"You know I love you, Arthur?"
"Of course you would be so honest and forthright about something like that," Arthur says. He doesn't look up from his journal, his entries written in his slim, perfectly spaced letters. His handwriting is so looping and old-fashioned that Alfred can't understand it.
Alfred sits down heavily, knocking his arm against the table. The table jumps, and Arthur stops writing for a moment. He waits for the table to settle before he resumes writing. Alfred sighs.
"Aren't you going to say anything?" Alfred asks. "I just dropped a bombshell here, you know."
"You really didn't."
"Why not?"
"You've said that to me plenty of times before."
"But it's effective every time I say it, isn't it?" Alfred leans over and gently elbows Arthur. "Isn't it?"
Arthur scooches his chair away, out of elbowing range. He waits a moment before replying.
"It's very nice of you to say, Alfred. I appreciate it."
"Aren't you going to say it back?"
"Of course. I love you. You know that."
"But you never say it. Not if I don't say it first."
Arthur finally puts down his pen. Alfred has his chin in his hands, regarding Arthur with half-closed eyes. As Arthur watches, Alfred's arm slides down onto the table, and he rests his forehead against it, sighing.
"Is something the matter?" Arthur says.
"Everything's fine," Alfred says, lips against the crook of his elbow.
"You're acting strangely." Alfred hears Arthur push in his chair. He feels Arthur's presence behind him, as sharp and crisp as Arthur's starched white lab coat. Alfred feels Arthur's hand on his back. Alfred doesn't move.
"Are you feeling insecure again?" Arthur says, at length.
Alfred shakes him off, twisting around in his chair to look at Arthur. Arthur's head is tilted slightly to the side, considering. His eyes are clear and bright, and he unknowingly bites at his lower lip as he thinks.
Alfred scowls. "Don't say it like that!"
"Why not? It's true, isn't it?"
Alfred stands, puffing out his chest. Arthur regards him coolly.
"You can't just say something like that so casually! Is this a joke to you?" Alfred's voice rises in its anger. "God God, Arthur, it's like you don't even care." Alfred shoves his chair back into place. "I'm going to get breakfast."
"I do care, Alfred. I care very much. That's why I'm asking about you." Arthur turns, trailing after Alfred as Alfred stalks off to the kitchen. "I'm worried about you."
Arthur's concern is saccharine, suffocating. Alfred's shoulders hunch. He hates the paternalism, Arthur's genuine kindness. More than that, he hates himself for being childish about it, for throwing a tantrum. Yet, he can't make himself deal with his emotions differently. They rise, shaking, frustration building like sound waves in an enclosed room.
Alfred slams the milk down on the counter. He unscrews the top with jerking motions. He doesn't look at Arthur as he pours it into a bowl, some of it spilling over the sides.
"You're not going to put the cereal in first? That's unusual," Arthur comments, his eyebrows furrowed. He sounds genuinely concerned.
"I'm not!" Alfred snaps. "I'm upset. I'm not thinking clearly."
"I still don't understand why."
"Because you're not taking me seriously!"
"I am. I am taking you seriously."
Alfred stands with his hands on the counter, his eyes filling with tears. He blinks them back, feeling ridiculous. He feels Arthur's hands on his.
"I didn't mean to upset you, love," Arthur says. "I never want to upset you. You have to understand that."
"I know," Alfred says, too choked up to turn around. "I'm being stupid. It's fine."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"No."
"You should. It's healthy to let yourself feel emotions. You shouldn't try to repress them."
Alfred lets out a harsh laugh, almost choking on his tears. "Like you're one to fucking talk."
"Don't swear."
"I'm not a child anymore."
"I'm still responsible for you."
Alfred turns to face Arthur, and Arthur steps back. Alfred feels utterly, completely crushed by the weight of his embarrassment. He hates himself. How can he ever expect Arthur to treat him like an adult when he acts like... this?
He wants to cry again.
"Do you still feel guilty?" Arthur asks, softly. "You can tell me, Alfred. It's all right."
Alfred shakes his head, not able to look Arthur in the eye. "It's just... you shouldn't have to deal with me. You're what, twenty-five? You should be focusing on your career or going back to school or... something. Not looking after a teenager."
"I'm the one who chose to adopt you, Alfred. It was my own decision."
"You shouldn't have had to make it."
"I agree." Arthur's voice is clipped. He shoulders Alfred out of the way, reaches across the counter for a paper towel. He begins to mop up the spilt milk. "Your parents shouldn't have died. You should have been living with them, happily. But they did die. And I adopted you, and there's nothing we can do about it now."
"But it's my fault!" Alfred snaps. He takes a deep breath, trying to compose himself. When he speaks, his voice is still shaky. "I didn't mean it like that. Of course I didn't have anything to do with them dying. But... you adopted me because you knew them. Out of guilt. Just because they were family friends. I mean, how is that fair to you?"
"It was more than that." Arthur brushes aside Alfred's bangs, combing them with his fingers. He leans back on his heels, smiling an indulgent little smile. "When I met you in the agency, Alfred, I knew. I knew you were someone I wanted to take care of. The fact that I knew your parents... that's only what brought us together. I would have adopted you anyway."
"Oh God, don't talk like that."
"Like what, Alfred?"
"Like..." Alfred pushes up his glasses, then presses the heel of his palm into his eyes. "Like I mean something to you. Like I'm special to you. It kills me."
"But you are. You are something special to me." Arthur straightens the pens in the pocket of his lab coat. "I care about you. Very much."
"You really don't understand, do you?"
"Understand what?"
Alfred shakes his head. "Never mind," he says, his voice caught in his throat.
Arthur waits a moment, for him to elaborate. When Alfred doesn't, he reaches into the pantry, hands Alfred a box of cereal.
"Eat up," Arthur says. "You have a track meet today. You want to have strength for it, don't you?"
"Quit nagging me," Alfred says, but there's no bite to his words. He's relieved their conversation has turned away from his previous blunders.
They walk back into the dining room, and they sit. Arthur returns to writing, his cold buttered toast off to the side. Alfred's loud, crunchy chewing fills the kitchen.
They are alone in the elevator.
It is not coincidental. It is orchestrated.
"Bonjour, mon cher," Francis says. "What a coincidence to see you at-" Francis pretends to check his watch. "Seven thirty-six."
"A coincidence indeed, my good sir," Arthur says dryly. He watches the neon numbers of the floor light up on the keypad. They still have a long way to go.
Francis leans against the wall of the elevator, his black suit dapper and fitted, more appropriate for a talk-show host than for a world-renowned scientist.
"How is Alfred?" Francis asks.
"Same old, same old."
"Still upset?"
"As always."
"I don't mean to talk out of turn, mon cher, but perhaps you should reconsider your strategy."
"And give you a chance at winning? Hardly."
"This technology is still new. You shouldn't push things."
The elevator dings. Arthur makes a move to exit, but Francis grabs his arm. Francis pushes the elevator for the basement, and the elevator begins to sink.
"I'm going to be late," Arthur says.
"I don't care."
"People are going to get suspicious."
"I want to talk to you."
"Come to my house after work."
Francis pulls Arthur close against his chest. He kisses Arthur's neck.
"Not now," Arthur says. "You're going to mess up my coat."
He jerks Francis off, straightens his clothing.
Francis sighs. "I would go to your house, chérie, but Alfred hates me."
"Why does that matter? It's not like he'll do anything to you."
"I don't like being around him." Francis scowls. "It's wrong. What you've done to him."
"Not this again."
"He's pathetic, Arthur. Can't you realize that? Acting like a regular high-school student. He's a caricature. It's painful to watch."
The elevator dings again. Arthur pushes the button to his floor before Francis can make a move.
"You have to reconsider," Francis continues. "You've done more than enough, Arthur. You can stop now."
"It's too late to go back."
"I know, Arthur. But you have good results. You can turn them in."
Arthur's hands tighten into fists. He flinches from the pain of his recently-cut fingernails digging into his palm.
"No," he says.
"Don't tell me you want to secure a victory?" Francis sighs. "You know they just pitted us against each other because they wanted to make sure we got good results. And it doesn't matter which one of us is better. You'll still go down in history."
"You're confident you're going to win, aren't you? You want me to throw Alfred to those scientists prematurely. But I won't. He's not ready."
"You're a perfectionist, Arthur. He's as good as he's going to get." Francis pauses. "Unless it's more than that. Unless you're too attached."
Arthur doesn't respond.
"They never should have allowed this," Francis says, his lip pulled up in derision. "Your emotions are getting the better of you. And I never thought I'd say that."
"I'm sleeping with you, aren't I? Maybe you swept me off my feet. Ruined my analytical sensibilities." Arthur tilts his head. "That's what other people would think, if they found out. They would think I fell for you. That I'm a fool."
"I wish, chérie. But even my ego isn't big enough to believe that." Francis regards him, thoughtfully. "I still don't understand why you're with me. Is it the intrigue, the novelty? With the whole world watching, and we're fucking behind their back? Somehow, I think you like that. Always going for the unexpected, that's my Arthur." Francis falls silent. He watches the numbers on the keypad lights up as the elevator ascends. "But you're not mine, are you? You're not anyone's. I feel like every day with you is a dream. Like you're just some cosmic joke. Some twisted part of my subconscious. Every day, when I wake up, I'm afraid you'll be gone. Do you know what that feels like?"
The elevator dings, and the doors open with a smooth, automatic movement.
Arthur steps out without saying a word.
A/N: So, this is just a little chapter of a pretty ambitious story. This is definitely an impulse upload: it's currently 2:28 am, and I have pretty much no idea how to write fanfiction. I can't make any promises, but I'm going to give this story a shot! I'm having a lot of fun with these characterizations.