Tala, Shizuka Aralia, kitkit11183, Person, Mesmerise Bulls, SaraBarns, Pherse Issac, Teenage Mouse, ycart, Cacow. You are wonderful people.

This one goes out to Arthur Kirkland, on facebook, who posted ((One in a million chances happen nine times out of ten)) on their wall. Sweetheart, I think you made my year. I hope this update is fast enough. Also, Batshitcrazy, if you're reading this; this wouldn't be possible without you, whether you know it or not.

Arthur = Gavin Cavanaugh (The Boat That Rocked). Just for one line.

It was rather unfortunate for Arthur that Alfred, being of larger build and faster metabolism, could hold his booze. However, he also started with a Long Island Iced Tea and jumped to straight spirits immediately after.

And then he started mixing his drinks. Tequila, Vodka, Whiskey.

While the bartender watched in horror, Arthur slurred, leaning against the sticky polished wood, managing to spill two fingers of single malt all over himself. However, whatever she may have felt watching the Englishman's drunken ramblings was nothing compared to what she felt watching Alfred. The American had shed his shirt, revealing an impressive upper body. One that would have been enviable had it not been a mess of skin grafts. He was laughing uproariously, knocking back shots, one heavy arm throw around Arthur.

"Hey! Artie!" he crowed, "Less play barstool!"

"Wha?" the other asked hazily, "Wa's barstool?"

"C'mere. Whatcha do is I stan like this," he raised his leg at a right angle, "You sit on mah leg an then sum'un times it."

"A'rite," he said, tearing his eyes with difficulty from Alfred's strong thighs and the way his jeans creased over his crotch.

"Miss?" the American waved at the bartender, "Time us, wouldja?" she gave an exasperated nod and checked her watch.

"Okay, go," she said and Arthur scrambled clumsily onto that firm thigh, unable to stop himself wondering what it would feel like without those heavy-duty jeans in the way, would there be scars there, too?

Alfred lasted a minute, letting the Englishman down surprisingly slowly for all his inebriated state.

"Whoo!" he cheered, throwing his hands in the air, making the other patrons of the bar give him filthy looks.

"Gentlemen, can I call you a ride home?" the bartender asked quietly, hoping not to draw any more attention to the pair than Alfred already was.

"Nah! W'r not goin home!" he roared happily, his t-shirt halfway back over his shoulders, "Artie, babe, less go singin!"

Uh-oh.

That was a bad idea, and even through his drink-fogged stupor, Arthur knew that much.

But he was drunk. And so was Alfred, and really, what were the odds of him being recognised as the lead singer of a band that nobody even liked? His hair was the wrong colour, he wasn't wearing the stage make up, and he wasn't wearing any second-skin leather. He really hated leather pants, to be honest. They stuck like cling-wrap and they needed an arse-ton of talcum powder to stop them pinching and chaffing.

So what was the harm in a little warbling?

They weren't exactly going to be famous last words, but should shit come into contact with any kind of fan, this was a moment that could be put up on a class-room projector, have an authoritative professor poke it with one of those long teacher's sticks that you only ever see in films and say,

"This is where things went wrong."

~====o)0(o====~

The karaoke bar was seedy. It had cigarette smoke and liquor staining the walls, and a few other things that the health department would be horrified to know could even reach that high on a vertical surface. It was also packed, through only a few people were actually singing despite the contest going on. Most of the crowd, and it was a tough crowd, judging by the way they booed off a busty woman with too much foundation on, was acting as the judge.

"C'mon, Artie! Let's sign ourselves up!" They had stopped over at another pair of golden arches on the way, and Alfred was remarkably more sober for it. Together they wound their way to a man who looked like he was in charge. He also looked like he'd had a nip of brandy, but hey, they did too.

"What do you want?" the portly man asked, as though the rest of his patrons weren't just as – if not more – hammered than the pair before him.

"We want to sign up for your competition," the American said cheerily, leaning on a countertop that was probably carrying Cholera, Ebola, Typhoid, Tuberculosis, Chlamydia, and H1N1.

"No pairs," he grunted. If there is a hell for those who give bad customer service then Beelzebub had a devil set aside for that man right there, in his grease-stained wife-beater.

"Aww," Alfred whined, looking thoroughly put out.

"Can I have him onstage if he's not singing? I need a prop," Arthur suggested suddenly. The scheme he was forming was hair-brained. It had a healthy crop of hair, sideburns, a moustache, a beard, and a formidable set of eyebrows.

"Spose," another grunt. The man picked up a book and a pencil, handing them over. Once Arthur had jotted down his name and Alfred his, they had to pick songs.

While the bespectacled blonde selected something the Englishman had never hear of; Lowlife by Kidd Rock, he went straight for what he knew. Flipping to the back of the file full of song titles, he jotted down the number of one of his favourites. It was one he had written back when he enjoyed making music.

Alfred went first, grinning.

Once he was onstage, he lifted the microphone, tapped it twice and waited for the music. It was a slow start, with guitar and bass.

"I got my Cat-Scratch Fever eight-track, my best friend's in a comeback; I'm a lowlife," he crooned huskily, tapping his foot to the beat. It was a rocking tune, and the bar seemed to like it, occasionally chipping in to help Alfred along with the repetition of "Lowlife."

Soon though, it was Arthur's turn, and he swaggered on through the throngs of people and up onto the stage, his 'King' persona taking over, leaving no room for stage-fright, logic or reason. Taking the microphone from the slightly confused American, he leered at the murmuring crowd,

"Are you a citizen of the UKR?"

There was a smattering of applause and a few whistles. Not the most responsive audience he'd ever had, but push was coming to shove, and it would have to do.

The music began, fast and up-beat. Tossing a vicious smirk at the confused American, he purred into the microphone,

"Alfie, babe, come over here," he winked. Alfred's face glowed red with a mixture of lust and drink, and he walked forward numbly, as though in shock. This wasn't the Arthur he knew.

"Time is gone; It's half past three; But I like the way you feel, baby," he began huskily, grabbing hold of the American's collar and yanking him forward roughly.

"Arthur, what the fuck are you-" he hissed, only to be shut up with a wink and a finger to his lips,

"Kiss me here," he touched his own throat, turning so that the audience could see his movement, "Touch you there," he ran his fingers slowly over Alfred's chest, making him shudder. He moved a hand up to his hair, resting a knee on his hip and pulling himself up, "Run my fingers through your hair!"

The fire-fighter felt the moisture leave his mouth. He couldn't swallow. His face was brick red. And it only got worse when the leg at his side moved to hook around his hips and the other leg did the same. There must have been an unholy strength in his thighs to keep Arthur from falling as he leant slowly backwards to face the audience, his shirt riding up around his ribcage.

"Let's get out of this place and back to mine; We can stop by yours next time; Too drunk to know if this is real; But babe, I like the way you feel!" he half sang, half groaned. He could feel Alfred between his hips. And he liked it. He couldn't see the calloused palms as they moved up his thighs and over his stomach to caress the rose tattoo that climbed up his side before racking back down again, but he could feel them.

"In the morning; No regrets," his voice was throbbing through Alfred's whole body, numbing and exciting like some illicit drug. Who knew Artie could sing like this? Fuck if it wasn't hot!

He pulled himself upright and swung himself around so that he was on the American's other side, "Unzip me," he tugged at his own trousers, "Unzip you," he tweaked the fly of Alfred's jeans, "Really don't mind if I do," he winked at the stunned looking crowd and gave the stiff front of the American's pants a lingering squeeze.

Alfred's mouth popped open into an 'O' of surprise, and if his face hadn't been red before it was now, his eyes heavy lidded and misty. He pulled his lips back together, biting the bottom one softly. Slowly turning his head to look at the singing, undulating Englishman on his hip, he raised an eyebrow challengingly.

"Let's have a party; You and me, Cause I like the way you feel, baby," Arthur smirked right back at him with another roll of his hips, snapping his teeth playfully.

Oh God.

Leaving the bar was a bit of a blur. Whether they were kicked out (very likely) or lauded as winners (also quite likely) neither of them could remember.

It was about five am when they got back to Alfred's apartment. They were still a little drunk but not as drunk as they had been, Alfred having just recovered and Arthur having burned it off with his dance routine. Which had been a fucking stupid idea. That was the exact same one that he always used with that song on stage.

They fell against the door, laughing uncontrollably and talking far too loudly. It took them ten minutes to figure out that neither of them could even get the key in the lock, at which they laughed some more. Then they figured out that Matthew had left the door open.

When one is drunk, things are a lot funnier than they ought to be. You will find yourself to be witty and entertaining. But you aren't. Any emotions you feel are magnified and chances are that you're not going to remember more than a few minutes of the night before when you wake up with a hangover the next morning. But back to the amplified emotions.

Now that Alfred's alcoholic high was swinging its way down, the emotions he had been trying to forget were coming back to him in waves of shame and worthlessness.

"Arthur," he asked blearily, staggering through the doorway of his room, "Why'd she have to die?"

"Who?" the Englishman asked, his voice a little raspy

"That girl. I should have saved her. She was so small."

"Hush, love, it was meant to happen. Nobody could have done more," he purred, stroking his hair, "If anyone could have saved her, it would have been you, but there was nothing you could do."

"I felt her heart stop beating under my hands!" he tilted his head back, groaning in pain, "I fucking hate drinking! It just makes it worse!"

Arthur's fingers slid slowly down the arched neck, across the sticky, sweaty fabric of his shirt, feeling the raised welt wear graft met graft and the smoothness where flames had seared his skin. Alfred shivered pleasurably; his mind was still tumbling over itself but his body reacting to the touch none the less.

"I can make you forget more than whiskey, love," he said, leaning in and nipping at the curve of a collar bone that peeked through the neck of his shirt.

"I don't think I'm drunk enough for tha-" he was silenced by the Englishman's lips moving over his, the thin, calloused fingers slipping over his skin with light, teasing touches.

"Mhph!" the American pulled back from the kiss, "Kay, fine. Maybe I am." He pulled his own shirt clumsily over his head before tugging at the other's. Arthur complied, his arms heavy as he wrested out of the constricting fabric. Alfred's hands came up, running over the pale skin of his sides, the strong, wiry muscles that were there. His fingers ghosted inaccurately over the tattoo, trying to map it but not quite possessing the co-ordination to do so.

"You must have been a really big fan."

"The biggest."

"Make me forget this, Artie," he half whimpered half pleaded as Arthur rolled their hips together, "Make me forget," he pulled the other down roughly. The kiss was unrefined and sloppy, and there was way too much tooth. The kisses moved to his neck, and then to his shoulder, lips brushing the last bloom on the vine.

The pain of being penetrated was dulled by the booze, but it still hurt, and his teeth clamped down on the skin beneath his lips. The sudden pain made Arthur's body jerk, and Alfred bit down all the harder for it, a mauve bite mark already blooming in the dawn light.

~====o)0(o====~

Matthew was still in bed being grumpy – he liked to sleep in seeing as he worked from home, and being woken up by his drunken brother and some shrieking Brit in the small hours of the morning was not something he had counted on being a variable.

It was therefore up to Katyusha to answer the door when it was knocked on at precisely eight am by a very official, uniformed delivery man,

"Hello, Ma'am," he said, speaking at her chest, "I have a package for Alfred F Jones. Is he here? He needs to sign for in person."

"Of course," she smiled, leaving the door open and sticking her head into Alfred's room, "Alfie, good morning! You have to sign for something~!" she sang cheerily. One arm flopped over the side of the bed and dragged the American bulk it was attached to out of the covers and onto the floor. He was covered in bodily fluids, at least half of which were still sticky and definitely not his own. His jeans were shoved down around his knees and as he wriggled around on the floor trying to pull them back up, a wave of nausea rolled over him. Groaning, but feeling no actual need to throw up, he stood unsteadily, fly undone, and glasses off. One hand on the wall for support, he grabbed at the clipboard, scribbled his signature all over it and picked up the small, brown paper package, It even had string on it.

"Thanks, man. Fuck off," he slurred, the alcohol not having entirely left his system. Blearily squinting at the writing on the paper.

To: Alfred F Jones
From: The UKR

As always, the implied smuttishness was kind of necessary, and important. Unless you read Papa. That was totally unnecessary. Please review. It makes my day ^^