Title: Rusts In His Throat
Character: Alfred/Arthur
Rating: PG-13
Summary: There was so much Alfred had wanted to say. Warcrossedlover!AU
Note: Beta-ed by the ever lovely, Nherizu. She's an amazing beta. All remaining suckiness are solely my fault.
::
There was something about beers that made him felt comfortably drunk. Such state could not be reached by drowning himself in tequilas and vodkas and fucking whiskey on the rocks; they made him drunk too fast, way too fast before he could wash away all somber sobrieties.
They made him a sad drunk.
And sad drunk was a thing Alfred preferred not to be if he could help it.
::
Alfred fumbled with his phone, fingers tapping the keypad. Liquid blue light of the screen illumined him as he lain on his bed in the darkness of his room; phone held twenty centimeters off his face.
[sender: Alfred]
[subject: none]
[body: RUN.]
He pressed the green button. Send, it said. Then he rolled to his side; the phone slid down to his bed with a muffled thump.
Alfred closed his eyes.
Precisely thirty seconds later, the phone vibrated, sending silent tremor across the bed. He snatched the phone.
[sender: Arthur]
[subject: Re: ]
[body: What are you trying to pull, git?]
Alfred typed a reply.
[body: please. run. T^T]
[body: are you drunk?]
[body: no.]
The phone vibrated again. An incoming call from Arthur. Shaky hand pressed answer. "Whassup?"
There was a loud clatter and an expletive at the other end, then, Arthur's voice trickled in. "You," he stressed. "What do you want?"
Alfred sunk his head further into his pillow. "I'm giving you a head on."
"On what exactly?" came the reply.
"On what would happen tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, next week? Next month? I don't know." Alfred's mouth twitched up a bit.
"You bloody idiot."
"Yes?"
"You don't go around and call your enemies, telling them to run just like that. The word 'traitor' was invented for a reason, you know."
Alfred lifted his hand to the front of his face, inspecting its backside. Knobby fingers spasmed in the air. "I suppose."
"And you could have given more accurate information." A sigh, then a more quiet, "You're drunk."
Alfred rasped a little laugh. "Am not."
"Yes, you are. Look, as hard as this is to admit, I've spent enough time in my life," with you, Arthur deliberately left out, "to be able to identify the sad bastard-y quality of your voice."
"Really, I'm—" Alfred paused; torn by unnamed inner struggles that suddenly racked him. And clearly, clearly, this conversation was ridiculous; he was so drunk he couldn't solve one plus one equaled two, that text messaging Arthur would definitely mean hearing his voice eventually. Damn all the tequilas to hell. "I'm not a sad bastard right now."
"Then you are a stupid bastard pretending sober," Arthur dead-panned.
Another laugh came out of Alfred. It sounded far too brittle to his liking. "I never realized I've missed your caustic remarks until now. Hey, Arthie—"
"What I said about contracting names?"
His upturned lips felt wet, but Alfred kept it resolutely in place. There's no one to see the charade, but it mattered little anyway. He was a little bit too gone and jaded and sad bastard-y to care. "Sorry, can't help it, you know me. Hey, you see, Arthie', the last time we met I said something bad about your boss. I'm sorry."
There was silence at the other end, punctuated by the quiet and composed draws of Arthur's breath. He had forgotten what he actually said about Arthur's boss. But he knew it was something notgood. Something that prickled the Brit. Something that made Arthur's face crumpled into something that in turn made Alfred hard to apologize; it's not a matter of pride, just… fuckingstupidcorwardice. And it was before the war—before all this—really.
He bet Arthur would remember. The man was good at things like that.
It took forever for Arthur to break the silence. And Alfred was grateful when he did.
"The last time we met was two years ago," Arthur began. His voice quieter than before. "You don't have to apologize for something I've nearly forgotten. Besides, it'd do nothing to alter the whole mess—"
"No, Arthie'—"
"—Arthur—"
"—Arthie', the mess came even before that. I'm sorry."
Alfred adjusted his position, drawing his knees to his chest to lie in near fetal position as he waited for a reply. His hands reigned by violent tremor, one circling his legs, the other barely holding the phone in place. Two years, the same number, the same phone, the same distance, different conversation, different situation.
"Two years? And only now? After, after-" Arthur let the words died. But he had conveyed what he wanted to say anyway.
Alfred's mind took over—autopilot—and finished the sentence mentally: after twenty something of clashes, after near a thousand casualties, after several failed attempts of espionage? After all this time?
"It would happen—the war—even without us, me, messing up." And Alfred laughed despite himself, remembering the ridicule of the situation. Indeed. The war, the casualties, would have been there even without himmessing up. It was not the kind of seed planted in a day.
A heavy, drawled out sigh resounded through the line. "If apologizing makes you feel better, then I accept it."
One of the street lanterns outside his window went out. Deeper shadow penetrated his room. Alfred closed his eyes. The beginning of nausea caught the base of his throat. He felt no better at all. It had felt like he should be.
"Alfred?"
Faint shudder coursed through him. It's been so long since the last time he heard the voice, calling out to him like that. Alfred pressed his free palm against his eye. A feeble attempt to banish the flare in his vision.
"Alfred, you there?"
"Y-yes, I'm still here."
"You okay?"
"Holding on."
"Holding on, by the end of a frayed rope, I hope not?"
Count on Arthur to crack a joke about this. Alfred snorted. "I hope not, too."
He felt like someone had brought down a sledgehammer, hard, on his head. He needed to distill the alcohol in his system. If only it's as easy to do as leaking urine, or something.
"You need to rest," Arthur said.
"I am."
"I forgive you."
"You already said that," Alfred told the Brit, mirth in his voice. "Tell me a story."
"What?"
"You heard me. A story. Just like the old time." Just like the old time when he's still running around the wide, wide rolling plain. Barefooted, the grasses downy soft and damp against his skin. Just like the old time when he still waited for Arthur to come and see him, exclaiming how he grew taller by every such visit.
"I don't want to have such a giant git as my ward." Arthur's tone—the sudden melancholy in it—belied his words.
"Sad to inform you. I was your ward."
"Wasis the keyword, in case you missed it," Arthur countered.
Alfred snorted again, in purpose, because this part was familiar. "You've missed it."
"What?" Arthur asked, missing the point.
"You've missed telling me a story."
"W-what?"
Another silence reigned the other end. Alfred didn't bother to elaborate. He had planted what he needed to plant; and now, waiting was the best course of action.
He didn't have to wait long.
"WHAT THE BLOODY—" Arthur started, flustered because no doubt he found some truth in Alfred's words. "—I don't even—"
Alfred chuckled. Some things would never change.
"I prefer something that starts with once upon a time and ends in happily ever after," Alfred prompted.
Arthur sighed, because, yes, he had sighed more than thrice in the span of fifteen minutes, all caused by a certain species of clotpole with blond and bastard-y taxidermy; and because, yes, he would abide to what the clotpole asked of him; because, yes, he didmiss it a little after all.
::
"—and so it was said that they lived happily ever after," Arthur concluded the story.
The receiver was just starting to scald Alfred's ear. And time had not deemed it fit enough to wipe the alcohol out of him, forcing him to swallow spit every so often.
"Alfred?"
Arthur's voice was laced with worry. Alfred didn't answer, because, after all, he was supposed to be asleep even when before the princess found her way through the palace of thorns, trying to rescue her prince. Just like the old time. It was a feeble attempt to get a semblance of ancient peace –for Arthur, if not for him. Although, he knew the man would likely chew Francis' hair off before believing Alfred was asleep.
"You know," Arthur said quietly. "Someone could have bugged the line."
Alfred shifted. Outside, a car blared its horn; no doubt it was his neighbor trying to get the wife to open the gate. The concept of neighborhood nuisance never seemed to get into the guy's head despite many neighborly complaints.
"Uh," Arthur fidgeted. "That someone would find the conversation utterly boring anyway—"
"—Good night, Alfred," he managed one last time before severing the line.
Alfred let the dial went on for a while.
There were many things he wanted to tell Arthur; things he had saved very, very long –dated back to that day when he met the man for the first time. But it seemed pointless now in the face of many misses –in the face of many bloody battlefield and lost souls. The once upon a time peace he wanted was water-like in his hand, unsubstantial, pouring out of his grasp when he closed his fist.
Loud klaxon lanced through Alfred's brain. He cursed severely.
There was a kind of purchase to be found in anger; and Alfred held on to it like it was the only lifeline he had –a lifeline that bled into the reality of his grip around the head of a bottle he procured from somewhere under his bed. He moved on autopilot, marching on instinct, and really, it suddenly felt like he was in a kill zone again; he had to survive this, had to fucking see another day.
He scrambled to stand and opened the window, flinging the bottle with all his might to his oblivious neighbor's car.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP," he cried into the night.
There was so much he had wanted to say.
END