The Sun Will Rise Again

Pairing: Alfred F. Jones/Arthur Kirkland (America/England)

Summary: Arthur's days are numbered, it's been his lifelong dream to travel the world and visit as many places as he could before his time ran out. And maybe—just maybe—it was pure coincidence that his favorite book, 'The Wizard Of Oz,' was with him, and maybe it was a coincidence that his last stop happened to be Kansas.

Word Count: 1,601

AN: I got guitar feels after watching a Domhnall Gleeson movie called 'Frank.' I kinda altered the heights of Alfie and Athur a little, sorry. I'm also being over-loaded with emotions so I had to share some of the pain.

"Play something for me." The sandy blond closed his eyes slowly, face free of any emotion except for contentment.

"Play...a song? For you? Now?" Alfred leaned back in his chair, tilting his head quizzically as he held onto his guitar.

"Yeah," Arthur sighed breathlessly, "Play something nice..." The Englishman snorted softly, waving a hand languidly at the sky-eyed man propped in front of him. "If you can, that is." His arm came back to his side, fingers circling around the rim of his scotch glass lethargically.

Alfred raised a brow, shifting his shoulders so the hazel colored guitar could rest underneath his left arm, the right holding the neck and picking at the strings. He'd met Arthur at the small bar they were in when Alfred—who'd been playing on the stage only moments before—had approached the shorter man, ordering Arthur a drink, and smooth talking his way through slow chatter.

"If I can? Are you doubting me?" The musician asked in mock haughtiness. And for the first time, in a long time, he actually liked talking to one of the guys he was trying to get with.

Alfred had learned that Arthur was on a road trip, 'trying to see the world before it's my time,' the man had claimed, though he'd never explained what he meant by 'his time'. Kansas, Arthur had said, was his seventh stop, and that Canada, maybe the Ontario, would be his eighth. The Brit was trying to spend time on each continent, and at Alfred's amused huff, Arthur hummed that Mexicans had apparently hated Taco Bell with a passion.

Alfred had laughed, taking a pull from his beer, enjoying the sassy and snarky commentary that Arthur could make.

'Well, you tell them Mexicans that Taco Bell may not please, but my mama's home-cookin' will.'

Arthur had grinned, white teeth peeked out from under rosy lips, sending Alfred the prize he was looking for.

'Say, what's a handsome guy like yourself doing out here in a small town like this?'

'Handsome, huh?' Arthur had asked, swallowed the amber liquid, and blinked at the tanned American who was puffed out in front of him, 'You're not too shabby yourself.' Alfred had smirked at that, letting more of his midwestern accent fall through in his speech, strumming softly at the strings on the instrument. 'I let you see just how not shabby I am, if you'd let me.'

The forest-eyed man had scoffed, swishing his drink and setting the glass down, then, after he'd quirked a bushy eyebrow, 'Let me see how not shabby you can be with that guitar first.' Alfred leered, licked his lips and moved his calloused hands to position the maple wood guitar on his lap.

Totally forgot about getting with Arthur; just wanted to impress him.

And now he was playing. Arthur swayed, and it seemed like the whole bar had quieted down and just disappeared. But it truly didn't, because it was normal for a guy to try and charm a girl with his guitar—but Arthur wasn't a girl, and Alfred wholeheartedly realized that.

But he really didn't care.

No one noticed anyway.

"I love you all...

The stained fingers...

I love you all...

The taste lingers..."

His hands moved up, foot patting softly on the dusty wooden floor to the music echoing from his guitar, and lidded sky-blue orbs watched as the man—the one he'd just met—looked on and cherished what he could do. Those looks, the ones of amazement and adoration were all his.

"I love you all...

Walls could be cleaner...

I love you all...

Grimace could be meaner..."

So Alfred sang, his voice rumbling through his chest, pitch lowering and soaring just for Arthur.

And he couldn't tell why he wanted to impress this man so much.

But he did.

"I love you all...

A passive argument...

I love you all...

An empty breath..."

The guitar strummed and he sang and everything was okay in the world because Arthur was watching him and no one else—and maybe Alfred felt like a silly teenage schoolgirl, but boy did it make him proud.

"I love you all...

Imprisonment...

I love you all...

And the sun will rise again..."

The music stopped and so did Alfred's universe.

Arthur was looking and listening and hearing—because listening and hearing are two different things—and the Englishman—who he didn't really know—was smiling and enjoying what Alfred had done.

"Perfect..." The foreigner said; unconsciously leaning further toward Alfred, the drinks emptied—and Alfred noted that Arthur was a classy drink type of guy—but otherwise both the glass and the bottle were forgotten.

"Absolutely." The tanned man looked down at Arthur's lips, at his fiery green eyes, and swallowed; Adam's apple bobbing.

Then Arthur backed away swiftly—maybe for the best—and Alfred straightened up, pulling his instrument back into his lap, as it had slipped down, and cleared his throat.

"Heh," The dark blond's ears lit up a soft red, long fingers pushed up the wire frames on his nose, and Alfred thought he must've looked more like a dorky idiot rather than a strapping bachelor. "Sorry 'bout that."

Arthur nodded, pursing his oh-so-soft looking lips. "No, no, it's fine." His gaze flitted over to the clock seated on the wall behind Alfred, and he turned, waved the bartender over and placed a pair of twenties on the counter. "That was a good song. Thanks for singing to me."

And then he weaved through the assortment of bar tables and was out the door.

'Wait!' Alfred wanted to say, he wanted to scream for Arthur to stay, he wanted to cry about the man leaving, and he just really wanted the guy to talk to him some more.

Arthur was really interesting.

So Alfred got to his feet, the instrument swung onto his back, and his long legs chased after the Brit on their own accord.

The blue-eyed man swallowed, huffing in the cold winter air as he exited the warm bar, and his head turned right and left, searching for the sandy blond. His breath was visible in clouds as he jogged down the cracked sidewalk, pedestrians walked around him indifferently.

God, where could the guy have gone so fast?

Legs couldn't have been long enough to go that fast.

The man was bordering on five-foot-seven.

Wasn't that short, now that Alfred thought about it. Suited the guy, the American supposed.

But Alfred was too late. Arthur was gone, probably rounded the corner of Main and Fifth already, on his way to the goddamned bus stop, running away to Ontario.

Fuck Canada.

And the small town Kansas boy never wanted to leave his home state, except for in that one moment; when the one guy he'd actually wanted to see again left him in the dust.

So, after accepting his defeat, Alfred made his way to his mud-covered pick-up truck, brown stains painted over the lower half of the blue thing.

Arthur would've called it unhygienic.

But what could Alfred say to that? It was true—the damn thing hadn't been washed in about six months—and Alfred wasn't sure he could even hiss a retort, not with Arthur's forest gaze actually paying attention to him.

One last time.

That's what he needed to do. Alfred needed to see Arthur one last time.

As Alfred unlocked his dirty vehicle, he wondered, was this what his mama meant when she said she had fallen head over heels in love with his pa?

Because that's what it felt like.

He hopped into the driver's seat, gingerly placing his instrument in the passenger seat, strapping it in like one would do to a child.

Arthur would've told him he was dumb and childish.

Practically heard the sarcastic, posh, and entirely Arthur accent.

The engine roared to life, headlights flashing on, and Alfred could've sworn he saw Arthur rolling his eyes at him in the rearview mirror.

Those pretty forest hues.

Should probably write a song about those.

AN: I actually made up those lyrics... I have no idea how they sound and they suck, but I couldn't find a song good enough to put in this story and I really didn't want to have to scroll through endless pages of A-Z lyrics. The 'Wizard Of Oz' reference is coming soon, just wait, and so will a 'Kung-Fu Panda' one. Again, forgive me for the horrid lyrics. :/ I'm gonna try to make each chapter about 2,000 or so words. I don't know, help me.