A/N: Hi there! Hope you all had a good Christmas or, if you're not Christian, that December 25th was a decent day anyhow.
Short chapter is short, and there's probably going to be another short one coming a bit later this week. I hope to get the final chapter up before the end of December so that you can ring in the New Year with porn, as was always intended.
Hope you enjoy!
Arthur used to sing Alfred to sleep. It sounds stupid and childish, more like something a parent would do than a husband, but he did.
When Arthur had first come to work for his family, Alfred would have nightmares all the time. Back then the world seemed so big and so terrifying. Probably just to annoy him, Matt had a habit of talking about all these magical creatures he spent time with, especially this talking bear he'd supposedly taught to attack intruders. That was supposed to be a normal thing to do: you played with magical creatures when you were a kid so that if you needed them later in life they'd be there for you. But how could you play with something you couldn't see that then could, if you pissed it off, kill you without you ever knowing it was there? That was Alfred's problem. Matt kept saying that he'd invited pixies or that stupid bear to sleep in bed with them, and Alfred had no idea if he actually did or not. He was always afraid that he'd roll over in the middle of the night onto the bear and it'd rip him to shreds.
But at least when Matt was there Alfred knew that there was nothing too dangerous. After all, he'd never let anything horrible in the house and even if he did the bear would chase it away. After Matt had gone to be a squire and Mom and Dad were off being generals, though, there was absolutely nothing that would stop a dragon or a faerie or a million other dangerous monsters that he couldn't see from coming in and gobbling him up. But he had to be a man then, he told himself, because he was the only Oxenstierna left in town.
That didn't stop him from crying sometimes, especially on the nights when it was a full moon and he could just see blips of things that weren't there the rest of the time. One night Arthur heard him. However, instead of laughing like Alfred had expected, he asked to sleep next to him (Arthur had always been sweeter when someone was really upset or he was tired so they had a double whammy going at the time). Arthur wrapped his arms around him and sang slowly, gently in his ear. For years, Arthur's presence and voice soothed Alfred to sleep when there was nothing else he could depend on.
Even after they were married things stayed the same to a certain extent. If Alfred was really upset, and sometimes even if he just asked nicely, Arthur would sing to him. His voice was so smooth and he seemed to have a natural talent for knowing what songs to sing and at what speed. As far as Alfred was concerned, Arthur had the most beautiful voice in the world (of course, as far as Alfred was concerned, Arthur had the most beautiful everything in the world, but that was the nature of love) and their son seemed to agree.
Alfred could usually get Peter down. He could tire him out so that he'd only cry for about five minutes before he passed out. At first it had torn at Alfred's heart to hear it at all, but after three months he was starting to not feel like such a monster. He understood that he wasn't doing anything wrong, that it was just something that babies did. But then there were the nights that he just wouldn't stop screaming. That was when Arthur came in.
He sang in the bedroom usually. He'd stand in front of the fireplace and sway in time to whatever he was singing. The types of songs he sang changed too. Normally he started with a fairly upbeat folk song and then slowly transitioned to ones that were slower and deeper, until he finally regressed to something sweet and tuneless that he probably just made up as he was singing, but still felt like it was hundreds of years old.
That night, by the time Arthur set Peter down Alfred was almost asleep too. It had taken longer than usual, but that was just fine. It just meant that he got to hear more and more of Arthur's beautiful voice. He pulled back the blankets and smiled, inviting Arthur to his spot.
Arthur sighed but crawled into bed and allowed himself to settle against Alfred's chest. Alfred didn't miss that dejected, sad look in his eyes. He hadn't missed it for the past few months, no matter how ignorant Arthur believed him to be. He'd tried to let Arthur get better on his own because he knew Arthur hated it when he tried to talk about feelings (he didn't like it either, but he liked his husband getting hurt even less), but no more. He just couldn't take it for another day.
"Arthur," he said gently, not wanting to seem like he was forcing him even if he was, "Talk to me."
"We should be quiet," Arthur said, "Peter needs his sleep."
"Yeah, and you need more than sleep," he tightened his arms around Arthur's waist.
"I don't know what you're talking about. Let's drop this."
"No."
"Alfred, I'm not in the mood to talk."
"That's what I'm worried about."
"Alfred, you know I just don't like talking."
"I know. But I know that you used to love arguing, and I know that you used to love sitting in silence, and I know that you used to love life, and I know that you used to love me."
"Why are you using past tense?"
"Because you don't anymore."
"Of course I do. I'm just tired."
"No. I know that can't be it."
"Well it is."
Alfred placed his forehead on the back of Arthur's neck, "When was the last time you were happy? Not like "my life is utterly complete" kind of happy or even "I just got bread for half price" kind of happy. I mean "I'm in bed with someone I love and it's warm and comfortable" kind of happy."
"I'm in bed with you and Peter and it's warm and comfortable. Happy now?"
"No, because you're not happy."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because I can see it on your face, and when I'm holding you like this I can feel it."
There was a tense silence, and then Arthur said, "What if I've tried to be happy and failed? What if I know that I should be happy, but for some reason I'm just not. What then?"
"Then I can help," he turned Arthur around, "Mom said that this happens sometimes. It happened to him, and he asked around and it happens often enough. It'll go away on its own, but I can still do something. I can't fix it long-term, but I can do my best to make life a little better one day at a time."
"Alfred…"
"I'll do my best, okay? Because you're beautiful and fantastic and I don't want you to be unhappy."
Arthur hugged him tightly, "Thank you," He said quietly, "Thank you so much."
"Hey, save that for when I've actually done something," Alfred smiled, glad that it hadn't dissolved into a shouting match, "So where do you want me to start? Anything you feel bad about?"
"I-I took too long to get Peter to sleep."
"Hey, you did better than me. He was being stubborn today. I wonder who he gets that from, hmm?"
Arthur actually smiled at that.
"There ya go! And even if it took longer, I wouldn't mind. Your voice is beautiful."
"You really think so?"
"I do. If I could only hear one thing for the rest of my life it would be you singing."
"You're just saying that," he blushed and looked away.
"No, it's true. But I'm biased. Even when you get old and your voice turns all tense and scratchy I'll still think it's beautiful."
"Oh, you romantic idiot."
"What else?" Alfred asked, knowing that the insult just meant he was starting to feel better.
"I… My stomach," he admitted.
"What, this?" Alfred climbed down his body and lifted up his shift. He still had a little bit of fat left (but not enough for it to really be noticeable in Alfred's opinion) and some rather prominent stretch marks.
"Yes." He was averting his eyes again, probably not wanting to look.
"Well I don't see nothing wrong."
"Anything."
"No, nothing," Alfred said, not sure if he was correcting Arthur correcting his grammar or correcting the idea that Arthur was unattractive in any way. He cupped Arthur's belly, "I get that you're used to being skinny, but this'll go away soon enough. You're thinner than you were when Peter was born."
"The stretch marks won't leave."
"No, but I actually like them."
"Like them? How the hell could you like them?"
Alfred climbed back up to Arthur's level, "You know what mom calls his?"
"Why would I?"
"Battle scars," Alfred said, ignoring him in favor of running a hand along Arthur's side. "Matt and I would ask him about them when we were younger, and he said that they were battle scars, just like the ones he has all over. But," he smiled and traced some of the actual scars on Arthur's side, "He likes them better than all the others. He said that his normal scars came from hate or stupidity. But these," he ran his fingers over where he knew the stretch marks were, "Come from love. He told us that they come from the fact that he loved dad so much that all of it couldn't stay in just two people."
"Their child was a girl, though."
Alfred shrugged, "It didn't matter. They still gave us their love, same as they would have if we'd actually grown in mom instead of some random woman. But you know what? Even if there was something that actually made you disfigured, just like how you'll never sound ugly, you'll never look ugly either." He took the chance to kiss him slowly and sweetly, trying to impress the point on him even more.
Arthur looked so vulnerable when he pulled away. His cheeks were red, his hands were shaking, his eyes were filled with tears, and he was on his back with his shift pulled up. Alfred wasn't sure if he should offer comfort sex or not, but he knew that he wanted him really, really badly. But, as it turned out, Arthur beat him to it.
He half-smiled and let out a weak laugh, "This is the point where I usually beg you to make love to me, isn't it?"
"Yeah," Alfred said, smiling, "It is."
They kissed again, but Arthur pulled away, "Sorry, love, I don't think I'm up to it tonight."
"That's okay," Alfred said, just slightly put out, "I was warned that this was part of the unhappy thing. But when you change your mind," he grinned and ran his hand along Arthur's thigh (Arthur let out a squeak at that, but Alfred didn't really care. He deserved a little compensation), "You know where to find me, sexy."
"Pervert," Arthur said, but his accusation had no bite to it, and Alfred wondered if he didn't like the little bit of attention in spite of not wanting sex, "I'll let you hold me tonight if you don't try anything funny."
"I'll take that to mean, 'please snuggle with me, dearest husband.'"
"Take it however you want," Arthur said, burying his face in Alfred's shift sleepily.
Alfred lay awake for a little while longer, running his fingers through Arthur's hair and keeping an eye on Peter, making sure that he was still breathing and not waking up, after all even if Arthur was upset somebody still had to do his job. He couldn't last very long next to a snoozing Arthur, though, so soon he fell asleep. That night he dreamed of all the times he'd felt more in love with Arthur than usual, allowing the past and the present to intermingle with possible futures.