It makes Alfred smile to think about that blond hair. It makes him laugh thinking about him after one too many drinks. It makes him frown when he has his dark days, hiding in his dark room from the world- from Alfred. Just thinking about him cooking, setting off the fire alarm with the black smoke of what would have been their lunch, could make Alfred sneeze.
Hell, he was grinned just thinking about Arthur.
Alfred had known since the day he met Arthur that tepid summer day that he didn't want to be with anyone else. Couldn't be with another, really. He didn't know if it was those brilliant green eyes that always took his breath way, or the way his eyebrows furrowed together when he got angry, or even the way his face light up when Alfred said his food tasted good.
It could have been the day after Alfred had met Arthur, calling him for a date; he could hear the blush on his face, stuttering that he was too busy and hung up. No fewer then half an hour later he had called Alfred back, quickly agreeing to the date, picking the time and location himself, before hanging up. Alfred didn't even get to speak, his grin was too large.
Life with Arthur was the best life Alfred could want. It didn't matter if he got dragged to the library where he couldn't be loud, or forced to drink tea instead of his soda. In all honesty, Alfred would give up all that and cheeseburgers for Arthur. Of course, when he told him that (he would not pride himself in hiding his feelings for the Brit) Arthur would get red faced, scolding him at saying such "silly" things. But sometimes he would smile a shy, small smile and scoff fondly at the American. Not everyone could tolerate him, Alfred knew that. He was loud, overbearing, selfish. Sometimes he wondered how someone could love him, always expecting Arthur to leave. But he never did. He made sure to remind Alfred of the things he loved, which was everything- both the good and the bad.
And, God, did he love Arthur. He loved how horrible his alcohol tolerance was, his smile, his laugh, the way he red aloud to himself when absorbed in a fantasy world, his love of magic, arguing that unicorns were just hiding their existence from this impure world, how short tempered he was, how he looked when he cried, his cooking, everything. He loved how perfect Arthur was, even if he didn't see it.
When Arthur opened up to Alfred, and it was the best privilege he could ever have; when Arthur opened up, Alfred felt the world stop. Because when he spoke, voice hushed with fear, Alfred felt himself allowed into the most intimate thoughts.
He didn't need to know what love was because Arthur was love. Alfred didn't need a definition or a movie to tell him what he should feel; he knew what he was feeling when he stared at Arthur, and that was good enough. All he knows is the burning drive to be Arthur's hero; build him a home, hold him when he's scared, and stand next to him when he's done.
(The list goes on with this intensity to give Arthur everything he could, surprised by the need. Arthur made Alfred act and think and feel things he never thought he could before he met him, but the American didn't want it any other way.)
Arthur Kirkland was Alfred's hero, and as he walked home, one hand holding an anniversary card and the other clutching a bouquet of roses (Arthur always said they were a gentleman's flowers), he knew exactly how he was going to sign the card.