America's Jacket
Arthur awoke to the sound of sparrows chirping outside the window, their tiny squeak of 'tweet, tweet' making him frown as he slitted one eye open. The honey colored light poured into his pupil almost painfully and he quickly shut his emerald orbs, groaning and turning as he tried to enclose himself in the warm cacoon of blankets.
As he snuggled under the covers he searched the other side of the bed for a body, his lover's body to be precised, but Alfred wasn't there. All that greeted his groping hands were wrinkled, cold sheets, telling him that the american had been gone for quite a while.
Arthur blinked his eyes open wearily, scanning the bedroom for the younger nation but that familiar head of dirty blond hair and blue eyes was no where to be seen. As his hands continued to search aimlessly through the messy, white bed sheets, his fingers grazed a smooth slip of paper.
The englishman flipped the paper over and recognized Alfred's sloppy handwritting, rubbing his eyes to get rid of his sleep blurred vision, not like it helped much.
Arthur,
I left early for the meeting. You just looked so peaceful and cute while sleeping I couldn't bear to wake you up. Not to mention I thought you needed some rest after the workout I gave you last night.
Al
Arthur's cheeks turned a bright scarlet at that last line.
"Bastard!" He said and crumpled the sheet of paper, throwing it across the room where it landed with a soft thud.
Albiet the american's rudeness in the letter, Arthur couldn't help but feel the loneliness sweep over him. He couldn't remember the last he'd been so alone, although he did wish it several times, he never realized how lost he would feel.
He knew he was probably just being stupid, after all he was going to see Alfred at the meeting later on, but somehow he just couldn't shake this feeling. After waking up so many mornings to the sight of that goofy face along with a rough, caloused hand threading through his hair and a whispered, "Goodmorning" this seemed so...empty.
Arthur shrunk down into the matress, trying to wrap the blankets around him so tightly they would swallow him. As he snuggled deeper into the bed, he noticed the familiar brown bomber jacket laying wrinkled and abandonned on the hardwood floor.
"That bloody git forgot his jacket again." Arthur murmured to himsel. Now he remembered. Alfred had had it on last night before they went to bed and the jacket must have been discarded carelessly along with all their other clothes like America's baggy jeans splayed crumpled on the other side of the room and England's signature "Union Jack" boxers which had coveniantly landed on the top of the dresser.
He leaned over, stretching and reaching for the item with his pale being left on the floor all night long, the jacket still felt warm to the touch, as if the heat that radiated from Alfred soaked into the jacket itself.
Arthur felt the soft fabric in his hands, brushing his fingers over the black, faux fur around the collar as his other hand fondled the smoothness of the rich, brown leather. This was the jacket that America never took off(except in the shower, on hot days, and for sex of course). His fingeres slid along the length of the jacket, the smooth leather tickling his fingertips. He hugged the jacket close to him, burrying his face in the collar and breathed the american's scent in deeply.
It smelled just like Alfred, Arthur thought. Both spicy and musky with just a bit of saltyness, in other words, America. Inhaling his lovers scent only made Arthur feel more alone.
As if on impulse, the british gentleman threw the dark brown bomber jacket over his shoulders, slipping his arms into the sleeves that continuned a bit past his wrists. It was big on him, like trying on something twice your size, but at the same time it felt perfect because to Arthur, it was as if Alfred was here, envelopping him in a tight, warm embrace.
Arthur kicked his legs over the edge of the bed, snuggling the jacket and getting high off of Alfred's scent as he stood.
The dark brown piece of leather was heavy on his shoulders and Arthur absentmindedly wondered the weight ever bother his american lover. The bomber jacket was long and baggy on him, the hem dropping down just enough to cover his vital regions.
Arthur made his way downstairs to make himself a cup of tea, inhaling deeper than he usually did to get a nose full of that delicious scent.
When he came to the foot of the stairs, the front door was flung open and the older nation nearly had a heart attack as no other than the rowly american himself came crashing through.
"Oh Artie, your up." Alfred pointed out before his eyes traveled downwards then back up, taking in the rare sight of the englishman wearing his tattered, old jacket with a wide grin. "Missed me that bad did ya?" He said, making the other's face turn beet red.
Arthur Kirkland's response to the other country's attempt at romanticism was, as per usual, ripping the bomber jacket off of his shoulders and pitching it at the giggling man with such vigorous force it sent him stumbling back as he stomped up the stairs to put some clothes on.