Alfred always starts his mornings early, five o' clock sharp. Some would say he's crazy for doing so, especially in his old age, but after years of being in the Navy, like many things—such as cracking his knuckles and chewing on the ends of his pencils—it had simply become a habit.
The alarm rings at exactly five and after a few foggy moments of gathering his bearings, Alfred opens his eyes. In the dim morning light, and without the aid of his glasses, his surroundings are indiscernible blobs. He gropes blindly for the snooze button, almost knocking his glasses from the nightstand in the process. Arthur snoring beside him is the only noise in the silence left behind. The awakening sunrise sends streams of pale purples and blues seeping through the curtains, forgiving the hard lines of Arthur's face, laugh lines and wrinkles and crow's feet smoothed away with a trick of the light. He remembers with some bitterness the days when Arthur's skin had been baby soft; when he hadn't needed help walking upstairs, or opening the pickle jar.
But when he catches himself in the middle of this train of thought, he can't help but chuckle. When had he become such a sentimental old man, pining after their youth? He doesn't bother to answer his own silly question, and instead pulls himself from bed, bracing against the nightstand. Slowly, he slips on his glasses, and toes on his slippers, intent on catching Tom and Jerry and making breakfast before Art wakes up.
It's to a dip in the bed, the scent of breakfast, and a kiss to the tip of his nose that wakes Arthur. He opens his eyes blearily to see Alfred staring at him fondly, chilled fingers brushing back his snowy, sleep-mussed hair, "Mornin', sweetheart."
The sunshine sneaking through the window panes nearly blinds him. He scowls. "What the hell do you want, boy?" He practically growls, but sits up anyway.
Alfred chuckles at how Arthur still acts the same after all these years; still treats him like a child despite the fact that he's pushing seventy-three. But Arthur's words lack bite, since his few wisps of hair are sticking up at odd angles and he's rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He looks too adorable, and Alfred can't resist leaning in for another kiss, this time to the lips. Arthur drowsily complies, grumpiness aside.
"Mind telling me why you're up at—" Arthur pauses to glance at the alarm, "seven in the morning?" His thumb gently brushes the cereal crumbs on the corner of Alfred's mouth with a disapproving glare. Alfred merely sticks his tongue out in a great show of maturity.
"I apologize, Your Majesty, for not ensuring that I wipe my Lucky Charms off my lip before I presented myself to you. Would this awesome breakfast that I got up at five to cook for you make it better?" Alfred teases with a waggle of his eyebrows that looks absolutely ridiculous on a man of his age. He reaches for the tray, and sets it on Arthur's lap with a chuckle.
On the tray is an omelet, a childish ketchup heart drawn on its glistening surface, a freshly-picked rose in a narrow vase, and the Sunday newspaper set off to the side. Alfred even made him black tea, and considering the first sip, prepared it perfectly—right down to the steeping time.
"You're such a dolt," he laughs, shaking his head. It's only a mutter, but Alfred catches the quiet, "Thank you," that comes afterward.
Though his lips just barely twitch upward, the lines around Arthur's eyes crinkle like paper. An always-shaking hand curls around the fork, the other reaching for one of Alfred's own.
"Don't mention it," Alfred replies. He leans against a wiry shoulder as Arthur takes a bite of the eggs, turning to the Funnies.
A/N: Just a drabble I did over at the Hetalia Kink Meme a little while ago that I thought I'd post here :)