The Art of Selfishness

. . .

Part I. The Art of Selfishness: Alfred

Alfred had loved him for a long time; and most of that love was unrequited and unreturned. Matthew had Gilbert and even though Alfred had no clue what the soft-spoken blond saw in that loud-mouth Prussian, he was his friend.

And friends respected other friends' boyfriends.

(despite the pain the hurt the longing)

So he kept his distance and watched from that distance as they laughed and held hands and kissed.

He watched someone else take the memories that he long-since dreamed to make with Matthew.

He never wished Gilbert harm — he envied him, yes. Unfortunately, he was good at taking care of Matthew. He protected the younger boy from the seniors and made sure that he never felt alone.

There were times that Alfred felt like he was being replaced. He'd get angry, but then that anger would subside and turn to bitterness towards himself.

Gilbert didn't stay out late at night to party.

Gilbert didn't get angry easily, despite misconceptions.

Gilbert didn't have commitment issues.

The only flaw in their relationship was that neither of their parents knew. Gilbert wouldn't tell his because they wouldn't care and Matthew wouldn't tell his because they'd try to break them apart.

Matthew needed someone like Gilbert. He didn't need Alfred in his life — he'd only corrupt the sweet and innocent angel that he was.

But Alfred was also selfish.

One day, he received news that Matthew had gotten into a car crash. Gilbert was out of town and coming back in two weeks; the Canadian had been on his way to find a welcome-home present. There was a drunk man driving a pick-up truck on Third. He ran a red light and slammed into the side of Matthew's car.

Alfred didn't waste time — he was at the hospital within ten minutes. Several nurses had to restrain him from bursting into Matthew's hospital room.

He wondered if Gilbert knew, if he was heading home at that very moment to his boyfriend. And Alfred found himself wishing that he wasn't.

He wanted to take care of Matthew. It would be like when they were little, playing doctor.

Two hours of waiting in agony passed; he wasn't allowed to see Matthew until told otherwise. When the doctor finally came out, Alfred rushed to greet him.

"Mr. Williams is fine. He needed a few stitches on his head and may have a minor concussion, but he's fine."

Alfred wasn't sure what "minor concussion" meant, but when he finally entered Matthew's room(so bright and white, white, white everywhere), he got a faint idea.

Matthew was sitting up in the bed, covers pooled around his waist, looking pale but otherwise fine. His indigo eyes were dazed, clearly visible without his glasses. "Wh-Who are you?"

It was directed to Alfred, and when the question registered in his mind, he froze.

Matthew sounded so scared and so helpless.

"Bits of his memories might be fuzzy. I've notified his parents; they'll help him along." The doctor turned to face him, then. "And, ah… What are your relations to him, Mr. Jones?"

("Wh-Who are you?") Matthew didn't remember who he was.

(come on Alfred, he'll get his memory back soon anyway, and when that time comes you can just explain that you only wanted to help)

(you love him, don't you?)

(be selfish just this once)

Alfred swallowed thickly, eyes meeting Matthew's own indigo ones. "I'm…his boyfriend."

End Part I.

. . .

Part II. The Art of Remembering: Matthew
Ten years later.

Matthew Williams(is it Jones now?) isn't sure, but for some reason unknown, he thinks that there's a part of his life that's a lie.

He's twenty-seven currently, married and living quite contentedly with Alfred F. Jones. Every morning, he wakes up to the feel of the warmest arms around him and eyes the loveliest shade of blue fluttering open, a half smile pulling on his lover's lips.

Yet at the same time, his heart aches. He doesn't know why he feels so, but he likes to tell himself that it's a side effect of a car crash he was in, ten years ago.

"What happened?" he asked once.

Alfred was holding him in his arms at that time, and for a moment, he felt him tense. Then his boyfriend relaxed and said, "I was worried sick. You lost your memory and I didn't know what to do."

"What was I like before?"

"Pretty much the same. Except now you're cuter, what with the constant lost-puppy look."

Alfred pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek and Matthew blushed and tried to ignore the feeling that there was more to the story.

He never fully recovered his memory - that's what everyone told him. But Alfred told him not to worry, that he'd help. He promised he'd do everything of his abilities to make things seem at least all right.

And Alfred was a big help, for the most part. Matthew was able to reacquaint himself with old friends and relatives, though there were some inside jokes that he couldn't remember anymore. Yes, Alfred lived up to his promise and still continues to, but there's one thing(or rather, man) that Matthew has never been able to figure out: Gilbert Beilschmidt.

Three days after the accident(four? five? Matthew isn't so sure anymore) a silver-haired man appeared on his doorstep. When he opened the door, he was immediately encased into a huge hug.

"Are you okay, Birdie?" He would never forget those red eyes. "I heard about the accident and I tried to come home as soon as I could, but there was traffic and-"

"Who are you?" Matthew interrupted meekly.

Those red eyes stared at him both in hurt and astonishment. "I'm... I'm Gilbert Beilschmidt."

"D-Do I know you?" Seeing the hurt deepen in the man's eyes, Matthew amended, "I-I'm sorry; I don't mean to be rude! My memory h-hasn't been too good since the accident..."

"You don't remember me?" Gilbert asked.

"No, I'm sorry..."

"It's fine." He smiled understandingly. "It just means I get to take you on dates again, and I can try all my cheesy pick up lines again." Then he leaned in and kissed him on the lips.

It felt so wrong and so right at the same time. Matthew managed to catch himself within a few seconds and wrenched away, eyes blinking avidly. But I'm with Alfred! Who is this man?

Alfred appeared behind him. "Everything okay, Matt?" He took one look between Matthew's flushed cheeks and Gilbert's shocked face and seemed to put two and two together. He shot a faux-sympathetic look at the Prussian and took Matthew inside.

"A-Alfred...?" Matthew asked a few moments later.

"Hm?"

"Can we... Can we go away for a little while?" Matthew looked down at his lap. "Just the two of us."

Alfred blinked. "Of course, Mattie."

They spent a week together in a nondescript apartment in the state next over. Matthew never saw Gilbert again and he tried his best to forget the strange man - he was with Alfred. Perhaps he'd been seeing both of them at the same time? No, it can't be. I wouldn't do that. I couldn't do that. And each time he thought that, he felt like he was getting closer to realizing something

But each time, there seemed to be some sort of hitch in his memory.

All his remembers of his past life are hazy mornings with breakfast consisting of pancakes and lots of maple syrup.

"What are you thinking about?" Alfred murmurs.

The sun has risen. Its beams of sunlight peer through their half-closed blinds, casting golden strips of light over their blanketed bodies.

"Nothing," Matthew replies. He smiles softly up at Alfred. "Good morning."

Alfred smiles back, kissing him sweetly on the lips. "Morning."

There's an ache in his heart. He doesn't know what it aches for, but something nags at his brain that once upon a time, there were warmer arms, there was a lovelier shade of crimson orbs, and there was a more breathtaking smile.

But he has Alfred, and he's more than happy with that.

So he ignores the ache and settles back into those arms wrapped oh-so warmly around him, trying his best to erase the face of Gilbert Beilschmidt from his memory.

A/N: Unedited and unbeta'd, as all of my stories are, so excuse any errors. Will edit tomorrow morning. :U

Meanwhile, it's my stab at Pru/Can/US. I'm starting to grow fond of this triangle.