M-my first Christmas in the fandom…/overcome by emotion/
The story is set in London during Christmas, 1946, with flashbacks to 1941 and 43 in italics.
Happy holidays, everybody! It's not much, but I hope you enjoy. ^^
Arthur isn't expecting him. The sound of the doorbell comes as an unwelcome surprise and it's with no small amount of irritation that he closes A Christmas Carol and gets up to answer, but his heart stutters despite himself when he peers through the peephole and catches a glimpse of glasses and blond hair wet with melted snow and crooked grinning.
He cracks the door open warily.
"Christ, boy, how the hell did you get here?"
Alfred's grin straightens out into a genuine smile. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are sparkling from the cold.
"Nice to see you, too, Arthur," he quips, though he manages to sound earnest in the same moment, and Arthur rolls his eyes, dropping his gaze to the doorknob. They're quiet for a moment, and then Alfred shifts forward slightly, fiddling with his collar. He's wearing his familiar old bomber jacket, the thick leather battered from the war, and holding what seems to be a brown paper lunch bag in one hand. His breath fogs in front of him.
"Say, mind letting me in, Arthur?" he finally asks, still smiling, obviously amused by Arthur's dumbfounded expression. "It's kinda cold."
Arthur starts, remembering himself, and nods, muttering of course, what a silly question, and immediately undoing the latch. The moment Alfred is inside, he grabs Arthur's shoulders and kisses him, nearly sending them both to the floor. The paper bag bumps painfully against the back of Arthur's head, but Alfred's hand is there, too, tangling in his hair, and he can hardly pull away, so he gives up and wraps his arms tight around Alfred's neck solely for the sake of balance, returning the kiss as best he can given his surprise. Alfred's mouth is cold but his lips are very soft, and he holds Arthur securely to his chest by the waist.
This continues for a few long moments and they find themselves pressed against the far wall of the foyer when they part, Arthur bent into Alfred's arms and Alfred bending forwards to make up the distance, grinning breathlessly, nudging their foreheads together.
"Merry Christmas," he murmurs, freezing hand rising to cup Arthur's burning cheek, making him hiss from the cold and push Alfred away as he should have done from the start.
"Bah, you're an idiot," he mutters, "did you really come all this way just for that?"
Alfred smirks and says he thinks it was absolutely worth the trouble. Arthur replies with a deeper glare, though he knows there is still color in his cheeks and this probably ruins the effect.
"Come on," Alfred simpers at him, taking a step forwards and catching his hand. "Can you really blame me for wanting to spend Christmas with you instead of a bunch of stuffy congressmen?"
Arthur snorts. "I may not be able to, but I'm sure Truman won't have any qualms about it."
Alfred rolls his eyes; he is still holding Arthur's wrist between his thumb and forefinger and seems to be making a study of it, gaze tracing the slender arc of bone and the gentle line of his pulse.
"Man, Roosevelt wouldn't have given two shits." He speaks jokingly, but Arthur can see the sadness touch his expression. "He was cool."
"Indeed he was," replies Arthur with a gentle smile, though he rips his wrist away a moment later and tucks his hands safely into the pockets of his slacks, "I hope you understand that I have nothing prepared for you."
Alfred laughs aloud at this. "I wouldn't want to eat a Christmas dinner you cooked anyways, sweetheart."
Arthur can't decide which to be angry about first, the insult to his cooking or sweetheart, and while he is caught up in the debate Alfred somehow manages to grab his wrist again and drag him into the kitchen, where he sets his paper bag down on the counter and slips out of his bomber jacket, hanging it over the edge of a nearby chair. Arthur has finally decided to make sweetheart his top priority when he finds himself bundled into Alfred's arms again with no warning whatsoever, chin balanced on his shoulder, his breath running down the back of his neck.
"Don't call me sweetheart," Arthur mumbles into the fabric of his shirt, "it's ridiculous."
He feels rather than hears Alfred chuckle as he presses his lips to his forehead.
"Ridiculous ain't so bad."
"Ugh, don't be so colloquial." But Arthur is allowing the embrace to continue. "Just…hush for a moment, won't you?"
Even Alfred is not so thick as to miss his meaning and so he quiets, merely tracing small circles up and down the small of Arthur's back with the flats of his palms, breathing smoothly. Eventually, Arthur steps back, sighing and running a hand through his hair.
"I suppose it is rather nice that you've come," he admits, though he frowns and tells Alfred not to let that go to his head when he breaks into a grin. Arthur glances around the kitchen, crossing his arms over his chest. "Any particular reason as to why you've brought us in here?"
Alfred chuckles. "Course, don't I always have a reason for everything?"
Arthur smiles at the irony, "I can't argue with you there," and pulls out a chair from the small table in the center of the kitchen and sits down, inviting Alfred to join him with a little gesture of the hand. He laces his fingers together and rests his chin on them, letting a smirk touch his mouth.
"Christmas, 1941, or don't you recall?"
Alfred laughs appreciatively.
"Still sore over that, eh?"
"You did dally a terribly long while."
Alfred shrugs. "But I'm here now, isn't that the point?"
Arthur sighs, but he can't disguise his affection.
"Yes," he murmurs, tracing the pattern of the wood grain with his index finger, "I suppose it is."
Alfred is still on strict bed rest when Arthur comes to visit him, but of course he has hardly bothered to give this a second thought and can be found propped in his massive armchair in his study, his scarred, still-bleeding back bent over the desk as he pores over maps and documents, eyes tearing across the page as if he had never seen the continent of Asia before in his life.
Arthur tells him to stop, but really it makes him very happy, and he kisses him, only briefly but still bending down and tilting the boy's chin up so that he won't have to work to reciprocate. He doesn't miss the feel of stubble beneath his fingertips and pulls away with a sigh of exasperation, though he can't help but smile slightly when Alfred is gazing at him in such wonder, his index finger hovering at the curve of his lower lip as if he has never been kissed before. How silly considering that, really, they have kissed twice already, if Arthur recalls correctly, once just after the Great War and once during the worst of the Blitz, when he was half-mad with pain and frustration and had simply grabbed Alfred's face and somehow managed to force their mouths together for an instant.
They haven't seen each other since then, but that hardly matters anymore, not when they are finally facing the war, the world, together, and Alfred catches Arthur's wrist and says he loves him. Arthur returns the sentiment, tucks his hands into his pockets, and then they are nothing but business, mapping out strategies and swapping ideas and preparing for their victory because they will not lose while they are together.
"Wait, Arthur," says Alfred as Arthur sketches a slender red line from Hong Kong to Okinawa. He hesitates, fixing his glasses across the bridge of his nose.
"Is today Christmas?"
Arthur is quiet for a moment, then he laughs aloud, tipping his head back and almost bringing a hand down on Alfred's back before he remembers that his wounds are still so tender.
"Indeed it is," he says when the chuckles have subsided. "Have you forgotten?"
His amusement fades when Alfred looks genuinely concerned, stuttering that he simply hasn't been keeping a calendar, hasn't been thinking about those sorts of things, and that the time seems to have run away from him.
Arthur sighs, knowing he cannot allow himself to express his pity, the jolt he feels in his heart as he watches Alfred massage his temple exhaustedly.
"This is war," he murmurs instead. "I can't remember how many Christmases I missed in the trenches."
Alfred looks away. "Four."
"Ah."
Alfred suggests that they drop the subject, Arthur readily agrees, and they return to their maps and sketches. Altogether, they come to no important decisions, except when Alfred reaches beneath the table and rests his palm on Arthur's knee, and in not shaking him away Arthur recognizes the promise that they never let four slip past again.
Alfred rummages in the brown paper bag, taking his time as if it were enormous when really it can only just accommodate a child's lunch. Arthur watches him curiously until he lets out a cry of victory and pulls something from the bag, slipping his hands beneath the table so as not to reveal whatever he has found.
"Well?" Arthur prompts after Alfred merely sits there for a spell with his arms stuffed beneath the table. "Let's see it, then."
A smile flickers across Alfred's lips. "Say please."
Arthur simply glares. "I hardly asked for a Christmas present, so I certainly shouldn't have to be polite in receiving one."
Alfred laughs aloud, but he takes one arm from beneath the table and extends his hand to Arthur, uncurling his fingers. Nestled in the dip of his palm is a single orange. The rind is waxed and gleams dully in the light of the kitchen, and when Arthur hesitantly plucks it from Alfred's hand he feels its weight, the smooth curve of the fruit beneath his fingertips. It is a perfect globe, round and fat and giving almost imperceptibly to his touch. The heady smell of the peel soon fills the space between them.
Arthur finally looks up at Alfred confusedly. "I don't understand."
But Alfred doesn't seem fazed. "Isn't it beautiful?"
Arthur ventures another dubious glance at the fruit resting in his hands. "It's an orange." He is suddenly worried he will injure Alfred's feelings. "But, ah, it's very nice," he adds hurriedly, "looks just as if it were straight from a still life."
To his surprise, Alfred laughs, without the slightest trace of sarcasm. "How ironic that you would say that," he chuckles, "but Arthur, when's the last time you tasted an orange?"
Arthur blinks, opens his mouth, realizes he can't remember, and stares back at the fruit, snug in the cup of his curled fingers, and begins to understand.
"Oh," he says quietly.
A moment of silence passes between them during which Arthur stares mutely at his gift, so touched that he cannot find words, not until he finally manages to choke out a thank you, without daring to tear his gaze away from his lap. He has not tasted an orange in six years. War and rationing have not allowed such luxuries. Alfred has given him a symbol.
"I suppose it is beautiful," he sighs. "Get me a knife."
While Alfred is rummaging around in his cupboards, Arthur lifts the fruit to his nose and breathes deeply, closing his eyes as saliva floods his mouth. The knife arrives and he puts the blade to the rind, savoring the brief suspense before he breaks into the fruit, slicing away four neat wedges as juice runs patterns down the slender bones of his wrists.
He takes a bite and shuts his eyes, sighing. The flesh is fresh and sweet, and soon he is wiping at the juice that streams down his chin and drips onto the tabletop. Alfred laughs, Arthur swats him, but once they have finished eating he comes around the table and cups his face in his hands, kissing the stray juice away from the corners of his lips.
He feels Alfred sigh beneath him as he stretches upwards as if to accommodate himself more snugly into an embrace that Arthur has not yet offered. But then one of his hands in tangling in his hair, the other catching around his waist, and Arthur feels himself teetering until he suddenly falls into his lap, arms wrapping firmly around him, surrounding him with the smell of leather and orange.
For once he doesn't complain, merely digs his fingers into the hair at the nape of Alfred's neck, tilting his chin to deepen the kiss until Alfred pulls away to press his mouth down his throat, warm and open against his jugular. He journeys upwards again, along the slender arc of his jawbone, and Arthur tilts his head back in encouragement, wondering at the softness of it all, the gentle pressure of Alfred's lips, the hushed flutter of their combined breathing, the scarcely-audible rustle as Arthur slips his hands beneath Alfred's jacket to grip him closer.
"I…" Alfred pauses at his ear. "Love you, Arthur."
Arthur kisses him on the forehead and hums in response, drumming his fingers along the back of his neck and smirking when he shivers beneath him.
"I'm tired, love," he murmurs, and judging by how Alfred immediately disentangles himself from Arthur's arms and legs but keeps a hold of his hand, he is perfectly understood.
It is Christmas, 1943, and they can't have much more than ten minutes left. Arthur glances at the clock over Alfred's shoulder and knows that the other pilots will be returning soon, but even so he cannot bring himself to say anything, not when Alfred is clinging to him so desperately, gasping and moaning into the crook of his neck, almost sobbing his name.
"Hush, love," Arthur murmurs, running one hand through his hair. How strange that he is more controlled; it is Alfred, after all, who presses Arthur up against the freezing concrete wall, arranging and rearranging him atop the stack of crates and spreading his legs wide, and yet he doesn't gasp and shudder and squirm, simply tips his head back in welcome. "Someone will hear you."
Alfred bites down on his shoulder and Arthur yelps softly, tightening his grasp on his hair for an instant before he swallows and loosens his fingers.
"Watch it," he hisses, but his tone softens when Alfred presses his mouth to the mark.
"Sorry," the boy manages, his voice hoarse, "I was trying to stay quiet."
Arthur chuckles and draws him in close. The warehouse is cold and dank and reeks of sweat and motor oil, but for the moment it is private, and though he is uncomfortable perched atop the haphazard stack of storage crates, Arthur thinks that it could be worse. He is still exhausted and aching, but it could be worse. Alfred's back is still scarred beneath his wandering palms, but it could be worse.
The war seems endless, but it could be worse. They have a moment together, after all. Granted, it is a frantic, painful, dusty, sweaty, altogether uncomfortable moment, but a moment nevertheless. Alfred is inexperienced and thrusts erratically, paws his way over his body, crushes their mouths together, but he is genuine and won't stop asking if Arthur is alright, if it's any good, if he's enjoying it. It is a moment, and Arthur kisses Alfred with all his might, because he doesn't know how long it will be until they are allowed another.
Indeed, it has been long, oh, so long, too long, but they won't rush. Arthur leans back against the pillows slowly, though he keeps his arms looped around Alfred's neck to pull him straight into the crook of his shoulder, and curves his back only gently when he nips at the tender skin of his jugular. He comes to the conclusion that he is in desperate need but cannot find it in himself to behave desperately. He doesn't tear at Alfred's jacket because it seems to melt away from his shoulders, he doesn't fumble with the buttons of his shirt because they seem to slip apart at the slightest touch, he doesn't gasp and arch but rather sighs and bends because Alfred is sighing and bending to match him.
Arthur realizes he has lost his shirt when Alfred runs his hands down his sides and he shivers against his fingertips. With a little effort, he leans upwards to press a reproachful kiss to Alfred's shoulder.
"Your hands are cold," he murmurs before he drops to his clavicle, hearing Alfred's chuckle rumble from somewhere above him.
"Warm them up then, baby."
Arthur scoffs and bites down on his neck as punishment. "That was absolutely dreadful."
Alfred laughs again and makes a dive for his lips; halfway through the kiss Arthur dazedly registers that his slacks are slipping to his knees. He kicks a few times, still kissing Alfred, and they fall to the floor with a gentle rustle. Alfred breaks away to unbutton his jeans; he finally undoes the button and clambers out of the legs before nearly falling back into Arthur's arms, burying his face in the crook of his shoulder with a low groan. It is the first rough sound of the evening and sets something aflutter in Arthur's throat, making him tangle his legs around Alfred's waist and dig his fingers deeper into his hair.
It has never been this way before, Arthur realizes as Alfred carefully slips his thumbs beneath his waistband and encourages him to lift his hips, never so slow and careful and deliberate. For them, there has never been time for deliberation; the only moments that Arthur can remember are stained with dust and war and hurry. They have finished each other desperately amongst the storage crates in air base warehouses, stolen frantic kisses between drills and meetings, risked a touch, a fleeting brush of lips and skin, in the semi-secluded corners of Allied barracks, but never have they enjoyed so much as a hotel bed, let alone the mattress on which Arthur has slept for longer than he can remember, in the privacy of his own home, on Christmas Eve, with what seems to be all the time in the world flowing slowly through their fingers.
"Alfred," Arthur finds himself sighing as they begin, the rhythm clumsy and jarring at first. "It would seem that I have missed you a great deal."
Alfred grins, though rather sloppily, and presses a kiss to his temple.
"Christ, I love you, Arthur," he mumbles.
Arthur laughs and pulls Alfred deep into the crook of his neck; they are nearing the end and he finds himself whispering the same despite his aversion to sentimentality, because he does love Alfred and he forgets himself sometimes.
Alfred comes with a soft groan and collapses, Arthur following a few moments later, sighing and letting his head fall heavily back against the pillows. For a moment they are silent, then Alfred rolls over and slips from the bed to go clean up. Arthur follows him to the bathroom and then back beneath the sheets, though he shies from an embrace for the time being, instead sitting up against the headboard. Alfred eventually settles into the space beside him, propping his head up in his palms.
"Damn, could I ever use a cigarette!" he exclaims, perhaps only to break the quiet, and casts a crooked grin at Arthur.
"Sorry, love," Arthur sighs, "I haven't seen a proper smoke for years."
Alfred smiles at him, but his gaze drops to his exposed stomach and his expression sobers; he reaches out and traces a finger along the pronounced arcs of his ribs, the hollow dip of his stomach, the prominent curves of his hipbones.
"So thin," he mumbles. "Arthur, I wanted to give you an entire crate of oranges. And not just oranges - pineapples, and bananas, and mangos, and papayas, and fruits you hadn't even heard of yet! I wanted to give you a thousand turkey dinners. Packages and packages of the finest cigarettes. Chocolate and real cotton and red meat and pounds of butter. New books. Good leather shoes. All those things that the politicians offer you at meetings, that you never take," he reaches for his hand and presses his palm. "I wanted to give you the world."
Arthur swallows and drops his gaze to the sheets, toying with Alfred's fingers to combat the lump that has risen in his throat.
"I wouldn't have accepted it," he finally manages. Alfred shakes his head exasperatedly, but a smile curves his lips, and then he is leaning forwards and taking Arthur's face in his hands, tracing circles across his cheekbones with the pads of his thumbs.
"I know," he says quietly. "That's why I didn't."
Arthur swallows again, glances up hesitantly, then pats his cheek and whispers a thank you. Alfred laughs and kisses him, and Arthur thinks he senses the flavor of the orange lingering on his lips, and despite knowing that he is probably only imagining it, he decides that it tastes of peace and quiet and Christmas at long last.
AN - Okay so worldaccordingtofangirls has this orange…fetish. She thinks they're gorgeous and whenever she eats one she starts describing it in her head because SHE'S WEIRD OKAY. Also she wanted to write fluffy sexytiems and do something nice for Christmas (despite being Jewish pfft) besides updating her multi-chap project. Thus this strange little fic, which she hopes everyone has enjoyed.
And oranges are Christmas-y.
/end impromptu foray into third-person
Anyways, thanks so much for reading! ^^ I hope that you all are having the happiest of holidays!
PS – THIS FIC IS IRONIC BECAUSE I'M VACATIONING IN FLORIDA RIGHT NOW TROLOLOL
PPS - CAN ORANGES BE MY WAIFU(S)?