"Bleeding-!" The rest of Arthur's curse is lost as he swings a punch straight into France's face and it lands on him square in the nose. Alfred is too stunned to move - moments before, he had seen years melt off of England's face and body. It had happened so quickly; the frenchman hadn't even noticed. But ever since he and England had been spending so much time together Alfred has gotten a sense for when some of England's weird magic mumbo jumbo was permeating the air. He'd known something was off when the air suddenly felt electric and when he'd glanced over toward the man after ordering his drink, England was not the same. Alfred had no choice but to observe as England adopted an adorably pouty look of confusion. His eyes grazed over his surroundings, paying no heed to much until they snapped to Francis, sitting beside him. And everything from there had led to Francis now clutching his bleeding nose, staggering away from England as he attempts to not fall on his face off the barstool. "What in the devil is going on here? What have you done, Francis?" The man - well, boy- spits the name as if it's not even worthy of being on his tongue. Francis sputters around blood, staring wide eyed and incredulous at England. Alfred can't blame him, with Arthur straight up punching him out of nowhere. But Alfred can see understanding dawn on France's face as he gets a good look at the smaller nation. He's noticed too. But how could he not? Where England's cheeks used to be hollowed, they're full and round, and where Arthur's eyes were so distant and cold, this Arthur's eyes are alive and hostile. And those thin lips curling up into a smug sneer - god okay Alfred quit it. When France doesn't answer it only seems to rile him up. Storming forward he manhandles France by the front of his shirt, jerking him close so he can invade the man's space.
America gulps. He definitely doesn't know how he ended up in this situation.. He's also not sure if it's a turn on or if it's actually scaring the living shit out of him. It's just a drastic change from the man that he knows so well. The man that he loves. But Alfred'll be damned if this guy isn't a riot. The way he sneers at Francis, and the way that Francis nearly quivers at it, has Alfred completely dumbfounded. The victimized country throws Alfred a panicked glance, as if begging him to intervene, and Alfred's caught between doing so.
It's all England's fault he's like this. Some sort of magic bullshit here and there and Alfred had literally seen the age melt from Arthur's face. He's not sure if his Arthur has gone back in time or if this is just...Arthur now, until the spell wears off and time rights itself, but apparently for the time being, this is what Alfred is stuck with.
"Mon ami," Francis stammers, "surely we're past this by now, right?" He must recognize whatever time period this Arthur is from, and by his guess they weren't on great terms back then.
"What's the matter, old boy?" Arthur taunts, "too scared to pick a fight with me anymore?" Even though Arthur's a few inches shorter than Francis, he seems to overwhelm the other man entirely. Arthur drags his tongue tantalizingly slowly over his lips in a way that nearly has America wishing he were in France's shoes right now, and clenches a fistful of the frenchman's shirt. Seeing him lean in however, lips parted in preparation for yet another taunt, Alfred decides that it's time to reign in whatever wild animal he's managed to land himself in care of. Alfred places a strong hand on Arthur's shoulder, pulling him gently away from the frenchman who looks like he could go drink his entire wine cellar after these past few seconds. Arthur's predatory gaze slides directly over to him, and for a moment Alfred is started to find no recognition in them. But, of course he wouldn't know who he was, America reminds himself. This Artie is probably not old enough to have met him quite yet.
There is, however, a hazy cloud of lust in those bottle green eyes. A sort of lust that makes Alfred uncomfortable nearly immediately. Especially when it drops to his crotch for a brief second.
"And who might you be?" Despite his initial discomfort, Alfred throws a huge grin at the other man, steering him away from Francis.
"My name's Alfred." He attempts to hide his deflatedness at being forgotten. "I'm gonna take you home." Arthur raises an eyebrow at America like he's so full of it that he's about to burst open.
"Will you now?" England leans forward, now invading his personal space with an aura that is nothing but predatory. Alfred does his best not to lean away from this England, trying to stay firm so maybe the man will listen to him.
"I think it'd be best." Alfred ventures, only to be shut down immediately by England's hot breath against his cheek.
"And I think it best not to order me around." His voice is nearly husky in Alfred's ear, and the boy's resolve wavers. How is he going to get Arthur out of public?
"Or what?" It's out of his mouth before he's even really thinking about it, and as soon as he registers that he's said it, Alfred immediately regrets it. Abort mission. Abort, abort! England chuckles deeply in his throat, something that has Alfred feeling like he should probably cross his legs, and reaches for something in his belt. Alfred watches as his hand grasps for something that is not there, and the confusion clouds that lusty, mischievous expression for half a second as he glances down at his waist.
The lapse was long enough that Alfred could have taken advantage of it. He could have if he'd been thinking with his brain instead of the rest of his whole damn body.
And Arthur proves his brain to be in far more functioning condition because he slams his elbow into Alfred's stomach mercilessly, simultaneously knocking the breath from his chest and knocking his ass from the stool. America coughs as his head cracks against the floor and the bartender rushes to see if he's alright. He hears Arthur shove Francis into the bar for good measure.
"Fuck." He mutters, rubbing the sore spot on his head with a pout. The door to the bar has already slammed shut after Arthur, and he knows that he needs to go find him before - oh god cars. If this Arthur doesn't know who he is, he definitely doesn't know what cars are. But when the hell did he get so strong? Christ. "Yeah, yeah," he brushes the worried bartender off, "I'm good." And he takes off into the night. Arthur's hesitating at...everything, paralyzed at the mouth of the alley as he absorbs London. Of course, he wouldn't know that it's London. The door clicks shut behind Alfred and Arthur's gaze snaps to him, and the boy darts off around the corner. Alfred swears at his own negligence. He takes off after Arthur anyway - god he's going to run into traffic! Is he even as drunk as his England had been a minute ago? He doesn't even know - shit this is the worst!
America charges after Arthur who is weaving through pedestrians like they're nothing more but traffic cones, and Alfred is having a hard time keeping up with his agile, lithe body. America is not as small and not nearly as narrow.
"Arthur! Arthur please wait!" He calls after the nation, and at this the man seems to stutter, throwing a glance over his shoulder. "Sorry, sorry- Hey!" The fatal moment comes when a car drives by, and Arthur stalls in his tracks, petrified at what must seem like a huge steel monster hurtling toward him at speeds he's never even seen before. Alfred parts the crowd as Arthur backpedals from the street, looking absolutely clammy. The shorter man smacks into his chest, eyes wide.
"What the fuck was that?!" Alfred thinks that his voice sounds near to cracking, but he supposes he can understand.
"If you wouldn't have run away-"
"Where am I? How do you know who I am?" He interjects. "I demand you explain!" Alfred rolls his eyes, blowing a puff of hair out of his face.
"Well if you'd shut up a minute -" The man gasps as the lights in an apartment behind them flip on and his eyes follow the tall building all the way up twenty stories. Alfred places a hand on England's shoulder. "Arthur, come on, let's get you home. I can try to explain everything there."
"Who are you?"
"Would you stop with all the questions?" Alfred complains, groaning. "I told you I'd explain but first -"
"Well you can't bloody well expect me to just go with you!" Arthur shoves at his grip, and America finds that he has to put up more of a fight to keep it in place than usual. What's with that?
"Arthur - I'm your boyfriend." His eyebrows furrow deeply and his twitchy hands still on America's arm and chest.
"My what?" Alfred purses his lips in annoyance.
"Your boyfriend- er, I guess you don't - I'm your partner." The man blinks rapidly, taking a moment to absorb this information.
"My partne- I don't have any courtships!"
"Yes, you do. Now; later in life." Alfred closes his hand around England's arm and hauls him toward the street so he can hail a cab. "We're in London." He continues, waving as a yellow taxi slows in their direction. He can feel Arthur tense in his grip. "Older you fucked up something, I'm guessing - what year are you from?"
"Older me? This isn't bloody London - what do you mean what year?" Arthur looks at him as if he's stupid, but then seems to decide that there are far weirder things going on than Alfred asking what year it is. "1598." Alfred nods - yes that makes a lot of sense.
"Arthur, please just trust me." He says, and impossibly, the nation seems to do so as America leads him into the cab. "I will do my best to explain things to you, but we need to get home first." The man raises his eyebrows as if he doesn't really know what 'home' means.