And we're off to an absolutely amazingly awesome start (lololololol)!
In all seriousness, you guys have all descended upon this! I really didn't expect it to be so popular already! Thankyou so much for all your reviews and I'm glad you all enjoyed Chapter One so much! Hope the rest of the fic lives up to your expectations!
It's been less than a week since I posted the first chapter, but since there is no day beginning with 'A', I figured I'd just make a hat-trick of my favourites and post this on Fridays from now on. Get that Friday feeling and all that. =)
Thankyou to: JesusofSuburbia2o2o, Genki-angel-chan, randompuddle, yellowrose87, Prestidigitations, OrangePlum, Sexykill69, Sylence, Aiyaa, Tamer Lorika, cantlogin (which I assume isn't your actual pen-name), SilverMoonPhantom, Kang Jae Gyu, Anastasya Debbie, The Anonymous Innocent Blusher, Scorpling, Miss Misa Minnow, Bistre Melancholia, shake-it-buddy, Wizzabeff, Picadillo, LostDonut, rae1112, Anime18Emo and chetzahime!
And now, onwards to the commencement of Alfred's master plan! You can do it, Alfred!
...Or not, as the case may be. XD
A is For…
[Awesome]
Alfred came bounding back from the bathroom with a bounce in his step and a bubble in his chest; this plan was foolproof, surely. Despite his grouchiness and all-round healthy cynicism, Arthur was actually fairly easy to butter up if you knew which buttons to press – and Alfred had always been very good at getting under his skin. Arthur was the master of ignoring people he wasn't interested in (which was most of the world these days) but he could never ignore Alfred.
No-one could ignore Alfred. He was much too awesome to not be paid attention to.
'Awesome' being the key word here. Alfred was going to be so awesomely-awesome to Arthur that Arthur would be setting up an altar to worship his awesomeness by the end of the week.
(Besides, he had to admit that doing something nice for Arthur every now and then usually reaped benefits by the boatload – because he was easy to butter up if you knew which buttons to press, after all.)
And so, to Step One: Pry Arthur out of bed and bowl him over with the best breakfast he'd ever had.
He pulled on jeans and a clean shirt, fastening only four of the buttons, and put his glasses back on before beginning his excavation, digging under the covers until he found Arthur, who had fallen asleep again. He put his arms around his back and pulled him upright, the covers falling away from them both as he did so, and held him in a sitting position as gravity gradually woke him.
"Hi," Alfred greeted the smaller man cheerfully as he opened his green eyes a second time.
Arthur merely gave a tired sigh, his eyes closing again, and flopped bonelessly against Alfred's chest.
"Why must you be such a nuisance?" he asked in a low voice.
"I am not a nuisance!" Alfred protested. "I'm awesome, remember?"
"An awesome pain in the arse." Arthur exhaled deeply, his cheek against Alfred's shoulder. "At least you showered this morning."
"Yeah! Can you smell how squeaky-clean I am?"
"If by that you mean can I smell my soap on you, then yes, I can," Arthur replied curtly. "But, more importantly, you're dripping water on my neck. You never dry your hair properly."
Alfred shook his head, making Arthur wince and recoil, and grinned again.
"It's fine, it'll dry," he said. "Soooo... are you gonna get up?"
"Well, it doesn't look as though you're going to give me a moment's peace, so I suppose so." Arthur pushed back from Alfred, loosening himself from his grip. "Why you are incapable of getting your own breakfast is beyond me—"
"Oh," Alfred cut in quickly, ensuring that his awesome plan wasn't derailed, "I am going to make breakfast, Artie! I'm going to make you the most awesome breakfast you've ever eaten... uh, if you'll let me use the kitchen, that is."
He looked at Arthur pleadingly, batting his eyelashes; Arthur, who firmly believed that his guest shouldn't be put upon to cater for them and insisted on cooking every night even though Alfred (strangely, he felt) offered to do it every night, gave a disgusted roll of his eyes.
"Alright," he sighed. "If you insist. But I'm not eating anything you've fried in butter."
"Fine, fine." Alfred kissed him on the forehead and jumped back off the bed. "You go doll yourself up, baby, and I'll get started on that breakfast!"
"Doll myself up? Alfred, I am not a girl," Arthur said in a cold voice.
"I know." Alfred winked at him and left the bedroom without another word, taking the stairs three at a time and hearing Arthur yell after him not to do so because he was going to put a hole in them.
He pretended not to have heard him as he went down the hall to the kitchen, going straight to the cupboards to see what Arthur actually had in the house.
Not a lot, really. Rats. Alfred had totally forgotten that Britain still imposed rationing – Arthur hadn't come out too well financially from that war and was still suffering from the repercussions of the conflict even nine years after it had ended. Alfred had envisioned stacks of pancakes with maple syrup and bacon and sausages and ham and waffles and French toast and tomatoes and eggs, a proper home-style American breakfast—
Which totally just wasn't going to happen with three eggs, two tomatoes, a few leftover sausages from dinner last night and four strips of bacon. He had a lot of bread, biscuits and potatoes to work with; but he sighed irritably, disappointed. Maybe Arthur would get mad at him, too, for using everything for just breakfast when rationing stretched everything so thinly...
"Hey, Arthur!" Alfred called up the stairs, standing at the bottom of them. "Can I use these eggs?"
No answer. The bathroom door was shut and Alfred could hear the roar of the shower beyond it. He sighed and shrugged. Well, he'd tried.
He decided to use the eggs anyway.
When Arthur joined him in the kitchen fifteen minutes later, immaculate in pressed slacks and a shirt and a grey tie with a brown waistcoat, Alfred felt that he managed to whip up a decent breakfast, if not as awesomely-awesome as he'd envisioned. He had found some flour and sugar and used the eggs to make pancake batter – having to forgo the fried eggs and waffles and French toast in the process. He'd also managed to locate some mushrooms and had fried them with the tomatoes and bacon in another pan, slicing up a few potatoes for hash browns as he kept an eye on them.
"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty!" he chirped over his shoulder. "Hope you're hungry!"
"I might have known you'd leave my cupboards bare," Arthur sighed, sinking into a chair at the table. He glanced about. "I see you made tea."
"Anything for you, Artie." Alfred tipped the bacon, mushrooms and tomatoes out onto a plate and tossed his hash browns into the spitting pan instead.
"Arthur," Arthur corrected – predictably – as he pulled the teapot towards himself and lifted the lid to examine Alfred's effort. "I expect it's bloody awful."
"Probably," Alfred agreed cheerily, bringing the plate to the table and setting it down next to another one already stacked with toast. "Pancakes are just coming and the hash browns will be about five minutes."
"Mm." Arthur poured himself some tea and raised the dainty cup to his mouth, taking a sip.
"Is it awful?" Alfred asked, not anxious about the answer because he knew Arthur would lie and say it was bad even if it wasn't.
"Of course it is," Arthur replied, not meeting Alfred's gaze – which said enough.
Alfred grinned and leaned down towards him.
"Do I get a thankyou kiss?" he teased.
"Bugger off."
Alfred laughed and went to get the pancakes.
He had anticipated Arthur picking at his food and complaining just be antagonistic and so was pleasantly surprised that he ate without much of a fuss; although he was probably hungry, Alfred reasoned. Still wrapped up in rationing, Arthur tended to not eat very much, broken into a routine of satisfying his hunger just enough and stretching things that were in short supply.
Contrarily, Alfred found it difficult to remember what rationing was even like. The United States had experienced an economic boom in the aftermath of the war and rationing had gone out of the window before 1945 had been over. Still, Arthur simply didn't accept pity and so all Alfred could do was try and shovel a little bit more food down him every now and then.
"You look like you needed that," Alfred mused over the last of his cooling coffee, watching Arthur spear his last mushroom with his fork and put it in his mouth.
"Mm." Arthur swallowed and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, eying the grease on it warily when he folded it and put it back on the table again. "Although I think you made too much. I just want to go back to sleep now."
"Aww, and I have such an awesome day planned for us, too," Alfred pouted mockingly.
Arthur, however, looked at him tiredly.
"Alfred, I can't entertain you today, I'm afraid," he said. "I have a lot of work to do."
Alfred's heart sank.
"But..." He trailed off when he saw Arthur shaking his head.
"Alfred, I'm sorry," he said, and he did sound apologetic. He got up and took both of their plates and cutlery, pausing long enough at Alfred's side to give him an affectionate peck on the cheek. "But I have a meeting on Friday and it's about the budget – I told you, we want to try and get rid of rationing by the end of the year and it's very important and I have a lot to do for it... You knew about the meeting, remember?"
"I forgot about it," Alfred said gloomily, resting his chin on his hands as he watched Arthur go to the sink with the plates. "It's only Sunday, though! Couldn't you just—"
"I haven't done a thing for it yet," Arthur interrupted expressionlessly, filling up the sink with hot water to do the washing up.
"That's not like you."
"I've had a lot of other work to do – and don't forget that we both have that Former Allied Powers thing on Wednesday, too. Oh, and I've had you here, of course. I suppose you can't help distracting me but you do nonetheless."
"Oh. Sorry." Alfred rose himself and came over to the sink.
"Don't be," Arthur said mildly. "I invited you here, after all. But please understand that I can't spare the time for your "awesome day" at the moment. I am sorry."
"It's fine, no worries." Alfred wrapped an arm around Arthur's waist and gave him a quick, reassuring squeeze. "Hey, look, if you have so much work to do, I can do the washing up."
"This is my house—"
"And I made the mess." Alfred nudged at him. "Go on, scoot. I've got it."
"Alright, alright." Arthur backed down and let Alfred take his place at the sink; folding his arms, he stood and watched him for a moment, his head on one side.
"What?" Alfred asked, reaching for the pans to put them in the sink too.
"You're being strangely... helpful," Arthur said; his tone was suspicious but he was smirking. "What are you after, eh?"
"Huh?" Alfred didn't meet his gaze, scrubbing at the plates distractedly. Damn Arthur – he was dreadfully perceptive at times, maybe because he devoured Conan Doyle and Christie as a staple of his reading regime. "I'm not after anything, Artie. I'm just trying to help you out – as a thanks for putting up with me for two weeks, I swear!"
"Hmm." Arthur didn't sound convinced; but he leaned in and gave Alfred another little kiss on the cheek. "Alright, if you say so. I'm going to my study, then. Thankyou for breakfast." He started out of the kitchen. "Oh," he added over his shoulder, "and my name is—"
"Arthur," Alfred finished in a high-pitched imitation of him. "Yeah, yeah, yadda-yadda." He glanced over his shoulder again just in time to see Arthur shake his head at him as he left.
Well, damn. Alfred sighed deeply and looked up at the ceiling as he rubbed absently at one of the pans with the dishrag. There went Steps Two, Three and Four of his master plan. He'd been plotting to take Arthur out for the day, finishing up the evening with a nice meal somewhere – since the war had ended, Arthur didn't get out much, instead always holed up at home working on getting his country back in order. Whenever he did go out it was to a meeting or to the shop to buy food so that he didn't starve to death while holed up at home – he also probably went to the library, Alfred was willing to bet, but that was about it.
Of course, almost all of Europe was in the same boat as him, but Alfred wondered if Arthur minded – if he didn't feel lonely and resentful and cooped-up. After all, the war had brought him crashing down from Empiredom; Arthur had been used to globetrotting before that, staking Union Jacks here, there and everywhere as claims for his kingdom. His current state of affairs was the result of his sacrifices but it still had to be frustrating for him, Alfred thought. Aside from Francis, Alfred was the only visitor Arthur got on a regular basis and really... Arthur himself might argue about where Francis stood but Alfred felt that the reality was that he and Francis were Arthur's only friends. He had once been fairly close with both Ludwig and Kiku but the war(s) had blown both of those friendships out of the water and Arthur himself had admitted to (accidentally) forgetting about Matthew's existence more than once.
The point was that he'd wanted Arthur to enjoy himself today, to be able to forget his humdrum, boring post-war world and let loose a little; but Arthur, as usual, was driven by duty and apparently wasn't about to be swayed by Alfred's begging.
Still... Alfred looked down at the sink. The breakfast hadn't gone over too badly. Arthur had even thanked him – which was a vast compliment in Arthur-speak.
He still hadn't called him 'Alfie', but it seemed that all had not been in vain. Even though Arthur's schedule had thrown a spanner in the works, Alfred was nonetheless confident that he could still come out on top of all this.
Plan A simply needed adjusting.
[American]
"Arthur?" Alfred nudged open the study door with his elbow, carefully balancing the teacup as he stepped into the room. "I made you some tea."
"Hm?" Arthur didn't look up from his typewriter, brow furrowed in concentration as he clacked away on the keys. "Ah, yes... thankyou, Alfred." The typewriter dinged and Arthur reached up with a practiced motion to push the carriage back into place; in the same movement he pointed to a tiny space of the desk not occupied by documents or books. "If you could put it there, that would be lovely."
Alfred brought the cup to the desk and put it down in the designated spot, the saucer only just fitting.
"How's it going?" he asked, moving around the desk to look at what Arthur was typing – some boring list of figures, incidentally.
"Slowly," Arthur replied, "and excruciatingly."
"That bad, huh?"
"I'm frightful with this new technology," Arthur said absently.
"Typewriters aren't new," Alfred pointed out; he put his hands on Arthur's shoulders and rubbed at them. "You sit so stiffly – you're all tense."
"Alfred, don't do that, I'm going to make a mistake." Arthur shrugged him off even as he said it. "Listen, I don't mean to be rude, but—"
"Ah, it's fine, I didn't come in here to pester you," Alfred cut in breezily. "I want to go buy some stuff for dinner. Can I use your ration book?"
"Alright, but don't buy anything ridiculous. Those coupons need to last me until the end of October."
"No prob – it's not like you can buy anything ridiculous over here anyway. A banana is exotic to you guys."
"Get out before your idiotic prattling makes me type something wrongly," Arthur said desperately, hunching lower over his typewriter.
"I'm going, I'm going." Alfred blew him a kiss. "Ration book is in the drawer of your bedside table, right?"
"Yes."
Arthur didn't say anything else and Alfred knew he'd clawed every scrap of conversation he was going to get out of him; he left the study, closing the door quietly behind him. From behind it, as he made his way down the hall to the bedroom, he heard Arthur curse "Bollocks!" and then some rather loud rummaging.
He'd made a mistake.
Making sure not to snort with laugher so loudly that Arthur would hear him and come storming out of the study to tell him to shut his gob (or some other weird and wacky Britishism), Alfred ducked into the bedroom and went to Arthur's side of the bed, winching open the drawer and finding the little card-covered ration book sitting right at the top; he pocketed it and was about to close the drawer again when something square and white at the bottom of it caught his eye.
A very quick flash of guilt made him hesitate, thinking that he probably shouldn't go rifling through Arthur's things; but then he decided that Arthur had given him permission to go into the drawer in the first place and so there probably wasn't anything embarrassing or incriminating in it anyway. He hooked his nail under the square and lifted it, taking it between his thumb and forefinger as he brought it out of the drawer and turned it over.
It was a photograph. Not an old one, really – in fact, he could pinpoint the exact date. 9th August, 1945. The V-J Day celebrations in Times Square, New York City. It was a small square snap, black and white, and it was the six of them together: himself, Arthur, Matthew, Francis, Yao and Ivan. Alfred noted that he was the furthest forward, slap-bang in the middle (because he was the hero, of course), with one arm around Arthur's waist and the other slung more boisterously around Matthew's neck and a huge grin on his face. Francis had procured a bottle of champagne and was hanging off Matthew from the other side, the poor Canadian wilting between the combined weight on him; Yao had that typical wise, world-weary smile of his on his feminine face, as though he was enjoying the victory but didn't expect the peace to last long; Ivan was looking rather sour, his smile forced and his fists clenched stiffly at his sides. And Arthur...
He looked so tired. He was practically leaning on Alfred (who remembered pulling him in close for that photo and noting, even then, that he hadn't resisted Alfred's arm around him), although still holding himself with that regal air of his, still with the straight spine of a soldier and a haughty veil on his eyes that perhaps only Alfred had ever seen behind. His smile, though – that was his real smile, captured forever by a camera that day.
It had been such a thoroughly-American victory parade, a celebration of the American-made technology which had forced Kiku and his people to their knees and won the war; Lady Liberty had stood in Times Square and the American anthem had played and there had been apple pie; Coca-Cola and cake and confetti in red, white and blue (Alfred's colours – and Arthur's and Francis' and Ivan's, too, although Ivan wouldn't smile at all once the camera was gone).
He looked at it frozen in black and white and remembered it in full colour; the all-day street party of it, the mothers and sisters and wives and lovers embracing their sailors and soldiers, Victory-in-Europe all over again but American, all-American and all-Allied. He remembered Ivan sulking and Francis gathering himself a gaggle of giggling girl admirers and Matthew actually being noticed and...
He remembered that he had pulled Arthur into the fountain and kissed him.
He smiled at the photo, happy that Arthur had kept it even if he hid it away, and carefully put it back exactly as he had found it. He didn't want Arthur to know that he had seen it – let him have his secrets, his little eccentricities.
Alfred knew that sometimes Arthur just didn't like to admit to being happy.
—
He dug out Arthur's wireless from the deep recesses of a cupboard and tuned it to a station playing an afternoon of Glenn Miller and his Army Air Force Band, whistling along as he made dinner. Arthur was still locked away upstairs like Rapunzel in her tower – truthfully Alfred had put on the wireless in part to drown out Arthur swearing loudly at his typewriter. By the time dinner was ready and Alfred went upstairs to fetch him, Arthur had apparently given up on the typewriter altogether and was writing – much more calmly – by hand, his handwriting fluid and decorative and presumably somewhat-therapeutic, perfect and pretty on the page.
The typewriter had been banished to the hall – Alfred had nearly tripped over it on his way to Arthur's office ("Infernal American contraption," Arthur had muttered blackly on their way past it to the stairs).
Incidentally, Arthur took one look at dinner and scowled.
"Alfred, this is a hamburger," he said scathingly.
"Yeah, but I made them totally from scratch!" Alfred replied blissfully through a mouthful of his own burger. "I bought beef from the butcher's and made the patties myself – and the bread is from the bakery and the lettuce and tomatoes are—"
"Alfred."
"What?" Alfred narrowed his eyes at him. "Look, I just went and bought everything. These are totally one hundred per cent British hamburgers!"
"There is no such thing as a "British hamburger"," Arthur growled.
"Sure there is," Alfred said cheerfully, taking another bite of his. "And, since you didn't make it, it's actually pretty damn good!" He wagged his finger in mock-strictness at Arthur. "Now you eat up, mister, or you don't get any apple pie!"
Arthur rolled his eyes at him but gave a sigh of defeat, getting himself a knife and fork to attack his burger with.
"Artie," Alfred began patiently, "you don't eat a burger with—"
"Shut up," Arthur interrupted acidly; and then, with a touch more fondness, added, "you American twat."
[Alone]
After dinner, Alfred left Arthur alone for as long as he could possibly manage, trying to give him the peace and quiet he needed to work; but eventually he reached breaking point, the wireless too loud in the silent house but the whole place too quiet without it, and sneaked upstairs to the study.
He knocked timidly, sincerely hoping that Arthur wouldn't just yell at him to go away through the door; after a long moment Arthur called to him to come in and he opened the door just enough to peek around it like a child.
Arthur was still at his desk, his chin resting on his hand as he read through a document; his hair was dishevelled, his sleeves were rolled up, his waistcoat was unbuttoned, his tie was loose around his open collar and, most of all, he looked as though he was going to keel forward onto the desk at any moment.
"What is it, Alfred?" he asked distractedly, not looking up from his reading.
"Artie, you look exhausted," Alfred said, derailed from saying anything else.
Arthur was too engrossed to either correct or even listen to him, not venturing a reply. Alfred pushed the door open a little wider and stepped into the room, glancing around.
Arthur's study was one of the nicest rooms in his house, presumably because he spent so much time in here, small enough to be cosy without seeming cramped or claustrophobic. The decor was unobtrusive, a deep red carpet and pale cream walls adorned with a few framed maps and documents of what appeared to be a fair age, their parchments yellowed and crisp behind the glass. The desk was carved oak, old-fashioned and ornate, with a matching chair covered with soft leather of a deep burgundy and bookshelves of a similar design, absolutely crammed with books of all kinds – subjects, colours, thicknesses; classics like Milton and Shakespeare, newer greats like Dickens and Wilde, poetry by Wordsworth and Coleridge and Chaucer, influential women like Austen and Woolf and men-of-now like Waugh and Orwell (and American books, too, Poe and Hawthorne and Melville and Fitzgerald).
Not a single one was untouched; every page turned with care as Arthur no doubt sat in here by the fire night after night after night, all alone and yet never with closer friends than these legacies to his language.
That was probably a very pleasant way to end the evening, following Oliver Twist's adventures through London's streets or retiring to the very edge of Wales with Wordsworth as he described the beauteous spine of Tintern Abbey's ruins or instead leaving for a purely-imagined land, the wondrous gardens of Kubla Khan's stately pleasure dome in Xanadu or the weird wonderland of Alice's dream; but right now Arthur was hunched miserably over his papers, visibly very tired from doing just that all day.
"Arthur," Alfred tried again, "why don't we go to bed? I know it's a little early but—"
"Alfred, I have work to do."
"I know that," Alfred argued, thinking that Arthur was really being very stubborn, "but if you go to bed now and get a good night's sleep, you can get up early tomorrow and work then!"
At last Arthur lowered his document, meeting Alfred's gaze.
"I'm trying to do as much of it as I can now so that tomorrow we can do whatever you had planned for today," he explained, sounding somewhat impatient.
Alfred immediately brightened.
"Really?" He practically skipped to the desk, leaning over it. "You mean it, no fooling?"
"Yes," Arthur sighed, smiling wearily at him. "Of course I shall still need Thursday to prepare even if I get most of it done today and so you are to leave me alone—"
"I will, I will!" Alfred promised. "I'll... I'll go hide in the closet! I'll hang out in Narnia with all your fairy friends!"
Arthur arched an eyebrow at him.
"Yes, well, if it keeps you out of my hair..." He flapped his hand at Alfred. "I also need peace now, if you please, so—"
"Actually..." Alfred straightened again, twisting his fingers together. "...I was wondering... if I could stay in here with you." He pointed at the fire. "I'll sit there. I'll be really quiet. I won't distract you, I promise!"
Arthur merely sighed and went back to his reading.
"Yes, well, read something, then," he said absently. "I'm sure there's something in here to interest even you."
Alfred went to the bookshelves and scanned them.
"Do you have any books about airplanes?" he asked.
"Aeroplanes – and no."
Alfred huffed and scoured the shelves a moment longer before deciding on a leatherback edition of The Complete Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, flopping down on the thick rug in front of the fire with it (telling himself that he totally hadn't picked it because of Conan Doyle's Christian name). Flipping through it, dimly remembering the cases he had read before, years ago now, probably in The Strand where they had first been published, he recalled something else, too.
"He believed in fairies, didn't he?" he asked, glancing up towards the desk, where his Arthur was now writing again.
"Alfred," Arthur replied in a falsely-sweet voice, "forgive me, but I recall you saying that you weren't going to distract me."
"I'm just saying!" Alfred pressed. "Must be something about the name Arthur – and it's kooky that he wrote about this detective guy, you know, who used exact science and stuff to crack cases and he himself believed in things that don't even—"
"Alfred, the grave you are digging for yourself is getting horribly deep," Arthur said lightly. "I suggest you shut your trap."
"But I was just—"
"Immediately, my own dearest love."
Alfred quailed at his heavy sarcasm and took the suggestion to heart. Instead he flicked back to the start of the book and began with the first of the Holmes stories, A Study in Scarlet, falling quiet as he followed Dr John Watson's narrative of how he had come to meet Sherlock Holmes – this strange, brilliant, eccentric man.
But a friendless man, also – at least before Watson came into his life fresh from Afghanistan, hoping to share rooms with him; instead Watson's description ran that Holmes appeared to be adrift instead in an atlantic of acquaintances, Gregson and Lestrade and all his clients coming and going with the indifference of the tide.
Arthur was like that too, wasn't he? For all his victories, all he had conquered and owned and ruled, all his alliances... here he was, all by himself again, everything having floated past him like driftwood far out of his reach. His relationship with Alfred – his Special Relationship with the United States – was the only stable, constant thing in his life anymore.
No man is an island?
Alfred looked up from the book again – at Arthur, still working away at his desk, doing his best for his ruined little land because no-one else would.
Yes, he is.
"Artie?" Alfred asked softly. "Do you like being alone?"
"Yes," Arthur replied, not pausing in his writing.
Disappointed by his answer – having hoped to at least get a little more out of him than that – Alfred dipped his head and went back to A Study in Scarlet, biting at his bottom lip. He had read another three paragraphs before Arthur suddenly spoke once more, making Alfred look up yet again.
"But," Arthur said, finally raising his head to meet Alfred's gaze, "I like being with you, too."
Rationing – It actually officially ended in 1954 (the year this story is set) but a lot of things in the UK were still in pretty short supply all through the 50s and into the early 60s and, in complete contrast to America, most people couldn't afford a lot of luxuries because things weren't cheap since Britain had spent almost every penny it had had prior to WWII on bombing a Berlin-shaped hole in Germany during WWII. Even though he was born in 1956, my dad still complains about the one year he got a pair of mittens and an orange for Christmas (although he was likely exaggerating just a little). XD
Typewriters are, by and large, an American invention. There were prototypes and predecessors to the stereotypical typewriter created in other countries (including Britain), but the machine which is most commonly associated with the term "typewriter" was designed by an American inventor, William Austin Burt, in 1829. Throughout the 30s, 40s and 50s, most typewriters were also manufactured (and more commonly used) in the United States because the UK was dirt-poor (as we have discussed) and most people couldn't afford them anyway. Presumably Arthur's typewriter is an American-made one – perhaps a present from Alfred that Alfred didn't think through, since Arthur totally strikes me as someone who would struggle with/resent new technology more than characters like Alfred, Kiku or Ludwig. No mp3 player, iPhone or Toy Story 3 in 3D for him. XD
(Although personally I hate iPhones and 3D movies too, but that's beside the point. I just don't see why you need to be constantly connected to the internet or see a movie in three dimensions, but whatever. I'm a 90s kid and we made do without, you young whippersnappers.)
Arthur Conan Doyle absolutely believed in fairies. His name is one of the theories as to why England's human name is 'Arthur' – the other being, of course, King Arthur (who was Welsh, ironically).
Hope you all enjoyed Chapter Two! Come back next time for Alfred and Arthur's Grand Day Out! (And it might be a little different to what you're expecting!)
RR xXx
P.S: Yes, yes, and there are my mandatory mentions-in-passing of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Shakespeare, Sherlock Holmes and Edgar Allan Poe.
