It was another cold, winter's day. The heat was on, the coffee was brewing, and the whole shop smelled like fresh blueberry muffins. A young barista smiled to himself. It wasn't as though it was his intention to work in a coffee shop right after high school, but he certainly wasn't complaining. There was a lot of worse things he could do for a living. The barista hummed a quiet tune as he pulled the muffins from the oven and set them up in the display, watching the rain fall against the shop window in its never-ending downpour.

"Coffee, please," a voice called to him from the front desk. Alfred was startled by the noise and stood up quickly, hitting his head on the underside of the counter.

"Oww..." he whined softly, and walked over to greet the man. He was slightly shorter than the barista, with straw-blonde hair, and pale skin. It had obviously been ages since he had seen any sun at all. Although, I guess that's normal here, he thought to himself. "What may I get for you?" he asked with a smile.
"Coffee, please," the man said again, although it was really more of a half-hearted grunt.

"Just regular house coffee then?" the barista asked. For goodness sake, this was a coffee shop you have to be a little more specific than that!
"Whatever is the cheapest," he looked up, and revealed to the barista the most gorgeous, emerald-green eyes he had ever seen. However, they were only half open and surrounded by dark circles that stood out against his pale skin.

The barista nodded and to go get him a cup of coffee, "For here or to-go?"

The man was quiet for a moment before deciding, "For here..."

He handed him the dirty brown cup of coffee and the man payed for his drink, sitting down at a nearby table, sipping the warm drink slowly. He was the only customer in the quiet coffee shop this early, so the young barista went back to staring at the rain and the sound it made against the window. A quiet and delightful tune played from the shop radio and everything seemed so calm and perfect. He checked his phone. There was nothing. He checked it again (just in case) and there was still nothing new to interest him. He looked up to check on the customer and found his head on the table. He chuckled slightly to himself. He loved it when customers did that. Those exhausted Englishmen trying to block out the morning light because they simply did not want the day to start yet. He could completely understand the feeling.

-CRASH-

This time Alfred looked up in alarm and saw the man with his head still on the table. He scrunched up his eyebrows in concern. Didn't he hear the crash? Alfred peeked around the counter and saw the coffee splattered all over the floor and white bits of broken glass peaking through the dirty brown of the coffee. The barista's first thought was that the must have fallen asleep and knocked the coffee cup of the table, and his second thought was one of concern that the man might have gotten hurt when the glass shattered. He hurried over and shook him gently, "Sir? Sir?"
The man stirred and looked up at him with tired eyes, blinking in confusion.

"Are you hurt!?"

"I-I beg your pardon?" he asked, still obviously out of it.

"You fell asleep and knocked the cup off the table! Are you okay?"

The man looked down and stared at the mess, and then to his pants which had a slowly growing spot of red on his calf, "Shit," he finally realized, "Fuck, I am sorry. I can p-pay for the cup... if you need me to."

"No, mister, don't worry about it! I just want to make sure you're okay!"

The man clearly shifted his leg to hide the red spot and stood up, avoiding the glass, "I'm fine... and don't call me "mister" I'm not an old man..." he added in a grumble.

Alfred tried not to laugh at that, "Well, what's your name then?"

The man looked at the barista curiously, "Its...Arthur. Arthur Kirkland."

"Well, Artie. I am Alfred and you are bleeding, which means you are not fine," he grabbed the man's wrist and watched as he turned very red and tried to pull away, "I have a first aid kit in the back. Let me help, and we'll see how bad it is," he told Arthur comfortingly and before the other had time to protest, slung Arthur's arm over his shoulder was leading him into the back room. As they walked he could help but notice how small and frail the man seemed. It was as if he had bones made of glass that would break if you gave him too firm of a handshake... and he was cold. So very cold.

"Look, Alfred. For one: don't call me Artie, and for two: I am fine. Please, let me be and I will be on my way. I have already caused you too much trouble."
"I don't think so," Alfred insisted and sat him down, pulling out the first-aid kit, "You passed out cold at the table, and now you are bleeding. I'm going to bandage you up and then take you to either the hospital or home, okay?" he rolled up the man's baggy brown trousers, and was shocked by how skinny his legs were. They were so pale that they were almost white and had very little hair... but the most shocking part was how horribly, ridiculously thin they were, like twigs that may snap at any moment.

"Stop gawking, git..." the man said uncomfortably, his cheeks flushing a light pink, "And you will not take me anywhere!"

"Yes I am," Alfred insisted and stopped his staring, feeling a little bad for it. He continue to roll of the pant leg until he spotted the wound, and ripped open an alcohol wipe, "This is going to sting a little, okay?" he waited for the man to show some sign that he understood and began to clean the wound. His hands wiped away the blood skillfully and it became quite clear that this wasn't the first time he had done something like this. He hear the man hiss in pain and tried his best to be as gentle as possible, "Alright... you're lucky. It doesn't look too bad... but you really should be more careful. Have you been sleeping well?"

"That's none of your business."

Alfred sighed and wrapped the wound in a bandage, rolling back down his trousers, and looked up at him with a warm smile... realizing how pretty this man was. When he first walked in, Alfred had thought he was middle aged, or even older... but he soon realized he was probably only a few years older than himself, definitely in his twenties... yet his eyes seemed a thousand years old. He wasn't sure why, but his heart filled with sympathy for the man, "Wait here. I'm going to clean up the spill and close up shop. Then I can take you home, okay? You need rest."
Arthur sighed and gave up protest... and Alfred couldn't help but notice that his cheeks seemed slightly redder than before. He smiled and quickly went to clean up the spill, eager to get back to the strange man. He felt entranced by his strange behavior, foul attitude, and emerald eyes. After finishing his tasks quickly, he rushed back to the man, "I hope you didn't wait too long! So, where's your home?"

Arthur looked down, "It's just a few blocks... I can get there myself."

Alfred shook his head, "No! I insist that I take you. As the hero I can't let an injured man walk home alone."

Arthur rolled his eyes and gave in, "It's a flat... on third."

"Okay, Artie! Let's go!"

It rained harder on that walk than it had for the whole time Alfred had lived in London. Of course, he whined internally, but had walked Arthur the whole way, wishing one of them had an umbrella. By the time they reached his apartment, they were both freezing and soaked to the very bone. Alfred had given Arthur his bomber jacket part of the way there, and was now in nothing but his jeans and a t-shirt... both of which acted like a sponge to the freezing cold rain. His golden blonde hair was plastered uncomfortably to his face (except, of course, for that one piece of hair that Alfred had long since given up trying to make lie flat). He shivered and flashed Arthur a large grin, "Is this it?"

Arthur nodded and handed Alfred back his jacket, "Umm, thank you..."

Those two words were all the young barista need to make it all worthwhile, "No problem, d-dude!" His teeth chattered on the last word, ruining the facade that he was fine, and that the cold wasn't bothering him at all.

Arthur's eyes grew wide, "Oh hell... I'm so sorry, Alfred. I didn't even think about how cold you must be! Would you... would you like to come inside and dry off a bit? I mean... if you want to... my flat is rather messy and not too much warmer... but if you have time I can make a fire. Oh, but if you have to get back to work I don't want to bo-"

Alfred cut him off, chuckling at the smaller man's ramble"I'd love to. Thank you."

"We have to get wood first... so if you can wait here, I'll be ri-"

"I can help!" he interrupted excitedly. He loved making fires, and had been doing so since he was very young.

"Alright then..." he sighed and led him down the hall to the large pile of firewood tucked away from the constant rain. Alfred winked at him and bent down, picking up a large pile of wood with such ease, he could see the surprise across Arthur's face, "Where to, your highness?"

The Englishman turned very red at this and snapped, "Don't mock me!" he sighed and said, "My flat is just up the stairs... git."

Alfred beamed and hurried up the stairs, careful not to slip on the wet steps. Peeking back at Arthur, he found himself catching a gorgeous sight. Arthur stood on the steps, his patched plaid jacket and dull green scarf caught in the wind, fluttering as they stood out dramatically against the cold grey of the street, stairs and sky, and his pale skin seemed to glow in the soft light of the overcast sky. Arthur looked up at him with his stunning emerald eyes full of curiousity... and something else Alfred couldn't put his finger on. In that moment Alfred felt himself begin to slip, and he began falling into a place he would not be able to return from, "W-what's your room number?"

"It's flat twenty-six!" Arthur called up from a few steps below, for athough he was not the one with armfuls of wood, he was quite slower than the barista, He is probably totally out of shape. Alfred realized sadly. It wasn't that he was fat... but quite the opposite. He didn't sleep and the bit of leg Alfred saw was so skinny, he was amazed the could still support the rest of his body. Alfred spotted the door marked with a thin, metal "26" and stopped his ascent, waiting for Arthur to catch up.

He finally did and stopped to catch his breath, before pulling out his key with fumbling, glove-coated fingers and unlocked the door. Alfred actually gasped at what he saw inside the door. Every wall that he could see just from staring through the doorway. There was stuff everywhere, yet it didn't seem messy... it was as if everything was in sorted piles of various... art supplies, he finally realized. Paints and cavases, sketchbooks, pens, aprons, and everything else you would imagine an artist to own. There were paint-splattered tarps layed across all the floors and some of the furniture (which were then covered in piles of books), "It's small, cold, and terribly messy..." Arthur said quietly, bending down to pull off his shoes and grabbing for a pair of worn slippers, "But it's my home..."

Alfred gaped, not even stepping inside yet... "It's incredible... I feel like I am surrounded by fairy tales," he stepped inside and spun slowly around, taking everything in. There were paintings depicting everything imaginable. London, forests, replicas of famous paintings, the sky, animals, people, and even what seemed to be unicorns and other strange mythical creatures, "Did you paint all of these...?" he asked in awe.

"Yes... but I am afraid they aren't very good," Arthur sighed, "The fireplace is over there. If you want it to be warm, you can start it if you know how and promise not to burn down my flat... I am going to go get changed into dry clothes," he turned quickly and disappeared around the corner. Alfred went over to the fireplace and gently cleared anything flamable from the hearth, setting to work on the fire. He used to do it all the time as a child. After all, he grew up on a farm. They were the perfect American family: Mother, father, two kids and a dog all living together in a big ranch house on their farm in Kansas. He even had a horse named Hero. The American dream... that's what they had... or at least until-

"Hey, git," a voice said from behind him and Alfred turned around to be hit in the face with a shirt, "It's all I have that might fit you... just until your's is dry."
Alfred caught it easily, and with a word of thanks, pulled off his own and pulled the other one on. It was a bit tight on him, but not in a bad way... and it was really soft... and smelled like incense and old books... He shook his head from those thoughts and draped his shirt over the side of the hearth, going back to the fire. With the wood all set up and paper in place, he easily started a raging fire in a matter of minutes. Arthur walked over and sit next to him, holding his hands up to the heat and Alfred could swear he saw a smile flicker across his lips but so brief, he thought it must be only his imagination, "D...do you like the fire?"

Arthur nodded, "Yes. You make very beautiful fires... better than the ones I make. Yours do seem so alive, passionate, like the flames endlessly dance across their logs, not caring about what stands in their way. They may be contained in a small little fireplace, but they are as big as they can possibly be. I wish I could be like that..." This brought a long silence from the normally talkative barista. He felt at a loss for words after the man's elegant metaphor. Arthur seemed to notice, and got the wrong impression, "Sorry! I... well I do that quite a bit. It just seems that my mind works differently than most..."
Alfred looked up and him, eyes glistening, "It's fine... Actually, I've always felt the same, but I was never able to phrase in the way you just did. Back home, I used to watch our fire for years, envying it's freedom... After all, shouldn't everything be free?"

Arthur smiled at him and Alfred's heart warmed. The Brit yawned and brought his knees to his chest, "I think... I think I want to paint."

Alfred chuckled, "Isn't that kind of what you do?"

Arthur sighed, "Of course it is... but sometimes... sometimes I just can't make anything worthwhile. I will go through canvas after canvas, tossing them all to the side in frustration. No matter what I do, I hate everything I create. I feel... hopeless." Alfred felt compassion for the artist grow in his chest. Although he wasn't an artist, and had no way of really knowing what that would be like, but he didn't have to imagine what it would feel like to be unable to do something worthwhile... and to hate the outcome of everything he tried to do. His hand slipped over Arthur's and gave it a gentle squeeze, "But it doesn't last forever... sometimes it fades away, and I can go back to painting just like I used to. However, it's the times that I find a new inspiration that make all of it worthwhile. It's the occasional times that something comes along, and I can't understand what or why it inspires me, but when that thing comes along, I can paint again. Not how I used to, but better than ever before. It's as if something has filled my heart with warmth once again... " Arthur may not of have been smile, but Alfred could see that there was a light that filled his eyes, "I want to paint again... because I think I have found that inspiration."

"Oh? And do you know what it is?" Alfred asked. This man confused him, but filled him with fascination. He found himself wanting to know everything about him, wishing that he could get inside his head and understand the way he thought!

"You," he yawned once more, parting his lips only slightly, and leaned against the couch, falling into a deep, relaxed slumber.

Alfred felt his cheeks grow warm, and a shiver run down his spine. He was this man's inspiration? How, when they had just met? Alfred may of had many men and women in his life confess their love to him, and some even called him their, "One and only" or "The best thing that had ever happened to them," but somehow it didn't compare to having this grumpy, sleep-deprived British artist call him his inspiration. It made him feel special, important even... but it also felt like a lot of pressure. Although all of his "friends" would tell you that he was the most confident, arrogant prat you would ever meet, he didn't really think he deserved that sort of title. He wasn't great. He was just a guy, a clumsy, foolish boy who screwed up time and time again... sometimes even hurting those he loved. Every failed relationship he had ever had was his fault. His teachers told him he was stupid, and his parents... well, he didn't want to remember that. He sighed and stood up, grabbing his now-dry shirt from the hearth and swiftly changing back into it. He layed down Arthur's shirt and sighed, Maybe I should just leave... I don't even know this man, and I don't want to give him false hope. He turned around and saw Arthur's form curled up against the couch in an uncomfortable mess of skinny tangled limbs and floor. He walked over and gently scooped him up like a knight would a sleeping princess and, with his foot, pushed all the mess on the couch to one side, laying Arthur on the other. He may be a fool... and he may not be worthy of... whatever Arthur had given him, but he would do his best to make him happy. He wasn't the superhero he'd always wanted to be, but he could do his best to make this one man as happy as he possibly could.