A is for 'almost there'! XD
This is Chapter 7 of 8 – and we're on time this week, too! Whoo! Now that we're properly back on schedule, I think next Friday will probably host the final chapter. I can't believe we're here already... o.O
Thanks to: Miss Misa Minnow (now ForeverTheHero), Axxi, The Wonder Bunny, shake-it-buddy, Tamer-Lorika, suzako, kumori-blue, jesusofsuburbia2o2o, Mochibun, Picadillo, Aiyaa, Author and Co, LithiumKiss, Wizzabeff, cax, YourFloatingAngel, thepersonnexttoyou, egoXlockheart, allezhopunptitverredesake, TigerlilyandHummingbird, nocco, Chibi Chibi Sami, Plate Captain, Prestidigtations and the very kind anonymous, nameless reviewer who left me a very long review and worked out that £50 back in 1954 was worth somewhere between £1000-£2000 now. i no, rite? o.O
So our not-so-starcrossed lovers had their first real fight of the fic at the end of the last chapter and, to top it all off, Alfred's genius plan still hasn't worked – and the chances of it doing so are probably very slim now that Arthur knows about it. But don't give up, hero! Arthur can only be tsun-tsun for so long before he melts into a pile of dere-dere goo in your big strong muscle-bound arms... or something.
This chapter: Some females! Yes, this is momentous!
...But don't get too excited for Hungary, Lichtenstein, Belgium or Seychelles. Just btdubs.
A is For…
[Absence]
Having been unable to concentrate properly all morning, Arthur retreated to the back porch with his tea after a quick, lonely lunch; he sat on the loveseat by himself and rocked himself back and forwards a little, watching the gentle sway of the tea against the walls of his teacup.
It was very quiet without Alfred. It was a silence Arthur was used to between the visits back-and-forth across the Atlantic but it seemed strange to him now with an ear so used to the idea of having someone else in the house with him all the time; even when Alfred wasn't chattering animatedly about his loopy idea to send a rocket to the Moon or complaining about how boring Arthur's wallpaper was, the place rarely fell as utterly still as this. Alfred still had the insatiable curiosity he had possessed as a child and he was always touching things and opening things and taking things apart, never doing anything quietly and making Arthur quickly get used to the symphony of his presence.
He had been gone for a few hours. Arthur was still angry with him but had honestly thought he might come drifting back for lunch, at least – there was no sign of him, however, making Arthur wonder where the hell Alfred had gone. Alfred didn't know his way around London very well at all, always taking wrong turns if Arthur wasn't quite literally dragging him along. Perhaps he had tried to come back for lunch and was lost in Piccadilly Circus somewhere...
Arthur shrugged and sighed. What could he do? It wasn't his fault if Alfred wanted to throw a strop and go stalking out of the house by himself, after all. Honestly, Alfred was perfectly ridiculous at times – it was clear that he, Arthur, was in the right here and Alfred was just too stubborn to admit it, preferring to sulk. Well, Arthur wasn't quite that childish; he wouldn't strop, he wouldn't sulk, and when Alfred finally decided to say he was sorry, he would at least hear him out.
He leaned back in the loveseat to finish his tea. The weather was fair again, crisp and clear with a cloudless blue sky overhead and mild enough for him to be agreeably warm in just a cardigan. The pleasantness had brought out a few fairies – there were two, both female, flitting around the teapot, admiring their reflections in its surface, and a further three, two males (one a child) and another older female (his mother), down by the withered remains of what had been a splendid rosebush during the summer.
One thing about the fairies – they weren't overly fond of Alfred, who tended to wave his arms around a lot animatedly when he talked, and they were inclined to stay away completely when he was with Arthur (which Arthur thought was fair enough – Alfred couldn't see them and had accidentally hit a few of them when they came too close). They were curious, however; Arthur had seen one or two of the bolder ones fluttering around Alfred when he was asleep (and wasn't flailing around like an octopus) and examining his things, fascinated by the shine of his glasses on the nightstand and the fact that his clothes were so different to Arthur's.
Still, Alfred's complete absence brought them out in force, making them feel safe enough to be in Arthur's vicinity without the danger of being sent flying by an oblivious American who didn't believe they even existed – and to keep Arthur company, too, when he was on his own again. They were kind little creatures like that, never wanting anything in return for their friendship.
So tiny and delicate, too – the most skilled doll-maker in the world could never craft such fragile beauty as the lovely specimen closest to Arthur now, the copper gloss of her auburn hair and the opal shimmer of her thread-thin wings and her handmade dress of an autumn leaf to match the fashion of the season, dappled with reds and browns and bright oranges like a flame. Her feet were bare, the left adorned only by a single anklet made from a silver spider's web which glinted with her every motion.
Arthur put out his hand towards her and she didn't hesitate to land on his palm, perfectly trusting of him, enough to sit down and adjust the dew-drop-gems studded throughout her hair. The other fairy, a brunette in a dress made from a leaf with a fair amount of green still on it, saw the attention being given to her friend and soared immediately to Arthur's shoulder, perching herself on it and making him smile at her bid for his interest.
"It is good of you, girls," he said gently, "to keep a lonely old man company."
The copper-coloured fairy smiled at him, rising again; she scampered across his hand and took flight again as she reached his wrist, fluttering away out of his sight. She came back a moment later with a little twig, probably the largest one she could carry, and put it on his hand – a gift for him.
He had a glass bowl on a shelf in the kitchen full of the little gifts the fairies had given him over the years – seeds and flowers, long dried out by now, and empty snail shells with pretty patterns on them and pieces of grass knotted into intricate shapes and flimsy shreds of the wings of dead butterflies, the colour in them still brilliant and beautiful. He treasured every little thing they gave him and would put the twig into the bowl with everything else.
The brunette fairy, not about to be outdone, soared away herself and returned with a thorn broken off the rosebush corpse, dropping it into his outstretched palm as she landed on his fingertips and waited for his approval.
"Thankyou," he said; his smile was never forced with the fairies, coming naturally at their every small attempt to make him happy. He never got angry or frustrated or bitter with them, for he found them to be far less disagreeable than people.
He moved to put the little presents in his cardigan pocket; the brunette fairy flitted off his hand and went back to his shoulder, settling comfortably in the dip of it. The copper-haired fairy scurried lightly up his arm, half-flying so that he barely felt her, and came to kiss him on the cheek; he watched the other three, now curiously investigating the teapot and little milk pitcher, as she did so.
He had always thought it rather peculiar that he drew them towards himself despite the fact that he had always done so – fairies and other fantastical beings that spilled out of myths to ease his loneliness, gnomes and goblins and unicorns like the one opposite his lion on Great Britain's royal crest. He had had no friends as a child, even more isolated than he was now and uninvolved in the border-wars of the continent, with only Francis turning up now and then to remind him who was in charge now that Rome had buggered off. Perhaps these creatures could not have suffered to see a child with no-one to play with or talk to and that was why they had come to him to be his companions all those centuries ago – but time and age seemed not to have affected his ability to attract them. Even at the very height of his power as an Empire, when he had become ruthless and pitiless and shameless in his greed, these gentle beings of such delicate exquisiteness had shone brighter still in his hands than any Mughal ruby or gold goblet; when everyone around him was afraid of crossing him, the unicorns still nudged at him for food and the fairies still gave him gifts of empty nutshells.
Once, looking at a beautiful illustration of a fairy in one of Arthur's books – of Queen Mab from Mercutio's fantastical speech in Romeo and Juliet, in fact – Alfred had pretended to look Arthur up and down before jokingly asking what they saw in him.
("I mean, really, what's someone like her doing hanging around you, Artie?" Alfred teased, his chin propped on one hand.
"They are not human, Alfred," Arthur replied absently – in one of his literature-induced dreamy moods where he didn't tell Alfred to shut up every two minutes. "They are not indifferent to the absences in the hearts of others as we are.")
Still, how peculiar of Alfred to comment when it was clear that he didn't believe in what he couldn't see – ironic, given that he was short-sighted – and also when Arthur had been at his loneliest when Alfred had left him back in 1775. Before Alfred, Arthur had never minded having only fairyfolk as his friends; in Alfred's absence, though he was glad of their company, Arthur had found himself lonelier than ever, having now known the constant companionship of another. There was no conversation to be had with fairies, no activity to be done with them and no game to be played with them; they could not be walked with or dined with or even simply read with. When he read in their presence, they landed on the page and cast their shadows over it, admiring the pictures like ornate carpets laid out beneath their tiny feet; when he had read to Alfred, the child had given him every scrap of his attention, listening rapturously with wide eyes as he clung to Arthur's every word. Despite his anger and his hurt, he had missed Alfred terribly after the Revolutionary War had driven them apart and Alfred's absence had never been more apparent than when his only reading companions were tiny creatures who had the capacity to love but not to listen.
It was so quiet now because there was no conversation to be had with them.
Still, he had learned a thing or two about aloneness from them and their gentle, ever-offered friendship; they were inhuman and so not indifferent to the absences in the hearts of others, of pain and regret and sorrow. He had learned loneliness from them and they always, always reminded him that, no matter the reason for which they had parted, he never failed to miss Alfred when he was gone.
[Anxious]
Dusk was drawing in close and fast when Arthur finally picked up the phone, resting its weight between his cheek and shoulder as he tried to reign in his growing anxiety and with his forefinger dragged the heavy brass dial around over and over again, an inch here, a whole half-circle there. The thing with Alfred was that he wasn't exactly Mr Popular himself either, far too fond of meddling in other people's business since the end of the war and the beginning of his never-to-return-isolationism-again stance; all of Asia and half of Europe couldn't stand him, even for all his overbearing friendliness, which narrowed down the list of places he might go if cruelly cast out of Arthur's house into the street with only the bomber jacket on his back to shield him from the bitter cold, the poor tragic thing.
"Allo?"
"Good evening, Francis," Arthur said curtly. "Is Matthew there?"
"Oui, he is," Francis drawled on the other end of the crackling line, "but I am afraid he cannot come out to play. It is almost his bedtime, you see."
"Spare me, letch," Arthur bit out. "Put him on. I need to talk to him."
"So rude," Francis muttered; Arthur heard him take the phone away from his ear and call to Matthew in French.
This didn't bode well, Arthur felt. The fact that Francis hadn't immediately crowed down the phone that Alfred appeared to have finally had some sense knocked into him and had come looking for a better lay than Arthur elsewhere meant that Alfred had not stopped by Francis' house at all – and, therefore, that he wasn't there now.
"He comes now," Francis said, addressing Arthur again. "Try not to keep him too long, Arthur, mon ami – I must take him to bed soon or he will be dreadfully cranky in the morning."
"I said spare me," Arthur snapped in disgust – he was still digesting this whole Francis-and-Matthew thing and really didn't care all that much for the mental image.
Francis, however, was already gone, replaced by Matthew's quiet, polite tone a moment later:
"Good evening, Arthur," Matthew said gently. "Is everything alright?"
"Y-well... I..." Arthur paused, winding the cord around his fingers distractedly as he tried to think about how best to word this without sounding terribly anxious – he didn't want to panic Matthew about his brother, after all. "It's... it's Alfred."
"Oh." Matthew's tone conveyed the tiniest sense "Alfred again – story of my life" but he sounded concerned nonetheless. "Is he okay?"
"The thing is... I, ah, I don't know," Arthur said quickly. "I haven't seen him all day. I don't suppose he's made any contact with you – a phonecall, perhaps?"
"Why, no, he hasn't."
"Ah." Arthur's heart sank. "I see."
"Where is he?" Matthew asked, sounding rather anxious himself. "I-I mean... that was a silly question, I know; I meant, where did he go? Did you send him somewhere and he hasn't come back?"
"Not exactly," Arthur mumbled. "We sort of... had an argument—"
"And he stormed out," Matthew interrupted, sighing. "That sounds like Al."
Arthur opened his mouth to speak but paused when he heard a little murmuring of French somewhere in the background. He irritably clenched his fist around the phone cord – he might have known Francis was still lurking around Matthew, listening to the conversation. He was about to simply talk over Francis and take Matthew's attention back but Matthew replied in French, his voice low and quick and worried. Francis gave a deep sigh and addressed Matthew in a dismissive manner; Arthur heard the rattle of the receiver changing hands again a moment later and was on the line with Francis once more before he could protest.
"Arthur, this is agonizing to witness," Francis said wearily. "On one hand I attribute your failure to see what is going on here to your being relatively-new to this relationship business; but, on quite the other, I truly must wonder how you, of all people, can possibly be so blind when it comes to darling Alfred."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Arthur asked, his hackles rising already at the sheer sound of Francis' voice.
"Mon dieu, stupidity has never been attractive on you," Francis groaned. "Let us assume that Yao has a point about Alfred and the way that you treat him – and you will remember of course, that I agreed with Yao's take on the matter even yesterday. The fact is, Arthur, that it is only natural that Alfred will take benefit in the way you behave towards him. He has learned that, if he sulks, he is likely to get what he wants from you – in other words, he has learned to manipulate you and he has learned well. What better way to get you to apologise and fuss over him than if he stays gone all day so that you will worry and quite forget your anger by the time he returns?"
This was hardly news to Arthur, who had noticed controlling tendencies in Alfred before and had most certainly noticed them this morning, Arthur not taking kindly to Alfred's excuse of "It's okay if it's out of love, baby" being the whole reason Alfred had gone stalking off by himself down the street; however, he hated to hear it from Francis almost as much he hated to hear it from Yao (or anyone, really, who picked at Alfred's faults despite the fact that he, Arthur, knew perfectly well that they were there).
"I say, Francis," Arthur said coldly, "I don't recall asking for your opinion on the matter so why don't you jolly well mind your own business!"
"It will be very much my business if you don't keep that beloved brat of yours in hand, Arthur!" Francis snapped. "We are all – how do you say it? – treading on the eggshells at the moment regarding our precarious peace agreements following the war."
"Th... that has nothing to do with Alfred sulking with me!" Arthur said incredulously.
"It is not his actions which alarm me," France conceded. "At least not at the moment. Non, it is rather his behaviour—"
"He can't help it if he doesn't know how to deal with people very well," Arthur cut in without even thinking. "He was isolated for all those years and he got to know the world by fighting those wars—"
"And," Francis drawled boredly, "right on cue, Arthur defends his precious little bundle of innocence. You must understand, mon ami, that I am not accusing Alfred of being evil or of harbouring evil intent; what I am attempting to make you understand that he is not the child that he once was."
Arthur was really quite insulted.
"Of course I know that!" he bit out. "The changes in him are—"
"Do you?" Francis sounded like he was yawning at the other end of the line. "Then why do you treat him as you have always done?"
"I—"
"I shall tell you," Francis said in a low voice. "Because you love him as you have always done – and he knows it. I am familiar with Alfred; I would not call him unkind, nor would I call him cruel or vindictive, and the goodness in him is one that I know you know well. But there are qualities in him that you would rather not see and so you ignore them until it is too late. In the meantime, he takes advantage of the fact that you will probably give him no more reprimand than a stern word or two. His manipulative behaviour – and the fact that he thinks he can get away with anything he likes – is the result of you babying him."
"What would you have me do, turn him over on my knee and spank him the next time he threatens to plunge us all into Nuclear Armageddon?" Arthur seethed. "Besides, you heard him yesterday, Francis. He apologised for the repercussions of nuclear armament and the problems it's caused everyone!"
The fact that Francis didn't immediately latch onto Arthur suggesting that he spank Alfred and turn it into a lewd insinuation was probably a cause for concern; Francis merely sighed again on the other end of the line, probably massaging his brow in that stupid melodramatic Les Misérables way of his.
"Very well," he said stiffly. "I see that there is no getting through to you. My advice to you, Arthur, is not to worry too much about Alfred and his whereabouts – I am certain he will come back to you when he feels that he has been gone long enough to satisfactorily make you sick with anxiety. Au revoir."
Arthur had wanted to talk to Matthew again and didn't appreciate being hung up on, particularly not by Francis; still, phonecalls were expensive and it wasn't worth ringing back to yell at Francis to never hang up on him ever again. He dropped the phone back into the receiver with a heavy sigh, hating to admit to himself that Francis probably had a point, no matter how rude and nosy and downright annoying he was. Alfred was perfectly capable of looking after himself and probably was just staying away from the house to make Arthur feel guilty about shouting at him.
Furthermore, regardless of how annoyed he was at Francis for instigating – something the Frenchman was awfully good at – Arthur couldn't help but feel rather idiotic for defending Alfred to the death whenever Francis suggested that he was anything less than a saint when he, Arthur, was actually very annoyed with Alfred for exactly the same manipulative behaviour that Francis was accusing him of.
That, after all, had been the cause of their argument to begin with.
Still... He couldn't help it. He couldn't help anxiously glancing at the window every time a shadow flickered past or listening for the lock on the front door going. He couldn't help still loving Alfred as wholly and as protectively as if he was his child—
Even if Alfred took advantage of it.
[Anger]
Arthur was rewriting his list of proposals for funding to be taken into effect in January, 1955, in his best handwriting – the action of smoothly forming every letter to the very best of his capability taking up all of his attention and thus keeping him calm – when he heard the front door open at long last.
A sense of relief washed over him before he could quash it as he glanced at the clock on his study wall – it was almost ten at night. Alfred had been gone for something like twelve hours and Arthur was enormously glad that he'd at last made a reappearance.
Still... He composed himself, sobering again, perfectly of the mind that Alfred had stayed out of the house so long to get a reaction from him. Francis was infuriatingly right – Alfred had sulking down to an exact science and had doubtless deliberately tried to worry Arthur with his prolonged absence as pay-back. Alfred wasn't truly spiteful but he was childish at times and it was the sort of thing a child would do.
So Arthur wasn't going to run to him and fling his arms around his neck and ask where he had been; he wasn't going to say he had been worried sick that something had happened to him, he wasn't going to make him promise not to do it again and he certainly wasn't going to say he was sorry for shouting at him.
He went back to writing, far more slowly this time but determined to appear nonchalant and unruffled when Alfred came so triumphantly upon him, ready to bask in the gush of Arthur's apologetic concern; he listened to the steady thud of Alfred climbing the stairs, noting that his pace was slower than normal but knowing it was him by how heavy the footfalls were.
Alfred came along the landing, pausing every now and then to – presumably – lean into every room, hunting for Arthur; he had apparently run out of patience by the time he got to the study, for he barely knocked before opening the door and leaning in.
Arthur diligently kept writing.
"There you are," Alfred said.
"Here I am," Arthur agreed blandly, not looking up.
"Um... well, I'm back," Alfred went on, sounding a bit thrown off.
"I can see that," Arthur replied.
"How can you see it? You haven't even looked at me."
Arthur looked up very slowly, taking his time about it. Alfred was standing in the doorway, one hand on the door handle and the other in the pocket of his bomber jacket. Arthur wasn't quite sure why but his attention was immediately drawn to Alfred's glasses. The crack was gone. He must have gotten them fixed sometime today.
"I can now see that you are indeed back," Arthur said flatly, "as opposed to before, when I wasn't quite sure and thought I was just hearing things."
Alfred looked as though he was on the verge of saying something like "Well, it wouldn't be the first time"; but he appeared to restrain himself, leaning against the doorframe.
"Still grumpy, I see," he said. "Look, I'm sorry if I worried you."
"Worried?" Arthur went back to his work. "I barely noticed you were gone."
"Arthur, you are so bad at lying."
"Well then," Arthur said frostily, "in that case I apologise that I am not as accomplished at underhandedness as you are."
"This again?" Alfred sighed as he pushed off the doorframe, stepping into the room. "Arthur, I'm sorry about the whole Alfie-thing, okay? I'm sorry about every stupid teeny-tiny thing I've done to upset you so take a chill pill already, will you?"
"You're not sorry," Arthur said coldly. "You're not sorry about it because you think I'm overreacting and there's nothing for you to be sorry about – you're only apologising because you think it's what I want to hear and it will stop me being angry with you."
Alfred snorted irritably.
"Well, it is, isn't it?" he asked coolly.
"I only want to hear it if you mean it, Alfred." Arthur restrained himself from rolling his eyes as he said it – honestly, it was like explaining things to a toddler...
"Of course I mean it!" Alfred burst out. "Okay, yeah, I admit, I think you're busting a gut a bit much over this – I mean, I really didn't intend to... to brainwash you or manipulate you or whatever, I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable or that I was trying to make you do what I want regardless of how you feel." He sighed again, sounding exasperated. "God, Arthur, how long have you known me? I don't think anyone is as close to me as you are. You know I would never do that to you!"
"I—" Arthur began uncomfortably.
"Wait, let me finish," Alfred interrupted. "What I'm saying is... that I had time to think about stuff today when I was wandering around looking at all your neat landmarks. I guess I overreacted too. I didn't mean to upset you and... now that I think about it, I guess I wouldn't be too happy if I thought someone was trying to make me do something I probably wouldn't do otherwise. I don't think I'd flip out like you did this morning – unless it was Ivan, of course – but I can kind of see where you're coming from now and I'm sorry I made you feel like that."
There. That was it. That was all Arthur had wanted. Relieved, forgetting about everything Francis had said, he rose from his seat and came around the desk, ready to accept Alfred's apology and perhaps return the favour—
"In fact," Alfred went on, ignoring the fact that Arthur was approaching him as he began to rifle in his pocket, "I was thinking about a lot of stuff today – I think I needed to get out by myself to clear my head – and I came to a decision since we have that Special Relationship thing your boss came up with going and all, so..."
Oh. Oh no. Arthur froze as he saw the little velvet box come out of Alfred's pocket and actually took a step or two backwards as it was opened in front of him. Something gleamed inside it, brilliant by the light of his desk lamp, but he didn't even look at it.
Alfred always had to spoil everything by overstepping the mark, didn't he?
"How about it, Artie?" Alfred seemed oblivious to the fact that Arthur refused to even glance at the ring.
"Arthur," Arthur corrected in a low voice. It was all he could say as the rage began to build inside him again. He hadn't thought Alfred was quite this manipulative...
Alfred blinked.
"What?"
"I said my name is Arthur," Arthur bit out, still not looking in his direction.
"Okay, Arthur," Alfred said, beginning to sound uneasy. "...Is that a yes?"
The gall of him was unbelievable. Arthur clenched his fists and counted inside his head to calm himself down.
"Of course it's not a yes," he replied tersely. He took a deep breath. "Why are you doing this, Alfred? Why now, why today, completely... out of the blue like this?"
"It's not out of the blue!" Alfred protested. "I have mentioned marriage before and you said—"
"That it was something I'd rather discuss at a time when my knickers weren't around my ankles."
"Well," Alfred said expressionlessly, "it doesn't look to me like they're around your ankles now." He quirked an eyebrow. "Unless you want them to be."
"Don't turn this into a joke!" Arthur seethed; he reached out and snapped the ring box shut. "Put that away – I'm not marrying you. I don't know why you're even asking me."
Alfred looked very hurt, clutching the blue velvet box in his palm.
"Because I love you!" he said incredulously. "Why else would I ask you to marry me?"
Something in Arthur snapped.
"Oh, let's see, shall we?" he asked angrily. "Attempting to win your way back into my favour with a romantic gesture and a ring, perhaps – I mean, for all you knew, simply saying you were sorry might not have cut it! I am aware that you like to play the fool, Alfred, but let's not forget just how well I know you – you're just as sly as anyone else when you want your own way."
Alfred looked stunned.
"...Are you serious?" he choked out eventually. "Do you really think I would go to all this trouble just to get you to stop being pissed off at me? I mean, first of all, that's totally stupid, I know you just wanted me to apologise and I didn't have to do this; and secondly, do you know how much this ring cost? If I wasn't serious and was just doing this to win you back again, I sure as hell wouldn't have bought such an expensive ring!"
"Oh, money again!" Arthur exploded. "Well, enjoy your prosperity while you can, Alfred, because it won't last much longer if you keep trying to buy your way into my good books!"
"How can you say that when you won't even look at it?" Alfred snapped, clutching the closed box tighter in his hand.
"I won't look at it because I don't want it! I don't care how much it cost you, I don't care how many first-edition copies of Peter Pan you can buy me or how many flashy Walt Disney premieres you can take me to! Why do you have to constantly remind me that things aren't the way they used to be? Everything has changed and I have to accept that even if I don't like it – I know I was greedy when I was an Empire but you don't have to court me that way to make me happy!"
"Then how do I make you happy, Arthur?" Alfred asked flatly, finally putting the ring back in his pocket. "Tell me, because I've just realised that I have absolutely no idea how to please you. You throw everything I do for you back in my face."
"Well, you can start by not mocking me!"
"How am I mocking you?" Alfred looked like he was on the verge of tearing out his hair. "Jesus H. Christ, Arthur – you are, without a doubt, completely crazy. I can't do anything for you without you jumping to some kind of stupid conclusion – no wonder you like those fucking Sherlock Holmes books so much, always running around accusing me of stuff like you're some kind of detective yourself!"
"Oh, I'm crazy, am I?" Arthur spat. "Asking me to marry you, making me think that a ring has sealed it, that you'll be mine forever... Do you think I'm stupid, Alfred? We've been there already, haven't we? Don't ridicule me with a wedding ring when you've left me before!"
"Why do you always have to bring that up?" Alfred threw back at him. "It was so long ago and everything was different back then – it's not like we were married or anything, hell, we weren't even together, it was just this whole ruler-colony thing—"
"That doesn't matter!" Arthur yelled at him, barely able to restrain himself. "My God, why do you think details like that matter? You broke my heart and nothing will ever change that!"
"Okay, whoa, you aren't even making any sense," Alfred said exasperatedly. "I left you like a century and a half ago, we're together now and have been for twelve years, I ask you to marry me so that we'll always be together and you say no because I left you like a century and a half ago." He shook his head almost desperately. "I had no idea you were this insecure."
"Why shouldn't I be? I thought you loved me back then and it didn't stop you walking away from me!"
"Arthur, I'm not going to leave you, for God's sake," Alfred groaned. "Why are you being like this all of a sudden? You've been skittish and quiet all week – are you really telling me that it's because you think one day I'm going to decide I don't want you anymore because I feel like I can do better?"
Hearing Alfred say it touched a nerve. Arthur knew he was going to cry and turned away, trying to stifle the quiet sobs with his hand. He hated weeping in front of Alfred but for some reason... Alfred was good at making him cry, even if he didn't mean to.
He heard Alfred move behind him and felt his large hands rest on his shoulders a moment later.
"Artie—"
"My name is Arthur!" Arthur screeched, completely losing his temper. He couldn't remember ever being this angry – at least not during the twelve years he and Alfred had been together. "Are you fucking deaf, Alfred?"
Alfred recoiled, taking his hands off Arthur's shoulders. Arthur dipped his head as Alfred moved away from him, the first tears hitting the rich red carpet; he wasn't just angry at Alfred, also at himself for his stupid pride, at Francis for making him think further ill of Alfred, because they spoke the same language and yet couldn't seem to communicate at all.
Possessing patience when the occasion called for it, Alfred had it in him to try once more:
"Please don't cry, Arthur," he said quietly. "Look, if you want to talk—"
"Get out," Arthur hissed, not turning to him. He couldn't, couldn't stand for Alfred to be kind to him; his gentle tone ran all over Arthur's skin and burrowed under it and made him shudder with guilt and anger.
Alfred sighed heavily.
"Fine," he said. He turned on his heel and left the study, Arthur watching his shadow retreat on the opposite wall. "Goodnight."
Arthur listened for him on the stairs, for perhaps the slam of the front door again; but all he heard was the door at the other end of the hall open and then close again. Alfred had gone into the guest bedroom.
Arthur went back to his desk and sat down, suddenly exhausted; he wiped at his face on the sleeve of his cardigan as he reached for his pen with his other hand. He didn't feel much like working anymore but he had to get it done for the meeting tomorrow morning, anger be damned.
The first few words he wrote were wobbly. He hadn't formed letters so shakily in a long time, not even first thing in the morning.
Looking at them, small and sickly on the page, he realised that he had had no idea he was this insecure either.
...That could have gone better, amirite? Poor Alfred – not the result he was hoping for. :(
Also: This is what it was like back in the day before iPhones! Lawl, I love those old circle-dial phones...
Hands up for a historical inaccuracy:Marriage (or civil partnership) between two members of the same gender was not legal in the 1950s. As far as Alfie and Artie go, it became legal in the United States in 2004 (in Massachusetts, the first state to allow same-sex marriages) and legal in the United Kingdom also in 2004. However... I wanted to put it in because I've always felt that marriage between two characters in a Hetalia context isn't *quite* the same as a marriage between two people in what we might call the "real world" and does, in fact, represent an alliance (like Austria and Hungary's canon marriage representing the Austro-Hungarian Empire). Yes, Alfred proposed out of love but a marriage between him and Arthur would reflect the Special Relationship and the USUK military alliance, which were both very strong in the aftermath of WWII. So, yes, that's the one historical fact I am ignoring with this fic, haha (and besides, I maintain that Winston Churchill – Arthur's boss – would approve. Heartily.)
Les Misérables is two things, one a long-running French, West-End and Broadway show – it first premiered in 1980 in France and, being still on stage in London's West End, has been running for 25 years. Yes, it's not as old as the 1950s and the show, therefore, is not what Arthur was referring to when observing Francis' melodramatic ways; he was thinking of the original novel Les Misérables, first published in 1862 and written by Victor Hugo (who also wrote The Hunchback of Notre Dame).
Piccadilly Circus is a borough of London (and not an actual circus, despite the name).
On Arthur crying: His being reduced to tears is kind of canon, lolololol. I don't know how well this reflects on my actual country but it seems to me like Arthur/England is kind of a crybaby over certain things (mostly to do with America) in the series. XD
Alfred has only one chapter left to win back Arthur's affection – a tall order given that the ultimate romantic gesture didn't work – and get a result from his master plan. Can he do it now that Arthur's post-Imperialism insecurities are beginning to unravel their relationship?
Stay tuned to find out next Friday – same Bat-time, same Bat-channel!
XD
RobinRocks xXx
P.S: Sherlock Holmes and Mercutio strike again. -_-