Author Note: This note has been added a bit belatedly, I'm afraid. Could I ask that anyone reading this please change the 'story width' to 1/2 whenever you read this story? You can change it back for your other stories; just, for this story, changing the width to 1/2 adds the proper format to any chapter for Fragments. Look to the top right-hand corner to do this. Many thanks in advanced if you do this. I really appreciate it. ^^

Part II: Winter

1.

Five years ago, Alfred F. Jones had been a budding genius with an ego that frightened a majority of his physics professors. He'd had a girlfriend, a full-ride scholarship, and a plan to win a Nicholson Medal for Human Outreach. He'd wanted to leave to Oxford for his Master's and PhD, and live the rest of his life as a human factory: churning out books on the theoretical landscape of physics and living on the fuel generated from overcooked hamburgers at McDonalds.

He'd wanted to be known for pithy quotes verging on the poetic, like 'You are all stardust. You couldn't be here if stars hadn't exploded.' Never mind someone had already said that.

The only question that had loomed in his mind was whether he'd be able to retain his love of Mickey Ds in Oxford, or if he'd be forced to betray his soul mate for Burger King. But he'd know soon enough. He had plans to study abroad there, which is why he couldn't delay his studies.

So it was that with only this in mind he tackled his first year in college—finishing the only two gen-eds he'd needed before arriving at his generic Northern Ivy League University, and then immersing himself full-time into his other love: physics.

2.

Arthur doesn't think Alfred is particularly smart.

It's not really important. Or Arthur pretends it doesn't bother him, at least.

They're friends anyway.

And Arthur has always liked his friends impressionable.

So he takes the hand of the nearest girl and pulls her to the dance floor, hips brushing close together as she laughs into her hand.

His friends, Elizabeta and Francis, whistle, cheering him on.

3.

Five years ago, Arthur Kirkland had been an impressionable young writer with dreams and talent that put stars in most of his tutor's eyes. He'd graduated an Oxford undergraduate in Trinity College, studying mathematics, economics, and philosophy. He'd had different plans then. He'd wanted to leave Oxford for the Continent, and live the rest of his life married to a poem: giving birth to novels on the human condition and living from city to city like an indecisive butterfly flirting with flowers.

He'd wanted to be known for a single image, like Albert Camus in his black coat and suit, smoking a flickering cigarette in the comforts of winter. Never mind it wouldn't have been very original.

The only question that had loomed in his mind was whether he'd be able to bury the tears and beer pints he'd downed during his undergraduate years in search for personal growth in growth models, or if he'd be forced to live with the assumptions that he'd failed, failed so badly that he'd had to betray numbers with words. But he'd know soon enough. He had already paid both battels and tuition for his Master's in Creative Writing, and he couldn't turn back.

So it was that with only this in mind he tackled his first term as an Oxford graduate student—finishing a few classes before deciding that he needed to get the hell out of there, and leaving on the first half-empty plane to America with two bags: one full of clothes, and one full of old textbooks.

4.

Alfred thinks Arthur is beautiful, even if Arthur might not be particularly interested in him.

It's not really important, anyway. Alfred is unlikely to garner enough courage to make a move.

Not in a bar. Even if it is a gay bar.

But something changes in between the time Arthur is sitting next to him, and the distance between Arthur's hips and his dance partner's in the middle of Justin Timberlake's Sexy Back to make Alfred react and speed in a beeline in the direction of the half-drunk Brit.

Alfred knows the girl isn't a threat; she has a girlfriend and a boyfriend, and is happy in her polyamorous love story. She's like a beautifully skewed line, while Arthur and Alfred are intercepting vectors.

Still, when To Be Real comes blasting out of the speakers, he joins in the boisterous dance party now taking place between the three of them, laughing alongside Arthur, who seems to find his shuffling feet rather amusing.

Before long they're touching, and lingering, and spinning. They're just spinning. Until he's so dizzy he thinks he might be sick, and throw-up his heart at Arthur's feet.

5.

Three years ago, Alfred was abroad.

That's when it began. During his third year of college.

He didn't notice it at first, perhaps in the excitement of wandering down Parks Road, and running his fingertips against the gate bars that separate Oxford's park from the street. Maybe it was the parties—had he been partying too hard? Well, he'd certainly been working too hard.

But he could tell it was getting worse when after four months, his fresher's flu continued and snowballed into mass and persistent fatigue, the like was accompanied with throbbing muscles and pinching joints. Sometimes he would bump into the walls of Clarendon Lab, pretending he'd had too much to drink the night before.

He battled through a sore throat, but after a while he found the visual disturbances and migraines too much to deal with on his own, especially when he almost fainted during a bus ride back to his dorm room because his legs were too weak to carry him back.

The cough was particularly worrisome, and when he began to break out into hives whenever he ate dairy, and felt wretched nausea at the sight of a burger, well, he knew something was wrong.

So he sought out a doctor.

He skipped a tutorial session with his favorite professor, feeling guilty all the while his stomach churned and raked in pains and cramps.

6.

Arthur admits to himself that he's been attracted to Alfred for a while when he feels finger pads brush rapidly over the side of his hip, above the corner of his stomach, right where his rib meets plush skin. He decides that he likes the feel of Alfred's arm as it encircles his waist, bringing the edge of their hips touching at an angle, a perfect angle.

He decides then that he's been spending a lot of time lying to himself and that all those nights Alfred spent not ordering at the restaurant were evenings he spent daydreaming, and laughing when he didn't need to, and letting his hand linger longer than necessary on the blue-eyed blonde's arm. Because he's liked Alfred for a while. Maybe more than a while.

But he wasn't going to make the first move. Even if he had imagined it.

And it's perfect, the way Alfred's free hand reaches up to cup his nape—a hand so large that it is able to slide carefully underneath his jaw to pull him effortlessly into a kiss.

Arthur lets his hand fall to the juncture of his rib, pressing Alfred's hand, squeezing it to keep it there. Because he can admit he likes the way Alfred touches him.

From the catcalling and whistles all around then, he can tell everyone else likes it, too.

7.

Three years ago, Arthur was home.

That's when he knew it. During his third year in America.

He didn't notice it at first, perhaps in the exotic excitement of traveling from city to city, lingering in street corners with half-lit cigarettes before rushing off to underground nightclubs where he hung out with musicians with weird hair colors and even stranger tastes in music. Maybe it was the fatigue? Yeah, he'd been partying too hard, not writing enough, not eating enough.

But he could tell he was growing restless when after so many years he walked into a restaurant owned by an old college friend he'd met during his time studying abroad, Feliciano, and decided to take the job offered to him as a bartender. He'd promised himself it would only be temporary. Sometimes he would even bring out a notepad, pretending to scribble poetry when he was actually spewing formulas.

He battled through the initial withdrawal, but after a while found that he didn't like bars or nightclubs that much anyway, especially when he threw up inside a girl's purse on his way back to the city center one night.

The roommate situation especially bothered him, and when he began to feel paranoia seep into his daily existence whenever he perused through his fridge and found his food products half-eaten or already opened, well, he knew it was time to move out.

So he got an apartment.

He skipped work for a day, feeling guilty when he called home and asked his father to loan him some money. Not a lot. Just enough for the down payment.

8.

Arthur likes dating Alfred.

He likes it because dating Alfred doesn't feel like dating himself. Arthur has a history of dating people like himself.

To Arthur, Alfred is like a bouncing light. He is like an excitable teenager lost in the rapid changing processes of life—he is vibrant and uncultured, the result of rejecting every vapidity of society Arthur probably ever accepted blindly. Arthur assumes rejecting civility includes books and college. He assumes a lot, actually, like that Alfred must like simple, and easy things.

Perhaps he is right.

Alfred seems opposed to talk about hard subjects or controversial topics. He makes fun of Arthur for using the complicated strings of letters he calls words—dictionary words that Arthur is always bound to sprinkle over his sentences.

Sometimes when they walk down the park, hands clasped together, wintry air slapping at their red cheeks, Arthur likes to tell Alfred stories about Oxford—about the days he'd skip lectures to wander inside the park, or get lost in The Bod. And how he'd always, always make sure to stick his tongue out at the Physics Department…

Alfred tends to laugh, making sure to wrap his arms around Arthur. Sometimes, he presses his forehead against the back of Arthur's neck, breath erratic as it ruffles over his nape, until Arthur can feel the wincing.

It is in those moments that Arthur learns that Alfred has debilitating migraines that hit him like lightning and leave him breathless, sick, sometimes clutching his stomach, but these are rare, though they seem to happen often when he mentions his days in Oxford. So he stops mentioning them, letting the memories get lost in the vacant spaces of his past.

Instead, he pities his love—pities him for his simplicity, for being trapped in America, for knowing nothing else, and makes it a point to turn when Alfred looks to be in pain and settles his fingertips on the side of Alfred's temples. Because he is there now. And he wants to make sure Alfred knows he has him.

He massages them softly in circles, thinking to himself, "oh my poor, poor, beautiful boy. So simple. So free. My beautiful Alfred."

And Alfred typically smiles at him. "I'm alright, babe," he'll say, taking both Arthur's hands to kiss his knuckles.

But Arthur, being typical Arthur, will pull his hands back, sputtering midst his blush before returning to his massage. "You're so beautiful, poppet," he usually says, admiring the perfect white teeth of his boyfriend.

And he knows that in his hands, he holds the most beautiful man in the world, ignoring that he doesn't know he also holds the most brilliant mind to never have blossomed at his fingertips.

9.

Two years ago, Alfred quit college.

"It's not fair! I had plans," he yells at the Doctor, unable to feel and move half his face. One part of his smile now lies frozen, the result of spasms in his cheek muscles. He feels his mother's trembling hands clasped on his shoulders, trying to hold him back, but all he wants to do is hold his father's hand. He turns to his mother, "I had plans."

"I know you did, sweetheart," she repeats to him, squeezing his hand, "you have plans."

"There's something that can be done, right, Doctor?" Alfred's father finally turns away from the wall.

Alfred bites his bottom lip.

"This isn't something that we are doing to you, Alfred," the Doctor tries to explain, sympathetic even when put off by the young man's outburst. He seems unlikely to ever answer the question posed by Alfred's father. "This is something that has happened, and we're doing everything we can to fully understand the implications."

"I, I just won an award. I have built a non-profit. I have… I have perfect grades," Alfred tries, hiccupping all the while, but he finds that he can barely get half his words out underneath the extra weight of unresponsive face muscles. His chest is constricting, making him feel like he can't breathe, and he would complain except the pain is a bit too much to bear.

"Breathe, darling," his mother blinks at few tears away, "it's just a panic attack. It's going to be okay, Alfred. It's going to be okay."

"There's therapy. With some rest and will from you, you'll be back to normal."

Alfred can only think of his plans, of Oxford, which he now feels he'll never see again. He can only think of the lives he won't change, the things he'll never say, the people that will never quote him… all the things he still had to learn, all the brilliance, the light, gone like a smudged out blur on a window. So clear. So superficial.

"There's no reason why you can't meet every single one of your goals, Alfred," the Doctor tries to be kind, supportive.

But Alfred feels like he's a fish out of water, like he's become asthmatic overnight. There's something punching at his stomach, making him want to cry until he's knocked out, but he's too busy trying to breathe through his nose, because breathing through his mouth is what he wants to do, but he knows it's just making him wheeze and gag. And if it wasn't because he's familiar with panic attacks, well, he'd think he was dying. He reminds himself he's not. So long as he's breathing, even if he can't feel the air coming through, he won't.

"It's just going to take a little more time than you expected."

Alfred isn't stupid.

He knows he's lying to him. He wishes now he'd studied neuroscience instead of physics. He wants to know what broke in his brain that he can't concentrate, can't think, can't remember what he read the night before, or that formula he just completed. Chronic Fatigue Disorder? The Doctor doesn't even know. Before they can make a proper diagnosis it will be years. But if it was? If it was something he can't cure with pills, something he can't return from intact?—It's not supposed to be this bad. Right? Not enough to cause a rupture in his brain like this. There has to be another name, something more concrete that he can touch, reach about it, see studies and graphs and…

"We'll keep an eye out on those seizures. For now you'll have to leave college. Just for a while. But you'll be back."

Alfred isn't so sure.

He's too exhausted to complain, though.

10.

Alfred likes dating Arthur.

He likes it because dating Arthur feels natural, like he's dating his old self. Alfred has a short history of feeling unnatural, like he's stuck in a body that he no longer owns.

"Hey babe," he tends to say, kissing Arthur's bright red cheek as they walk out of the restaurant. Feliciano always likes to offer Alfred some pasta. He usually accepts, but this time he declines. He sees something off about Arthur. "Everything alright?"

Arthur nods and sniffs. "Of course. Everything's fine," he pecks Alfred's lips, then pecks them again, just because he can. Alfred reciprocates by taking hold of Arthur's chin and pulling him into a long, lingering kiss that warms their skin with tingling vibrations. "I love you."

"Love you, too."

They walk side by side, together. The cold is inspiring, and Arthur leans closer, trying to lace his arm with Alfred's.

"What do you want to do tonight?" Arthur asks, the twinkle in his eyes almost inviting.

Alfred shrugs. "Oh, hmm, I don't know. I thought you should pick tonight. Heard there's a late-night exhibit—"

"We've been dating for a while now, haven't we, Alfred?"

There's coyness in Arthur's tone that Alfred doesn't pick up on at first. When he does, though, his eyes widen.

"Y—yeah, I suppose so…"

"And I haven't tried to take you home, have I? Not once?"

"No. No, you… haven't tried…"

Arthur nods, still walking. He clears his throat once, hiding his face by ducking under his tightly laced scarf. "And you wouldn't mind if I tried tonight, love?"

Alfred's lips break into a grin. It's instantaneous, spontaneous. "Not one bit, Artie."

"Brilliant then."

"Awesome."

Arthur leans close to Alfred's face, nostrils barely flaring. "My place, then? It's closer."

11.

Two years ago, Arthur almost married.

"T—that bastard," he sobs into a half-empty glass of scotch. Francis leans on his elbows, watching him from the other side of the bar. "Antonio better never show his face around here again, or I swear I will pummel his face in."

"Mais, Arthur, that's not very fair, is it? Antonio is not his brother."

"He deserves it for setting us up. Now get me another drink!"

Francis sighs then, and for once, does as he's told.

Arthur and Francis never speak of the almost-wedding again. It's not like anyone except Arthur really knows what happened. All Francis knows is that Arthur doesn't need reminding: for that he had the left-over boat collection from Spain that he burned in his own tub, almost setting his entire apartment on fire.

(Arthur was later surprised to find that the boat collection didn't actually belong to Antonio's Portuguese half-brother, but that they belonged to Antonio, who had been crying over his lost collection ever since his three-year-old sibling stole them from his room.)

He has the old Scottish Fold cat: Teacup. And he has Antonio.

Though, to be fair, Antonio can't really help talking about his family during work, especially his brother, whom he rarely speaks to anyway.

12.

Alfred admits to himself that he's been lusting after Arthur for a while when he feels fingers dip inside his open pants and puckered underwear to graze at his skin, beneath his navel, right at the juncture of his legs were a few curls of blonde hair pool together. He decides he likes the feel of Arthur's breathe against his neck as he slips out his tongue to lick the outer shell of his ear.

He decides he's been spending a lot of time denying himself, and that all those nights Alfred walked Arthur home were evenings he'd spent fantasizing and kissing the Brit just a little longer than he needed to, and letting his hand dip a bit lower down his back than was necessary because he had always hoped to be asked inside. Because he'd wanted Arthur for a while. Maybe always.

But he wasn't going to make the first move. Even if he had imagined it.

And now it's perfect, the way their breaths and bodies mold together—then collapse in a heap of arms and legs, tangled and tired.

Alfred lets his lips fall to the juncture of Arthur's collarbone, sucking and swirling his tongue on the spot. Because he can admit he likes the way Arthur sighs underneath him.

From the way Arthur's toes seem to curl inward, he can tell the Englishman likes it, too.

13.

A week later, Alfred decides Arthur should meet his friends.

It hits him while walking the dogs, because he's at a dog park, and seeing all the little mutts wagging their tails and smiling brightly and doing all sorts of things like playing chase the ball or chase the stick reminds him that he has friends. And he's neglected them.

He walks home in silence, returns the dogs to their owners, and then enters his own empty flat.

He crawls on his knees, bringing from under his bed an old wooden crate, which he opens carefully, letting his fingers run over the chipped wood. And, inside, he finds old textbooks.

It's been months since he's seen his friends, but maybe now it's time.

That night he cancels a date with Arthur. He stays home and sighs, watching the Big Bang Theory with a peculiar desire to punch the television screen.

The next day when he walks Arthur home, he doesn't tell Arthur a thing.

14.

A week later, Arthur decides Alfred must be ashamed of him.

"You haven't, like, even met his friends? That's, like, super sad and more than a little sketch. I mean, if Liet had ever done that to me, I would've dumped him."

"Ve~ maybe he doesn't have friends?" Feliciano interrupted, bringing out the giant plate of pasta he usually shared with everyone during lunchtime. "Ludwig, do you think Alfred doesn't have friends?"

"Or, maybe, c'est possible que Alfred is ashamed of our resident Brit?" Francis adds his own comment with a smirk.

"Shut it, frog!" Arthur groans into his hands, hiding his face between them. "I don't need to meet his friends. I'm not dating Alfred's friends. I'm dating Alfred."

"Have you at least been to his house?" Elizabeta asked, eyes twinkling in fantasy, "Is it nice? Did you two have sex? Give us all the details!"

When Arthur blanches, suddenly aware of the fact that he's never even seen where Alfred lives, everyone returns his look of despair with pity. Some even tisk or moan their disappointment.

"Not even his house? Like, this is seriously desperate. I mean, what if he's like married with kids and stuff? Oh my god. He's two-timing you!"

"Ve~ Alfred wouldn't do that to Arthur, right fratello?"

"Don't bring me into this. I don't care about the bastard's life," Romano yells from the kitchen, a tomato flying to hit Ludwig right in the eye. It rolls down his skin, spluttering all over the man's numbers and calculator. The German simply sighs, eye twitching as he brings out a new sheet of clean paper to start crunching numbers again.

Arthur turns to Elizabeta. "You don't think he's…?"

"No," she laughs nervously, "no, I mean, of course not. Alfred seems like he's really into you, Arthur."

Francis shrugs, "If you ask big brother—"

"I didn't," Arthur pouts, grabbing at a fork to stab at the pasta plate.

"If you had," Francis clears his throat, "I'd say you should just ask him directly. Surely he has a reason, non? And if he doesn't, then he's ashamed of you and you should dump him and then big brother will be here waiting for you with a new bottle of wine and open arms!"

"And I'll be right here with my pan," Elizabeta smirks, "just in case big brother gets a little too friendly."

"Alfred's nice," Feliciano muses, slurping his pasta, "he likes my pasta. Ve~ I'm sure he loves Arthur, too."

No one quite understands the connection between Arthur and pasta, but no one pays much attention either.

"Thanks, everyone," Arthur sighs, grabbing for the bottle of scotch.

That night, Alfred cancels a date. Arthur is surprised, a bit hurt, but he doesn't tell Alfred a thing.

15.

It's a particularly frigid night when Alfred pulls Arthur into a quaint little tavern; the like makes him think of Scotland. That alone gives Arthur a bad feeling in his gut. He's never been fond of Scotland.

He finds the place packed, and he's ready to ask Alfred they leave, but already Alfred is tugging him by the elbow towards an occupied table. And Arthur thinks his stomach might have flipped entirely. He stands awkwardly behind Alfred, waiting.

"Guys, this is Arthur," Alfred beams, pulling Arthur forward. "Artie, this is Kiku, Yao, Ivan, and Matt. They're some old college buddies of mine. Some are just here for the weekend."

Arthur nods curtly, shaking hands. He notices surprised that they all have the airs of being very bright—or at least look it. He spends time letting his gaze linger over each one. Yao is particularly striking, dark ebony hair pulled back into a loose ponytail that contrasts beautifully against his skin. The Chinese stares back at him from his square, posh glasses. Ivan makes him think of a hipster, scarf tight around his neck.

"Nice to meet you, comrade," Ivan almost crushes his hand. "Alfred never mentioned you."

Alfred winces just seeing their hands touch. Arthur turns to look at Alfred. He's frowning.

"Uh, yeah, well it was a surprise," Alfred scratches the back of his neck, leading Arthur to Kiku. "My best bud, Kiku."

Kiku nods politely, "pleasure to meet you."

"And this is Matthew! My cousin."

Arthur blinks, almost reverently taking Matthew's hand. "Oh, cousin. Well, it's very nice to meet you Matthew."

"Same," Matthew grins, "unlike the others, I've actually heard lots about you. So did half the family during Christmas."

"Is that right?" Arthur chuckles, turning to his red-faced boyfriend, "We didn't start make things official until New Year's."

"Yeah, well," Alfred coughs into his hand. "Drinks, yeah? Refills? Why don't you all start getting to know each other? I'm gonna get Artie and me a drink. Beer, babe?"

"Tea, if you can find some, actually."

"Another White Russian, comrade?" Ivan dumps his empty glass on Alfred's arms, waving him off. "Bal'shoye spaseeba."

16.

Arthur always thought Alfred was rich.

His friends and cousin seemed to confirm this.

Matthew was in the Canadian petroleum industry. He hadn't said much after that, other than he wasn't very fond of his job, and was now being groomed for business management of the family company.

Yao was an engineer. He'd graduated and promptly returned to China, where his parents had strong bureaucratic connections that enabled him to become the young assistant to some powerful engineers for some expensive government projects.

Kiku had remained in the US after college. He was particularly intrigued by nuclear power. Arthur had felt completely lost when Kiku had started talking rather bashfully about the RIKEN accelerator in Japan. His father was a physicist—and he'd helped in the creation of the world's strongest particle accelerator.

"Usable beam of uranium ions. It was a very exciting discovery in 2006. Shaped my entire perception of what I wanted to do with my life."

Ivan had simply shaken his head, waiting for some more vodka, which Alfred had once again offered to go get—on Ivan's tab, of course.

But uranium was the last thing Arthur had heard before Alfred had pressed a dry kiss over his cheek and sat down next to him. Almost instantly, Kiku froze up and pursed his lips.

"What's exciting?" Alfred asked, throwing the bottle at Ivan.

Now, Arthur had learned Ivan was just rich. He'd studied physics, too, but no one really knew what he did now, other than constantly travel to China. Or so Matthew had told Arthur between whispers when Ivan had left for the bathroom and Yao had followed soon after.

"Kiku was telling me about the RIKEN accelerator," Arthur smiled, fixing Alfred's collar. "I'm afraid I barely understood half of it, though. Except for some of the math. I understood that."

Alfred's eyes seemed to have glossed over. Yao noted it with tact, turning to Arthur.

"Oh?" Yao blinked, feigning interest. "What do you do, Arthur?"

Arthur blushed. "Oh, well, I. I'm in between jobs at the moment, working at a restaurant bartending. Thinking of going back to school, though. Getting my Master's and perhaps a PhD in economics."

"Bartending, aru?" Yao turned to Kiku. "Sounds like we should have gone to Arthur's."

Alfred laughed, encircling Arthur's waist. "He makes some strong drinks for sure."

"We'll need to try that out at the next family reunion."

"School. Yes. I am also thinking of returning to school." Ivan nodded. "A smart decision, comrade. The job market is tough. My family company is always expanding, though, always looking for good economists. Give me a call when you have your diploma."

Arthur smiled appreciatively, "thanks. I—I will."

"And what of you, Alfred, plans for school?" Ivan continued, ignoring the way Yao seemed to dig his nails into his arm.

"No."

"But surely you are okay now?" Ivan pushed. Matthew seemed ready to lurch for the Russian's throat. "No more brain problems. Alfred can return to school."

"No. N-O. No," Alfred looked away, taking hold of Arthur's hand. "I'm fine without school. I don't need books, or formulas, or none of those things. I'm fine. Really guys. It's cool. I'm happy you all did what you were supposed to, but don't push that stuff on me. I'm good now. I've found something better than physics."

"Arthur," Matthew chirped, almost excited by the discovery his cousin was in love. "That's great. That's awesome, Alfred."

Arthur, though, couldn't stop blushing. "What? Me?"

Kiku turned to his watch, a bitter upturned pout on his lips. "It is late. I must make my excuses. My plane leaves in the morning."

"That's right. You're visiting your Dad for all of spring," Alfred sighed, "give him my best, man."

"I will. He will be happy to hear from you."

"Stop by China on your way back," Yao elbowed his friend, "I will be happy to host you."

"I will stop by, too," Ivan added. "Perhaps Matthew and Alfred can also come. It will be like our second year of college."

Arthur had always thought Alfred was simple, that he'd never left America, that he'd always been of uncomplicated tastes and acquaintances. Now he wasn't sure if he knew much about Alfred at all.

Such were his thoughts as everyone decided to call it a night. He watched Alfred cryptically, almost as if waiting for his boyfriend to signal that he was any more than what he'd always been to Arthur—his beautiful, simple, uncomplicated, free boy. But between whispers and jokes and handshakes Arthur began to see a life form in the interactions: a life he'd never known, a life he'd never understand.

He waited for Alfred outside, cigarette shaking in his hand as he watched Yao and Ivan get in one car, Kiku hail a taxi, and Alfred and Matthew walk out together, shoving each other playfully.

"Arthur, you okay?"

"Huh? Oh, yes, of course, love. Just wanted to blow a fag is all."

"Okay, well, Matthew is staying at my place, so mind if we head over there first before I walk you over to yours?"

Arthur gulped, hands already dripping with sweat. He took one long drag of his cigarette. "Sure."

17.

Alfred didn't know Arthur thought he was rich.

For that matter, Alfred had never felt particularly poor, so who was he to contend that he wasn't somehow rich? After all, he lived in a posh apartment building, in a nice neighborhood, and walked some very expensive dogs.

He had no complaints.

And, he had a beautiful boyfriend.

But when they reached his door and Arthur grew silent, he began to wonder if something was wrong, if maybe his boyfriend was feeling ill.

Matthew, too, grew tense.

"Artie, are you sure you're okay?" Alfred tried one more time.

"Yes, yes, of course."

Matthew shrugged, shoving his cousin to open the door. "Come on already. I'd like to use the toilet."

"Haha, just don't break it! – Uncle Sam didn't think it was funny when you told him you did it on purpose."

And then the door opened, and Arthur was inside, and Alfred was asking him if he was okay because he'd grown catatonic and proceeded to blink, blink, and blink as if he was taking quick snapshots of everything in the room. Everything. Or nothing.

"Babe, you alright?"

Arthur turned to Alfred, distress apparent all over his face as he pressed his hands to Alfred's cheeks. His fingers slowly began to travel to the American's temples, massaging them gently in small circles. "Oh, my beautiful, poor boy…" he'd whispered, not aware he'd said it aloud. He was soon biting his lip before bringing Alfred's head forward to kiss his forehead.

And somehow, Alfred missed the memo that nothing could ever be the same again.

Without knowing it, he'd now let Arthur in.