A/N: Hi there. So, I had a conversation with myself a while ago, and some twisted part of me really liked the idea of taking a hungover Alfred and Arthur and messing with them. That's basically what this fic is.

WARNING! This fic contains a BRITISH MAN. I am an AMERICAN FEMALE. No brit-pick has taken place! If you are British and are reading this, first of all, thank you, second of all, I offer my deepest apologies for the messed up British terms.

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When Alfred wakes up the first time, he sees something blurry that sort of looks like a sneaker. Or a raccoon. His sluggish brain decides it's not worth waking up for, and he goes back to sleep.

When Alfred wakes up the second time, he hears the faint sound of moaning. He concludes it's emanating from the raccoon, and he goes back to sleep.

When Alfred wakes up the third time, he has been pushed off the bed and onto the floor.

Alfred F. Jones is proud of his quick reflexes. They have never failed him. Until this very moment.

He lands on the floor in a heap of tangled limbs and bedsheets. He flails around for a good minute or two, trying to figure his way out of the horrible mess of human and fabric. Alfred gives up after a while, since it's obviously hopeless. He decides that him and the bedsheets are now one.

Now that Alfred is awake—or as close as he can get to awake—he notices three things.

1. He is very hungover.

2. He's not wearing his glasses.

3. He is wearing nothing but boxer briefs. And the bedsheets. Even though he and the bedsheets are now one.

Alfred is able to notice these three things because Alfred is very used to waking up hungover, with no glasses, and partially/fully naked. Some may call it sad. He calls it Sunday morning.

And since Alfred is very used to his current predicament, he decides to go through his usual Hungover Morning Procedure.

Step one: Locate glasses. You need them to see.

Alfred is one of those people who has really fucked up vision. This means that without his glasses the world looks like a confused blurry mess, as opposed to the confused focused mess the world is supposed to look like. His glasses are the key to his survival.

Unfortunately, finding his glasses is going to be difficult. Since he can't see a fucking thing, he has to feel around the floor like Velma from Scooby-Doo. He half expects to start crying out "Jinkies!" at any given moment.

Somebody clears their throat.

Alfred looks up in the general direction of where he assumes the throat clearing came from. "Hey," he coughs out. God, his voice sounds fucking terrible. It also hurts to talk. What the hell had he done last night?

He tries again. "Hey, is somebody there? Did you push me off the bed?"

There's a grunt. Alfred supposes that's as much of an answer as he can hope for.

"Ok…do you see my glasses?"

There's a pause, and then whoever is in the room with him—Alfred's still isn't sure it's not a raccoon—shuffles around, and then rudely shoves glasses onto Alfred's face. Alfred grabs them before they can do too much eye damage, and adjusts them properly on the bridge of his nose. He's greeted with a pair of very disgruntled eyebrows and extremely green eyes. They glare at him from just over the edge of the bed

Of. Fucking. Course.

Alfred groans, and falls back with the full intention of hitting the floor and never coming back up. He ends up banging his head on the wall behind him, which pretty much sums up his entire existence.

Arthur Kirkland opens his mouth to say something that's probably going to be very clever and very insulting, but Alfred holds up his hand to stop him.

"No," he says, "just…no." He takes a deep breath. "I cannot deal with your judgement of me right now. I have a protocol to get through."

"You mean your Hungover Morning Procedure?" Arthur grates out with a voice that sounds just as hoarse as Alfred's. Only, you know, more British.

Alfred gives him a look. "See what I mean about the judgment? Nobody needs that right now."

"Unfortunately, my interactions with you have placed me in a constant state of judgment."

"Hardee har har," Alfred grumbles as he pushes himself to his feet. "As if I've ever done anything that horrible in front of you."

"Would you like to see the list of occasions?"

"No."

"It's quite extensive."

"No. Shut up."

Arthur chuckles at him, chuckles at him, and rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling. Alfred has no idea how anyone can laugh during a hangover. He knows for a fact that Arthur gets the worst hangovers, the kind of hangovers that drive a man to kill. Alfred has been witness.

Alfred Jones and Arthur Kirkland have been friends for ages. They met in high school when Arthur moved to America from England, and the two immediately started the strangest relationship dynamic the world has ever known. They became fierce friends almost immediately, but their constant insults and ribbing would cause the casual outsider to think that the two were sworn enemies.

They never really had the chance to indulge in alcohol during high school, but once college started, the two built a reputation for themselves by partying long and hard. The consequences of said partying were, of course, drastic, but they had been young and wild and all that nonsense. As slightly more mature adults, Alfred had thought Arthur's and his partying days of drunkenness were over.

Evidently not, he thinks darkly to himself as a headache pounds relentlessly behind his right eye.

Alfred studies his current position on the floor, and decides that standing up should be his next action. Well, it would be his next action if he wasn't just wearing boxers. Arthur is in the room, and Alfred is in his underwear. Those two things should not mix.

Not that Alfred wouldn't want them to mix. Large parts of his mind would be very, very happy if half naked Alfred and sleepy looking Arthur swirled around together in a harmonious mixture of bedroom and sexy times. He's had plenty a dream about this very predicament.

And that happens to be the biggest fucking problem of Alfred's life as of late.

Reminding himself that Arthur is his best friend and best friends see each other without their clothes on from time to time, Alfred decides to proceed with his plan of standing up. He tries, and the world starts to wobble and twist, and he ends up back on his ass. He tries again with the same results. The third time's the charm though, and he manages to both discard the bedsheets and stand on his own two legs at the same time.

Alfred refuses to look anywhere near his best friend, because he knows that seeing Arthur laid out on a bed right in front of him is going to do weird things to his already unstable head. He squints his eyes, and tries to remember the next step of his Morning Hangover Procedure.

Step two: Look at your surroundings. Act accordingly.

Alfred takes in the bedroom around him. They're at Mathew's house. He knows this because he's woken up hungover in this exact bedroom before. Usually alone. And depressed.

But not this time! No, this time he's not alone! He's got Arthur with him! Misery loves company, especially British company with humongous eyebrows. Also, Alfred has no reason to be depressed because something amazing happened to him the other night.

Wait, what?

He blinks twice. Something amazing happened… Alfred has a feeling that he's supposed to remember whatever it was because it's incredibly important and earth shattering. Problem is, he can't remember anything at the moment. Last night is a big blank spot in Alfred's mind. This is a bit worrisome. He doesn't know why. He's never cared about not remembering before, what's different about now?

"If you're just going to stand there, blinking off into space like an idiot, then go find out what time it is," Arthur grumbles from the bed.

"Don't tell me what to do," Alfred says as he does what Arthur told him to do. The alarm clock on the dresser closest to him says 11:30. "It's a half hour 'till noon."

Arthur lets out a groan. Alfred agrees entirely.

And now for the final step of his procedure.

Step three: Take control of the situation, and leave it.

This usually comes in handy when he wakes up with some stranger lying next to him. One night stands are only awkward if Alfred lets them get awkward, and he doesn't like doing that. However, this isn't a one night stand. Arthur and Alfred had probably just gotten drunk at Mathew's house, and then slept in the same bed. They've done similar things before.

Of course, Alfred has never woken up with a bare chest in the same bed as Arthur, but he isn't going to let himself dwell on that.

"Alfred…" Arthur says hesitantly from the bed.

Alfred closes his eyes and stretches his arms over his head. "Yeah?"

"Are you…are you wearing my underwear?"

Alfred freezes, and slowly looks down, his arms still in the air. And what do you know, those are definitely not his boxers. He doesn't own black plaid boxers. Alfred finally looks over at Arthur, whose staring at him with slightly pink cheeks. Arthur also appears to be…

"Naked?" Alfred manages to squeak. He gets a hold of himself, clears his throat, and says, "Are you naked?"

Arthur looks down at himself, stares at his bare chest, and pears underneath the sheets that are covering his lower half. "It would appear so," he says, his voice sounding a bit strange.

And oh God, Alfred is blushing, because there is nothing to stop him from staring at a toned chest, pale skin, and hipbones. He quickly covers his face and lets out the loudest moan he can manage. "What happened last night?"

"I don't know, but apparently it led to us both undressing, and you putting on my boxers."

Alfred guesses that the part where they slept in the same bed is implied. Suddenly, he snorts, scaring himself a bit. He giggles, then starts to shake in laughter, his shoulders jerking up and down like mad.

"Why are you laughing?" Arthur demands. He sounds annoyed.

Alfred peers at him through his fingers. Arthur's sitting up, the bedsheets pooled around his hips. His hair is flattened on the side of his head he had slept on, and his eyebrows look ridiculous. He glares at Alfred petulantly.

Alfred cracks up, letting his laughter roar.

"Bloody hell, stop! In the name of all that is holy, stop! I cannot handle that ridiculous laugh right now!" Arthur snaps at him. "What's funny about any of this?!"

Alfred grins and points at him, choking out his answer between laughs. "You're naked, and I'm wearing your underwear. What's not funny?"

Arthur's entire face turns red. "Oh yes, this is truly hilarious. I've never been more amused in my life," he seethes through gritted teeth.

Alfred's laughs turn into high pitched sighs as he calms down, wiping at his eyes. He gives Arthur a winning smile. "Don't be such a killjoy, dude. It wouldn't hurt you to laugh a little."

"It just might," Arthur mutters under his breath. Alfred fights the urge to ruffle his hair, then does it anyway because he's always been impulsive, so why should he stop now? Arthur whacks his hand away, looking even more pissed than before.

Alfred smirks, and sits next to him on the bed. "Oh, come on you big grump. You have to admit, this isn't the worst situation we've woken up to."

Arthur's mouth twitches a little. "Yeah, but at least I could remember what happened the other times."

Alfred winces. He had been hoping that Arthur remembered. "You too, huh?"

Arthur sighs, rubbing his forehead. "Yeah. Not a thing."

Alfred's still for a moment, before turning back to Arthur. "Hey, why didja' push me off the bed earlier?"

Arthur, whose face had just started to loose it's color, blushed bright red again. "Oh, um, sorry about that. It's just that I was a bit confused when I woke up." He glanced quickly at Alfred, and then away again. "You see, we were sort of tangled around each other, and I was so delirious that I didn't recognize you at first, so I panicked."

Alfred stares at him. "So, whenever you wake up in bed with someone you don't recognize, your first instinct is to kick them out?" he says slowly.

Arthur wrinkles his nose. "God, you make me sound horrible. No, I don't kick my bedmates out of bed in the morning if I can't recognize them. I was just a little off kilter." He gives Alfred a teasing smile. "However, once I realized it was you, I sort of wished I had flung you across the room instead of just off the bed. You have terrible morning breath."

Alfred scoffed. "I do not!"

"You do too! I think it's making my hair curl."

And then the bickering begins.

It's good to be back on familiar ground, where the insults fly. It's comfortable, and Alfred will never get over the way the skin at the corners of Arthur's eyes crinkles when he smirks.

The teasing is also a distraction from their current situation. It's not the first time that Alfred's woken up in the same bed with Arthur, but it is the first time they've been in such a compromising position. Alfred knows that nothing happened last night because he's never that lucky. Plus, Arthur would never want to sleep with him, no matter how drunk he was. No one like Arthur would voluntarily choose Alfred. And that's the way it has to be.

Still, it doesn't take away from the fact that Alfred slept in the same bed as a naked Arthur, while wearing his underwear. It's a bit too much for his fragile brain to take at the moment, so he's happy for the distraction of verbal abuse.

And then Arthur decides to go ahead and throw off his entire plan.

"So, neither of us remember anything about last night?" he asks, looking at Alfred with obvious disbelief.

Alfred frowns. "Don't give me that look, I honestly don't remember a thing!" he exclaims.

Arthur sighs. "Well, we should at least be trying to remember, shouldn't we?"

"Uh, yes?" he guesses.

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Let's gather what information we know."

Alfred looks around him, remembers what he had discovered earlier, and straightens up with a triumphant smile. "I know something! We're at Mathew's house!"

Arthur gives him a look. "I already deduced that."

"You said to gather up the information we know. The fact that we're at Mathew's house is information that we know," Alfred points out.

Arthur thinks about if for a moment before shrugging. "Alright, I guess that's fair. Now, I believe today's a Sunday, which means that last night was Saturday night. We both have this weekend off, right?"

Alfred nods. "Yeah…" Now that he thinks about it, he remembers being really excited about Arthur and him having the same weekend off. Not only that, but several other people had the weekend off too. Who were they…?

He mentions this to Arthur, who looks extremely thoughtful. "Well, I guess we can assume that your brother was one of them, and that also means Francis was here too." He makes a face.

Alfred cocks his head, "What's your problem with that guy anyways?"

"He's a crook, an arrogant berk, a cheat, a ridiculous idiot, a bastard, a narcissistic moron, a-"

Alfred holds up his hands. "Alright, Gotcha."

"You know I'm right. I don't know what your brother sees in him," Arthur grumbles with a glare.

Alfred shrugs, trying to hide a smile. When he first met Francis, the man had caught him a bit off guard. It had been at some sort of party at Ludwig's firm. The frenchman was a helpless flirt, and obviously very interested in Mathew. Alfred, of course, had been very protective. But for some reason, Mathew liked Francis. Alfred knew that his brother was a very good judge of character, so he hadn't put up too much of a protest when they started dating.

Besides, Arthur put up enough protest for everyone.

"Ok, so why exactly are we at Mathew's house? Was it a special occasion?" Alfred asks.

Arthur shrugs. "Hell if I know."

"Yeah, me too."

They're both silent for a moment, looking around the room as they both try to figure out what happened the other night.

Arthur huffs in frustration. "This is ridiculous."

"Agreed." Alfred sighs. "I'm gonna go shower. Maybe that will clear my head."

Arthur grunts. "Yeah, okay. I'm going to go see what your brother has in his fridge. Maybe I can make us some breakfast."

Alfred's eyes widen in panic. "No!" he exclaims, holding out his hands. "Uh, don't bother! I can do that when I get out of the shower."

Arthur glares at him, but doesn't protest. Alfred has to stop himself from letting out a sight of relief. Mixing Arthur's cooking with a hangover would only spell disaster. Actually, Arthur's cooking alone would be a disaster. The man really can't cook to save his life.

Alfred starts to make his way over to the bathroom that's across the room, but stops when he hears snickering. He turns to find Arthur laughing at him behind his hand, his green eyes roaming up and down Alfred's half bare body.

Alfred blushes, and quickly bends down to grab the bed sheet he had formally been tangled in. He wraps it around his body, trying to summon up what's left of his dignity. Sadly, there isn't much.

When he looks at Arthur again, the man isn't laughing at him anymore. Instead, he's giving him a strange, almost possessive look. His eyes roam over the skin that the blanket isn't covering, his gaze dark and lidded.

Alfred blinks, and the look has disappeared. Arthur's back to laughing at him. Alfred wonders if he had imagined it. He must have. Arthur would never look at him like that.

Alfred holds his head up high, hoists up his blanket wrap, and marches into the bathroom. He ignores the snort coming from behind him.

Stupid Brit.

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He's right, the water does help to clear his head. The room stops spinning, and while his head still pounds painfully, it's easy to ignore while he's under the spray of warm water. Alfred leans against the wall, trying to let his mind go blank as he enjoys his shower.

Warmth, laughter, alcohol. Someone shoves him to one side. He crashes into a wall, and giggles. The door to Mathew's house is unlocked, and he and the others tumble inside…

Alfred sighs, running a hand through his wet hair.

Everything is hilarious. Even Ludwig is loosening up. Francis and Antonio are in the middle of some drunken song, but the words are in Spanish, and Alfred can hardly understand a thing…

The water feels heavenly as it runs over his back.

There's a warm body pressed against him. Everything is hazy but wonderful. He tangles his fingers in soft hair, and tries to get himself closer. There's a bed, and two bodies go tumbling down…

What.

Alfred's eyes snap open. He pushes himself away from the shower wall, reeling in shock. He was remembering! He had remembered flashes of what had happened last night!

And he had sex with someone.

He immediately turns the water off and grabs the nearest towel. He steps out of the shower and furiously dries his hair, not really aware of his actions. Alfred shoves on his glasses and wipes away the steam on the bathroom mirror. He stares at his reflection. His eyes are wide, bloodshot, and panicked.

There's two hickeys on his neck.

Alfred stares at them, not quite comprehending what they are. How did they get there? Why are they there? Most importantly, who put them there?!

He shuts his eyes, trying to remember what he had before. Ludwig had been there. He remembers him smiling a bit. That must mean that Feliciano was there. Alfred could remember Francis and Antonio singing some stupid song. Lovino must have been there as well. Antonio hardly leaves his side.

Ok. He knows who else was at the drunken party. That's a good step. But, who did he have sex with?

Ludwig and Feliciano have been in a relationship for about a year now, and he's never really found either of them attractive. Feliciano is too much like a puppy, and Ludwig has a giant stick up his ass. No, it wasn't either of them.

There's Francis, who Alfred has slept with twice when they first met. But the guy's currently in a serious relationship with Mathew, who Alfred's pretty sure was also there. He's positive that he wouldn't have slept with his brother's boyfriend. There isn't enough liquor in the world.

There's Antonio, but Alfred doubts anything happened between them. The dude's got a ginormous crush on Lovino. He's practically sworn off all sex until he nails the guy. As for Lovino, Alfred is positive the little bastard feels exactly the same way about Antonio. If Alfred did sleep with either of them, the other would kill him. (Lovino would also probably kill Antonio. Dude's weird.)

Who does that leave? His brain taunts him. Don't be obtuse.

Alfred winces. He feels like screaming. Or crying. Or puking. Perhaps all three.

The thing is, contrary to popular belief, Alfred's not a complete idiot. He teaches an advanced robotics class at one of the top colleges in the nation. He travels as often as he can in order to learn about foreign nations and their history. He's a whiz when it comes to technology and physics.

So, Alfred can put two and two together.

Something had happened between him and Arthur last night. As much as Alfred hates to admit it, it's only reasonable.

"Unless somebody at a bar gave me the hickeys," he mutters to himself, but the evidence suggests otherwise. He had woken up in bed with a naked Arthur, wearing the idiot's underpants.

Three or five years ago, Alfred would have been ecstatic. He's wanted Arthur ever since sophomore year in high school. Yet, things are different now, because Alfred's not very good at hiding his emotions. Everyone he knows is already aware of his gigantic crush on his best friend. Arthur is very observant, and Alfred had long ago figured that Arthur knows about his feelings.

The fact that Arthur hasn't done or said a single thing just proves that he doesn't feel the same way. Alfred has come to terms with this. Arthur is his best friend, and he doesn't want to ruin that friendship with a pathetic crush. Plus, Alfred isn't very good at relationships. Every single one of his has ended badly. People tend to get bored with him after awhile and wind up leaving him behind. Alfred doesn't want that to happen with Arthur, so he's fine with staying friends.

He winces at his reflection, wondering how he could have been so stupid last night. Even drunk, you would think he would have the sense to keep his fucking hands off his best friend. He's going to have to leave the bathroom eventually, and Arthur will give him the inevitable speech about not wanting anything to do with him.

Wait. Didn't Arthur say he didn't remember what had happened last night either? Maybe, if Alfred's really lucky, Arthur still has no idea what went on. He hadn't commented on the hickeys, which could either mean he didn't notice them, or he didn't think he was the one who placed them there.

Alfred takes a deep breath. Maybe, just maybe, he can get out of this. He just won't ever mention it to Arthur, and if his friend starts to remember, he will deny everything. Ok. He can do this.

As he leaves the bathroom and starts hunting for clothes in Mathew's room, he can't help but wish that he could remember a little more of what happened last night. If he's never allowed to admit that it happened, he'd like to at least be able to pretend that he had sex with Arthur Kirkland, if only for one night.

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Ten minutes later, Alfred steps into the kitchen warily. He's managed to find a hokey jersey and sweat pants in Mathew's room. He's also exchanged Arthur's underwear for his own pair, which he found strewn in the hallway of all places. He holds Arthur's boxers in one hand, using the other to rub his hair with a towel. He spots Arthur by the fridge and opens his mouth to say something, only to choke on the horrible smell of burning toast.

"Dude, I told you not to cook anything!" he shouts as he rushes over to the toaster, abandoning the underwear and towel on the floor.

"It was just toast!" Arthur yelps. He's fanning the smoke away with a dishtowel.

Alfred ignores him, unplugs the toaster, and dumps the blackened toast into the sink while cursing up a storm. Once the smoke is cleared and Alfred has made sure that the fire alarms have not gone off—he needs to talk to Mathew about changing their batteries—he whirls around and points a finger at Arthur.

"I know I know, I'm not allowed in the kitchen," he grumbles before Alfred can say anything.

Alfred nods, crossing his arms. "Now go sit at the table and think about what you've done."

"Yes dear," Arthur utters darkly under his breath, but does as he's told and sits at the little table off to the side of the kitchen.

Alfred jolts a bit at the word "dear". It's not the first time that Arthur has said that word in a sarcastic reference to Alfred ordering him about like an angry housewife, but after what had just occurred in the bathroom, Alfred tenses up immensely.

Unfortunately, Arthur notices. He shoots Alfred a worried look as he sits down. "You alright?"

Alfred nods quickly, turning away. "Yeah. It's just been a weird morning." He opens the refrigerator door and leans down so it blocks his face. "What do you want for breakfast?"

"Pain killers, if you can find any," Arthur tells him.

Alfred happily agrees. They pop pills over cups of coffee and tea, the latter being the only beverage that Arthur is allowed to make. Alfred stares resolutely down at his coffee cup. He's leaning against the counter in the kitchen, as far away as he can get from Arthur without looking too suspicious.

Apparently he's failed at that, because Arthur sets down his tea cup and frowns at him. "Something's the matter with you. What's wrong?" he demands

Alfred avoids his gaze. "Just the hangover. It's really getting to me."

Arthur's silent for a moment, then asks, "Are you sure that's it?"

Knowing that Arthur can easily detect lies, Alfred searches for a distraction. He finds one in the form of Arthur's boxers, which he had dropped on the floor earlier. He picks them up with a grin. "Found some underwear for you, just in case you were going commando." He raises an eyebrow, looking Arthur over. "Unless, of course, you prefer it that way." Arthur is also wearing a hockey jersey, though he apparently found his jeans somewhere in the house.

Arthur glares at him. "Give me those, and don't try to change the subject! Something is up with you."

Alfred smirks. "It's nice to know you care about me so much, Artie."

Arthur rolls his eye so hard that he must hurt something. "Just give me back—oomf!" He's interrupted by Alfred throwing the boxers at his face. It's a perfect hit, since Arthur has absolutely no eye-hand coordination.

Alfred cackles in laughter as Arthur peals the underwear from his face with a disgusted grimace. He laughs even harder when he earns himself a glare.

"Stop laughing! I'm being serious! What the hell is the matter with you?" Arthur snaps.

Alfred calms down with a sigh, taking a sip of his coffee. "Why do you care?"

"Because I'm your friend, bastard!" Arthur says with a slightly hurt tone.

Alfred immediately feels guilty. Arthur and him tell each other almost everything. It's unusual for him to hold back like this. And yet, it must be done. "I'm sorry, but I'd rather not talk about it."

Arthur quiets down. He stares at Alfred, his ridiculous eyebrows high on his forehead. Finally, he speaks. "Alright then. If that's how you want it."

Silence fills the kitchen. Alfred feels horrible. He screams insults at himself inside his head, cursing his drunk self and his poor judgement. Outwards, he sighs and sets his coffee cup down. "I'm going to go search for my phone."

"Yeah." Arthur stands up. "I'll see what I can find around here. Maybe something will give me a hint as to what happened."

Alfred gulps. "Um, don't worry about that. Whatever happened's probably not important anyways."

"What do you mean?" Arthur asks.

"Just that we shouldn't stress ourselves over what we can't remember." Alfred shrugs. "It's a waste of time."

Arthur narrows his eyes suspiciously, but nods. Alfred offers him a half-assed smile, and passes him to climb up the stairs to Mathew's room.

"Alfred," Arthur calls out behind him.

Alfred stops, but doesn't turn around. "Yeah?"

"I think…I want to talk to you soon. About something important." Pause. "Alright?"

Alfred shuts his eyes. "…Alright." Does he know? He can't know, not if he's searching for clues of what happened.

He begins to head slowly up the stairs, forcing himself not to break out into a run. He's in Mathew's room when he hears the sound of shattering glass and a loud shout. Fearing the worst, Alfred runs back down to the kitchen to find a dazed looking Arthur standing over a small pile of broken glass.

"What the fuck?!" Alfred yelps. He rushes over and pushes Arthur away from the glass. He checks him for signs of blood or injury, but sees nothing. "What the hell just happened?!"

Arthur blinks twice and shakes his head as if coming out of a daze. He stares at Alfred with wide eyes. "Sorry, I was getting a glass of water and then I…thought of something."

Alfred snorts and turns around to search for a broom. "Well I hope whatever you thought of is worth Mathew's wrath. He is going to be pissed when he finds out that you-"

"Alfred."

Alfred stops in his tracks. He knows that tone. It's the tone that Arthur uses when he's in serious trouble. Alfred slowly turns around to find Arthur giving him a knowing look.

"You remember what happened last night, don't you?" he asks quietly.

Alfred swallows. He feels paralyzed and separate from his own body. It feels like someone else is talking when he says, "Only part of it…"

Arthur sighs. "But that is enough."

Alfred glances down at the broken glass. "You remembered, huh?"

Arthur nods. "I went to get a drink of water, and almost as soon as I did I…" He shrugs. "You know."

"And the shock caused you to drop the glass," finishes Alfred lamely. He rubs a hand over his face, feeling like crap. He doesn't want this to happen. He just wants to go back to sleep. "I'm gonna go find a broom to clean this up." He tries once again to retreat, turning away from Arthur.

"Alfred F. Jones, don't you dare leave this room!"

Alfred shakes his head frantically. "No, I gotta…" He makes a break for the doorway, but Arthur lunges out and grabs his arm, yanking him back with strength that always surprises Alfred. He collides into Arthur's chest, and hurriedly pushes himself away. In his haste he ends up slipping on the towel that's still on the floor. He tumbles to the ground with a yelp.

Arthur carefully moves forward so that he's standing over Alfred. He looks down at him with worry and amusement. "You ok?"

Alfred nods, rubbing the back of his neck and fixing his glasses. "Yeah, I think so."

"Good. Now get up and sit down at the table, you big idiot. We're going to talk."

Alfred looks up at Arthur's determined stance. He bites his lip. "I don't think that's a good idea."

Arthur scoffs. "What, and you running away is a better one?"

"Yes, it is," Alfred snaps.

With a groan, Arthur shuts his eyes. Alfred knows that his stubbornness is a constant annoyance to the Brit. It's also his greatest weapon when they argue.

"Alfred, please just…do this for me?" Arthur pleads.

Well, fuck. Arthur's begging is his greatest weapon. He slowly gets to his feet and walks over to one of the chairs at the table. He positions himself closest to the exit of the kitchen in case he needs to make a hasty retreat. If Arthur notices, he doesn't say anything. He sits down at the opposite end of the table. Alfred stares at him warily.

Arthur glares at him. "Would you stop looking at me like I'm about to bite your head off?"

Alfred smirks. "How would you like me to look at you?"

Arthur blushes a little, but narrows his eyes and leans forwards. "I know what you're trying to do. Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"You're teasing me so that I'll get upset and distracted from the issue at hand. It's not going to work."

Alfred, having been caught at his second best battle tactic, leans back in his chair with a huff. "Fine then. Go ahead and spit it out."

"Spit what out?"

"Your speech of rejection. Go ahead and give it to me," Alfred grumbles. When Arthur still looks confused, Alfred lets out a grown. "Don't play dumb. You're about to tell me that last night was just a stupid drunken mistake, and you don't actually feel that way for me. You want to remain friends and that's it."

Arthur frowns. "Why on earth would I say that?"

"Because last night was a stupid drunken mistake!" Alfred exclaims, throwing his hands in the air. "I was a drunken asshole and practically pounced on you, so-"

"That's not the way I remember," interrupts Arthur. "If my memory is correct, I did the same amount of pouncing as you did."

"Yeah, because you were drunk. You didn't really have control of your actions." Alfred leans his elbows on the table and runs his fingers through his already messy hair. "Face it Arthur, I practically raped you."

Arthur slams his fist on the table with a loud bang. "Shut the fuck up, you stupid berk!"

Alfred looks up at him in shock.

"First of all, you didn't rape me! I was consenting my arse off the whole time. Secondly, you're acting as if I regret the entire thing."

Alfred raises an eyebrow. "And don't you?" he challenges.

"No!" Arthur growls.

Now it's Alfred's turn to scoff. "Please."

Arthur points an accusing finger at him. "If you really think that I didn't enjoy every second of fucking you, then you're a bigger idiot than I thought."

Alfred blinks in surprise at Arthur's tone.

Arthur takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, then gets up out of his seat with a strange sense of calmness. He carries the empty coffee and tea mugs to the sink. "Now the only question left is whether or not you regret it."

Alfred watches him with wide eyes, confused by the sudden change in attitude. "Yes, I do."

Arthur turns around and gives him a blank look, still as calm as ever. "Really? Am I to believe that you didn't enjoy it?"

Alfred, completely thrown by the question, sputters and flails around. "No! I mean, yes… You're not being fair!"

"How am I not being fair? It's an appropriate question."

"No! You can't just ask me if I enjoyed it, because that is completely separate from regretting it!"

"Which you do."

"Yes!"

"Why?"

Alfred stares at Arthur, feeling cornered even though they're across the room from each other.

Arthur stares right back, one eyebrow raised expectantly. When it becomes clear that Alfred is not going to answer, he rolls his eyes and begins walking towards him. "See, I think that you thoroughly enjoyed last night. I might have been drunk, but I don't think I'm ever going to forget how eager you were."

Alfred swallows nervously and leans back in his seat as Arthur gets closer. "You must remember more than I do….what….what did we even do?"

"I don't think anything too serious. Unless…do you feel anything…?" Arthur gestures at Alfred vaguely.

It takes a moment, but then Alfred gets it. If possible, he blushes even more. "No! I don't feel any discomfort…there." He gulps. "Do you?"

Arthur raises an eyebrow as if to say, Do you really think that I would be the bottom? He shakes his head.

Alfred straightens a bit. "That means that we probably didn't do anything! Nothing happened! Ha!"

"Either that or you're in denial. Which you shouldn't be. We both had a lot of fun." He's standing right in front of Alfred now. The corner of Arthur's mouth twitches upwards as he looks down at him.

"B-but what about our friendship?!" says Alfred frantically. He doesn't like this. Arthur's too close and he can't think. All the reasons of why this is a horrible idea are dissolving.

"Hopefully, that will evolve into something richer. More meaningful." Arthur reaches out and touches Alfred's wrist. His hand is noticeably warmer than Alfred, who's still a little chilly from his shower.

"I…I think…" But Alfred isn't sure what he thinks because Arthur is leaning down now, his eyes focused on Alfred's lips. Alfred finds himself leaning forward a bit as if to meet him halfway. Arthur's so close now that Alfred can practically taste his breath.

Stop.

"Stop!" Alfred shouts. He acts without thinking, and pushes Arthur away from him. Surprised, Arthur crashes into the kitchen table, staring at Alfred with wide eyes.

Alfred scrambles to his feet and backs away to what he feels is a safe distance. He just knows that his face is bright red, and his mind keeps repeating mantras of get away get away get away NOW!

"Alfred…"

"NO! Just, stay away!" Alfred backs up more, holding one hand out as if to keep Arthur at bay. He doesn't know what he's doing. He probably looks manic.

Arthur visibly flinches, and his face fills with hurt. Alfred feels sick. This is exactly what he had been afraid of. He's always hurting people, pushing them away because he's too stupid to just think for one fucking second instead of lashing out with all of his emotions like a goddam crazy person.

"I have to go," he finds himself saying, his voice cracking at the end. He turns and practically runs to the front door, ignoring the tears that start to cloud his vision.

"No! Alfred please stop! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please-"

But Alfred doesn't stop. Instead, he slams the door behind him as he leaves.

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A/N: Alfred ya' little shit, what the hell are you doing?

And that's my summary of the first chapter. Wee.

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