Please excuse any major mistakes :')

Waiting For You On a White Duvet

…

Every time Alfred F. Jones left Arthur Kirkland to satisfy his hero-complex as a Navy SEAL, Arthur always pronounced him dead when he was out the door.

After the murmurs against warm, sticky skin on a cold blanket, the desperate tongues saying words of endearment forever engrained in both of the love-struck fools — kissing, breathing through each other's lungs for a desperate release of I'm here I promise, I won't ever leave you — Arthur always said goodbye.

They would make love — whispering and chanting spells as if to make the moment last forever. They would make love like they had all the time in the world even if the clock always came ringing through the old house at every hour sharply with its baritone melody that Alfred hated so much. The clock would ring, and Arthur would know in the back of his mind that it was three in the morning, but with Alfred sucking on his neck just right and touching him oh so sensually, the concept of time was a joke they both pretended was not funny anymore, thus not even worth mentioning. Forgotten, tossed away for something more exciting and tangible.

It was dangerous. To think that way. That someday Alfred would always come back to him.

Even when Alfred is smiling at him behind a mug of coffee with a horrible case of bed head, those warm moments in the kitchen would not always last. Because every time Alfred stood in that kitchen, he would be gone the next day leaving Arthur just as cold as he had been in the morning.

It wasn't worth it. To get so attached.

Because Arthur would wake up, stare at his dull green eyes and wondered if the ghostly trail of warmth on his bed was perhaps one of an intruder and not one of his husband.

Arthur can never hope to fully understand Alfred.

And Alfred can never understand Arthur.

No matter how much Arthur's chest aches, how the butterflies panic and dance in his stomach when he sees Alfred smiling so unperturbed by the sickening situation they both know is happening and will happen, Alfred and Arthur will never truly know anything about each other. They can talk and talk until their mouths fall off and bleed, but they will never know what the other will say through red stained lips.

And that's what makes a human so interesting, Arthur muses as he picks up the mess that Alfred had created. Alfred was in the laundry room, whistling some random tune from the radio and being as jaunty as can be. Arthur wishes he was not so cynical but Alfred was just too free-spirited. Too wild and it was Arthur's mistake to think he can be domesticated like some kind of house cat.

Alfred always wanted to be larger than life. Something much grander than man. Lies and egoism floated through his childhood, his pride only increasing when no one said no to him throughout his years of adolescence. They fluffed the flame — the fire for Alfred to go and do something that was heroic and memorable. He didn't want to be just some cookie cutter doctor, or chef, or anything else that would be planned and expected.

Alfred wanted to be different. He wanted to see the people's shocked eyes and gaping mouths when he said that he was in the Navy SEALS and helped protect the country. He wanted to be asked questions and be treated like some emperor dressed in the common man's clothes because, "I'm just a normal dude, Artie. I'm still me underneath this uniform."

Arthur didn't know where the hero-complex came from. He really didn't, but it ran deep. The self-image Alfred held himself up to was enough to make Arthur cry his throat raw after seeing Alfred leave and turn around at the airport with a smile that promised things he could never hold himself to attain in this lifetime. He would smile and assume everything would be alright because it was him.

Alfred was sucking the life out of Arthur. He would just swoop in and assume that a warm hug and a soft blush would always greet him at the creaking door. Through hail and thunderstorms, Arthur would be at home, petting his cat and sighing at the window wondering — begging for Alfred to come home.

Alfred always teased that Arthur was an old man stuck in the ways of the past, but it was Alfred who held ideals of an era long forgotten.

Because Alfred always expected Arthur to wait for him in a lovely dress and a warm cup of coffee as if it was post-World War Two.

But it wasn't.

It was the beginning of a new year. 2017.

Arthur had spent it much luckier than most. He had spent it screaming, panting, moaning, and being a genuine mess even when the ball dropped in New York City. He couldn't concentrate at the time, caresses and prayers through hot chapped lips much more important to care for something like a new year. Warm calloused hands touched him as if he were the only one — as if it was because of him Alfred went out there and fought himself breathless — that night, and Arthur can't say he is not grateful.

He truly loves his husband. He loves him with every fiber of his being.

It was so hard not to, wasn't it? Everyone loved Alfred. He was so bright and charismatic, and charming in his obnoxious obtuse way. He had a good heart even if his actions did not always speak the same.

Alfred was always the one to be friendly with everyone at school. Talking because it was so natural to him, and he didn't understand these things called societal pressure. He just was, being what he wanted even when the teachers told him that he would "get nowhere in life."

But look at Alfred now, Arthur thinks with a calm heart. Arthur walks into the kitchen and pops an Advil for his aching head. Arthur feels his heart pump, and he listens to it work because it has to. He wonders when it became so dull, and just when it started hurting so much.

Alfred comes bouncing in the kitchen and brightens when he sees Arthur setting down his glass of water. Arthur notes that his hand seemed veinier today.

"Artie! It's snowing outside!" Alfred says with childish glee. He looks to Arthur as if wanting permission, and Arthur can't imagine how someone like him could hold a power like that.

But Arthur moves to the nearest window and notes that it is indeed snowing outside. The ground is barely glossed with white, but soon enough the snow would fall in intensity like the days before. Arthur can still see his plants outside, and he wishes he had covered the poor things.

"It would seem so," Arthur said in return. Arthur smiled slightly at Alfred shoving himself in a coat.

Alfred throws Arthur's tan coat in his face, Arthur being completely unprepared for the heavy fabric to hit him. Arthur catches the material when it succumbs to the whim of gravity.

"Come on, Artie! Put on your jacket," Alfred said vibrating excitedly.

Arthur stood unamused. "There's not even an inch of snow out there. What are you planning to do out there?"

"Freeze my balls off," Alfred said with complete seriousness. "It's been a thing I've been meaning to tell you. I knew you would understand."

Arthur widened his eyes and thought Alfred to be serious. "Oh—Oh, Ah—"

Alfred laughed loudly, breaking his serious demeanor. "Just kidding! You should have seen your face! You actually thought I was serious! You're so easy to fool, Artie."

Arthur huffed, blushing that he had fallen for something like that. He put on the jacket to make himself do something as if that would make the flustered appearance of his red cheeks go away any.

"Well excuse me for actually caring and holding your wants into consideration!"

Alfred kissed Arthur on the lips by surprise once Arthur had put his coat on. The kiss wasn't long or one meant to arouse — it was simply Alfred's way of showing affection. A quick and sweet kiss that lasted too shortly in Arthur's opinion. He wanted to remember those soft lips for when he was gone. He could sing a lullaby by Alfred's grave. Wouldn't it be nice if they could sing a duet together? Ah, but Alfred's never been too good at singing…

"You're so cute," Alfred said as if things like that were normal. Arthur hated how pleased and secure he felt when he heard those words uttered in that American accent. Arthur just looked away and muttered something along the lines of, "Are we going outside or what?"

They didn't do much outside. Simply because there wasn't much to do.

"Why did you bring us out here?" Arthur asked leaning on the rotting wood that they called a porch ledge. They were high up, leaning over the red painted ledge too much asking for the chance for broken bones and a high medical bill. They had a nice yard, and the cold seeped into Arthur's cheeks quickly.

"I just wanted to spend this day with you, Artie," Alfred said taking in the "view" with great fondness. Arthur didn't know what Alfred saw through those rose tinted glasses of his. There was simply grass out there with dull, brown trees painted in the background.

"There is nothing to do out here, and it's cold."

Alfred put an arm around Arthur. "This better."

"No," Arthur said for the sake of being difficult.

"Hmm, I know other ways to get you warm~" Alfred cooed into his ears. The ears that were not burning red, excuse you.

"You're lucky I'm sore because I would have kicked you off this god awful porch already."

"Why do you hate this porch so much?"

"Because it's an atrocious color."

Arthur didn't care that it was red particularly. It was the incentive that Alfred had chosen it. That paint was much more permanent than what they had.

But it seemed that Arthur was weak-willed and easily swayed to Alfred's whining and gentle touches. His beating heart — behind that muscular and tanned chest — was still alive and well, and Arthur couldn't deny that he wanted to still beat only for him. Even if Arthur knows that one day, perhaps, Arthur's will not beat for Alfred's.

Arthur padded into the bedroom. Alfred was on the phone and frowning saying yes, really? alright, thanks. Arthur knew what this meant. It was time, wasn't it?

"Arthur...I'm—"

"You're leaving," Arthur answered bored. "Where did you put my whites? They weren't folded on top of the dryer," Arthur continued casually.

Alfred frowned at the dismissive tone. He said he was leaving. And he wouldn't be coming back probably for a long time. Shouldn't Arthur be sadder?

"Arthur. I said I'm leaving. And I probably won't come back for a long time…" Alfred tries again hoping that Arthur will finally see the severity of the situation.

Alfred has always been thirsty for attention, drinking up and swallowing all of it when present. He was a greedy, spoiled thing that was always praised. And it seemed as though he wanted a theatric — a grand show of bitter tears and woes from a heart-broken husband that couldn't afford to be any more hurt than he already was. Arthur held a lot of baggage, and if anyone asked around the street, many wondered just how Arthur had stayed away from the rope for so long if he was so loyal.

They didn't know his secret. His very unhealthy way of coping.

"I know, love. I heard you the first time." Arthur opened the closet turning his back to Alfred. "No, not in here. Just where in the bloody hell could those things have gone?"

Alfred was silent for a long time as Arthur went through the house looking for the clothing that held more attention than his own husband. When Arthur came back in the room with a frustrated sigh, Alfred only had one conclusion in mind. It made sense in his head, and the rare show of insecurity was peeking through his blue eyes.

"Arthur, are you cheating on me?"

Arthur stood still. He turned his head slowly and asked, "Why would you think that?"

Alfred rose up from his seat on the edge of the bed and walked up to Arthur. "Arthur, are you cheating on me?" His tone was more rough and demanding, and by the way Arthur was looking away and fidgeting, it only made Arthur more suspicious.

"No of course not, Alfred. I would never cheat on you," Arthur said.

Alfred lowered his eyes a bit. "It's Francis isn't it."

Now Arthur looked offended. "What! No, why would you — I am not cheating on you with Francis, Alfred."

Alfred didn't look convinced. "Sure you aren't."

Arthur glared acidically. "Why would you say that I am with that frog? You think I'm that easy or something? Is that what you are trying to say?" Arthur didn't mean to hiss so venomously but he couldn't help it. Alfred was just so dense and basked in love that it didn't feel fair.

"No—! I mean, that bastard is handsy, and you guys you used to date and stuff, and he's older and more mature, and he has that beard thing you like — I can't grow one because you just laugh at it, and—"

Arthur huffed a breath out. "No. Alfred. Just stop. I used to date him. Yes. The worst bloody mistake in my life. I told you he and I are over. He can go stick a burning iron up his ass as a dildo for all I care. Are we still friends? Yes. We are. But," Arthur made his voice gentler, "You are my husband. I would never cheat on you, and you better damn well remember that."

Alfred looked very small. He wanted Arthur to keep on saying these kinds of things because Alfred is a lonely boy underneath it all. But aren't all heroes?

Arthur doesn't say these kinds of things often. He didn't think he needed to because one idiot in love was enough.

"Really?" Alfred asked not sure to believe in Arthur or not.

Arthur placed his arms around Alfred, feeling the intoxicating warmth that is Alfred through his pale fingers that danced across the back of Alfred's neck — feeling the bones and how they stretched when Arthur smiled into Alfred's lips.

"Let me show you, love."

And because Alfred was a man of action, it didn't take long for Alfred's heart to swell with reassurance and something else. The primal need to mark what was his in the glimpse of doubt and a sense of humanity. Arthur was beneath him — his, his, his — and there when he came back. The bed was always warm for Alfred, Arthur had thought before a lewd sound he didn't know he could make arose from his throat.

Needless to say, Arthur was a man of both words and action, and since Alfred has never been eloquent in words, he took the actions as fine, flowery stanzas to his beloved poetry for his own sake. It wasn't much — with Alfred's right arm across his chest and his powerful right leg intertwined with Arthur's paler ones — in that night with Alfred's oblivious deep breaths and happy heart.

All is well in Alfred's life. But it wasn't for Arthur.

And it was on that night that Arthur thought perhaps he was just as greedy as his husband.

They never fought for long. The whole "are you cheating on me" debate only lasting for the night when doubts and wounds arose during the heat-induced haze. They talked, and Arthur admitted that it felt rather romantic to speak about such heavy topics while doing something so carnal and rough. It was like him and Alfred he had thought. But this time it was Alfred uttering the words, and Arthur the one ready for just something physical.

They thought they knew each other so well. Clearly, things like that were resolved quickly.

Even if one of them was left doubtful and the other as grounded as ever.

And they never had much time together anyway, so there was no point in arguing over the serious matters.

Why there was a soggy, day-old burger in the sock drawer was a topic Arthur could scream and argue about for hours. But the ones that required more sentiment and real questioning was already taken care of by Arthur. He had all the time in the world to think, and Arthur was being a good wife in the dress. All Alfred had to do was come home and thaw out the growing ice around Arthur's heart. But it seemed no matter how warm Alfred was, it was getting harder and harder.

It hurt to be in love. It really did. It wasn't instant or something that Arthur really ever planned on feeling. It was gradual and had just snuck up on him. He thought at first the feelings were one of good friendship — because they say you should marry your best friend after all — but now it just hurts with no benefits. It hurts, and stabs, and twists, and Arthur won't suck up his pride to get a bandage.

And Alfred had every right to be suspicious. Francis was always willing to make the mattress a bit looser and less cold, but Arthur did mean it when he said that he didn't want that kind of life. Francis was a man of questionable morals, but Arthur held himself to be a little better than that at least.

So when it was time for Alfred to leave once more, Arthur told himself he didn't feel a thing. He knew it would happen, it was just a fact. He didn't feel sadness because Alfred looked much more handsome this time, or that Alfred smells so nice and has really nice arms that wrapped around him at what seemed all the time, and that Alfred smiles so easily. He wasn't sad. He wasn't sad.

He wouldn't miss it. How Alfred looked to him directly in the eye every time when he was speaking and how he would do nothing but spend his time talking to him the days when he was back. Friends had the luxury of a phone call while he was a spoiled thing with kisses and loving gazes from Alfred's bright eyes. Alfred wasn't innocent, or particularly naive, but it seemed that Alfred acted that way in the embrace of Arthur so that he could be what he truly wanted to be.

"I'll miss you," Alfred said into Arthur's ear as they hug at the terminal. The clicks and sound of luggage are like rain to Arthur, it always comes back and when it does, it's comforting.

"I'll miss you too," Arthur said with a voice that wants to overfill with the emotion he feels.

"I'll be back soon, okay? Wait for me Artie," Alfred said pulling away, not wanting to let go of Arthur's arms in the green sweater he wears.

"Prat. I'll—I'll," it suddenly hits Arthur how true the statement is when he is about to say it, "always wait for you."

Alfred looks as though he wants to say so much more but eyes the boarding gate with the responsibility he chose to shoulder. Arthur looks up to Alfred and does his best to smile.

"I love you, Alfred."

"I love you, Arthur. I love you so much." Alfred lets go, and Arthur watches as he hands the ticket, boards and looks back one more time to see if Arthur is still there. And he is. He always will be.

Arthur watches with forlorn eyes as his husband's back disappears once again — the hole of loneliness and bitterness swirling and consuming his every thought.

Because once again, Alfred F. Jones was dead. Never to come back.

It was easier this way. If he accepted he was dead from the get-go, there were no hard feelings when the eventual, inexorable message of Alfred's death. He would say, "But my husband has been dead for a while, sir." If perhaps Alfred were to never come back, he wouldn't be as shocked as the others would expect him to be. He would look at the printed words of deceased and think that perhaps it was about time it was made a reality. It was tiring to always live in one's head.

Arthur had cried upon hours when he first thought this. He didn't let himself deny the possibility, not blinding himself with the rebuttals of he will come back, Alfred is strong, Alfred will come back for you. He shunned those thoughts away and let himself feel the downpour of sadness that came with the cold hard reality of death.

And his chest quivered for days. His bones ached and for a month, it felt as though life was not real. It wasn't real or there for him. And when he saw the others — smiling, moving on, accomplishing things and being so ignorant of pain — he realized that he was so insignificant. He was not the main character (maybe just in Alfred's story he was) or someone that the universe will grant him to be special for. Everyone would move on, and tell him their condolences, but they weren't Arthur. They didn't feel what he felt, and in the end, they didn't step barefooted in an empty house with memories of a conversation with a stranger.

Many worried for him and whispered to themselves just how Arthur could be so blasé about things. Many wondered if Arthur ever had the room to even love or if maybe that was a lie as well. Not once did they see him get worked up, cry, or even ask for help. He would stand tall and blink when the question arose of, "Are you okay?" and of course his answer would always be, "Why wouldn't I be?"

It frightened them. How Arthur could still smile and go through life with a face of indifference and politeness.

But it worked. Hours turned into days, and days to months. Over that time just as alone as he's always been, the thought numbed out. Alfred was dead and gone. He wouldn't come back, and that made waking up to an empty bed much easier. It's how it's been and will continue to be.

And then if Alfred did come back — well that was a blessing. A ghost haunting him because it wasn't true. Alfred was dead, coming back only for months at a time to torture him with the memories that they once were.

So Arthur turned around, tear-free, and walked with even stride back to his car. He would drive back to the house, pick up the mess and clean everything that was making him go insane, and that would be that.

Because that's how it always will be.

If only I knew how to title things. I had some trouble so I just slapped that thing on there because white duvets are my shit. (Idk why)

This was just something I thought up when I was putting on a jacket at a store. It looked like something straight out of World War Two (so, of course, I flipped my shit and bought it) and when I was taking the tag off at home, I just had this POOF moment.

So, what do I do? Sit my ass down at one in the morning and TYpE. I was going to make this Gerita but I realized that wouldn't really fit Feli's character too well. (Unless it's Feli going to war which would be a hella good read) Arthur is a cynical old grouch so I chose USUK.

I might come back and do Alfred's POV since this was heavily influenced by Arthur, but I don't know. It was a miracle I even fleshed things out this far actually.

I know this could have been better, but this was basically braindump that had the honor of being finished. (A number of things I start and don't finish—)

Alright, that's it. Bye, guys!