This is a bit of an apology fic for someone, she knows who she is :-) Again, I'm sorry, and I hope you enjoy! The beginning is USUK, followed by Fruk.
WARNING: THIS IS NOT AN ENTIRELY HAPPY FIC. THERE IS CHARACTER DEATH IN THE BEGINNING AND A LOT OF REMORSE ON ARTHUR'S BEHALF. THERE IS A HAPPY ENDING, BUT SADNESS ALONG THE WAY.
At least, there is in this first chapter.
"Oh Artie, you're such a sissy. I can't believe I even like you. All tea and crocheting, ha!"
Alfred's tone was light and teasing, and for that reason, Arthur only flashed the most insanely smug smirk he could possibly offer in retaliation– he knew better than to take the American's words to heart. After having lived with Alfred for what felt like several months, he knew his lover sometimes only opened his mouth to deliberately start an argument.
"You're a bratty git, I don't know how it is that I tolerate you."
"Of course you tolerate me, I'm your hero!" The boyish, foolish grin he had fallen in love with made its appearance on Alfred's face despite his earlier mockery, and Arthur couldn't hold back a chuckle.
"Of course you are. And from what exactly are you protecting me, oh strong hero?"
"I'm saving you from being a stuffy old man with fifty cats and bad cooking!" Strong hands found their way around Arthur's trim waist and brought him closer, thumbs stroking mischievously beneath the hemline of his shirt.
"My cooking is quite fine, thank you," Arthur retorted indignantly, refusing to be sidetracked from the topic at hand, even as he was being tugged insistently onto Alfred's lap and tucked into the bend of his arm. It really was his fault for not fighting against his hold... But then again, it's Alfred, he reminded himself before burying himself into the warmth of the other blond's chest. "And I would never have fifty cats, they reproduce ridiculously."
"In that case, I'm saving you from being a lonely old man with no love life and pretend unicorns," Alfred stated, just before capturing Arthur's lips into a tender kiss.
Once they parted, Arthur brushed his nose against Alfred's and hummed under his breath. "Speak properly, dearest. Butchering the English language is most unflattering."
And from there, the argument ensued.
.
One thing Arthur had been taken by surprise to find was Alfred's astonishing self-restraint. Alfred was always tender in his caresses, treating him like a fragile porcelain doll that could be broken at any time. Whether making love or rough housing outside, his touches never became too jarring, and Arthur couldn't deny it was endearing to know the virile American cared enough to limit his impressive strength.
Alfred's fingers were gently tracing delicate patterns onto the planes of Arthur's abdomen and teasing the pale pink nubs that stood out on his chest, tweaking and rubbing slowly. His touches were purposely baiting him, waiting for him to snap and beg for them to move faster and reach south. Painstakingly slowly, they crawled lower and lower, until Arthur couldn't suppress a gasp and rupturing jerk of his hips.
Soft, breathy moans fell from his lips when Alfred finally touched him in the place he had been aching the most, taking his sweet time to drive him toward the edge. He could feel the shudders and shivers from the body undulating over his, could hear the slight hitches in Alfred's breath.
"A-Artie, your body... I love you so much, oh God..."
A sweet cry was stolen by Alfred's lips, but the second they moved, Arthur whimpered into his marked neck. "I love you too, A-Al..."
.
"Don't step on–!"
Alfred froze in mid-stride, but the damage was already done. Arthur stared dejectedly at the crushed poppies, feeling the weeks of toil very literally crushed underfoot.
Alfred looked scared and apologetic. Smiling sheepishly, he offered Arthur the lemonade he had been sipping. "Sorry?"
"It was difficult to grow those flowers, Alfred." Pink in the face from both warmth and frustration, Arthur turned his freckled nose downward. "They were just beginning to look really nice too..."
A look of desperation crossed Alfred's expression and, jumping on the balls of his feet, he ran to find the remedy to the situation. "I know! We can water them back to life!"
Fetching the garden hose and switching on the water valve far too zealously, Alfred watched with horror as a blast of cold water completely missed the poppies and drenched Arthur instead.
A positively murderous glare was sent his way, and the garden hose fell limply from between his fingers. "Oops..."
Arthur stood slowly, stiffly crossed the length of the flower garden in easy, methodic strides, and stood glowering only inches away from Alfred's face. Alfred had never felt particularly threatened by the shorter, generally smaller Briton, but under that hard gaze, he had never felt more at risk.
And then, Arthur laughed.
Alfred watched incredulously as Arthur began to laugh loudly, chuckling until tears brimmed the corners of his eyes and fell onto his freckled cheeks.
After a good minute or so of laughing, Arthur straightened himself up and turned to Alfred with an explanation. "You looked so frightened, so genuinely worried... And then the water was so unexpected, that honestly, how did you not laugh?"
Dropping with a dexterity Alfred sometimes forgot he had, Arthur picked up the garden hose and sprayed Alfred liberally until the front of his shirt was soaked through.
"That's what you get, you dunce."
The competitive, playful gleam shone in Alfred's eyes, and he snatched the hose away from Arthur. "My turn!"
Squealing, Arthur turned to run, only to find himself sprayed from behind by chilly water. Laughter rang out in the flower garden, and Arthur later on found himself thinking that his silly poppies were certainly a worthy sacrifice.
.
"But Artie, I really want a pool table for the garage! Think about how cool it would be, baby! We can play together, makes bets on who's gonna win, invite people over to play with it... And of course, we could always do the dirty there."
The lewd statement was accompanied by a wink, and Arthur found himself rolling his eyes with an unimpressed snort. "Of all places, your mind would go there. Filthy lech. But I really don't see why we need one, you already have plenty of games and trash down there as it is."
"You always say you're willing to do anything for me!" Alfred's voice rose to the keening whine Arthur could never resist, but cracked in mid-sentence. Arthur chuckled and reciprocated by pressing a kiss to Alfred's pouty lower lip.
"By that, I mean that I'm willing to allow you to do the cooking and turn a blind eye when you want to experiment with new tomfoolery. But I'm not willing to clutter my den with yet another table game. So sorry love, but no go."
"You win this round, evil Mr Fluffy Brows. At least, that's what you think."
"What?"
.
"O-Ooh, Alfred, it's COOOLD." Foolish giggles emanated from Arthur's throat as Alfred clumsily tried to lick the vodka from the hollow of his stomach. Doing body shots had been the American's idea, and Arthur couldn't say he didn't like the experience.
"M-My turn," he added, once Alfred sat up with a strangely satisfied expression. A straight shot of vodka was poured into Alfred's mouth, and Arthur tapped his lips sharply when he tried to swallow. "No, that's for me, idiot."
Tilting his face, Arthur brought his lips to Alfred's own, prying past his soft lips and delving into his delightfully alcoholic mouth. A soft moan sounded from both men, but their blood was too thinned to carry and hold an erection. Arthur pulled away contentedly after carrying away every last drop of the strong liquor, and he gave a dopey smile before his head fell with a thud onto the coffee table.
"Hehe... We should totally l-like, do that more often." Punctuated by a hiccup, Alfred slurred from around the lip of his bottle and flashed a drunken grin toward his far worse-off partner. If Arthur survived his raging hangover the next day, they would most definitely do that again some time.
.
"So, how'd you enjoy dinner? Was their meat as good as mine?"
"Y-You!"
The sound of flesh smacking flesh resounded loudly in the car as Arthur slapped and shoved Alfred's shoulder. Alfred's laughter subdued the country music he had insisted on playing, much to Arthur's disappointment. So perhaps his hand wasn't quite as strong as he had hoped...
But he continued on regardless, as though his weak-willed slap had been effectual. "Don't be so crass, Alfred! Dinner was lovely, and I appreciate that you took the time to plan this out. I'm sure it was difficult to come across those reservations."
"It wasn't too hard, I guess. Besides, I'd do anything for you. I'm your hero, remember?"
In an unexpected display of sweetness, Alfred removed a hand from the steering wheel and took Arthur's hand into his grip. Smooth fingers rubbed nonsensical patterns onto the palm of his hand, and a gentle kiss was pressed to his fingertips. "I really do love you, y'know... And if you love me, maybe you'll keep an open mind about what I'm about to say..."
Arthur's stomach bubbled with excitement and anticipation. He didn't know what he was expecting, but after such a beautiful and fulfilling night, he was sure it wouldn't be anything less than marvellous. "I can't promise anything, but I'll keep an open mind."
Alfred seemed to toy and struggle internally before finally meeting Arthur's gaze briefly. A strange, yet utterly pleasant feeling flooded Arthur's system. Alfred hesitated, before speaking cautiously, deliberately.
"I know it may be a bit of a stretch... And I know you're a little against the idea, from what I've heard so far, not to mention we've only been living together for six months. And that we can't even go through the morning without arguing about what to eat for breakfast, or lunch and dinner for that matter..."
Alfred was rambling, and Arthur couldn't help but smile. His odd American really was delightful. And he was so genuinely nervous, anxious and unable to sit still in his seat... He hadn't seen Alfred that nervous since the beginning of their relationship, when he had fumbled awkwardly and asked to hold his hand. Perhaps he was going to ask something...?
"What are you trying to say, Alfred?" Arthur interrupted, before his lover could go off on another tangent. His heart was fluttering in his ribcage, and Arthur felt abruptly excited. "Just spit it out, dear."
Alfred flushed, before blurting out without finesse, "I think we should get a pool table!"
A droll look was delivered, and Arthur's lips curled to the side. "Again with this argument? Honesty Alfred, I said no just two weeks ago!"
"It's just that I really really really want this pool table! I promise Artie, I won't ask for anything else for the rest of the year! Pretty, pretty please, with crumbled Oreos on top? If you love me, you'll say yes baby!"
"You promised that you wouldn't ask for anything else if I got you that Roulette table two months ago, which I did. And I do love you darling, I just don't see why a pool table is neces– ALFRED, TRUCK!"
Bitter moments that would change the rest of Arthur's life stretched into an eternity as the sounds of screeching metal and breaking glass sounded in the air.
.
Screams and sobs tore themselves from Arthur's throat with wild abandon, ricocheting off the hospital walls in a manner that sent frightened looks from patients his way. But what did he care; they didn't know, they didn't know! Arthur shook his head in avid denial, despite the concussion already throbbing behind his eyes and the screaming protest of his broken collarbone. The limp figure atop the gurney was being wheeled away from him, and he could feel the sharp pinch of a sedating needle being stabbed into his arm. Muscular arms held him back from running after the gurney.
"No, no... Alfred... NO!"
.
Despite the months that had passed and the countless times he tortured himself to sleep with the familiar memories, Arthur felt his eyes water the moment the first thoughts of Alfred slipped into his mind.
It was his fault that the energetic blond who had given new meaning to his life was no longer there. It was his fault for having insisted on attending the restaurant opening, for having told Alfred to hurry up with his meal so that they could leave early. If he were to have waited, to have let the grand opening slip by, Alfred wouldn't have been driving– he wouldn't have been crashed into by the eighteen wheeler on their ride back home to their flat.
Glaring past the sting in his red-rimmed eyes and downing the glass of bourbon in front of him with reckless ease, Arthur was entirely oblivious to his surroundings in the shady bar– perhaps not the wisest thing to do in a place such as the one he was in, but he did it all the same. It was almost becoming a dangerous habit, to the point where the very mention of a certain sandy-haired American sent him spiralling down a bottle of bourbon– Alfred's favourite drink. It seemed right, in a sick and twisted way, for Arthur to lose himself in the only drink Alfred would ever agree to sip.
Arthur watched in disgust as one if his tears fell into the amber liquid remaining at the bottom of his glass. Now he had ruined yet another thing. His life, his love life, his drink. His job was slowly slipping away by the day, his appearance was fucked, and whatever decency he had remaining to him all went down the gutter whenever there was a drink in his hand. Which meant always.
From the mirror above the bottles of Chardonnay and brandy, Arthur could see his own revolting reflection.
Red-rimmed eyes, thin cheeks streaked with old tear tracks, and frame nearly disgusting in all its bony glory. Alfred wouldn't have been able to recognise him as the mirthful, romantically idealistic, round-cheeked Englishman he had fallen in love with. Arthur knew he was falling apart slowly, and he knew he was appalling to look at, but he couldn't bring himself to care about anything past a bottle of fine liqueur he honestly could not afford. Bills were piling on his counter, his excruciatingly patient boss was demanding he return to work, and he hadn't eaten a proper meal in nearly six months, but Arthur still wasted what little tidings he had on booze.
Life was bleak, and Arthur felt himself sinking into a worse depression each and every day.
"Bartedner? Bartedner. I'll have one m-more, of this stuff."
The unimpressed bartender gave a curt shake of his tulip-shaped head and continued to rinse and wipe the glasses. "No. You're utterly piss-wasted, and I won't call you a cab like the last time. Sober up, kid."
A thick whine rose to the back of Arthur's throat, and he stood indignantly. "I-I am a paying customer, and I can drink however goddamn much I want to, thank very much you." Arthur swayed dangerously at the end of his slurred speech and began to slip off the counter he had been holding onto desperately for equilibrium.
Before his head hit the ground, a firm hand was supporting his back and another his elbow.
In a much less intoxicated state, Arthur would have flushed and apologised for being a nuisance. In his state of poisoning, he clung to the source of balance unknowingly. Slender fingers helped him stand upright, and a comfortingly solid figure beside his own helped him sit without slumping over the counter.
"Bartender, I think out little friend here needs a mug of coffee."
With a lapse of conscience, Arthur wrinkled his nose. "Eww. You're French. That's utterly repulsive."
Azure eyes that were not quite the same shade of baby blue as Alfred's, more glacier-like than sky, or perhaps ocean, blue, met Arthur's in surprise. Finely tended-to eyebrows met in the middle, and the French male seemed genuinely confused. "Repulsive?"
"Yuss. All you French frogs are the same, all 'oui oui baguette' this and 'Frenchy French honhonhon' that."
"Not quite... And that is very unfair, mon ami; not all of us sound just like that! I like to think of my laughter as a bit more charming than that silly little stereotype."
"Oh, put a rag in it."
The mug of hot coffee was brought to the counter, and the rich scent of pure, black Sumatra blend infiltrated Arthur's nose. Taking it as black as it was, he took a sip of the bitter brew and closed his eyes. Images of Alfred swarmed his mind. When he opened them again, a concerned gaze met his own.
"Are you alright? You cannot hold your drinks very well, from what I could see. I think it is a good thing I intervened, yes?"
Blond hair, so silky and blond, it was pretty... Nowhere near as pretty as Alfred's darker, shorter locks with its unruly little flick, but pretty. It was long and very pale, much like a little girl's...
Arthur found himself staring at that blond hair as a stupid and slightly emotional reply fell from his tongue. "I can hold my drink very well, thank you very much. If you think you can come on in and just take advantage of me because I'm a little less than sober, you're wrong. I have a boyfriend and he can kick your French a–"
Realisation struck before he could finish that threat, and Arthur's face fell. Tears would have started to wet his cheeks again, if his eyes were to have retained any moisture since his last sob.
Arthur was quick to cover his mistake. "Well, I had a boyfriend who would have kicked your French arse."
Understanding began to dawn in the stranger's eyes, and he nodded slowly. The insult lay either ignored or unheard. "A bad break up, I take it?"
"You know nothing! He wouldn't have broken up with me, you presumptuous frog, he's dead! He's dead." Arthur fell silent after his whispered repetition and stared unseeingly at a stain on the counter. "He died four months ago. Car accident. Fuck, why am I telling you this..."
A soothing hand touched his shoulder gently, and Arthur found himself more consoled by a kind stranger he had met five minutes prior than by the people who had known him all his life. Circles were rubbed onto his shoulder blade, and gentle fingers pressed into his skin at random intervals.
"I lost someone a while ago as well. My husband, Mathieu. He died of cancer two years ago. Spent his last few weeks paralysed in a wheelchair, unable to play hockey or make love."
Subdued, Arthur found himself nodding in empathy. It would be inconceivable for him to say he didn't understand and share in the feeling of losing a beloved. "I'm sorry for your loss."
A nod met his own. "And I am sorry for yours."
Sitting in silence, Arthur mellowing with every passing sip of the dark coffee and stranger taking sips of an expensive Merlot, they both seemed to meet an easy, amicable standstill Arthur hadn't shared with anybody since Alfred's death. It was enjoyable, really- a sense of normalcy in his dark life.
Conversation was soon prompted by the French 'frog,' as Arthur had called him earlier. "I typically introduce myself from the very beginning, but I don't believe I had the chance to do so. Francis Bonnefoy, artistic photographer."
Arthur shook with a hand steadier than it had been in months. "Arthur Kirkland, possibly former English Lit. professor."
"Possibly former? Ah, I suppose that is a story for another day. So tell me, Arthur. Would you possibly be interested in spending the day with me, away from this wretched little bar –MERDE, no offence, bartender– and seeing the world for what may be the first time in four months?"
As much as Arthur wanted to flip this Francis the bird and tell him to drop dead, preferably where nobody would find his corpse, Arthur found himself considering the offer. His life for those last four months had consisted of nothing but misery, little white pills, and sleep. His second home was the filthy bar. And now that someone was offering him the chance to be there alongside him on his venture to the outside world, he simply couldn't say no.
Arthur nodded slowly and, for the first time in four painful months, felt the slightest ghost of hope. "Sounds like a plan."
TBC
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