A million people flooded the streets of London, as the news spread from radio to ear, to mouth to ear to friend, to neighbor, from sailor to soldier to pilot to civilian. Like a plague, it spread from casual contact, only this casual contact didn't bring the brokenhearted weeping of parents who'd lost children (there had been enough of that already), but the tears of people who knew that their husbands and brothers and fathers would be coming home soon.
Germany had surrendered, and while everyone knew that there was work to be done, aid to be sent, houses to rebuild, no one could help the sense of jubilation that swept over the entire country, bringing them out into the streets.
After years of darkness and rations and the endless gray sky pressing down upon them, it was sunshine and roses once again- and Britain celebrated the glorious golden sunlight and the freedom from oppression that it brought.
Of course, they had to share some of that with the Yanks, since the boys from oversea had (finally) gotten off their arses and proved that they could handle a fight- but then, in that teeming mass of people from Trafalgar square to the Thames, to the Palace, no one cared if the person they just hugged was from New York, or old York.
And Arthur himself was in the thick of it- somewhere between Piccadilly Circus and Trafalgar- right along Haymarket Street dancing and drinking with a group that could've been from France for all he cared.
The booze was homebrew, and the container was passed from hand to hand down the street- everyone got a taste- and the atmosphere of celebration continued until the light of day was fading, and yet, people merely brought out lanterns to continue. Veterans told their stories on the stoop of one building, to a group of children that had newly returned to the city, and in the shadows, Arthur could see a few couples marking the moment with a kiss.
As he passed the head of Orange street, a hand grabbed his arm, and swiftly pulled him around into the shadows. Lips that tasted of alcohol and citrus were pressed against his, making him gasp, which apparently was a cue to the other to deepen the kiss.
Not that Arthur was complaining. Whoever this was—male, from the height and the body being held close to his- certainly knew what they were doing. The fabric was clean and probably a military uniform. The stranger held him close, even after they were forced to let their lips part company to breathe, allowing Arthur only to see that he was correct about the uniform, and get the vague impression of blond hair and blue eyes.
"Arthur." He finally managed to breathe to the stranger, their proximity being the only reason that there was a chance for the other to hear him over the din. He wondered, briefly, if this tall Yank had realised that he'd grabbed another man, or if he even cared about the gender of the person he'd been snogging so passionately for the past ten minutes.
"Alfred." The brilliant smile, visible even in the dim light gave him part of an answer.
And the other part was answered when Alfred's lips met his once again.