The door is grey and blue and dark at the edges. Separates the cold winter and the cozy existence of the brown lounge chairs that you sink into, deep deep down to the end of the world, and the smoldering flames that keeps the corners black and filled to the brim with reality. They are pressed into the brown leather, with fire behind their backs. The weak glow makes the other's red hair glisten, as the wet sound of lips pressing against skin echoes through the warm room.
"Alistair", one whispers as fingernails makes a trail down his wrist, follows the sky-colored veins to the end and back.
Alistair's sigh is the answer that's enough for them both, as they breathe in and out, their bodies growing tense and then relaxes in a dreaming cycle.
"Arthur", he hisses as the blond grasp his shoulder hard, thrusting forward with his hips and slamming into hardness.
The green in their eyes reflect each other, making them seem deeper, forever lasting. If he could, Alistair would kiss every strand of hair from that golden head. He did, actually, once upon a time, when time was sufficient and everlasting, when they were made to believe they would stay on this earth as long as time itself existed. He would count the yellow threads that flew against his fingers, slowly, and he would wonder about their strange softness. But with time, they all learnt that 'time' itself wasn't sufficient, that it all would end someday, in ash and tears. As the realization hit, Alistair still wanted to trace his nails against the strands of hair, but he wanted to do other things to. Like kiss every scar on Arthur's body, the ones he had made, the ones he had tried to prevent and the ones that were just there. There was still time, he knew, but why waste it? He wanted to feel all the good things, nudge the bad things into the corner and turn around until it wasn't possible to ignore it for any longer. And then push it away again and embrace the happiness. You.
The gasps, moans and whimpers come faster, as a finger slowly feels around the hole.
"Please don't cry" Alistair whisper as he kiss the dripping tears away, even the ones who has yet to fall.
Two fingers remain at his hands as the other dip into damp heat. Laughs softly as Arthur, England, Britain, Britannia, Albion, brother clench his fists and say: "I'm not crying."
Of course not, he yearn to say but buries his head between a warm neck and pointy shoulder, bites and leave small, rose formed marks.
Mine, he thinks and pull his fingers out, Arthur's moan sounding like pure music. Like the ocean at the night, deep and quiet. As the brawl at the pub, high and never ending. Reminding him of the sound leaves do at autumn, in the middle of October. Rustle. It thumps, when he slams into the pale body under him, make the tunnel in the chair seem longer, when they sink into it a little more, a little deeper.
Deeper, deeper he goes, until that place is hit, and the song fills the room, heard even to the dark and reality-filled corner, bringing color to a dusty room. His own grunts accompanies, wrapping around them and bringing them closer than what's physically possible. Rocking back and forward with their hips, the tension that rages in their bodies build up, sweat glimmering at pale skin.
"A-Alist…! I'm c-cumming….!", the Brit gasp as he thrust in again. Hard.
White cream smeared his abdomen, and Alistair bent down to crush his lips at the corner of Arthur's heavy breathing mouth before he started to move again.
"Arthur", he grunts it out again. And oh, your name makes my bones ache.