Arthur wasn't going to turn around. He refused to turn around. If he ignored the voice, maybe it would go away. He would rather believe he was crazy than turn and see the man he was both dreading and yearning to see again. His heart was pounding hard in his chest; surely the man couldn't see him shaking. Right?

"Aw come on, Artie, you're not ignoring me, are you?"

Slowly, the blonde worked up the courage to turn around and look upon Alistair. And all of the memories Arthur had been trying so hard to repress came flooding back. All of the ups and the downs, things he thought he had forgotten long ago. They all washed over the Englishman, and he imagined he could feel his brain start to melt just a bit. It was all so overwhelming. Arthur, overcome by emotion but struggling not to show it, could only look away as he felt his face start to burn.

Arthur could feel his head swimming. Everything about the situation made him wish it was only a dream and he could wake up. He was all too aware of Alistair's eyes on him. The blonde looked around the room, avoiding one spot in particular, searching to find any kind of distraction. He cursed Alfred for not showing up. If the American were here, he thought, then at the very least Arthur could distract himself by fussing over the poor bugger.

"Not even going to look at me?"

The blonde just knew the other was smirking. He could hear it in the Scotsman's voice. But there was something else in that deep voice as well. There was the joking twinge that his voice normally carried, but it masked some type of… sadness? Or was it longing?

Arthur plucked up the courage to look him dead in the eye and, with the coldest voice he could manage, said, "What do you want?"

Suddenly, that maddening smirk that Arthur had pictured countless times appeared, more frustratingly beautiful than ever. Alistair bit his lip before continuing. "Aw, come on. Holding grudges isn't your thing, is it?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his seat. The Scotsman crossed his arms against his chest. "All right, that was a stupid question. But let me make it up to you: I'm on my best behavior tonight." He briefly looked around, then turned his blue eyes back to the Englishman. "And I see your favorite cowlick isn't here tonight." He winked at Arthur, then went on to say, "Told you he wouldn't dance with you."

Damn that smile of his. Arthur simply could not help the uncontrollable upwards tug at the edge of his lips. He forced himself to ignore the sting of being reminded about his first prom night. "You haven't changed, have you?"

Alistair pretended to think about it. "Probably not. Why don't you come with me and see?"

"I hate that stupid grin of yours." It was obvious that neither of them believed that."

"I know."

There was a long pause before the redhead continued. "I want you to dance with me."

Arthur wasn't sure how he felt. How he was supposed to feel. There were too many thoughts racing through his mind, too many emotions stirring. It made him dizzy, and his heart was pounding so hard it took his breath away. He blinked a couple of times and stared down at the hand Alistair was holding out to him. But he didn't take it.

Clearly uncomfortable, the Scotsman cleared his throat. "You gonna take me up on that offer?" His impatience showed in the tone of voice he used.

Arthur tentatively took his hand and stuck out his tongue before replying. "I thought you were on your best behavior tonight."

"Even that can only last so long," the Scotsman winked.

"You're a bastard."

"So I am."

They relocated to a more isolated spot in the room and began to dance slowly, Alistair looking deeply into the blonde's emerald green eyes. It made the Englishman blush like mad. But it also perturbed him. This wasn't the Alistair he knew. This was one he had dreamt of after he fell asleep at night.

"What the hell's wrong with you? You're acting stranger than Kiku after he's had one too many."

"I already told you. I'm not being a screw-up tonight. I want to fix things. I want to give you the chance I never got to give you at the prom."

"Oh." Arthur could only rest his cheek against the other man's chest, feeling his heartbeat quicken. He felt like he could just melt into Alistair. He wanted to stay this way for as long as he could. Forever, if that was even possible. The two of them stayed long after everyone else had left (Antonio came rushing back with a drawn-out, heartfelt apology for Lovino, which only seemed to piss the Italian off. He cursed and dragged him out by his tie – he must have spent time with a certain Norwegian).

When Francis ambled into the room, he was surprised to find two figures in the distance, moving in a slow (and to be honest, a bit clumsy) waltz. He immediately recognized them by the color of their hair— a bright red-orange mop of hair next to a lemon-yellow one.

"Ah, welcome, mes amis," he greeted as he bowed politely. "What are you still doing here, if I may ask?"

The two only stopped and noticed him after he cleared his throat dramatically. They appeared as though Francis had pulled them both from a kind of dream, and they were not yet ready to be woken from their reverie.

Francis laughed sheepishly before continuing. "Looks like you're both having fun, non?"

For the first time in a long time, a rather long time, Alistair truly smiled. His eyes were bright and his smirk looked less devilish. "Hell yes we are."

And for once, Arthur did not snap an angry remark at him. He simply laughed like a child who could not contain their joy any longer.

Francis felt his mood elevate and dampen at the same time. He was happy for them, sure, but after what happened with Matthew that evening…

He didn't want to think about the Canadian. He refused to allow another thought about that wonderful, charming, overly cute wonder of the world enter his mind. He refused. He was happy for these two, he really was. His heart wasn't breaking, his world wasn't ending. It was just another night. Another reserved hotel room. That wasn't going to be used tonight.

A figurative lightbulb went off over the Frenchman's head. He and Matthew weren't going to use the room, these two were obviously very much in love…

Alistair and Arthur would make a much better use of the room. Francis could not help a fiendish grin that played across his lips. He merely dug into his pocket, fished out his card keys, and tossed them casually to the devious redhead before walking away. Alistair caught both of them expertly and handed one to the blonde before smiling wildly.

Arthur and Alistair shared a look before the older of the two took the lead, grabbing onto the blonde's hand and beginning to gently pull him along. Arthur hesitated. "Er, wait. I need a drink first."

The Scotsman stopped and let go of him, then winked. "All right. See you up there, Artie."

Arthur wasn't sure how long he stayed in the room, alone, trapped in his thoughts with a drink in his hand. He knew he shouldn't think about it, he should just go up and shag his brains out – it wasn't like he hadn't thought about it — but imagining actually doing it somehow made him debilitatingly anxious. While Alistair immediately took Francis up on the offer, the Englishman knew he would need to be at least very tipsy before he could gather up the courage to put his previous fantasies into action.

Fed up with himself at that moment, he sighed. "You're overthinking it, old boy. Just go and do it."

Arthur took a deep breath, gathered up all of whatever nerve he had left, and made his way up to the hotel room, not stopping to fully think about what he was going to do. He didn't realize how drunk he was until he began fiddling with the room key. He must have dropped the damn thing three times. Slippery little bugger.

Arthur opened the door and froze in place, horrified. There were two figures on the bed. Two. Alistair under someone the blonde didn't recognize. He felt as though someone had wrapped a string around his heart at many different angles and begun pulling. His mouth went dry and he uttered a small sound before retreating, tears streaming down his cheeks. He cried out, not caring who would hear him, "You're such an arsehole!"

How could he? How the hell could he? How could that bastard do that to Arthur? He was the devil. He was horrible, he played with Arthur's heart before dropping it on the ground.

Not knowing what else to do, the Englishman took out his mobile and began typing in the numbers he knew oh so well.

"Hello?"

Arthur hung up. What was he doing calling Alfred? The American stood him up. Bastard. All men are bastards, he told himself. He decided it was best if he would just go home. He walked to his apartment and threw himself down on the couch in the middle of the living room.

Soon afterward, there was a soft knock at the door. Arthur buried his head in his pillow and groaned. "Go away!"

"Is there a hole in your heart, or am I mistaken?" Alfred greeted, singing a song that had been Arthur's favorite since he was very young. It was his own way of asking the Englishman if he was all right. Arthur rolled onto his back and glared up at him. Alfred responded with a bright smile and a command to cheer up, dude!

"No, dude, I will not."

"Yes you will." Alfred's tone was playful.

"Piss off," Arthur hissed. "I refuse."

Alfred opened his mouth to respond but the Englishman threw a pillow at him and it hit him in the face before falling to the ground. Bulls-eye.

"Come on, give me a chance."

Arthur snapped. He was tired of giving chances and being let down. Feeling hurt. Betrayed, even. He was tired of being treated like a goddamned doormat.

"No! Fuck you, I'm done with you and you stood me up tonight and I had to be with that piss-poor excuse for a stepbrother and the frog showed up and Alistair—"

Arthur stopped there. He could hold back the tears but his pitch was rising steadily and there was a lump in his throat that threatened to cause him to choke up. He swallowed heavily.

Alfred smiled sadly, guild evident in his deep blue eyes. "I thought you'd be okay on your own."

The Englishman warily eyed him, glowering a bit. The American maintained his melancholy grin. He sighed deeply before joining Arthur on the couch. "Matt called. He was upset because he and Francis broke up. He was crying dude, I couldn't say no."

Arthur dropped his gaze to the floor. "Oh."

He was feeling drained all of a sudden, all the pain vanishing to reveal a heavy layer of despondency. He wasn't sure how to respond.

Alfred popped in the DVD to a scary movie, using it as an excuse to hold the Englishman close. And this one time, Arthur would let him get away with it. He needed to be comforted a little. The American sat back down next to Arthur, pulling him into his arms. The Brit felt it was an awkward position, but didn't complain. Doing so would result in the loud blonde insisting he sit in his lap. Arthur pulled up the sleeves of Alfred's sweatshirt – he had an old thread-bare one he wore everyday – and traced the veins showing in his forearm. "I can see your capillary veins," he mumbled in a voice that was just a bit raw, mimicking the tune of his favorite song.

Alfred paused for a moment. "Whoa, you can?"

Arthur snorted in laughter at the man's enthusiastic question.

"Yes, Al, you can."

After the movie was over (and Alfred was brave enough to move from the couch to the chair next to it) Arthur realized that, with no distraction present at the moment, he was left alone with his own thoughts. At the mercy of his own psyche, which would cause him to relive the events of the night that preceded this moment. He suddenly felt very alone lying on the couch.

All Arthur wanted was to forget. All he wanted was to be able to keep the tears from flowing down his face. But, with the last memory of Alistair, he broke down. He felt his heart split in two and the tears from his eyes, involuntary and unwanted, while he choked back a sob.

He heard Alfred shift from the couch and saw him walk over to Arthur, looking suddenly exhausted from his earlier encounter with Matthew but eager to help. Arthur straightened and Alfred sat next to him. The Englishman rested his head on the other's shoulder as he took a shuddering breath. He felt gentle fingers brush through his hair and heard a familiar voice hum softly. The American always knew exactly how to calm Arthur down. It wasn't working as well as it normally did, but it was better than nothing.

Alfred had a nice voice. He always had a talent for singing, rarely ever needing to practice beforehand. He was a natural. And the way he smoothed into a higher or lower note, transitioning flawlessly between pitches, was simply beautiful. Arthur had always liked when he sang.

"Hey, Al?"

"Hm?"

"How come you never call me 'Artie' or anything? You do that with everyone else."

Alfred paused for a moment, which caused the Englishman to pull away and look at him. There was a sad smile on the young man's face; he knew something Arthur didn't. It was more than just the nickname. It was something bigger, a secret he had held onto for far too long.

"Because I know you don't like it."

There was something Arthur didn't recognize in the American's blue eyes.

Arthur was overcome by this, his reaction, the look in his eyes. By everything. He felt like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. It might have been all of the rum he drank earlier that night, but he was feeling vulnerable and emotional and he wanted to make things better.

He wasn't sure what made him do it – although later he blamed it on his clouded mind – but before he knew it he had pressed his lips against Alfred's and he was

He didn't even hear the door open. A harsh laugh made him turn to look over his shoulder.

"Who's the 'arsehole' now?" Alistair hissed, then turned on his heel and ran.

Dylan was frozen in place, key still in hand. He must have been the one to open the door. His voice was little more than a pained whisper. "Oh, Arthur, no."

Arthur tried to go after the Scotsman, scrambling to his feet. The room spun too quickly and he lost his balance. he was unconscious before he even hit the floor.