A/N: Here's the second and last epilogue… Feel free to pick either one you like better, or if you like them both, I suppose I won't stop you from imagining that they're both possible. I like to think of them as alternates, but that's me.
Alfred watches from his window as they draw closer and closer to the endless grey expanse of the Atlantic, smoke billowing from the engines, knowing perfectly well that it isn't going to be as smooth a landing as the flight crew are making it out to be, giving instructions in disturbingly calm tones.
He braces himself, hoping for the best (but knowing there's no chance), and closes his eyes.
He isn't sure what he expected to see when he opens them again, but a dimly-lit, graffiti-covered brick wall is close to the bottom of the list, along with the sidewalk below it, the narrow street spanning out from there, and the red NO PARKING stripe painted on the curb below his feet. He turns around curiously and finds more brick behind him, and, a few feet away, a set of steps leading up to a nondescript metal door in the same wall with an unlit neon sign above it that he can't read in the dark.
Weird.
He's a little worried, because he's pretty sure that this is not heaven, and if that's the case, he's not really sure that he's prepared for the consequences.
And he's worried enough that he misses said nondescript metal door opening, the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and barely manages to register the shouted swear word in time to reach out, grab a handful of satin-backed vest, and save whoever-this-graceful-guy-is from faceplanting on the asphalt. He doesn't even look up until he hears the Thanks for that, mate, but remembering that it's always best to be polite, he smiles, and says, "No prob."
It clicks almost before the words are out of his mouth.
The sign above the door buzzes and flickers back to life, a bold 1607 glowing blue above them, and Alfred turns to find messy blond hair, green eyes, two enormous eyebrows, and the most amazing, beautiful, wonderful, impossible sight that Alfred has ever seen in his life or death or whatever the heck is going on with his state of vitality at the moment—but that doesn't matter because Arthur is here. Standing right next to him. Alive.
Arthur faces back towards the street, ears turning red.
And Alfred stares.
He stares, and he stares, and then he stares a bit more, mind positively reeling. The only coherent thoughts he can manage to pick out of the euphoric mess in his head are just variations on ArthurArthurArthurohGodArthur, and after who-knows-how-long, he finally thinks to make sure that he's not actually saying it (thankfully, he's just gaping silently).
He quickly snaps his mouth shut, but he can't bear to look away, not with the man standing there alive and breathing and absolutely gorgeous, posture impeccable even while slightly inebriated. The light dusting of freckles over his nose and cheeks fascinates Alfred for a moment, and then he's stuck on those perfect pink lips—
And a sudden flash of green his way has him looking off down the street in the opposite direction, scratching at the back of his head in an attempt to be nonchalant. Close call, but then it's only a matter of moments before he's peeking out the corner of his eye, taking in the white Oxford, sleeves rolled to the elbow, his arms crossed over the pinstriped vest and dark green tie… and dear lord those oh-so-slim-fitting dark jeans… His heart is pounding in his chest, stomach fluttering uncontrollably, and—shit, Arthur's looked back at him again.
There's no way he can brush this one off… He's been caught—not just looking but checking the man out for Christ's sake. The way Arthur's staring at him is incredibly unnerving, eyes wide and unbelieving but somehow dangerous, and Alfred panics for a moment (he'd never come out and said it plainly in the journal, but it's quite clear that he'd never been the most peaceable person, even when sober).
But suddenly, inspiration arrives.
Alfred takes a deep breath and hopes to God that after four years, apparently dying, and being tossed into whatever this unbelievable do-over thing is, he's still got that charm he always pretended didn't exist.
And then he smiles.
He doesn't think it through, but this is his sincerest and best smile, slightly apologetic, but confident all the same.
Arthur's face promptly turns several intense shades of red.
"Mon cher! There you are!"
Both of them jump, and Alfred watches in endless amusement as Arthur bristles like a cat, brows furrowing, fists clenching, and then rounds on who he can only assume to be Francis, Antonio, and Gilbert.
"TOOK YOU LONG ENOUGH!" he roars (and Alfred tells himself that it's not all that pathetic for him to feel a thrill at the sound of his voice, even if he's shouting, and even if he's doing so at someone else).
Francis (at least, Alfred thinks it's Francis) pauses on the steps a moment, eyes slowly shifting from still-flushed Arthur to Alfred (who immediately feels rather naked), and a smirk begins to spread across his face. Before he can say anything, though, Arthur marches forward, announces, "We're leaving!" and shoves them all in the opposite direction.
Alfred realizes now that he's grinning like an idiot, but more importantly, Arthur is leaving.
"Hey! Wait!" he yells, then curses himself when all four of them turn back around, and he's got nothing to say. Arthur's still red (Alfred will never get tired of that, he swears mentally) but looking less murderous, so he just tosses out the first thing to come to mind.
"Uh… See you around?" he says, hopeful. He barely registers the o-hon-hon! and obvious smirks from the other three, focusing instead on the way that Arthur looks like he's going to spontaneously combust, and holds his breath.
It takes a few terrifying seconds, but Arthur finally manages a nod, then immediately retreats, dragging his drinking buddies behind him.
Too good to be true, he'd thought. Too impossibly good. It was just some crazy, desperate scenario his brain had conjured in his final moments there on the plane, he'd been sure.
He'd barely made it down the street to the parking lot, not at all surprised to find his Jeep waiting, and his keys, wallet, and old cell phone in his pockets. He'd found his brother curled up on his couch once he got home, and Matthew had found Alfred's jaw with his fist after the sudden tackle and hug, as he'd been very much asleep.
Despite being positive that it was only a dream, Alfred wakes up the next morning (on the floor, tangled in his sheets, his twin sprawled across the whole of his bed and snoring), everything as it had been the night before, as it had been more than four years ago.
The only thing out of place is the worn, leather-bound and bookmarked journal on his bedside table.
Alfred lets his head drop back to the floor with a thud, ignoring the pain and the grumble from Matthew up on the bed in favor of letting that old ache in his chest swell into something more, something warm, something hopeful.
He's got places to be tonight, he realizes, and people to (literally) bump into.
A/N2: So that does it for this fic. Thanks so much to everyone that's followed along, faved, and reviewed. Love to you all, and I hope you enjoyed it~
