What wakes him up are raindrops on the windows. It isn't quick summer rainfall, with small, gentle drops; nor is it lazy, drawled rain he is used to, back at home; it is heavy, and air coming in through open window is suffocatingly humid, but cold, and above all, it's loud.
Arthur sighs and sinks deeper in the blankets.
(He feels a little old, with faint ache deep in his bones, and he doesn't want to get up)
On days like this, he wants nothing more than to cuddle.
Even if he's cuddling with Alfred (Especially if it's with Alfred).
(He doesn't remember ending up in a bed with him, but he has a vague, and correct, idea that there was liquor involved. Lots of it)
The younger one is still asleep – with his face relaxed, and glasses missing, he reminds Arthur of a child he loved;
(still loves)
of a child he is no longer. Hasn't been for a long time already.
(They are equals now. Alfred doesn't need him, because he became so strong he doesn't have to rely on anyone…ever since that day. It's been almost two centuries)
It's been almost two centuries.
He closes his eyes and lets his fingers touch Alfred's face; it is not soft, with sharp angles, and tiny wrinkles from that ever-present smile (it is not a face of child) – and then Alfred's hand touches his and soon, they are kissing, and Arthur realizes that while he lost the child, he may just have another chance with this man the child has become.