the rest of the south,” Alfred agreed, grinning. He paused, then asked, “so, um. Do you like it here?”
There was no response for a moment; Arthur just sort of peered at him, as though trying to decide if that was some kind of innuendo. But the look on Alfred’s face wasn’t teasing, so much. It was more...hesitant, and eager. It was familiar. Finally Arthur answered, “It’s very beautiful. Devastatingly hot, but...very beautiful.”
Alfred smiled to himself and kept eating. Arthur folded the paper neatly and passed it across to Alfred, who relinquished his bacon only long enough to tear the business section out and start checking stocks. Arthur watched him almost apprehensively.
“How does it look?” he asked finally. Alfred chewed over his eggs for a moment thoughtfully, frowning.
“They’re up some,” he said pensively, and rifled through looking for the comics. “That’s good, I guess.”
“Good,” Arthur agreed quietly, and sipped his tea, watching Alfred out of the corner of his eye. Alfred frowned at the comics, too, though; Arthur vaguely remembered that face, the look of vague, nagging worry he’d had whenever he would look at the papers in the 1930s.
“Buck up,” Arthur suggested finally. “We’re going to go speak with your boss. That usually brightens you up a bit, doesn’t it?”
Alfred blinked and glanced up at Arthur, giving him that innocent, wide-eyed, blue-blue stare over his glasses. Then he laughed. “I love it when you’re nice to me,” he teased, grinning. “Just like you used to be.”
“Oh, stuff it.”
“Don’t you remember?” Alfred wheedled. “When I was a little kid? You were like, Super Dad then. Even if you were busy and you couldn’t cook.”
Arthur darted an angry glance at him over his tea. “I don’t want to think about when you were a child,” he said stiffly, “especially not after last night.”
Alfred sniggered. “I’m a big boy now,” he said, his voice brimming with smugness. Arthur looked very hard into his tea.
“You certainly are,” he said grudgingly. Alfred laughed boomingly.
“I’m gonna go get dressed,” he said, and bounded to his feet. He leaned across the table but Arthur dodged his kiss, and Alfred backed off laughingly, half-dancing from the room. Arthur rolled his eyes, rather red in the face.
He had to admit, though, the bacon was good. Just crunchy enough. It made up for the store-brand, microwaved tea. He looked at the paper again, skimming headlines for a while, before he realized something. Alfred was trying very hard to impress him. That face he’d made when he’d asked if Arthur liked Florida--and the fact that he’d been thoughtful enough to buy tea, just because Arthur couldn’t go a morning without it. That was why he’d picked one of the most beautiful spots in his country to share with Arthur; that was why there were clean sheets and a hot breakfast.
You really haven’t changed in some ways, he thought, a little put off by this realization. His relationship with Alfred had always been a little...rocky, since the Revolution. The two of them bickered a lot, and both of them were stubborn. But now it seemed like Alfred was trying to tone it down a bit, at least on a personal level. Like he was trying to compromise.
Arthur was rather surprised at how much this realization annoyed him.
He got up and strode down the hallway, into the bedroom, where Alfred was standing in just his trim dark brown slacks, ironing his white dress shirt for the trip. Arthur stood in the doorway and watched the muscles in Alfred’s back shift around as he ironed.
“You git,” he said finally, and Alfred jumped a bit, twisting around to look at Arthur with an injured expression.
“What did I do this time?” he complained. Arthur crossed his arms and made a mental effort to look forbidding.
“You needn’t try so very hard, you know,” he informed Alfred in his most clipped of tones--which, back when Alfred had been a small child, had meant he had hay in his hair or had torn his clothes or had tracked mud into the house or still needed to eat his vegetables before Arthur would let him up from the table. Alfred seemed to catch that, and gazed at Arthur dumbly, with childish wariness and guilt and alarm all tied up into one expression on his face.
Arthur had the sudden mad desire to laugh at that face. He bit the urge back firmly.
“You’re trying far too hard to impress me,” he said firmly. “Don’t. All right?”
Alfred blinked for a moment, and then said, “I just wanted you to enjoy yourself here.” He shrugged a bit, gave a guilty, charming, lopsided grin, and added, “because, y’know, maybe then you’d wanna come over more often.”
Arthur lost the fight and started chuckling at the absurdity of it. He couldn’t even bring himself to be annoyed at how foolish Alfred could be. “You’re daft,” he explained, smiling, because Alfred was now too. “If I didn’t want to be here I damn well wouldn’t be, would I? At least, not here,” he added for clarity, “with you. Really, though, the plane ride is what makes coming here miserable. I daresay you can’t do anything about that.”
Alfred grinned like a madman--that looked more familiar, Arthur thought. That was how his Alfred was supposed to smile. Like a madman, yes, but…
“Teleportation,” Alfred suggested. He smiled obnoxiously and went on importantly, “I can’t say much, but teleportation might be an option.”
“That is a load of rubbish and you know it,” Arthur told him flatly, “and your shirt is burning.”
Alfred whipped around to find the iron still sitting on his shirt, lazily scorching an iron-shaped hole into the back.
“Aaahhh! Shit!” he shouted, yanking the iron up. The shirt smoked. “...Shit. Ruined my shirt…”
Arthur shook his head. “Just wear a different one,” he said, going to his suitcase and pulling out his own shirt. “Hurry it up, all right? How far is it to Orlando?”
“A couple hours, no big deal,” Alfred said halfheartedly, putting the iron away and throwing the shirt out into the hallway. He went to the closet and started poking through the still-hanging clothes. “...All I have is my pink shirt left.”
Arthur looked up from buttoning his own shirt to see Alfred pull out a salmon-colored button-down. He laughed.
“Wear it, if you haven’t got anything else,” he challenged. “Though that is a hideous color.”
Alfred looked defeated but pulled the shirt on anyways. As he buttoned it up, he said, “We’re gonna be a sight at the airport.”
Arthur shook his head. “We are just a couple of gents going on a business trip together,” he said primly, pulling on his grey trousers. Alfred looked disappointed, maybe at the lack of color in Arthur’s wardrobe.
“Yeah,” he said, “and one of us is wearing pink, and the other’s ass is sore.”
“You wait, lad,” Arthur told him reprovingly. “See where that smart mouth of yours gets you.”
Alfred started laughing to himself, watching Arthur choose a smart navy tie. “Don’t even,” he said, and dissolved into a fit of laughter. “D-don’t...that’s just...oh God, which joke do I start with?”
He chuckled and came over to Arthur, his eyes sparkling. “Tie’s crooked,” he added, grinning. Arthur sniffed critically and dropped his hands.
Alfred straightened the tie carefully, while Arthur stood stiffly and let him. He stared firmly at Alfred’s collar, focusing on what an offensive color salmon was turning out to be. When Alfred suddenly leaned down, tugging the tie gently, Arthur jumped. He glanced up to see Alfred staring at him, holding onto his tie tightly.
“I wasn’t kidding when I said I liked your freckles, though,” he said quietly, and grinned. “They are cute.”
Arthur wrinkled his nose. “I didn’t think you were lying,” he pointed out. “You are horribly blunt. If you didn’t like them, you would say so.”
Alfred laughed and leaned forward, kissing Arthur gently. Arthur let him, and then allowed Alfred to hug him.
“Get your fill of it now,” he teased gently, and wrapped his arms around Alfred’s ribcage. “None of this nonsense at the airport, you know.”
“I know,” Alfred said in a complaining tone. He just held Arthur for a moment, and then sighed. Arthur felt a small pang of guilt, suddenly.
“How about this,” he suggested quietly. “After our business in Washington is finished, we can come back for this...Clambake.”
Alfred let go of Arthur, looking down at him excitedly. “Really?” he asked. “You want to?”
“Well,” Arthur said grudgingly, “if you want to, I’m sure we can…”
Alfred wasn’t fooled; he laughed and kissed Arthur’s forehead, and then let go.
“Okay,” he said. “We can do that. Let’s go catch a plane, okay?”
Arthur looked at him a moment, and then smiled a bit. “All right,” he agreed. “Let’s.”
Sorry I left this so late before posting. D: I really have no excuse.
AUTHOR:
lynn_pryderi RECIPIENT:
angelic_ink CHARACTERS: America, England
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: America and England waking up together and going through their morning routines.
Arthur woke from dreams of fairies with the sunlight warming the back of his neck and Alfred’s naked back rising and falling silently beneath his arm. The sun was slanting in serenely through the tall windows, striping across the bed, silent and relentlessly pretty.
He lifted his head reluctantly. There was still plenty of time before their flight left. There was no rush…but it was already mid-afternoon in London, and that thought made it hard to go back to sleep, even if the bed and its other occupant were both maddeningly comfortable. Arthur rolled onto his side, back to the view of gleaming water, astonishingly blue skies, and waving palms.
Alfred lay stretched out on his stomach beside Arthur, one hand tucked beneath his cheek and the other hanging off the bed. His sleeping face was slightly smooshed against his own knuckles and his dog tags had gotten turned so that they rested between his shoulder blades, the thin chain leaving prints in his throat.
This boy had once been so much smaller--he had slept in a sprawled mess then, and he did now. Arthur watched him for a long moment, content just to listen to the younger nation breathing. This would be, after all, the quietest Alfred would be all day.
He reached out and smoothed his fingers gently down Alfred’s back, tracing the valley between his shoulder blades, and the ridge of his spine. The morning light coming in through the window showed how tan Florida had made Alfred. Arthur leaned over idly and pressed his lips to Alfred’s shoulder, tracing the curve of the back of his neck with his mouth, tasting soap and sunscreen and salt.
“Alfred,” he murmured into Alfred’s skin. “Let’s us both get up, lad. We’ve things to do.”
Alfred just made a sort of whuffing sound, not shifting at all. Arthur’s lips skimmed the blonde hair and reached the curve of his ear, tracing it gently. The corner of Alfred’s mouth twitched a bit.
Arthur leaned back a bit, then, and smacked a fist into Alfred’s shoulder; it made a dull thud, and Alfred hardly twitched. Arthur punched him again, knowing the younger nation wasn’t feeling it at all, until Alfred stirred.
“Iggy’s meeeeeaaaaannnn,” he whined, drawing his arms up under his body and turning his face into the pillow. Arthur bit down firmly on a smile.
“How old are you?” he teased gently, and flung the covers off Alfred’s naked body, getting a complaintative whine for his efforts. He punched Alfred’s shoulder again. “Come on, there’s a good lad.”
“Nnnghhhhhhh,” Alfred complained, and rolled onto his side, facing away from Arthur. “Hnnnnnngghhhh,” he added, and rolled again, half crushing Arthur beneath his back. Arthur squawked angrily and Alfred went defiantly limp, laying all of his two-hundred-some pounds on Arthur.
“Get off of me, you great lump,” Arthur shouted indignantly, his face muffled beneath Alfred’s shoulder. “You fat cow, you, can’t you be serious at all--”
“Relax,” Alfred mumbled, and rolled reluctantly off of Arthur, yawning. Arthur sniffed irritably but Alfred just hooked one muscled arm over him and dragged him into a hug. “Mm...g’morning, by the way.”
“You’re so childish,” Arthur said reprovingly, but Alfred just pushed his face against Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur smoothed the disheveled blonde hair gently, letting himself smile. “Good morning, love.”
Alfred didn’t say anything for a long moment, his eyes closed and his breath ghosting Arthur’s skin. Arthur didn’t rush him.
“Oh hey,” Alfred murmured suddenly, lifting his head and inspecting Arthur’s still-pale shoulder. “You’ve got freckles now. I guess that means you can’t tan after all.”
He giggled at that and Arthur pushed at him uselessly, trying to heave the heavier nation off of him. “Don’t laugh,” he said crossly, “I’m English, what did you expect?”
“No,” Alfred told him with a half-asleep grin. “There ain’t nothing wrong with freckles. I like ‘em. They’re cute.” And he started kissing them, leaning into Arthur until he’d flattened Arthur against the mattress.
“Augh, stop,” Arthur ordered him, half-heartedly. He couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him--it tickled, as Alfred’s lips teased the skin only very lightly.
“You got ‘em on your face, too,” Alfred observed, and raised his head, lips going for Arthur’s freshly-speckled cheeks. Arthur quickly put his hands up, and Alfred’s lips landed against his palms.
“Stop it,” Arthur told him firmly, amused. “If we start this again we’ll miss our plane later. You know we will.”
“Aaw,” Alfred said disappointedly, and sat up, unpinning Arthur. “Fine...can we do it in the hotel, then? After the meeting and everything, I mean.”
Arthur rolled his eyes and sat up as well. “All right,” he said, trying to sound grudging. “Go take a shower, you great lump. I’ll get breakfast started.”
The look Alfred gave him was nervous. “I like this house,” Alfred began.
“I’m not going to burn it down,” Arthur told him crossly, and got up off the bed. Alfred didn’t look convinced, so Arthur relented. “Fine. I’ll go shower, and you make breakfast. I don’t want any bacon-flavoured anything that isn’t in fact bacon, though, understand?”
“Okay,” Alfred said brightly, bouncing up off the bed. He snatched his glasses and his bathrobe off the chair beside the door and strode out, pulling it on. Arthur headed for the bathroom, thinking that compromise might really actually be key to a good relationship after all.
It was still early, but already bright and hot outside. A breeze came in off the river, tugging at Alfred’s hair gently as he picked up the paper. He could see the thin strip of blue barrier island across the water, which lapped at the shore not twenty yards across the sun-bleached, narrow asphalt road. It’d been a while since he’d come to live in Florida for a bit, and he’d forgotten how nice it was.
He went reluctantly back inside, wondering if Arthur liked it at all--it was so different from England.
He set the coffee maker working, and put a mug of water in the microwave to boil for Arthur’s tea; of course there were no kettles in the house. The fridge was mostly empty, too, but that was because Alfred had been here only a few days--but there were eggs and thick strips of bacon that he laid in a large pan and started cooking over the range.
The smell was heady and inviting; he stood there rolling the pan gently over the heat, inhaling deeply. The bacon was just finished when Arthur reappeared, in underwear and a crisp white dress shirt.
“It does smell good,” he admitted, coming over to peer into the pan. Alfred found himself just looking at Arthur for a moment, at his straw-blonde hair and the freckles that had appeared on his cheeks where his British Isles-white skin had resisted tanning. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said they were cute. He hoped, actually, that they wouldn’t fade; they made Arthur look a lot less stuffy, and a lot younger.
Arthur glanced up at him then, and for a moment Alfred just smiled vaguely at him. Arthur raised a thick eyebrow.
“Go shower,” he said. “I’ll set the table and finish the tea, all right? I can do that much.”
Alfred chuckled and passed him the pan, hurrying to shower.
The kitchen table was set when he came back into the kitchen, wearing just his boxers; Arthur had poured him a mug of coffee, and was sitting with tea in one hand and the Press Journal in the other, reading.
“Clamfest?” Arthur asked skeptically, as Alfred sat down and reached for his coffee, already cramming bacon into his mouth.
“Mm,” Alfred mumbled, surprised, and swallowed. “Is that soon? We should go.”
“What is a Clamfest?” Arthur asked guardedly, sipping his tea with grace. Alfred started shoveling spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee from the canister on the table.
“It’s just a festival,” he explained, “the locals hold it around here every year. People eat clams, and there’s music and carnival games. There’s the Frog Leg Festival sometime around here too--oh, I could go for some fried frog legs and gator tail.”
Arthur made a face but chose not to say anything. Alfred gulped down a mouthful of coffee and said, “You do that, but it’s good, I’m telling you.”
Arthur looked at him skeptically, and then at the paper. “Florida has some interesting...culture.”
“It’s different than the rest of the south,” Alfred agreed, grinning. He paused, then asked, “so, um. Do you like it here?”
There was no response for a moment; Arthur just sort of peered at him, as though trying to decide if that was some kind of innuendo. But the look on Alfred’s face wasn’t teasing, so much. It was more...hesitant, and eager. It was familiar. Finally Arthur answered, “It’s very beautiful. Devastatingly hot, but...very beautiful.”
Alfred smiled to himself and kept eating. Arthur folded the paper neatly and passed it across to Alfred, who relinquished his bacon only long enough to tear the business section out and start checking stocks. Arthur watched him almost apprehensively.
“How does it look?” he asked finally. Alfred chewed over his eggs for a moment thoughtfully, frowning.
“They’re up some,” he said pensively, and rifled through looking for the comics. “That’s good, I guess.”
“Good,” Arthur agreed quietly, and sipped his tea, watching Alfred out of the corner of his eye. Alfred frowned at the comics, too, though; Arthur vaguely remembered that face, the look of vague, nagging worry he’d had whenever he would look at the papers in the 1930s.
“Buck up,” Arthur suggested finally. “We’re going to go speak with your boss. That usually brightens you up a bit, doesn’t it?”
Alfred blinked and glanced up at Arthur, giving him that innocent, wide-eyed, blue-blue stare over his glasses. Then he laughed. “I love it when you’re nice to me,” he teased, grinning. “Just like you used to be.”
“Oh, stuff it.”
“Don’t you remember?” Alfred wheedled. “When I was a little kid? You were like, Super Dad then. Even if you were busy and you couldn’t cook.”
Arthur darted an angry glance at him over his tea. “I don’t want to think about when you were a child,” he said stiffly, “especially not after last night.”
Alfred sniggered. “I’m a big boy now,” he said, his voice brimming with smugness. Arthur looked very hard into his tea.
“You certainly are,” he said grudgingly. Alfred laughed boomingly.
“I’m gonna go get dressed,” he said, and bounded to his feet. He leaned across the table but Arthur dodged his kiss, and Alfred backed off laughingly, half-dancing from the room. Arthur rolled his eyes, rather red in the face.
He had to admit, though, the bacon was good. Just crunchy enough. It made up for the store-brand, microwaved tea. He looked at the paper again, skimming headlines for a while, before he realized something. Alfred was trying very hard to impress him. That face he’d made when he’d asked if Arthur liked Florida--and the fact that he’d been thoughtful enough to buy tea, just because Arthur couldn’t go a morning without it. That was why he’d picked one of the most beautiful spots in his country to share with Arthur; that was why there were clean sheets and a hot breakfast.
You really haven’t changed in some ways, he thought, a little put off by this realization. His relationship with Alfred had always been a little...rocky, since the Revolution. The two of them bickered a lot, and both of them were stubborn. But now it seemed like Alfred was trying to tone it down a bit, at least on a personal level. Like he was trying to compromise.
Arthur was rather surprised at how much this realization annoyed him.
He got up and strode down the hallway, into the bedroom, where Alfred was standing in just his trim dark brown slacks, ironing his white dress shirt for the trip. Arthur stood in the doorway and watched the muscles in Alfred’s back shift around as he ironed.
“You git,” he said finally, and Alfred jumped a bit, twisting around to look at Arthur with an injured expression.
“What did I do this time?” he complained. Arthur crossed his arms and made a mental effort to look forbidding.
“You needn’t try so very hard, you know,” he informed Alfred in his most clipped of tones--which, back when Alfred had been a small child, had meant he had hay in his hair or had torn his clothes or had tracked mud into the house or still needed to eat his vegetables before Arthur would let him up from the table. Alfred seemed to catch that, and gazed at Arthur dumbly, with childish wariness and guilt and alarm all tied up into one expression on his face.
Arthur had the sudden mad desire to laugh at that face. He bit the urge back firmly.
“You’re trying far too hard to impress me,” he said firmly. “Don’t. All right?”
Alfred blinked for a moment, and then said, “I just wanted you to enjoy yourself here.” He shrugged a bit, gave a guilty, charming, lopsided grin, and added, “because, y’know, maybe then you’d wanna come over more often.”
Arthur lost the fight and started chuckling at the absurdity of it. He couldn’t even bring himself to be annoyed at how foolish Alfred could be. “You’re daft,” he explained, smiling, because Alfred was now too. “If I didn’t want to be here I damn well wouldn’t be, would I? At least, not here,” he added for clarity, “with you. Really, though, the plane ride is what makes coming here miserable. I daresay you can’t do anything about that.”
Alfred grinned like a madman--that looked more familiar, Arthur thought. That was how his Alfred was supposed to smile. Like a madman, yes, but…
“Teleportation,” Alfred suggested. He smiled obnoxiously and went on importantly, “I can’t say much, but teleportation might be an option.”
“That is a load of rubbish and you know it,” Arthur told him flatly, “and your shirt is burning.”
Alfred whipped around to find the iron still sitting on his shirt, lazily scorching an iron-shaped hole into the back.
“Aaahhh! Shit!” he shouted, yanking the iron up. The shirt smoked. “...Shit. Ruined my shirt…”
Arthur shook his head. “Just wear a different one,” he said, going to his suitcase and pulling out his own shirt. “Hurry it up, all right? How far is it to Orlando?”
“A couple hours, no big deal,” Alfred said halfheartedly, putting the iron away and throwing the shirt out into the hallway. He went to the closet and started poking through the still-hanging clothes. “...All I have is my pink shirt left.”
Arthur looked up from buttoning his own shirt to see Alfred pull out a salmon-colored button-down. He laughed.
“Wear it, if you haven’t got anything else,” he challenged. “Though that is a hideous color.”
Alfred looked defeated but pulled the shirt on anyways. As he buttoned it up, he said, “We’re gonna be a sight at the airport.”
Arthur shook his head. “We are just a couple of gents going on a business trip together,” he said primly, pulling on his grey trousers. Alfred looked disappointed, maybe at the lack of color in Arthur’s wardrobe.
“Yeah,” he said, “and one of us is wearing pink, and the other’s ass is sore.”
“You wait, lad,” Arthur told him reprovingly. “See where that smart mouth of yours gets you.”
Alfred started laughing to himself, watching Arthur choose a smart navy tie. “Don’t even,” he said, and dissolved into a fit of laughter. “D-don’t...that’s just...oh God, which joke do I start with?”
He chuckled and came over to Arthur, his eyes sparkling. “Tie’s crooked,” he added, grinning. Arthur sniffed critically and dropped his hands.
Alfred straightened the tie carefully, while Arthur stood stiffly and let him. He stared firmly at Alfred’s collar, focusing on what an offensive color salmon was turning out to be. When Alfred suddenly leaned down, tugging the tie gently, Arthur jumped. He glanced up to see Alfred staring at him, holding onto his tie tightly.
“I wasn’t kidding when I said I liked your freckles, though,” he said quietly, and grinned. “They are cute.”
Arthur wrinkled his nose. “I didn’t think you were lying,” he pointed out. “You are horribly blunt. If you didn’t like them, you would say so.”
Alfred laughed and leaned forward, kissing Arthur gently. Arthur let him, and then allowed Alfred to hug him.
“Get your fill of it now,” he teased gently, and wrapped his arms around Alfred’s ribcage. “None of this nonsense at the airport, you know.”
“I know,” Alfred said in a complaining tone. He just held Arthur for a moment, and then sighed. Arthur felt a small pang of guilt, suddenly.
“How about this,” he suggested quietly. “After our business in Washington is finished, we can come back for this...Clambake.”
Alfred let go of Arthur, looking down at him excitedly. “Really?” he asked. “You want to?”
“Well,” Arthur said grudgingly, “if you want to, I’m sure we can…”
Alfred wasn’t fooled; he laughed and kissed Arthur’s forehead, and then let go.
“Okay,” he said. “We can do that. Let’s go catch a plane, okay?”
Arthur looked at him a moment, and then smiled a bit. “All right,” he agreed. “Let’s.”
Sorry I left this so late before posting. D: I really have no excuse.
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Love this. ♥
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“What is a Clamfest?” Well, Arthur, it's the opposite of a sausagefest. *bricked*no subject
lolololololololol I didn't even think of that. 8Dno subject
I LOVE YOU. <3~
This was really everything and more that I asked for in my resquest and you did it beautifully. Especially the part about the shirt. That was brilliant. Thank you /so/ much and a job well done!
<3
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Nice job!!!
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This was so sweet to read, even with them ribbing each other. It was perfect :D