Kiss [kis]

noun

1. To touch or caress with the lips as an expression of affection, greeting, respect, or amorousness

2. Alfred has been kissed by Katharine Hepburn. No, seriously, he has.

He remembers being introduced to the headstrong and beautiful woman he once saw as a girl on Broadway, now the leading star in Hollywood. She'd had a firm handshake - not weak, but not too strong either - and looked up at him through her long eyelashes with a coy tilt of her head, a smile, almost a smirk tugging at her lips. He remembers how he thought that her dark hair framed her faces beautifully, empathizing the blush on her cheeks and the glint in her brown eyes.

The next thing he knew, he was pressed to the wall in a lone room far away from the studios and the cameras, full lips playing harsh and rough on his, her leg between his, and the scent of vanilla perfume in the dark overwhelming his senses. He can still remember her confidence and her brilliant laugh against his neck. (But she's been dead for 10 years now.)

Clara Bow was also one of his memorable kisses, the personification of the Roaring Twenties, the good times. She was a flapper, a whirlwind of movements and bubbling personality, and he remembers the smell of alcohol from her breath, how her hands with red nail polish tightened on his hair to bring his head down to her (because even though she was wearing red pumps, she still couldn't reach him).

He'd also met Marilyn Monroe in a party in New York, her blonde hair in waves and her red lips in a pout. When she'd arrived, fashionably late, the crowd had divided in halves as she glided through. He'd kissed her on the cheek, lingering a little, but she had just gave him a little, sad smile and shook her head slightly. Contrary to what the rest of the world seemed to think, Alfred knew how to sense the atmosphere, and he understood what she meant. Even so, she was nice towards him, flirtatious, charismatic, obviously the star in the room, but she was also intelligent, thoughtful even when she made you believe she was otherwise. (When Alfred left that party, he thought about Jack.)

"Well, only the best to the Empress, after all," Alfred had laughed in the smoky honky-tonk while handing a glass to Bessie Smith, who'd accepted it with an amused smile before kissing him on the cheek with a friendly clap on the other. "Thank you, kid."

Amelia Earhart had smiled at him when he kissed her hand ("For luck!"), her hair flowing in the wind, and her other hand on her plane, while Grace Hopper scoffed when he did the same to her, but softened her stance when he thanked her for her service. Audrey Hepburn had giggled when he planted one at her rosy cheek. (If he did with a more vigor and theatrically because they were in front of Arthur... well, that was no one's business but his own.)

Furthermore, he'd always greeted the First Lady with a kiss on both cheeks, welcoming the new president and family when they moved into the White House.

However, while he had kissed many famous American gals and dames, he'd also had relationships, you know, although very few. Those who would linger in bed until he woke up, kiss him good morning, kiss him before he went to whatever meeting that morning, kiss him over breakfast, over dinner, kissing hellos, kissing goodbyes, kissing him 'til their death did them apart. He'd only had three human relationships like that in his life, and they were private. None of the other countries knew about those relationships, maybe beside Mattie, Kiku and Arthur.

"Who is this?" Mattie had asked from his living room, one spring day in 1912.

"Who?" Alfred had emerged from the kitchen, and caught Mattie with a photograph in his hand and a thoughtful, maybe even sad, expression. Mattie had handed the photo to Alfred, who glanced at it, and then laid it carefully back on top of the side table, picture side down.

"Just a dame I knew," Alfred had replied, suddenly very fixated on fixing his collar. When the silence became unbearable, he continued. "A hell of a dame. Funny. Smart. You would have liked her."

"I'm sure I would."

Naturally, being Alfred's only relationships that lasted more than a human's life time, he'd also kissed and been kissed by some of the countries. His first kisses were pecks between Mattie and him on the cheeks; after a fight,

("God, you're so, so stupid!"

"Ha? It wasn't I who had to be such a show off, you, you...!"

"Aha, sure. Well, I was clearly not the one who had to call out on Mr. Bentley!"

"Oh, gosh, darn it, Matt, golly gee, you're just so smart, so smart, you got me, you genius, you!"

"... What? That's what this is about?"

"..."

"Alfred... You're really stupid, you know that?"

"What! Oh- oh, now you will mock me too?"

"You're really an idiot if you haven't noticed how Lucy looks at you, or how Mrs. Bentley always saves one of the best meat steaks for you, or how you're secretly - I don't know - everyone's favorite!"

"... Really?"

"Haaa, yes, really, Al... Come 'ere, little brother, eh?"

"Ah, you mean you're the little one!"

"Yes, yes. Now hush."

"..."

"..."

"Matt?"

"Yes?"

"You know you're the smartest, the most funny and greatest guy, right? And also, Lucy's really looking at you.")

or when one of them fell outside and scratched their knees,

("... I-I'm sorry, Al."

"What? Why, Matt? It was my stupid idea, remember?"

"But if I hadn't fallen- !"

"Mattie, I told you, it's fine! Why are you making me angry with your dumb questions? I'm pretty sure you should be angry at me here!")

or when one of them felt lonely.

("I'm sure Arthur's coming back soon."

"Yeah...")

He'd gotten a few kisses from Arthur (before... Before). When he had made Arthur particularly proud with an answer to his lectures, dressed up nicely, or apologized after pulling pranks on their cook, Arthur would ruffle his hair, and kiss his brow. When he told them goodnight stories and fairy tales, Alfred would close his eyes to listen to that voice only, and right before he fell asleep, he would always feel a press of lips on his head and the same voice wishing him sweet dreams. After... he'd gotten kissed by Arthur once.

"We won, Alfred! We won!" Arthur had yelled at him across a crowded street in London, May 8, 1945. They'd both moved to reach the other, pushing through the ecstatic crowds towards one another. When they had finally stood in front of each other in their battered, worn out green uniforms and mucked up boots, Arthur had let out a breathless laugh and then grabbed Alfred by the neck, dragging him towards him and kissing him on the cheek, so, so close to his mouth, on the upper corner of his lips. Alfred's breath had caught, but Arthur had just brought their foreheads together, allowing Alfred to gaze into green emerald eyes. He smiled in return of Arthur's brilliant grin, and whispered in reply, "Victory."

(Arthur peppering him with thousands of kisses on his tear wet cheeks, down his neck and arms, holding Alfred's hand tightly in his own and pressing it firmly against his lips while muttering pleas and promises - that didn't count. How could it count? He couldn't even feel them, too horrified and too far gone in shock by the sight of the twin towers crushed and burning.)

((Alfred never got to kiss Arthur.))

Compared to all of Alfred's kisses, the kiss between him and Kiku had been chaste. It had been one hot summer day at Kiku's home, the shōjis all open and a wind chime clanging nearby. They had taken a break from the gaming and decided to eat ice cream (vanilla, because Kiku's boring like that) while enjoying the serene day, when Kiku had coughed behind his hand, trying to conceal his laugh which Alfred totally noticed anyway.

"What?"

"Ah, you just have some ice cream..."

"Here?"

"No, a little to the left... Wait, let me."

They had leaned against each other like a card house bending over, and for a second they'd just looked at each other through half-lidded eyes, the warmth making everything hazy, before the another gust of wind made the wind chime cling again, and Alfred met Kiku's lips. It wasn't more than a flutter, really, and only for a second, but they smiled to each other afterwards, before cleaning up and resuming their game.

When he looks back at it, Alfred would have liked that his kisses were purely between him and the other person, withstanding political relations or other influences. He'd liked that anyway, but he knew that in most cases, with the countries, it wasn't true.

Mexico with her dark, long hair falling all around his face as she hovered over him in the chair in the empty meeting room, straddling his hips, her hands at his shoulder to hold him in place by pushing him down, down, down. They had had an ugly argumentation (what else is new?) which quickly escalated to a screaming match, ending up with them standing only inches apart and glaring at each other, tension in their bodies, high strung like a bow, until it seemed like something in Mexico snapped. She'd pushed him down a chair, climbed up his lap and looked down at him for a second, making herself look bigger and more powerful. Before Alfred had any chance to process what was happening she had locked their lips in a bruising kiss, gnashing their teeth together and crushing their noses. It wasn't love, or even something resembling it, rather hatred mixed with lust, a desire to break the other. He'll remember how she'd sneered in his ear as they broke apart for air. "Why 'America'? I am America too." Afterwards Alfred would find himself with a sore neck and finger-shaped bruises on his shoulders.

With blood on his hands, he'd kissed Vietnam, but she had only stood passive for a moment, before turning her face. The guilt hit him immediately as he noticed her ashen face and her shaking hands, and he fell on his knees and with bowed head apologized profoundly for being out of line. When he looked up again, she'd had his gun pointed between his eyes. They stood frozen for what felt like an eternity, only her shaking hands betraying the illusion of time frozen over. She had trailed the gun point down his nose bridge and pushed it lightly against his lips, before dropping the gun. As if she had been shot herself, she followed the gun and fell to her knees, before breaking apart in front of him. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, sorry, I am so, so sorry..." (No, that's not right. He broke her.)

((Not that he had ever had any desire of it, or would ever consider it afterwards - he'd rather burn in hell than to ever kiss Russia - but as he nervously licked his lips with the gun point still to his mouth and caught the taste of the drying gun powder and filthy sooth, he knew with a morbid fascination what a kiss from him would be like.))

Once, and only once, did Alfred let Francis pin him to the wall and be kissed by him. Even though he just became independent, he had become strong. He knew he was strong enough to push him away, but he didn't.

"Let me show you freedom," Francis had whispered into his ear before kissing him. It was a slow kiss and his first tongue kiss with another country. He remembers wondering if other countries (all older and more experienced than him) kissed like him and if Alfred himself would one day be so good and confident too. He'd tried to swallow his moans, tried to appear as if he was used to such intense kissing and not already incredibly aroused, and began to take dominance, groaning into the kiss. Immediately France had frozen, and pushed them gently apart.

"What?" Alfred had snapped at him, opening his eyes he hadn't realized he'd closed, hurt and confused, and thus defensive. "Why did you stop?"

Alfred couldn't read the expression on France, however he could have sworn he almost looked at him with incredulous and then ... calculating? "Mon cher, are you aware of what you just said ..."

"What?" Alfred snapped again when France trailed off.

France had given a little chuckle before shaking his head. "This explains a great deal, actually ..."

"What the hell?" Alfred almost shouted, feeling panic rising in his throat.

France had just given him a sad smile while shaking his head again, before straightening his rumpled clothes and his slightly disheveled hair. Ruffling Alfred's hair (goddammit, people needed to stop doing that, he was no kid anymore), he'd said, "Mon Dieu, you really don't know, do you? Well, I won't say anything either, because you two idiots need to figure this out." Giving him a final, knowing look, he'd turned and walked down the corridor. "Find out what you really want, L'Amérique."

Alfred had looked on as he disappeared around the corner, before slamming a fist on the wall behind him. "Dammit!"

Francis definition of freedom tasted apparently like wine and onions. Alfred's pretty sure he didn't like that.

He had to make his own definition of the taste of freedom.

The point is, Alfred's kissed and been kissed by a lot of people.

Haha... ha? Sorry, this is actually not the whole story yet, but a part of a bigger thing I'm working on right now. But I didn't want to dump 10, 000 words of something totally new at you at once, so here's something, I guess...? Ahaha, I don't know what I'm doing, but I think I have a plan or something ～('▽^人) Anyway, thank you for giving this thing a chance, and I hope you enjoyed it!