8 AM

Sun streamed through the open windows, basking the untidy room in dusty light. Arthur Kirkland lay tangled up in the sheets, eyes barely open and yet glaring back at the windows offensively, as if reprimanding the sun for waking him from his peaceful slumber. After shifting around for a few minutes, he sighed and sat up, resigning himself to the fact that he would not be able to go back to sleep.

Rubbing his eyes and yawning, he peeled himself off the superman sheets and stumbled into his fuzzy pink slippers. Though he descended the stairs with a groan and muttered cursing, he was secretly excited. On the outside he had been acting like it was no big deal, but inside, he had barely been able to keep his anticipation down. He imagined the scene:

Alfred sitting downstairs with his hair a mess and his glasses skewed, smiling up at him over a cup of swirling dark coffee as he got up from their corduroy couch. He would cock an eyebrow at Arthur as he walked in, and throw down his book (that he clearly hadn't been reading), and proceed to say something incredibly lewd and uncalled for. As always, Arthur would turn bright red and stutter and vehemently deny his attraction to the daft git. Precisely at that moment when his guilt for yelling so early in the morning had overshadowed his indignation, Alfred would walk over to him and pick him up by the shoulders and the knees, cradling him to his chest as they made their way upstairs, Arthur kicking, Alfred laughing, and both of them enjoying every moment of it. Alfred would drag him through the door of their spare bedroom, and slam the door shut with his heavy leather boot. He would toss Arthur on the bed nonchalantly, and Arthur would land squarely in the middle of a pile of roses and pink and chocolate that Alfred had somehow managed to arrange in the middle of the night, without waking him up. Before he could take it all in and say something stupid, Alfred would be on top of him with a playful glint in his eyes and then his mind would lose its ability to think and he would moan (though he always denied it later) And they would fuck for hours.

At least, that's how he remembered the last three valentine's days that they had been together. But as he finally stepped down from the stairs, he realized that something was off.

The lights were off, for one, and the smell of coffee was faded; hours old. He padded into the kitchen and reached automatically for his kettle, slightly puzzled, and heard a crinkle. He looked down to see that on the kettle, there was a taped note. Squinting slightly, he leaned forward to read it.

Arthur,

Sorry, I had some chores to do. Forgot.

Alfred

Arthur stared at the note for a moment, hoping that he had mis-read it, but he knew that he hadn't.

"Oh." He let the dejected sigh slip out of his lips, the sound suddenly feeling smaller and lonelier in this big house. He shrugged, and continued to make his tea, pulling the note off and letting it fall to the floor. Even if this was not the best outcome for their day, he would try to make the best of it. Clearly, this was his year to create the romantic mood for when Alfred came home.

Though, he mused, Alfred hadn't left the clearest (nor very sensitive) note. Though he knew Alfred was pretty scatterbrained, he had really expected at least a general expectation of when he would get home.

Hearing the kettle whistle, he turned around and flicked the stove off, pouring himself a large mug of black pearl. Pulling the cup to his face (even though he really should steep it first), he inhaled the bitter smell of his perfect addiction and nearly smiled. Letting his eyes drift shut, he began imagining how he could decorate the house, and how he could do something for Alfred.

12 NOON

He dusted his hands off and gave a contented look at his handiwork. He had gotten dressed and gone out, chipper in the bustling New York morning, and nodded at all the lovers hurrying by with their bouquets of flowers and boxes of chocolate, shared empathy in their gazes- they all had the same mindset, to scramble not to disappoint their lovers and making quick runs to the store the morning of the holiday.

After emptying his wallet to willing salespeople, he walked home proudly with his arms full of red and white and lace, displaying to the world that he was, in fact, not single.

As soon as he had gotten home, he had gone to work, whistling as he bustled about. He decorated to the limits of his creativity, pasting hearts here and there, and roses on the bed and in the bath. He had even found time to scour the house from dirt top to bottom.

Now it was exactly noon, and he was sitting in the guest room he had just finished adorning, and sipping a quiet cup of tea, practically radiating pride in his accomplishments. Alfred would be so happy.

3 PM

He had begun to worry now. His fourteenth cup of tea sat cooling in the corner of the living- where he had moved after an hour waiting in the guest room. He just couldn't sit still. Contrary to his normal collected gentlemanly exterior, he was now pacing back and forth, muttering to himself about stupid Americans and their stupid untimely habits.

He stopped and sighed. Straightened his suit. This was unbecoming of him; it wasn't that late and he really shouldn't be this worried. He reached over to the table by the corduroy couch and took a sip. He nearly spat it out. He looked down to glare at the offending cup, and walked over to the kitchen to pour out the cold tea and boil some more water for himself.

5 PM

Alice stopped and cocked her head to the side, examining the strange creature before her.

Arthur's eyes glanced over the page for the tenth time, and he finally had to admit to himself that he had been, in fact, reading the same lines over and over. He shut the book with a hiss of annoyance, and threw it to the other side of the room, finding satisfaction at the thud as it hit the wall.

But he immediately stood up, and true to his somewhat OCD nature, he picked up the book, dusted it off, and placed it carefully back on the nightstand. His nightstand (well, actually Alfred's. But he had come to 'adopt' it more and more) didn't even have tea on it anymore; it had stopped calming his mind an hour ago and he had given up trying to drink it.

He had really begun to worry now, and he allowed his thoughts to race. After all, it had been God knows how long, and Alfred hadn't so much as called. He sat back down abruptly, and began drumming his fingers harshly on the surface of the couch.

8 PM

Arthur had forgotten how to feel. He had moved back up to the guest room due to some odd impulse; masochism probably. Now he lay on the bed, staring up at the blank white ceiling, wishing his mind was like that.

Why hadn't Alfred come back? Was it Alfred's way of breaking up? Would he be expecting Arthur gone when he came back? Arthur groaned and threw his hand over his forehead, wishing he knew what had happened. It was true that he wasn't the best boyfriend, but he didn't think that he would be dumped like this. He blinked back tears, willing himself to stay calm. Whatever the reason for Alfred's absence, he would be strong. He didn't need Alfred, did he?

Grabbing the bedsheets in anger, he grabbed a random box of chocolates off the bed, and ripped it open, spilling pieces of chocolate everywhere. "True Love" it read.

"Fuck that." He snarled, and sat up, spilling more chocolates. Ignoring them, he began eating one, and then another. "These don't taste like love", he muttered to himself, "they taste bitter."

After finishing the box, he let his head drop onto his knees and he heaved a shuddering breath. Letting himself fall sideways, he succumbed to the tears on the edge of his vision, and he cried.

8:15 PM

Alfred opened the door quietly, wincing, expecting an angry shout of the indignant Brit to greet him. Instead, he was welcomed with a confusing display of dark shadows and an empty couch. He walked in and closed the door behind him, moving through the house as if it were a display. He knew he had messed up, being gone for so long and all, but he had a good reason. He just hoped it was good enough so Arthur wouldn't leave him.

Hearing a muffled sob, he froze. When he heard another, he was able to locate where it was coming from.

"Damnit!" He yelled to himself, and raced up the stairs, flinging the guest-room door open.

8:16 PM

Arthur lay, curled up in a ball on the corner of the bed, and realized that he was pathetic. He had decided to pack his bags in a few minutes. After all, it was clear that Alfred didn't want him. He let out an unwanted, choked sob at that thought.

Suddenly, he felt a crushing weight around him and he yelled, trying, by reflex, to get the intruder off.

The arms quickly left, and he looked up, glaring. And in front of him, looking abashed and holding a ruined, drooping bouquet, was Alfred.

"You." He said simply. A statement devoid of emotion.

8:17 PM

Alfred gulped.

"No, I'm sorry Artie. It was my fault and I didn't know there was a conference and I didn't know it would last that long and I thought I would be back sooner and I've ruined everything so don't leave me and-"

"Stop." Arthur shook his head, trying to shush him, as always. Probably about to tell him off.

Alfred dropped his eyes, and continued on, quieter. "Yeah, I get it Artie. I don't have an excuse, do I?"

He turned around and began walking, not knowing where he was going, just that he had failed when Arthur needed him the most, and it was his fault, his fault, his fault.

He stopped in surprise when arms wrapped themselves around his chest. He turned around in disbelief to see Artie, his face bright red and his eyes downcast. Puffy like he had been crying. But he had wrapped himself securely around Alfred, and so Alfred reached his arm around Arthur, and pulled him into his chest, letting him dissolve into wracking sobs again.

Alfred didn't say anything, just pet his hair and wondered that Arthur could still trust him after he had ruined his day so completely.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, not caring that he had said it already many times. After all, he would probably have to say it many times more in their life together.

8:19 PM

It took a few moments, but finally Arthur was able to calm himself, wrapped in the large protectiveness of Alfred. He felt his chest vibrate, and realized that Alfred was speaking. Repeating how sorry he was, over and over.

But Arthur didn't care, he was just happy that he was back.

He balled his fists up in Alfred's soaked shirt. "Git." He whispered, and pulled away only enough to look him in the eyes.

"Alfred, I've been waiting for you all day."

Alfred looked down at him in what was like a stupor. "What?" Was his intelligent reply.

Arthur rolled his eyes, smiled. Pulling away completely, he grabbed his hand, and tugged them both on the bed; Alfred tumbling on top of Arthur.

Finally, he saw Alfred's eyes lighten, and his lips widen in a tentative smile. He leaned down so their lips were nearly touching, and growled so quietly that Arthur barely heard.

"That ass is calling me, darling."

Arthur blinked for a moment, taking a moment to process what Alfred had said, and then proceeded to turn an interesting shade of purple.

"ALFRED!"

8:20 PM

Alfred got up from the bed, ignoring Arthur's displeasure at this, and walked over to the door. With a lift of an eyebrow and a smirk, he leaned back and kicked the door shut with his brown leather boots.

His muffled footsteps led back to the bed, and the springs creaked as he got back on. And they proceeded to make sweet love till the morn'.