Hey, I know, another story that I have started without even finishing my earlier three. I'm a horrible person, but I have a good defense! This story was literally flying off of my fingertips. I sat up in bed at roughly 2:30 AM on a Monday morning, only the whirring of my fan to accompany me, and within seconds I was scrambling for my computer. By the time I'd finished typing, my fingertips were sore and I didn't even know what I'd written, or what the point of it was. So, I've added to it, and I'm super duper excited for this one. This will be GREAT I can just sense it with my ultimate superpowers. ;3

Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hetalia franchise, which essentially means that I don't own the delightful majority of the characters introduced in this fic.

The Folly of Dreams

"I think we dream so we don't have to be apart for so long. If we're in each other's dreams, we can be together all the time."

―A.A. Milne, Winnie the Poo

Beneath the flickering red neon lights, Alfred waited, a cigarette firmly stuck between his pointer and middle finger. Smoke was curling from his parted lips, thick and matte, reflecting no light. The chips of ice sunken in the hollows of his eyes were flickering about, absorbing but not reacting. A biker gang was tearing into the parking lot, their hollow engines snarling. The leather jackets washed in red flame, bandanas hugging tight to sweaty foreheads. Grimaces and snarls ranged across the rough, craggy faces, shadow settling in dips and edges. They stalked by Alfred, opening and banging the door to the pub shut behind them. The luminescence still danced along the sleek, painted sides of the motorbikes, frolicking with the fake flames and tempting fate in the panther's jaws.

He was five minutes late.

Alfred flicked the ash that was perilously close to falling off of the end of his cigarette in a natural maneuver, the softer skin between his fingers sliding gently along the textured paper wrapping of the ciggie.

A figure stepped out of the shadows, looking unnaturally dapper in the lights of the hole-in-the-wall. "Smoking isn't considered to be beneficial for one's health, you know," stated a crisp British accent, adjusting the lapels to his black suit. His virescent eyes quickly scanned the rest of Alfred's figure, taking in the jeans and white dress shirt with a disdained glance.

Alfred didn't respond to the British man's jab. "Why did you send for me?" he asked him slowly, taking one more drag of the cigarette before it was plucked from his hand by the nimble digits of his companion, and brought to the other man's lips. Alfred's hands, now that they didn't have something to hold, quickly found their way into the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders caving awkwardly inwards to manage the maneuver.

"No reason, really," responded the Brit, stepping further out from the gloom, the glow of the cigarette less obvious in the light. His blond hair, a hue that was a little brighter than Alfred's, was standing on end. Apparently, as well-groomed as the man was, he couldn't quite tame his hair.

Alfred could relate. His hair was certainly better than this man's, but there was always that one stray strand, stubborn in its constant mission to stick out.

"I had to come all the way from my apartment in New York for 'no reason, really'?" said Alfred in disbelief, his posture straightening from where it had been relaxed against the brick exterior of the pub. "I had things scheduled tonight!"

"Things?" responded the accent, one bushy, caterpillar eyebrow raising on its owner's forehead, "what 'things'?" sarcastic, disbelieving.

"Well, you know, things. Like, like, basketball watching, and stuff," Alfred refused to meet those acidic green eyes, gazing huffily in the distance at a flashing stoplight.

"Mm, of course."

A narrowing of sharp blue eyes, a gritting of teeth to bite back a groan of frustration. "Look, if you don't have anything important or even vaguely un-insulting to say, than I'm leaving, Arthur." He finally snapped out, his notorious impatience once more getting the best of him.

"You used my name, how kind of you," once more the sarcastic edge. Alfred had had enough.

"Alright, you know what? I'm done! You win! See ya, bye," he waved vaguely in the direction of Arthur and moved to walk off, only taking one step before a firm hand reached out to grip his shoulder and wheel him around.

"I'm sorry, alright? You know as well as I do that things are far from okay now. We need to discuss it. Fancy yourself a pint?" Arthur was trying, honestly he was, to be cheerful and a tad less caustic about his ways. But he had his fair share of reasons to be negative, and he would exploit them for all they were worth.

Alfred hesitated, his eyes showing that he was considering the Brit's proposal.

After a moment or two of deep thought, he slowly nodded his blond head. "Yeah, sure. But you'd better be nicer. I've about had enough of your shit, and it hasn't even been ten minutes."

And with that simple warning, Arthur crushed Alfred's cigarette beneath his shoe, and the two men walked into the pub, getting a few curious glances before being able to slip, unnoticed, into the crowd of sweaty drinkers. Old country music was warbling its way across the stage, springing from the throat of a washed out girl with drooping eyes and stringy, limp blonde hair.

They took the first free table they saw, in this instance, one closer to the stage. A waitress, her once pristine white apron pockmarked with mysterious stains, her long brown hair pulled up into a ponytail, and almond brown eyes taking in the attractive young men with a gleam of appreciation, came up to them and took their orders, a pint of beer from Alfred and 'I'll have one as well' from Arthur. She took her time in walking away.

Once she was clearly out of earshot, Arthur leaned forward, both hands pressing on the rough wood of the table, and whispered, "Was Operation 0317 successful?" Alfred rolled his eyes in a tired response.

"Yes, yes it was. Our superiors have already briefed me over it." He responded, drumming his fingers on the circular table that Arthur was holding steady.

"And I didn't believe the load of bollocks you told them as soon as it was relayed to me, so spill the true story Alfred," responded Arthur, sitting back in his chair. Alfred was about to open his mouth and question why Arthur didn't just start his interrogation with that sentence instead of asking the totally redundant question of 'was Operation 0317 successful,' but he opted not to push his luck tonight. There was a reason Arthur was considered one of the best in the business, and Alfred wasn't keen on discovering why. Not tonight anyway.

"What does it concern you?" responded the American, cryptically, smiling gratefully as the serving girl returned with their drinks, placing the pints with the solid 'thunk' of glass on wood in front of them.

Once she'd left again, Arthur responded. "It concerns me because I'm supposed to accomplish an assignment that relies very heavily on how yours went. If yours didn't go exactly to plan, then I need to know what I'm in for!" growled Arthur in response, he himself now thoroughly upset with the obscure answers that Alfred was supplying.

"Geez, and they say that I'm impatient," muttered Alfred under his breath before raising his voice to try and calm down the raging Brit across from him. "Look, not everything went exactly to plan, but I accomplished the mission, and that's all that matters. You should be able to follow through on yours without any hitches." His attempt at soothing ruffled feathers had backfired. He hadn't brushed them the right way.

"Without any hitches? You complete and utter twat, what do you not understand about what I'm asking? I just want to know what was different so I can be ready for any surprises." Alfred considered this logic for a moment, debating with himself on whether he really wanted to tell how seriously he'd blundered on his operation. Eventually, he decided to spill the beans.

"Alright, fine, but if you tell this story to the higher-ups, I swear that I will say you're just lying in an attempt to get me kicked out." He narrowed his eyes warningly before beginning his tale.

"Okay, so all was cool. We'd gotten into the city, we were blending in fine, Mattie and me. We'd both even gotten the accents right, and Matt was using that odd ability of his to practically blink out of existence to figure out how to get us closer to our target when it happened. An oddball, completely oblivious Frenchman blundered right into us. The strangest thing of all was that he noticed Mattie, and I couldn't find him at this point. For someone to notice my brother in the middle of a mission isn't an easy thing, ya know?" Arthur waved his hand in acknowledgement, urging Alfred to continue. Alfred huffed, not appreciating how little Arthur reacted to the knowledge he'd just dropped on him. "Well, anyway, this guy invited us to his house that night for a bottle of wine and some information about the area. He'd found out that we were tourists, as he had lived there all his life and had never seen us around before. He seemed to have taken a liking to Matthew, and so of course my brother couldn't possibly say no." Alfred was watching Arthur's facial expressions carefully, waiting for anger to develop on that falsely innocent face. But none came, a mask seemed to have been put on, giving away no emotion.

Clearing his throat, Alfred continued. "Okay, so we abandoned our mission for a little while in favor of enjoying some French culture. Francis was an interesting guy, really, all kinds of stories about the area. And then he mentioned the one thing that we had been sent to find in Caudebec-en-Caux. He told us this legend, which I'll try to tell you.

"There was once a man blessed by the Gods who lived in Caudebec. His strength was great, and he was of a high intelligence. Things would always go well for him, he never had a poor harvest, his wife was happy and a magnificent cook, and he had a firstborn son. But then one day, he forgot to give thanks to the Gods for a particularly good harvest season. In a furious retaliation, they took his wife and son from him, jealously hoarding them in their underworld kingdoms. The man, in a fit of sadness, tore his clothes and wept, great big tears that stained the ground. He wept for so long, and so hard that he eventually froze, stuck there in the form of a statue for all eternity. And hidden inside of him, was the key to the universe, the key to happiness. A mythical key, quite literally a key, had taken the place of his heart, meant only for the man who deserved it most to retrieve." He shook his head and sat back, taking a long, refreshing sip of beer.

"After this story, Francis began to talk in French to Matthew and I quickly checked out of the conversation, obviously, because who wants to listen to French people talk?" He stuck his tongue out for a moment. "By the end of the night, I pretty much knew that Matthew wasn't going to want to leave, so I said I'd meet him back at the apartment and left. But on my walk back, the strangest thing happened." He paused a moment, running a hand through his hair. "Now don't laugh when I tell you this, but I heard someone singing. And it was an old song, but the voice was misty, hollow, as if echoing down from a long time ago. Obviously, my curiosity got the best of me, and so I went in search of it. By the time I did find the owner's whereabouts, the sun was beginning to crest the horizon. But when I got there, all I could see was a big rock. It wasn't a statue, so I thought nothing of it, until this literal ghost of a little boy popped out from behind it and ran through me, laughing, with a girl following him. That little boy was the strangest creature, all white-haired and red-eyed. His companion was a little more regular, brown hair and green eyes, even if she did dress like a boy. Needless to say, 'cause you know ghosts are scary, I ran as far away from there as I could. That was fucking creepy man!" He said, tagging the last sentence on to protest the silent, exasperated shaking of Arthur's head that was going on across the table.

"Well, anyway, I sent Mattie back to retrieve the key thing from the rock, because I figured that surely, when you see creepy ghost children there, that had to be the rock, the statue, ya know?" Arthur nodded absently.

"And now here I am, telling you a little more detail. But it was nothing scary, nothing horrible. Nothing you really needed to know," he glared accusingly, finishing off his beer in one large gulp.

Arthur rolled his eyes in response and took a swig of his own beer. "Tell me, what did this Frenchman look like?"

"Well, he had long blond hair, and a bit of a scruff on his chin. His eyes were about as blue as mine are, and he was always grinning and laughing an 'honhonhon' French laugh. He was also very touchy, not to say that has anything to do with appearance. He just seemed to really enjoy petting Mattie's hair, or the side of his face…" he trailed off awkwardly, spinning his mug around on the table, listening to the hollow sliding sound as it did the 360 turns.

Arthur was looking a little perturbed now, his bushy eyebrows furrowing to very nearly create one extremely long fuzzy caterpillar. Alfred almost wanted to reach over and squeeze the two lines of hair together to do just that, for kicks, but he restrained himself once more. He valued his hand.

"Francis…. Francis… Francis… Francis Bonnefoy? Do you know his last name?" suddenly demanding, Arthur stood up once more, smacking his palms theatrically against the table, messing it horrendously so that his beer spilled up and over the sides, staining the wood darker. Some neighbors glanced over through hooded eyes before returning to the bottoms of their drinks. Alfred was staring, wide-eyed, up at the nearly insane Briton, pushing himself slightly backwards in his chair. "Er… Yeah, I think that's his last name. If you'd like, I can call Mattie up and confirm, but I'm pretty sure that's his last name."

Arthur swore under his breath and reached out to slap the side of Alfred's head. The American yelped, rubbing the injured area with a look of mutiny in his eyes. "What the hell was that for!?" he yelled, not caring about the attention they were attracting now.

"You are an utter nitwit, a twat, a complete duffer! How could you possibly have let him get so close to your operation!" Arthur was seething, his green eyes like poison with their accusations.

"How the fuck am I supposed to know what you're talking about!" responded Alfred in equal fervor, all attempts at censoring himself, or at least what he considered to be censorship, flying out the window.

"Francis Bonnefoy is one of the best agents that the French government has to offer. How on this goddamn Earth did you not know that?"

"It didn't even hurt the operation, Arthur, Jesus Christ, stop being so damn paranoid!" the exclamation points were coming out now, in all their affronted, demanding glory.

"Alfred, you and your brother are going to be the end of this operation, hell, the end of this entire organization! I have half a mind to beat you into a bloody pulp and be done with it!" Arthur was veritably trembling by this point, his control swaying. He wanted to pick chairs up and throw them, destruct and destroy. But he couldn't. An agent tried his best not to cause a ruckus, and he and Alfred were certainly doing enough to spark one now.

Alfred slowly raised his hands in surrender. "Hey now, easy there buddy. Take some deep breaths, yeah? Or at least, let's take this outside before things get a little too out of control?" suggested Alfred, before Arthur took him to his word and was wrenching the blue-eyed boy out with a bruising grip on his forearm.

The waitress yelled in protest at their leaving without paying, but she eventually gave up after Arthur had quite literally chucked Alfred into the back of his black Mercedes.

A disgruntled Alfred righted himself from where he'd smashed his face into the smooth black leather, rubbing at his throbbing nose and sitting so that he was seated comfortably, and normally, in the back of the car. It was probably best he was back here anyway, easier to avoid Arthur's swinging fists.

The furious British man slid into the driver's seat and started the car, not responding to Alfred's question about when he was going to be able to pick up his own black Mercedes.

And the worst part was, as Alfred sat in the back, tapping his knees, replete with nervous energy, that he had no idea where he was being taken. After a few more minutes of awkward silence, he decided to break it.

"Er, Arthur, where are we going?" he asked nervously, not entirely sure just how volatile his companion was.

"Somewhere," was the curt response. Alfred hummed absently, turning his head to gaze out the window. Considering the situation, he was taking things much too easily. But he didn't care, for now he was relatively content, and he had a pint of beer resting comfortably in his stomach. It didn't do much to hinder his motor capabilities, but it did help him to be a little more content with his lot in life.

By the time the car finally pulled over, with a crunching of gravel under rubber tires and against other smaller bits of rock, Alfred was beginning to nod off. He was tired, it had been a long day full of paper work and photocopying, and he just wanted to fall into his bed back at his apartment in New York, a thirty minute drive from the pub he'd had to meet Arthur at.

When he snapped awake, he was greeted with the familiar ceiling of his bedroom, bland and white. His alarm was shrilling its jaunty morning bell, letting him know that it was time for him to get up to go to his job at the YMCA, and that he was most certainly not some awesome spy, working to save the world. Rubbing his eyes and glaring angrily at the alarm clock that had woken him so abruptly from his sleep, he sat up, reproachfully smacking the rude timekeeper off of his side table. It hit the wooden floor with a sharp crack, the keener bits of it gouging slightly into the wood. But Al didn't feel terribly guilty, the place was old, decrepit, and really a sorry excuse for an apartment. The plumbing was constantly having difficulty, enough of it to give Alfred the heebie jeebies at the thought of having to drink and cook with the sink water. The walls were crumbling and bits of plaster and wallpaper were peeling away in great, fantastic strips. Alfred had tried tearing a small, stray tendril off, only to succeed in moving a good-sized piece from the partition. Ever since, he'd just had to find ways to keep himself from repeating the gesture in his spare time. The wood floors were scratched, nicked, and splintery, the appliances rusty, white and old, and the neighbors loud in all of their physical endeavors. It was a shabby thing, but it was his home.

As he slipped his work clothes on, which consisted of a white, sleeveless, light shirt and black basketball shorts, and gym shoes of his color choice, he struggled to remember the dream. But it slid away from him as the morning progressed. By the time he was eating his granola, the only thing he could remember was sitting down with a man named Arthur, and when he got in his shabby old jeep, the only remnant was a pair of flashing green eyes, and to those he clung with a fanatic determination.

He rolled into the Y's parking lot with a casual, natural gesture, taking the parking spots farthest from the doors. He liked the exercise, which was probably why he worked here, but he didn't like having to deal with the people. He was a personal trainer, and unfortunately for him, a good-looking one. Girls loved to come exercise with him, but that didn't mean he enjoyed it. His blond hair, that was always reasonably put together with the exception of one rogue curl that always flew independently from the rest of his hair, his whimsical blue eyes, and his solid, strong stature was a very appealing option for the majority of the younger women at the gym. His age, a young twenty-two, helped him as well. Unfortunately for these diehard fans, he didn't roll that way. He'd found this out about himself in the ninth grade, when his friends started talking about all the hot Junior girls that populated the hallways, and his mind was straying towards the even hotter Junior boys.

His family had accepted him. They didn't much care which side he rooted for, he was still the same to them. And he knew that he'd lucked out in that aspect. What he didn't plan on doing with his life was working as a personal trainer with a major in Astronomy. He hadn't gone to school for so many years only to be some nameless employee at a YMCA in the small, little known town of Terril, Wyoming, his degree rotting in the closet along with all of his dreams and aspirations. He'd accepted his lot in life, as miserable as it was, and he was slowly learning to be happy with it.

Once inside of the air-conditioned building, Alfred smiled wearily at the desk secretary, the pretty, brown-haired girl returning his smile with one of her own. They were relatively close, each having dropped their goals to work at this small, rundown little Y. It didn't even have a swimming pool, but the few people who worked in the town went there. For the life of him, Alfred couldn't explain why there was a YMCA in such a useless little place, but he supposed that it was the company's business and not his.

"Good morning, Eliza," he said to his only other friend in the workplace.

"Jó reggelt, Alfred," she said, using the Hungarian term for the words he'd just voiced to her. Her accent wasn't too heavy, he could still understand her, after all, but it was there, licking each syllable into a different shape than how a person growing up with English would have pronounced it.

As he clocked in and moved to the main gym area, where all the treadmills and ellipticals and dumbbells and every other basic exercise equipment you could think of lay, he noticed Elizaveta's eyes light up once they caught on someone just behind him. He didn't make an overly obvious turn, but he did pitch his head just slightly in the direction she was gazing, and was greeted with the sight of a man with completely white-hair and disturbingly red eyes. A grin was on his features, though it seemed to look mischievous, and as Eliza ran out from behind her desk, he swooped her into his arms, pressing hasty, desperate kisses to her cheeks and lips. Alfred felt quite awkward watching this go down, and so he hurried himself into the gym. The secretary was crying, burying her face in the paler man's shoulder, her arms wrapped crushingly tight around him. Alfred didn't know the man, or his history with Eliza, but he could only assume that it had been a while since they'd seen each other.

And so the day started on an interesting, curious note. Alfred was bored silly by the time it was lunch break, and so he noticed the statured man who walked through the door as he sat there munching on his turkey sandwich. The fellow caught his eye because he could remember him, a small flame of the dream reviving enough for Alfred to recognize him from it. Those emerald eyes glanced languidly about the beaten down interior of the YMCA, conveying their disdain for the gym with a single sweep.

But when those eyes found Alfred, they paused, and the American shivered. The jealous green of them traveled slowly down his form, making him shift uncomfortably in his seat, his sandwich now all but forgotten.

Eliza had been replaced with another secretary, obviously being given leave for her reuniting with her significant other. This one was a simple girl, Ukrainian, and Alfred didn't know her that well at all. She had short yellow hair, and seemed to have a pentient for overalls, as every time he did see her, which was seldom, she was dressed in the obscene things. This strange man walked sharply up to the counter, wearing an outfit like Alfred's, with the exception of a dark blue t-shirt covering his torso instead of a white sleeveless one. The girl blushed at the sight of this attractive man, even if he did have some impressive eyebrows, and was all too eager to help him. Not that she wasn't eager to help anyone, she seemed of a very amiable disposition.

After a quick moment of conversation, Alfred noticed that her finger was pointing in his direction, and the man soon turned to gaze at him, those eyes that hid so much resting on him once more. Alfred had finally finished his lunch, which meant that he was going to have to get back to work, which was a disappointment, really, as all he wanted to do was sit there and watch this fascinating new figure.

Sliding out of the rickety chair he was sitting at, that was in front of a table that was even worse off than the seat, he walked into the gym, not noticing that the man was following him, with steps that were light and smooth as silk.

Once he'd gotten to his normal space in the gym, he turned and was greeted with the stranger who was standing rather close behind him. Swearing, he jumped back, promptly slamming into a rack of medicine balls. Rubbing his jeering spine, he glared, hot-temperedly at the man. "Jesus, you shouldn't scare someone like that," he complained, eventually abandoning his back to hold his hand out. "I'm Alfred. I take it that I'm to be your personal trainer from here on out?" he asked, smiling slightly. The man managed a smirk, one side of his mouth tilting up into a cocky expression.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Alfred. My name is Arthur Kirkland, and yes, I do believe that you are correct in your rather rude assumptions," he took the proffered hand, giving it a firm shake before releasing.

Alfred was taken aback by the frank way about the British man, and the British accent itself. Though, it wasn't like there was a small amount of cultures and races in Terril, Wyoming. He'd just never seen a Brit here, of all places, before.

"Er, alright then, well let's get started," and with that, he began to lead Arthur through the basics, receiving the sarcastic responses that the man seemed all too fond of giving out with a deadpan expression. He had tried to cheerfully ignore them at first, but after a while they just got too frequent to do that without seeming like a complete and utter idiot.

By the end of the session, both of them were positively soaked with sweat. It had been a long time since he'd had to actually lay down, spreadeagled on the ground to fully regain himself. He was heaving in air like bellows on a fire, his shirt dark with sweat, and his face still dripping the salty substance. His eyes were closed, and he could hear Arthur's frantic breathing just next to him.

Lolling his head to the side, he met eyes with his new companion, breath whooshing still in and out of his mouth, fleeing free from the constraints of his lungs and being replaced with even more prisoners. "Same time tomorrow?" he asked, grinning exhaustedly at the equally fatigued Briton.

"Yes," a gasp of air, "same time tomorrow. But I was curious…" his breath caught up with him there, "as to whether or not you could join me for dinner tonight?" he asked, his face working into a red flush, embarrassment darkening his already burning face further.

Alfred was frozen a moment, his fingers working a slow rhythm on the padded floor of the gym. "Well…" he trailed, squeezing his eyes before sitting up, groaning slightly in protest at the complaints his muscles made towards the action, "I guess I can." At Arthur's annoyed expression, he quickly amended himself. "I mean, yeah, sure, dinner tonight. Sounds cool," he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, eyes skipping to the wall behind Arthur in favor of looking at the only person who seemed to both piss him off and attract him at the same time.

"Excellent. We will meet at the local Steakhouse at six o'clock sharp. I expect you to be there," he says, his sharp eyes flicking judgementally over Alfred's filthy appearance. He then slowly got to his feet, hissing out his pain through his teeth and walked past, brushing his fingers over Alfred's sweaty head as he left.

Alfred watched the Englishman go, his eyes dipping up and down Arthur's figure. He was certainly an attractive being, one that, though he was slightly shorter than Alfred himself, was tightly corded with muscle. There was an air about him that warned one to not piss him off, maybe it was the twist to his smile, or perhaps the way he could narrow his eyes, or the way he held himself. He was fascinating, and precise with each movement, not throwing away any good energy, if he could help it. He was a lion, much like one of the majestic beasts decorating the British coat of arms. His blond head was a riot of messy hair, green eyes poisonous, alluring disks. He had an impressive set of bushy eyebrows, veritable caterpillars snoozing above his eyes, lively with every facial expression he sent people's ways. And he was exactly the man who Alfred had dreamed about.

Shivering, and shaking his head, the American eventually got to his feet, grateful that Arthur had been his last appointment for the day. Staggering out of the gym, after clocking out, he found his way to the breaking down jeep and got in, taking a few minutes to get it up and running before peeling out of the parking lot. His left hand were slippery on the steering wheel, sweat still dotting the skin there. The right was running through his hair, attempting to stick that obstinate strand of hair down with the rest of his mop, but it was being uncooperative.

Pulling up to his apartment building, he sat back in his seat, closing his eyes and resting his head on the headrest. He ran his fingers over the steering wheel, remembering what little he could of his parents. They weren't around a lot when he was younger, which was probably partly why they were so okay with him being gay. They didn't know him enough for which gender he liked to make any sort of a splash or difference whatsoever. A good thing and a bad thing, in many ways. His mother was of a darker skin, Native American in all of her ways. He had never really known her name, but she had always been kind and coddling, the way any real mother would be. Her warm brown eyes, and silky black hair were his strongest memories of her. Her sun-browned skin and callused fingers, the smell of nature about her. His father was French, blue-eyed and blond-haired. His accent ran thick in his speech, making him incapable of being understood. He looked a lot like Alfred, but he didn't acknowledge him as a son of his own blood, so Alfred never really considered him his real father. Alfred had been lost, mentally, for a long time, and he was willing to possibly lay that down to his hopeless situation right now. Failures were always that, failures. They would never change.

Sighing, he clicked open his door and hopped onto the pavement, closing and locking it behind him. He trudged his way into his stodgy little apartment, slamming the squealing door shut behind him and heading to the kitchen. He was starving, and he wanted one of America's iconic snack foods; a Twinkie. So he'd be damned if he didn't get one. He fished one quickly out of the box and quickly tore off the wrapper, taking a nice, big bite from the cream-stuffed pastry. He was a physical trainer, and he really shouldn't be eating the fatty food, but he couldn't help himself. Today had been a strange, exciting day, and he felt like he deserved something terribly unhealthy as a reward.

Leaning back against the cold, unwashed, tile counter and licking any remaining Twinkie goodness from his fingertips, Alfred mulled over what he was going to wear that evening. Was it worth impressing Arthur? Did he even know if the guy liked him? Groaning, he pushed away from the counter with a quick ripple movement of his body, stalking over to his room and throwing the closet doors open. His icy eyes, cold with determination, skipped over the outfits that he had in his possession. It wasn't much in the way of anything. He'd pretty much resorted to only wearing work out gear, finding that he both looked good in it and it was comfortable, with the added bonus of practically being his job uniform. It took a fair bit of digging before he found a button down, blue shirt that matched the color of his eyes. Further digging unveiled a nice set of dress pants, khaki in color and reaching down to his ankles in length. Even further back than those was a pair of black darker brown dress shoes and a matching belt. Content with his outfit, he laid it out on his bed before going out to stare at the nasty excuse of a television that he owned.

He still had a good four hours until he had to be at the Steakhouse, so he figured that was more than enough time to catch some TV. Settling down, he squirmed a bit uncomfortably on the springy couch, the cushions stained and worn thin to the couch frame. A bottle of water had been retrieved from the fridge, and he crammed his finger down on the power button, waving the controller forcefully at the dormant TV until a flicker of life showed in the depths of its black face. A spasm of light appeared, disappeared, and then appeared again as the television really kicked into high gear. It was an old thing from when he was younger, and he'd decided to take it with him as he left the house off to college. It had wasted away in the back of his jeep until he managed to get a hold of this apartment, which he'd been living in for several years now.

As he settled down for some good, relaxing TV watching, he found that he was struggling to stay awake. He was exhausted, both from his sleep deprived previous night and the exhausting work out he'd managed to do with Arthur.

He was rudely awoken by the furious, rapid fire knocking on his apartment door. Groggily blinking at the trembling slab of wood, he fell off of the couch, landing painfully on hands and knees, before half crawling, half stumbling, and half walking over to open it.

His hands fumbled over the rusted door handle before turning it open. Unfortunately for the still only half-awake American, there was a very pissed off, very much awake Briton on the other side of the door, and within seconds of it being opened, he was barging in, marching his way through the entrance way with a vigor and determination unlike anything Alfred had ever seen before. Blinking widely for a moment, Alfred finally managed to piece enough thoughts together to realize that he'd probably missed the date, which would explain why Arthur was now so thoroughly displeased with him.

"You," began the angry man, "are a bloody wanker, you know that? A great big arse who deserves nothing better than to be chucked down the nearest sewer pipe." He was seething, the rage practically steaming from him in the colder atmosphere of Al's apartment. Al winced, closing one of his eyes and peering guiltily out of the other one at the raging Arthur.

"I really out to sterilize you so that no more of your rude, uncouth manners can be bred down to future generations," threatened Arthur, reaching out to grip Al's chin firmly between his thumb and the rest of his fingers. "Fortunately for you, you are too damn attractive for me to do anything of that nature to you, so count your bloody stars." He growled out, though his grip was considerably softer than his voice and body were.

Alfred, finally seeing an opening where he could get a word in edgewise, took the bait up eagerly. "Dude, I'm sorry!" he started off his defensive with a rather poor sentence. "I slept in, ya know how it is! A guy's gotta sleep," he shrugged his shoulders, though shame could be traced in every single slope and line and contour of him. "I really didn't plan on skipping, I swear it." He said, raising his hands in a pleading gesture. But before he made it any farther in his word choice, he noticed the way Arthur's eyes were crawling, almost predatory, over his face. "Er, Arthur?" he asked, unsure and nervous. Now that he thought back on it, this man did seem a little odd. I mean, who asks their physical trainers to dinners right after their first meeting?

Before he could think much more, however, Arthur found another occupation for him to pursue. This one came in the form of a heated, urgent kiss, and quick, eager fingers.

So, how are we feeling it? I'm pumped for this. Whoo hop!

Review, appreciate, silently adore, hate, detest, glare at the computer screen, do what you will! xD

Until next time! Next chapter might be up within a couple of days, I'm getting a ton of inspiration for this dealio, and I want to write all the shits before I lose it.