I'm really sorry for the erratic updating, I'll try and get some sort of schedule. If a chapter isn't updated at least per month, feel free to spam my inbox. ^^

This is one of my favourite chapters yet. :3

…

Oh, dear God. This was horrible.

Every sound was like a thunderous, untuned symphony, every intake of breath was like swallowing ice, and every cell in his brain shrieked and screamed and ran amok in his head pounding repeatedly at his skull.

He moaned in pain and rolled over, whimpering. If drinking caused this, he'd never touch alcohol again in his life… He felt so nauseous, but without the strength to heave himself to the bathroom or even to his feet. He groaned again, shuffling across his bed for a little more comfort, letting his eyes flutter open and struggle against the sudden blinding brightness of the world.

And the sight of what was possibly the lastthing he ever wanted to see in this situation loomed into view.

Arthur Kirkland.

Laughing.

The bastard.

"Rough night?" he jeered, that ever-smug smirk tickling at his lips.

Alfred threw up on him.

...

It didn't take a genius to know that Arthur was thoroughly disgusted by that, and as he stripped out of his dirtied clothes to hastily shower, Alfred dreaded to think how many times Arthur would tease him about it again.

"Ug…gh…" Alfred groaned, staggering out of bed and blinking stupidly in the light, his ears struggling to keep up with hearing Arthur's constant complaints.

"Dammit, my colours'll fade out a lot quicker now, thanks to you," he called from in the shower. Alfred mentally thanked him for leaving the door open again as he stumbled into the bathroom and lurched over the toilet.

Surprisingly, it wasn't long before the arrogant voice behind the shower curtain sighed and shut up, replaced with a calmer, yet still annoyed tone.

"Get a glass of water, or something, idiot," Arthur said, turning off the water and stepping out to see Alfred half-unconscious on the bathroom floor. He groaned.

Alfred blinked in surprise as he felt two strong arms support underneath his and heave him rather forcefully to his feet. Arthur? What was he playing at?

The punk nudged the door open and carried Alfred back into the dorm, setting him down on the bed with surprising gentleness even though his face was contorted into a scowl.

"For Christ's sake!" Arthur snapped. "I'm not your bloody mother!"

Alfred blinked a couple of times, his eyes widening… he'd never get used to seeing that much of Arthur's skin. It didn't excite him, he wasn't gay or anything, but it was so… flawless. Exotic tattoos were dotted about on his body and studded with piercings, and his chest was to die for… Yeah, but only if I was a girl! Alfred tried to convince himself. At least there was a towel around his waist this time.

The punk slammed a glass of water on the table beside Alfred. "Now hurry up and get better," he muttered, lying down on his own bed and chancing a glance over at Alfred every few moments.

Alfred immediately took the water and gulped it down, groaning as he lay flat on his bed and hoping the acidic tang in his mouth would fade because of it.

"You alright?" asked Arthur, after a while. Alfred moaned and shook his head, earning a soft smirk from Arthur.

"Course you're not. That's a nasty hangover, I saw the vodka bottles. Didn't save some for me, eh?"

Alfred growled. "You don't deserve any… you sounded wasted enough last night."

It only took a few seconds for Alfred to regret what he just said, and for Arthur to laugh at him.

"You came to watch me perform, then?" he jeered, smirking.

Alfred weakly spat in his direction. "I left, don't worry."

"It seems you aren't as lonely as I thought. Was that blonde chick your date, or what?"

Alfred glared. "Idiot… wassa guy."

Arthur burst out laughing. "NO," he spluttered. "That was a guy?"

"Yeah… then again, you wouldn't care 'bout genders… you'd fuck anything."

The punk grinned. "Probably right." He reached into his bag and pulled out a packet of cigarettes, and in a few seconds Alfred knew what he was doing.

"Ugh, don't you dare," he growled. "Put 'em away…"

Arthur smirked. "You're not in much of a position to stop me," he pointed out, lighting up.

Alfred moaned. "Put them away…!"

"Hmph." Arthur nudged open a window and shuffled closer to it. "Better?"

Alfred stared at him. "J'st… please."

"…" Arthur flicked the cigarette out of the window and shoved the packet deep into his bag. "Fine," he muttered, averting his gaze, his cheeks slightly tinted.

Alfred murmured his thanks and nuzzled closer into his sheets, his mind clearing a bit. His eyes wandered over to Arthur, whose hair was now at least half dry, and without gel it fell flat in front of his eyes and looked somehow… adorable.

"I… feel a little better," commented Alfred.

"Good," replied Arthur, taking out his guitar and polishing it with a small rag. He didn't look up from his guitar to talk, he seemed so absorbed in such a simple task, chewing softly on his plectrum as he worked.

Alfred honestly couldn't resist a small smile at that.

"I… kinda see why people like you," he said without thinking. Arthur looked up, looking slightly confused before his lips twitched into a smirk.

"Falling for me?~" he taunted.

Alfred scowled slightly. "Hardly," he muttered.

A little while passed before Arthur smirked again. "I know you're staring."

Alfred blushed. "…Watching, not staring."

"Is my guitar cleaning really that interesting?" Arthur teased.

"There's nothing better to do."

There was a short silence before Arthur flicked the rag across the room and pulled his guitar closer, running his fingers over the strings, the unplugged guitar humming peacefully and quietly.

"We Brits believe in stars and sorcery…

From their power I see the future.

Chinese cuisine is wonderful, too,

But our own cannot be beaten."

Alfred sighed. "Stop singing, you know I don't enjoy it," he lied. The softer tone of the same song as last night didn't fit it as well, but it sounded so tranquil and relaxing – incredibly out of the punk's normal borders. Was he perhaps singing like this… for him?

"Yes, I'm British, that's right,

Phenomena, physics, and Busby's Chair.

Our comedy is also the best in the world,

My secret weapon – come forth."

Arthur began to play an insanely complicated solo on the guitar, his fingers flitting over each chord effortlessly, something that would have sounded powerful and electrifying on an amplifier, yet so lulling without.

Alfred sank further into his pillows, the last thing he heard a smooth British voice over the quiet guitar.

"Goodnight."