{So What}
"I think," Alfred says slowly, like saying it any faster will mean that lightening will strike him, like the world will crack under his feet, "This is some sort of build up from over two hundred years of acting like you've got a stick up your ass suddenly imploding and you'll regret this all within a week."
Arthur flips him the birdy with one hand, fiddling with the tuning of his beautiful electric guitar with the other. Bright pink hair doesn't really suit him; he always looked better in green and some shades of purple. Alfred doesn't say this, however – he knows how much pride Arthur takes in the styling of his neon pink mohawk.
"I didn't come here to get a fucking lecture," Arthur says, placing the guitar next to him on Alfred's baseball decorated bedspread and looking up at the taller Nation. He'd gotten a lip piercing sometime recently; the little silver ball catches the light and draws Alfred's attention to it.
"Remind me why you crashed my place again," Alfred replies, leaning on his dresser in what he hopes in a nonchalant manner. It is unnerving, really, how different Arthur looks when he's not wearing a suit and has on too-tight black leather vest and pants, chains wrapped around his waist and a studded dog collar around his neck. This isn't really Arthur, Alfred knows, and he knows that once England's punk phases passes Arthur will go back to being irritable, angry and will deny that he ever dyed his hair pink and wore leather pants in public.
"My prime minister kicked me out of my office for the day," Arthur says distractedly, plucking at the high E string on his guitar. "Apparently, he does not appreciate the fine music of the Sex Pistols." His mouth twists into a mischievous half-grin, and his bright green eyes glow brighter for the briefest of moments.
"Also, you're coming with me to the Sex Pistol concert tonight," he adds, standing and stretching his arms up over his head. The leather vest rides up, showing his flat stomach. He's gotten a belly button piercing too; this one far larger and gaudier than the one on his lip.
"Do I have a say in this?" Alfred asks drily, pushing his glasses further up his nose with one finger so his whole room is in focus. Arthur snorts, rubbing at his vivid hair with one hand. The spikes stick up even more so, and Alfred briefly wonders if he could stick an apple on one of the points; they look so strong.
"Course you don't have a say," Arthur tells him, placing his hands on his hips, and for a moment Alfred can see straight-laced, gentlemanly Arthur looking at him. "You need to learn what real music is," Arthur continues, raising an eyebrow and daring backtalk, "Not that trash you listen to."
"Because the Sex Pistols is so classy and elegant."
"Exactly. Looks like you're learning already. Good; I was afraid you'd be as slow in this area as you are in the rest of life." Arthur's smirk is borderline predatory, and his eyes are glowing brilliant green again.
"That was unnecessarily cruel," Alfred says, twisting his lips downwards into a pout.
"But true." Arthur's smirk grows even wider. Alfred decides he can live this this new, wild Arthur, if only for a little bit, and he'll say "so what" to the world and have some fun with all of England's punks and deal with the aftermath later.
...
{This Is How It Goes Down}
Francis wonders sometimes if Arthur knows how transparent he is with his emotions. Arthur wears his heart on his sleeve, puts his thoughts on his face for all to read – he should know better than that; Arthur was the one who taught Francis that showing emotions was something that could get a person killed, back in the days of knights and crusades.
They're drinking together in Arthur's drafty living room, like they like to do sometimes. They have a meeting tomorrow, but they're both experienced drinkers, so it's not like they'll get a hangover. Rain is drumming against the roof; the sky is velvet dark and black beyond the water-streaked windows. There is a fire dying behind the grate, embers fading to a soft orange. Arthur's hair is messy, and he looks oh-so-weary.
He takes a sip of his rum, contemplates the glass, then takes a deeper drag. "Alfred is courting Kiku," he says after a moment, swirling the remainder of his drink around the beautiful crystal cup. His eyes are dark, sad. Francis takes a sip of his rich red wine.
"Is he serious about it?" Francis asks, tilting his head to the side so he can better study the other. Arthur hesitates, thinks, shrugs. He glances towards the fire, and with a heavy sigh, gets to his feet long enough to toss another log onto the pile. Brilliant orange sparks crackle and fly as Arthur settles himself back into his worn red loveseat.
"Who knows," he says moodily, gulping down the remainder of his rum and reaching underneath his seat to pull out the rum bottle. He pours himself a generous serving, takes a swig from the bottle, then sets it down behind his seat again. "Before he started with the courting and the sweet talk, he said he wanted to improve business relations with Japan."
"So do you think he's just using Kiku to improve relations with Japan?" Francis asks, flicking a curl of golden hair off his shoulder.
"Possibly. He's not like the kid I raised. He was never that manipulative when he was a child." Arthur purses his lips, studies the ripples in his amber drink. He gives Francis a sideways glance, brilliant green eyes shadowed over and tired. "He's changing. He's different. I never thought he would use people, and people like Kiku no less. Kiku is so kind."
"Kiku is old. He might recognize what Alfred is doing," Francis says. The fire spits out another burst of sparks. They die before they reach the thick carpet. Arthur snorts, leans forward and rubs at his temples with one hand.
"The world is changing, Francis," he murmurs, "And I'm so tired of it. Alfred is changing. Matthew is changing. You are, I am."
"It's called growing up," Francis says drily, taking another long drag from his wine and savoring the heady flavor. This was a good year; he'll have to look for more of it. "We all have to do it sometime."
Arthur's smile is dry, sad. "What happens, happens," he mutters, before tilting his head back and draining the remainder of his glass.
"This is how it goes down," Francis says, "And we can do nothing to change it." It's not comforting, not reassuring, but it's the best he can do. Arthur snorts, rolls his eyes, and pours himself another shot.
...
{Winter Song}
It's cliché. He doesn't like cliché. But it is cliché, something said and done and said a thousand times 'til it's to the point where anyone can predict the ending of the story, the last word, the finale. It's cliché, but it's true – Arthur hates winter.
Arthur breathes on his hands, and his breath clouds up, then fades away as the brisk wind blows it away, scattering the small, delicate fog he created. The gray snow is turning to slush under his feet, slick and nasty; he can tell it will freeze overnight, and in the morning the pavement will be coated with thick, uneven ice. Snow is falling, big fat flakes that will melt the moment the sun pokes its head out behind the overhanging gloomy gray clouds. The crimson scarf wrapped around his neck is itchy. His worn brown coat has a hole on the left elbow, and he can feel the slushy water seeping into his right boot.
Alfred is laughing, arms spread out as he spins in circles on his heel, puffy blue coat hanging open to reveal his bulky scarlet sweater underneath. A sunshine yellow hat is crammed onto his bright golden hair, pieces escaping and flipping up at the tips. His glasses are so fogged over Arthur wonders how he can still see out of them. The merry lights from the shops lining the street opposite them catch at the neon coloring of all of Alfred's clothing; he is more gaudy than a Christmas tree.
Alfred tries to catch a snowflake on his tongue, leaning just far forward enough that it hits his nose instead. He looks surprised at the bead of icy water on the tip of his nose. His eyes cross as he tries to see it clearly, wiping it off with the back of one bare hand.
"We'll have a white Christmas this year," he says happily, spinning on his heel so he can see Arthur. He's walking backwards down the street, hands looped together behind his head. His grin is brighter than snow on a sunny day. Arthur wishes he would watch where he was going; he doesn't want to see Alfred slip and break his neck.
"It's November, you git, with over a month left until Christmas. A snowfall now doesn't predict anything." He sounds bitter. He feels old. His sock is wet, and he kicks at a block of ice like a petulant child.
Alfred laughs again, turning around and slowing his pace so he is stepping next to Arthur. Arthur watches their wet shoes and the tracks they make on the already packed, dirty snow reflecting the light from the chain restaurants. "You'll come over for Christmas, right?" Alfred asks, tucking his hands in his pockets.
Arthur ponders it for a moment. If he doesn't take Alfred up on the offer to spend Christmas at his house, he'll spend it at home, drinking vintage whisky and rum, crying into his glass about how the world hates him and how he is so alone. If he does go, he'll only be able to recall the Christmases he and Alfred had when Alfred was naught but a child, and he'll spend the holiday in silent passive aggression towards his well-meaning host.
"Maybe," he says, choosing to be noncommittal, to leave all the options for misery open so he can take his choice of torture. Alfred smiles contentedly, watching the flurry of snow fall around them.
Thanksgiving isn't over yet, and all of America is prepping for Christmas. It's typical of such a nation, and he should have expected it. Arthur kicks at another block of ice. He says nothing to break the silence, and follows Alfred down the noisy, too-bright street.
...
{I'm Yours}
He can hear the music from the bottom of the driveway.
Arthur hauls his suitcases out of the taxi, stacking them on the sidewalk haphazardly, and pays the driver who keeps glancing at his watch like he has better things to do than wait for Arthur to get all his things out of the car.
There's a soft guitar melody hanging in the still winter air as Arthur tugs his suitcases and his briefcase up Alfred's ridiculously long driveway. Snow crunches underfoot, fresh and crisp. Arthur's breathing hangs in clouds in the icy air.
He opens the door silently, pressing a hand against the bell Alfred hung on the door to silence it. The music is louder here, and it's a warm, lovely tune that reminds Arthur of summer, of warmth, of barbecues and long talks with old friends. His lips are threatening to quirk up into a smile as he heaves his things into the spare bedroom that serves as his home away from home every time he ventures across the Atlantic to visit Alfred.
The song comes to an end, and there's a moment of silence as Arthur sets his old Mac laptop on the desk. It starts up again after a moment, and now he can hear Alfred's rich, off-tune voice joining in with it, singing with abandon and little skill.
He slips down the hallway, keeping an eye out for the younger Nation. The singing seems to be coming from the basement, so Arthur creeps down the stairs as quietly as he can.
Alfred is spinning around his messy, crowded basement, his beautiful calico cat Sophie cradled in his arms as he belts out the lyrics to the song playing. Sophia paws at his face, looking displeased and grumpy, green eyes bordering on fiery gold as she swats at his nose. Alfred pays it no mind as he spins them around again, singing how he will no longer hesitate and how there is no need to complicate things. Arthur finds this amusing; Alfred has the tendency to make things as complicated and confusing as he possibly can.
He settles down on the steps, resting his elbows on his knees. He's smiling now; he can feel his cheeks aching from his ear-to-ear grin. Alfred still has yet to notice him. He brings Sophia closer to his face. She swipes at his nose again, and Alfred smiles and kisses the tip of her soft pink nose.
When the music finally comes to an end, Alfred lifts Sophia over his head as he belts out the last few words. Sophia catches sight of Arthur sitting on the step and lets out a pitiful meow, begging him to come rescue her. Alfred turns around to see who his cat is talking to, and his grin grows bigger. "Arthur! I thought you wouldn't get here for another hour at least!"
The amazing thing about Alfred, Arthur muses, is that most anyone else would be humiliated and embarrassed if someone walked in while they were dancing to a silly love song with their irritated cat. Alfred didn't seem to care, didn't seem to think anything was wrong with showing how much he loved a song and loved his vengeful feline.
"I'm here for the weekend," Arthur says, getting to his feet and beating the wrinkles out of his stiff black pants, "If that is alright with you."
"Oh, of course it is! Now, c'mere – Sophia's done for the day, and I want to dance again." He grabs Arthur's wrist before he can protest, and the same silly love song starts up again. Alfred's hand is dry and warm as he spins them around, singing along to the music. Sophia eyes them carefully before stalking up the steps; Arthur knows she'll be taking revenge later in the form of meowing loudly at some unholy hour in the morning for her loss of dignity.
Arthur knows he's smiling, and he doesn't care if everyone and anyone can see it, because right now he's Alfred's and Alfred's his, they're dancing to a sweet, silly love song and everything is okay with the world.
Author's Note
So What - P!nk
This is How is Goes Down - P!nk
Winter Song - Sara Barelleis
I'm Yours - Jason Mraz
Written as a birthday gift for a friend of mine. My inability to write anything sweet or touching strikes again.
Also, my username's been changed from Cry-Wolf-and-Sing to Writer of a Thousand Colors. Sorry if that confuses anyone.