Author's Notes: Sweet drabble about Arthur and Alfred's invisible hand holding. The fanart for it is on my profile page, I believe.
"Arthur, can you not right now?"
"Don't pretend you're actually busy, poppet. You can't pull a wool over my eyes," Arthur grinned, cheeks as warm as a hotplate, his belly filled with just the right amount of scotch to send his head buzzing. He looked up at Alfred's petulant expression and squirmed to get more comfortable, his ass wriggling into the blonde's lap. "You know as well as I that you don't work."
"Shut the fuck up, old man. I actually do have something to do right now. Go be horny somewhere else," Alfred muttered, wrinkling his nose when the top of Arthur's head started tickling it.
"I'm not horny."
"The hell you aren't."
"Would you like to feel? Because I'm happy enough to oblige," Arthur offered, taking Alfred's only free hand and placing it over his crotch. The hand bolted back immediately as Arthur took delight at the way pink flushed up the American's neck.
"Jesus, dude. Seriously, lay off," he groaned, pinching his nose briefly. He looked at his computer screen, mentally berating himself for putting off this work till the last minute. What made it worse was that he hadn't expected Arthur to plop into his lap out of nowhere, reeking of booze.
Of course he'd be drinking before 5 o' clock …
"I want to hold hands," Arthur said, leaning against Alfred with a sly smirk. "Please."
Alfred bit his lip, frowning down at the Briton in his lap. He hated when Arthur requested that.
"I have to write this paper."
"I don't want to hold that hand."
Alfred started chewing on his lip like it was bubblegum. "Seriously?" he breathed, his skin tingling. Arthur wiggled his bony hips into his thighs.
"Deathly. I love holding your hand, Alfred," he said, and Alfred had to crumble at the genuineness in his tone.
"It's so stupid."
"I like it."
"Well, sure, you like it. I think it's weird."
"That makes it all the better. Come now, give me your hand," Arthur instructed. Alfred sighed once more, reluctantly grabbing the sleeve dangling from his arm and handing the limp item to the man in his lap. He was always self-conscious when Arthur held his hand. After all, he wasn't quite used to living without his left arm after his term of service was cut to an abrupt halt eight months ago. He was still getting used to being a cripple.
Arthur hated that word, and he knew he'd slap him if given the chance to hear his thoughts.
The smaller male smiled and abruptly tied the cuff of Alfred's empty sleeve to the cuff of his own. Alfred stared as Arthur's right jacket sleeve dangled, knotted with his own where their hands would have been.
Did Arthur even miss his arm? Car accident or not, the crusty old Britain never acted like he was ashamed or mortified of it at all.
Alfred swallowed and looked away from how pleased Arthur looked in his lap.
"There. Perfect match."
Arthur sat there the rest of the afternoon while Alfred typed up his term paper, head tucked under Alfred's chin while he hummed in his intoxicated state.
And if Alfred had to swallow that ball of emotion when he swore he felt his phantom limb entwine his fingers with Arthur's, well, then that was maybe just okay with him.