It was obvious Alfred was the more festive of the pair. Every year, his house was decorated with lights that would dance along to horribly loud and cheesy Christmas music. It was a miracle he never got a noise complaint. Maybe that's just how Americans are. They get so into the holiday spirit they don't care about their sleep schedules. But, for the first time in years, Christmas was being held at Arthur's. The only evidence of the holiday season was a sad string of lights that hung over the door. Alfred frowned slightly, letting his knuckles knock against the wooden door. There was some crashing, and a yelp.
"One of you twats get the bloody door!" Arthur howled from inside. Alfred chuckled. A moment later, and the door opened. Alistair grinned at the American.
"Al." Alfred grinned, nodding.
"Al," The Scotsman moved aside, letting Alfred enter the cottage style home. Making his way to the lounge, the two passed the smoke filled kitchen. "You're letting him cook Christmas dinner?" Alistair chuckled, flopping into the seat beside his ginger brothers.
"The git won't let anyone else in the kitchen." Seamus spoke up. The sound of more pots and pans clattering together echoed through the home. Alfred sent a worried look in Arthur's direction as he sat down.
"Where's Matthew?" Dylan questioned. Alfred faltered before cursing under his breath.
"I knew I was forgetting something," The brothers laughed at the scatterbrained American. Alfred sighed. "Looks like him and Francis'll be driving here alone."
"Did you forget your brother again?" Arthur called from the smog filled kitchen.
"Yea, sorry mom!" He could hear the Englishman sputtering in embarrassment.
"I'm not your bloody mum!" Alfred grinned.
"Sorry, daddy!" A string of curses followed the clattering of pots and pans from inside the kitchen. The ginger brothers laughed at their youngest brother's expense. Nobody really seemed concerned until England howled in pain.
"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. You bloody-" There was a loud bang before the Englishman started to wail again. Alfred got from his seat, making his way into the kitchen. He peaked inside. Arthur was on the ground, clutching his foot as he simultaneously sucked on two of his fingers. He glared at Alfred.
"Need some help?" He questioned with a smile. Alfred wasn't the best cook, but at least the food he made was edible. Emerald eyes narrowed at him.
"I don't need your help." He climbed back to his feet, wrapping his burned hand in a towel. Alfred sighed and rolled his eyes. He stepped into the smog filled kitchen, quickly shutting off the stove and opening a window. Silently, he took England's wrist before dragging him over to the sink.
"A dirty rag isn't gonna do anything to help." He let the cold tap run for a moment before forcing Arthur's hand under the water. His eyes closed, bliss flooding his features. After a moment, he yanked his hand away.
"W-what are you doing? Get out of my bloody kitchen!" Alfred shook his head, taking his wrist once more.
"You'll just burn yourself again."
"You can't do hard work without leaving with a few bumps or bruises. Or even burns. I'll be fine." He insisted. Alfred didn't plan on letting up.
"We'll let Francis and Mattie finish with supper." He dragged the protesting Englishman out of the kitchen.
"L-let go of me, you twat!" Arthur didn't seem to be letting up anytime soon. So Alfred stopped, turning to face him. "Nice to see you still-" Alfred threw Arthur over his shoulder. By now, the Kirkland brothers had ventured into the hall, watching on with glee as Alfred carried Arthur towards the bathroom. Arthur was realized when Alfred finally set him down. The American rummaged through the medicine cabinet; pulling out the materials needed to treat the minor burn. Arthur scowled.
"I'm very capable of taking care of myself," Alfred kept quiet. It was unlike him, to be this quiet for this long. Even in sleep Alfred was terribly loud. He grew into the habit of talking in his sleep, mumbling nonsensical things as he clung to various stuffed animals. He was such a child. Yet, when the situation called for it, he could be rather serious. Arthur found it annoying. His fingers now bandaged, Arthur stood up. "Now if you'll excuse me-"
"Do you still have that fake Christmas tree in the storage room? I'm sure the lights and ornaments are with it?"
"I've already set up lights."
"I don't think you could consider those lights." He puffed out his cheeks in anger. Who does he think he is? Barging into my home and going about like it's his? A fight against Alfred though was an uphill battle. So the Englishman gave in.
"I suppose you could set up some decorations while I cook." Alfred laughed.
"No. You're helping me. I told you, Francis and Matthew can cook." Arthur was becoming rather annoyed by Alfred's attitude.
"Who gave you the permission to demand things of me in my home?"
"Allistor."
"He did no such thing!" Alfred shrugged.
"You're not making it any easier on yourself but putting up a fight." Arthur knew he couldn't win. Alfred had always been that way. Even if he thought his heart was in the right place; sometimes, he could be a bit of a brat. But Arthur understood he meant well; so, he simply let the American have his way. Alfred crossed his arms, grinning.
"That's the spirit!"
"Bah." Alfred pouted, before leaving the bathroom to retrieve the neglected decorations from the storage room. Arthur sighed. At least the pain has dulled. He flexed his fingers, scowling. This would make knitting a lot more harder. He stood up, deciding to wait for Alfred downstairs.
Allister, Dylan, and Seamus's laughter had ceased by the time Alfred finished bringing everything down into the lounge. Alfred was sat on the ground, attempting to piece together the fake tree. The simple task seemed difficult for the American. Arthur pushed him back.
"Let me do that. You'll just end up breaking the damn thing." Alfred willingly stepped aside, instead grabbing a string of lights. As Arthur quickly pieced together the tree, Alfred worked on wrapping lights around the banister. No complaining was heard, except for the occasional grumbling from Arthur. They were making good progress. A knocking came from the front door, and bits of a conversation could be heard.
"Are you sure this is the right 'ouse, Matthieu? It's so…jolly." A reply wasn't heard as Alfred pulled open the door, grinning. Francis smiled. "Ah, never mind. I think we've found our reasoning." Matthew pouted slightly, sending his brother a quiet glare. Alfred laughed.
"Come on in, dudes. Artie and I are setting up decorations. A little distraction from cooking, y'know?" Francis laughs, patting Alfred on the shoulder as he enters the home.
"You are a lifesaver, Mon Ami." Matthew followed in after Francis. Closing the door after him, Alfred made his way back to Arthur.
"I had Allistor and the others clean up as best they could, but good luck." Francis gave him a two fingered salute before following Matthew into the kitchen.
Back in the lounge, Arthur had somehow managed to tangle himself in a string of lights. Alfred wasn't sure how, considering all of the lights that were needed had already been hung. But it was Arthur, so he decided not to question further. After freeing the grouchy Englishman from his restraints the pair quickly set to work on decorating the tree.
"Be careful not to break anything. Some of these ornaments are older than you," Arthur mumbled, carefully placing each unique ornament onto the tree. Alfred rolled his eyes, taking a particularly old piece from the box. He observed the blown glass, marveling at how new it seemed. Arthur was always consistent when it came to taking care of his antiques. Arthur glanced at him. His emerald eyes went wide. "Give me that!" As Arthur went to take the crystal from his hands, his grip slipped and the priceless heirloom fell to the ground. They both froze. Nobody dared to breathe. Alfred was unaware of his bleeding hands as Arthur exploded. He couldn't even make out what he was saying. Things always ended like this. He knew he shouldn't have come. But the hurt in Arthur's voice was evident. He was mad, but more than that he was upset. The ornament had been in his family for nearly a century. His great grandfather has brought it back to England with him after the end of World War Two. Alfred knew all of this. He knew what it meant to him. He was barely aware of the words leaving his lips, and they only ceased when Alfred spoke up.
"I-I can fix this." Continuing to ignore his bleeding hand, Alfred began to pick up the pieces.
"Leave it. I'll go get the hoover," Arthur was vaguely aware of his actions. Alfred grabbed his arm, blood staining the white button up. Arthur glanced back at him. "Alfred go-"
"I told you, I can fix this." Arthur sighed. The sudden outburst of emotion mixed with the stress the holidays brought left him numb and drained.
"At least let me bandage up your hands."
After giving in to Arthur's wishes, Alfred had collected the shards into a small container before leaving without a word. Arthur had no idea what the American was doing. There was no point in going after him. Alfred would be back the moment he realized things were hopeless; yet, considering his stubborn determination it would take awhile. Arthur was proven wrong when Alfred returned a few hours later. He gently carried a small box, a stoic look on his face. Arthur's brows rose as he watched on with silent curiosity. Alfred offered the box to him.
"I hope that you can forgive me." He took the box, removing the top. Tucked against red cloth was a discolored lump of glass. The ornament had clearly been melted down and reblown. It was misshapen, and the colors had blended together. It looked horrible, yet Arthur loved it just the same. He laughed as sarcastic laugh, eyeing Alfred.
"I suppose you're not as bad as you used to be." Alfred smiled. He understood that Arthur had an odd way of letting people know of his affection for them. Arthur was like a brother to him. Flaws and all, he loved him.
"Merry Christmas, Arthur."