If you'd like to listen to it while you read, the song that inspired this was "I'm Tickled Pink" by Jack Shaindlin.

Thank you, in advance. I hope you enjoy :)

Arthur Kirkland was boring.

Alfred had walked into their arrangement knowing this, but he hadn't thought that it would be such an issue. Having moved into the shared apartment three months before, he figured that he would've pulled Arthur out of his dull, monotonous tendencies and into the light. That, by now, Arthur would be tagging along to the club three blocks away from their university or maybe a bar, at the very least.

Except, it hadn't happened.

He sat on their couch, a joint investment after Arthur's had taken its final challenge—that is, Alfred's ass—and collapsed two weeks after Alfred had moved in. Arthur sat in a wingback chair on the other side of their living room, cradling a book and a cup of tea— or at least that's what he figured it was— a cat snoozing in his lap. Alfred stared, not as subtle as he should've been, softly tapping his thumb against his phone's screen.

Arthur spoke as he flipped the page, "Yes, Alfred?" There was a hint of smugness in his voice, the same tone he got when he was about to roast Alfred into oblivion. Fuck him.

Alfred glanced down at his phone, clicking it open. He would keep him waiting, he decided, opening various social media apps and checking his timeline. It wasn't until around five minutes later that he actually answered. "Nothing."

He expected— hoped— for Arthur to get mad. To curse at him or tell him off. Anything that would give him something to do, to open up the possibility, no matter how small, for Alfred to have a little fun in his life.

Arthur did nothing, instead turning another page of his book. The pages were at this point yellow from use, Alfred only knowing that from a previous snooping session. How many times he had read it, Alfred had no clue, but the number had to be high. And how he managed, after all this

time, to have never—

He had an idea.

Alfred had to wait for several hours for Arthur to go to bed. The latter always went early, waking up at the crack of dawn to do who-knows-what. It was then, after the rattling had gone silent, that his plan went into full motion.

If Arthur didn't give him some mode of attention after this, then he supposed that he would call it quits. Alfred made sure to leave everything in the exact spot that it had been, not an inch out of place. He ended up going through about a quarter of the roll of paper towels, but Arthur wouldn't notice. Probably.

It wasn't until the next morning that he would be able to see the results.

Alfred woke up earlier than usual, sliding on a random t-shirt before walking out into the living room. Arthur sat in his usual chair, a book— a different one from the night before, strangely enough—in hand.

He sent Alfred a look, pure hate in his eyes. Alfred grinned, pushing his fingers through his hair, suddenly realizing that he forgot his glasses. "Good morning to you too, Mr. Rogers."

Arthur reached for his tea and Alfred found his smile widening. Finally. Finally.

Arthur's knuckles had gone white from clenching the mug, and though his face was calm, there was burning rage in his eyes. Oh, this would be fun. "Try this."

Before Alfred had a chance to answer, the mug was all but shoved into his hands. It sloshed against the rim, missing his shirt only to spill onto his fingers. Alfred winced before looking up, suppressing the grin that was tugging at the corners of his lips.

"I don't drink hot tea."

Arthur scoffed. "Well, you're going to fucking drink it, whether you like it or not." His eyebrows shot up when Alfred didn't move to drink from the mug. Arthur's hand lifted, waving him on. "Go on, take a sip."

Alfred didn't bother to keep in his cringe. On one hand, he knew what it was going to taste like, and by God, it would be bad. But on the other…

He sighed. Even though Arthur knew he did it, he wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a confession.

Fuck it.

In a split-second decision, Alfred knocked back half of the mug, an immediate gag coming up his throat. His eyes watered. Fuck.

He couldn't help but wonder how much sugar Arthur normally put in his tea because god damn. It was ten times worse with salt.

Alfred handed the mug back to Arthur, not bothering to keep back the cringe wrinkling his nose. "Jesus Christ, man, no wonder you always look like you're about to explode." He scrubbed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, anything to get the taste out his mouth. "What the hell did you put that?"

The glare Arthur sent his way was one of pure hate. As his roommate's upper lip curled into a sneer, Alfred couldn't help but wonder what this would pull him into.

Arthur would find someway to absolutely ruin him, he was sure of it. A man with that little friends, one who read that much, he had to have some tricks up his sleeve. Sure, Alfred had never seen any evidence that he could pull the stick out of his ass and have some fun, but he could dream.

Excitement welled within him, pushing and pulling at his insides. This would be good. It had to be. Maybe he would curse at him, roast him to his very core. Arthur, according to Gilbert, was a savage in middle school. He could pull it off.

The sneer on Arthur's lips faded, replaced by a cool, trained frown. As his face deadpanned, Alfred could've sworn that there was a hint of amusement in his eyes.

"I suppose I can live with it." A beat later, Arthur picked up the mug, taking a long sip from it. No cringe. Nothing to indicate that there was anything in there other than normal tea.

Fuck. This guy had guts.

The feeling of failure followed him into the next morning, climaxing as Alfred made his first cup of coffee for the day. Arthur had already gone, leaving for his eight AM class without saying a single word. As if he'd forgotten the events of the day before.

Alfred leaned in towards the coffee maker, wafting in the scent as his cup slowly filled. He would have to try harder, at the very least do something different.

He glanced towards Arthur's bookshelf before shaking his head. Arthur would kill him if he even dog-eared a book and made that clear his first day. If he did anything to them—Alfred shook the thought away before it could fully develop.

Grabbing his now-full cup of coffee, Alfred made his way to the pantry, taking a sip before setting it on the counter. He fished out a box of off-brand Oreos, pulling back the plastic film covering them.

Alfred reveled in the neat rows, exactly as he left them the day before. Taking a couple into his hand, Alfred dipped them one by one in his coffee. No matter what Arthur said, the result was addicting.

He took a bite out of the first one, ready to savor the pleasant mixture—

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Whereas he expected a light mixture chocolate and mocha, a surge of mint took over his senses. It overpowered everything in his mouth, tasting worse than the salted tea, worse than the sauerkraut his grandmother shoved down his throat as a child.

Toothpaste. Someone replaced the icing with toothpaste.

Alfred spat out the concoction into the sink, throwing out the other ones he had dipped but had not yet eaten. Even with it no longer in his mouth, the hellish taste remained. They hadn't been like that yesterday, so it must've—

A thought popped into his head.

Slowly, Alfred took a step towards the package of not-Oreos. And then another. His lower eyelid started twitching, an irritating habit from when he was a kid.

Alfred once again peeled back the plastic cover, choosing a random cookie from each row and taking a small bite. Every single one of them. Filled with toothpaste.

He huffed, sliding the entire package in the trash. At the very bottom, several piles of slightly off-white and broken discs lay in their final resting place.

Alfred stared at the piles, flexing his fingers before digging them into the meat of his palm. The bastard didn't even have the heart to save the icing.

He scoffed.

The taste still having remained, Alfred made his way to the bathroom. Perhaps this whole thing made them even—no. No use in thinking like that. Arthur fucked with his Oreos, packages of those costing much more than a cup of tea.

Alfred flicked the light switch, the inner cogs of his mind already turning with ideas for revenge. He grabbed his toothbrush and toothpaste off the counter, only to find the tube empty.

And from there, a prank war started. Grass seeds in Arthur's keyboard, an air horn duct taped to the bedroom door, a couple hundred sticky notes stuck to his car.

No matter what he did, Arthur would retaliate, whether it was the next morning or a week later. A box of glazed donuts from Alfred's favorite bakery, but instead of the usual grape filling, mayonnaise. Paper cut out into the shape of a bug and taped to the underside of the lampshade. Mentos frozen in ice cubes, just waiting for Alfred to pour a can of coke over the top.

Now, after a good six months of going back and forth, Alfred knew he was ready. He was going to touch the books.

He wouldn't mark or cut them up, of course. Hell no, he wouldn't. Alfred decided then and there that he liked living, especially with all his limbs attached and organs in the right place. No, Alfred would just use them for a few moments.

Arthur was at the store, had just left, so Alfred had time until he would notice the start.

The entire setup took around three hours to organize, Alfred's backpack filled to the brim with delicately used hardcovers. He placed the first one on the kitchen counter, propped up against a teapot to catch Arthur's eye, before ratting around and scribbling a quick message on a post-it note and attaching it on the cover.

He placed the next one on Arthur's favorite chair, another sticky note on the cover. The next, on his dresser. Another one on Arthur's pillow. One by one, a book and a post-it note, some in the most obvious places in the world, others in nooks and crannies that only Arthur knew about.

Some in gallon backs to keep away the elements, others set on the dining room tables and couches of Arthur's friends and family.

Which led them both to here.

Arthur sat across from him at the coffee shop they frequented, arms crossed, an irritated gleam in his eye. Alfred took a quick sip from his coffee cup, the memory of the those terribly minty Oreos tapping its way into his head. He pushed it back down.

Arthur huffed, his frown deepening, arms crossed, an irritated gleam in his eyes. Tapping his fingers quietly against the honeycomb wood, the look he gave Alfred sent spiders crawling down his spine.

"Alright, what did you have me running all over town for?" Just hearing his voice set his head spinning.

Alfred sat forward, bopping his knee up and down, up and down. He grinned. "Did you find all of them?"

Arthur's glare had slowly lost its bite these past short months, filled with something unrecognizable. Undiscovered.

It was a look that drove him crazy, that left him reeling to find an answer. To find the key to tell him what the hell it was, what the hell it meant. But so far, nothing.

"I suppose that I did." Arthur took a sip from his tea, the koozie slipping down the side of the cup. Alfred watched as a tongue darted out from Arthur's lips, cutting short a small drop of tea.

Fuck. He didn't know how much more of this he could take.

"Except for one."

Alfred grinned. "Oh?" The bastard never let anything go.

A deadpan. "You know which one I'm talking about."

And indeed he did. There was no denying the that in his laptop bag sat the gem- the jewel, the prize?— of Arthur's collection. No, he would see right through it if Alfred lied.

With a sigh, Alfred set the book on the table. Immediately, Arthur grabbed it, turning it and observing the front cover. Around thirty seconds later, he cracked open the first few pages, the final sticky note falling from the inner cover.

The sticky note that would either damn him or…

Alfred tightened his grip on his coffee cup as Arthur picked up the post-it, spiders crawling up and down his back. This was it.

"Page 231? You won't be sending me to the next town over this time?" The joke was dry as hell, but Alfred couldn't help but laugh.

"Nah, man." He took a sip of his coffee. The bitter bite calmed his nerves, slowed the spiders down. But barely. He swallowed, pointing a finger towards the book. "I even dog-eared it for ya.

So you didn't have to look to hard."

The way Arthur glared at him—oh, that made him mad. He had taken the bait. Good.

The glare morphed into a scowl as Arthur pulled at the dog-ear, one small enough that it could be easily smoothed out. He would've killed him if Alfred had done anything more, and he certainly didn't have a death wish.

The scowl fell when Arthur stopped at the page. "Alfred—"

"Don't." The word left Alfred's mouth before he could stop it. He quickly backtracked, holding his hands up in slight surrender before Arthur could bite back. "I mean—I didn't do anything to it. Just read it. The fifth paragraph from the top. Aloud."

Arthur blinked, glancing down down at the page. "In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how—

"Ardently I admire and love you." Alfred joined in at the final line, the small speech he had been rehearsing the entire of the thirty minutes before Arthur arrived.

The latter had frozen, that unknown expression creeping up on his face. It hurt, in a way, to not know what he was thinking.

"Alfred?" Emotionless, as if he was distancing himself.

He swallowed, itching for his coffee, for something to hold. "Yes?"

"Is this what I think it is?"

He could say no, say that it was all a prank. That was their dynamic now, it wouldn't be unexpected. Wouldn't be a surprise.

But there was something about the look in Arthur's eyes that made him hopeful. That gave him the inkling that maybe—maybe—this would work.

Alfred sighed, looking Arthur dead in the eyes.

For the man who could knock down three shots before Alfred could do one.

For the man whose eyes froze with rage when his boss called him on his day off, or when a professor cancelled class when he had already left.

For the man who could down a mug of tea mixed with salt without a trace of a cringe.

For the man who laughed at the dirtiest and darkest of Alfred's jokes, no matter how far he went.

Fuck, Alfred was in deep.

He pushed his fingers through his hair. "Yeah. It is."

Silence.

Alfred raised his head from his coffee, Arthur staring at him with that damn look.

And when he smiled, Alfred knew that Arthur Kirkland was never boring. He was.

Thank you so much for reading I'm Tickled Pink! This was something that I've been sitting on since early March (it was originally meant for April Fool's day, oops) and I finally got around to finishing it. I'm really happy with this, but concrit would be greatly appreciated!

Thank you!