Morning was well broken in when Alasdair awoke to clattering in the kitchen and an empty bed. He took a moment to close his eyes again and shift, comfortable enough where he was shielded from the cold and too bright morning sun, and relaxed for a while longer. It was palatable, he'd admit if prodded, to wake up in Arthur's bed without so much of a hurry, and the sound of unwieldy hustling downstairs, the faint scent of tea and burnt toast luring him into alertness. It was precisely that, and the grumbling of his stomach, that finally got him out of bed. Making quick work of yesterday's boxer briefs, as they were the first thing his eyes feel upon (joggers lost somewhere between the sheets), he padded barefooted down the stairs and headed straight for the kitchen, which promised food amongst other things.
Walking in to find Arthur freshly showered and fully dressed, standing by the counter, his hands busied with preparing breakfast, wasn't anything remarkable. He'd rolled up his sleeves and had yet to fasten the tie that hung loose around his neck, but looked noticeably sharper than he had the night before, product of a good night's rest. It may have been that or perhaps the relaxed slant of Arthur's shoulders as he stood in aureate sunlight, that made Scotland feel inclined to wax poetic when the other bid him a pleasant good morning without turning away from his task, settling instead to pressing a sluggish kiss to England's temple, and moving on to slouch on one of the chairs around the breakfast table. A plate of toast was already set on the wooden surface and Scotland was quick to snatch one as England approached with only one plate of food in hand.
"I already ate" he answered before Scotland had the chance to ask, and set the plate in front of the scot.
"I'll cook tomorrow" Alasdair offered as a way of thanks around a mouthful of toast.
Arthur and Alasdair were both similarly graced with (arguably) standard cooking skills, but measured a decent eight or nein in a ten scale regarding to breakfasts exclusively. Likely, it rooted back to the fact that Wales (by far the most proficient cook) was a too early riser, beating even England at the best of times, and therefore refused to start brewing her first cup of tea any later that seven in the morning. Any prospect of a later breakfast depended on whoever took it upon his self to provide the rest of the family with a filling meal, or was left alone for each individual to solve.
"How gracious of you" Arthur replied without missing a beat and seating down across from the eldest. "I'll pass by the market on my way home, then."
"Ye coming in late?" Scotland inquired, taking a bite from the eggs on his plate.
"Not if I can help it, " Arthur promised, more to himself than to the man sitting opposite to him. "I'll just pick up whatever it is they need me to oversee and bring it back with me. I'd much rather work here than anywhere near Parliament, today," he took a sip from a steaming cup of Earl Grey before adding as an afterthought. "And you're here."
Alasdair hummed his assent and allowed himself a brief moment of reasonable smugness.
"Ye missed me, laddie?"
Arthur scoffed and slid the saltshaker to the other side of the table for Scotland to catch. Standard cooking skills or not, the eggs were still quite bland.
"Hardly" he assured the red head with a smirk of his own.
(Had England answered with a 'yes', Scotland would have concurred, but neither felt it necessary to point out.)
"Ye wound me."
"Good."
Alasdair looked up from where he was thoroughly coating his food with more sodium than was healthy to Arthur's cool countenance and impish eyes. Nonchalantly stretching his legs underneath the table, he trapped England's calced feet between his own bare ones, and tugged on them, pulling them until they where half way between the both of them. Arthur arched an eyebrow but otherwise kept still, apparently content with their new position.
The rest of breakfast was spent in silence, save for the commonplace tinkering of silverware and occasional offhand remark about the weather. England had to eventually untangle his feet from Scotland's, earning himself a grunt, to go and set his cup in the sink.
"America came tae see ye last night" Alasdair informed to Arthur's turned back.
England veered to look at his brother and frowned.
"Aye. Havered on about some urgent matter 'e had with ye. Rattled the whole house with his knocking. I'm surprised ye didn't hear us" Alasdair gulped the last of his tea and stood to join Arthur by the sink with his soiled tableware. "I'll do the dishes."
"Suit yourself" England pecked Scotland's shoulder distractedly and stepped around him to reach for a manila folder at the far end of the counter and leafing through the documents inside. "I can't imagine America wanting anything too important. Whatever it was, he's probably forgotten. Brilliant as that boy is, and as agreeable as he has been acting these past few months, he could learn some restraint," there was a beat of silence. When he spoke again, he did so casually, distrait. "I'll tidy up the bedroom later, as I expect it we will make a right mess of it soon enough. We've yet to shag properly and I'm quite intent on riding you into the mattress the moment I get back."
A plate clattered from out of Alasdair's hands. Arthur simpered, and didn't have to wait long for a reaction.
"Ah ya bastard!" Scotland roared and darted to catch Arthur, wet hands dripping on the kitchen floor, only to miss and crash into the counter when the Englishman sped past him.
Seeing that the kitchen was much too small for their antics, the chase transitioned to the living room with the odds pointing to Arthur's favour, more so when Alasdair slipped on the discarded documents that had been dropped in the mad dash away from the scot's arms the moment they had passed the threshold. If anything, it proved to be a minor delay; Alasdair may not have been the most gracious man, but his stance was sturdy and it took more than just slip for him to loose his footing, On the other hand, Arthur was as quick to run as he was quick to think himself victor, and Scotland knew. So, in a last gamble, he leapt forwards with every intention of tackling Arthur into the armchair behind the blond, who squawked out an indignant string of curses in between his laughter when the scot succeeded, and was cut off only by Alasdair's hungry mouth on his, stealing the breath of his words.
The position they were in was uncomfortable at best, knees and elbows digging into flesh as teeth clacked painfully, but it was all worth the way Scotland flushed red, colour spreading down his neck and chest in a way that was lovely and not so much uncharacteristic as it was new, in the sense that now Arthur was free to cool the burning of Scotland's blush with the cool palm of his hand.
They went no further than that to Arthur's disgruntled relief, and even with the small merry chase they found time to spare before England's departure (who did, in the end, tidy up the upstairs bedroom; going as far as getting the washing machine going while Scotland finished the dishes). There was a fuss to find the old Chevy's car keys and Scotland offered his own along with the often-expressed disapprovement he felt towards England's choice of vehicle. To which England responded with a tasteless line about riding on something else that was Scottish-owned and nearly died laughing when Scotland huffily disappeared upstairs with a two fingered salute as a way of farewell and a glare to match (but watched the Chevy drive off from the second floor window for reasons left unspoken).
Jumping in the shower for a proper scrub, Alasdair indulged on letting the warm water run down his back as he inspected the small print on Arthur's almost depleted, 2-in-1 shampoo, and couldn't find a reason not to use the last of it and then linger under the spray of the showerhead for a while longer. (At some point he decided that if there was one commodity he'd be unwilling to relinquish, it would be running water.)
There was a guest bedroom in the house that Scotland had taken as his own a few decades ago and held a considerable amount of his belongings; mostly odd personal articles, and a few pairs of shirts and trousers, while the books that had originally belonged to him had found a snug place in between Arthur's older favourites downstairs, in the small library he kept next to his study. This arrangement had been made for practicity's sake, and now more than ever it was proving to be a convenient setup, even when the bed was barely touched.
Midday found Alasdair scouring the rows and rows of classics in search of Tales of the Crusaders without any foreseeable success. It took him a while to desist in his search but finally got distracted by a beaten edition of Peveril of the Peak, settling on that title instead and bringing it to the living room with him to kill time. Lately it hadn't been only England that had been buried in paperwork, and a slow paced day was a welcomed blessing. There was a chance, even, that Arthur would be done with work sooner if he offered a hand, and that both would have a few days for themselves. Getting the scunner to cooperate would be the hardest part, but as long as there were no more undesired visits from overseas, Scotland's fun would not be spoiled.
When he heard the sound of distinct knocking on the door, he almost crushed the teacup in his hand.
.
On the other hand, Arthur made it to Downing Street in half the time he thought he would make, but any time he'd saved was soon proved worthless by the slow running governmental communication system. Ideally, he would have received his appointed tasks and reasoned with the PM regarding the chosen electoral process in less than an hour or two, then proceeded to the Parliamentary offices to settle a few quarrels and hand in the due batch of paperwork only to be presented with another. With that done, he would have run to the market to grab something neither him nor Scotland would ruin too terribly, and that would be all. He'd head back, and the day would carry on at a milder pace. That, of course, was too wistful thinking on his behalf.
Regardless, he'd finished running whatever errands were sent his way as quickly as quality would allow, and was finished packing his new workload only a couple of hours later than was originally intended. It was only a moment before he left that a secretary caught up to him in his office with a message from the front desk.
She'd rapped gently on the doorframe and Arthur had politely motioned for her to come in and speak. To say he was surprised would be inaccurate; to say he was pleased, even more so.
"Sir, there's a man here to see you; a Mr Jones. Shall I send him in?"
.
.
.
Scotland cursed under his breath when he went to open the door, expecting to find America standing on the other side, and bracing himself for yet another confrontation with the loud-mouthed rocket. Opening the door to find a wide-eyed Wales was not what Scotland had expected.
"Cariad," it took Alasdair a moment to greet the young woman in the threshold.
"Good morning to you, Alasdair," Wales smiled kindly, as was her usual fashion, but her eyes were inquisitive. "Seen a dreary sight, have you?"
"Only you," Scotland stepped aside to let her in and closed the door with a considerable amount of care compared to the way he'd thrown it open. "Tea?"
"No, thank you. I've just drank a week's worth on the ride here." she followed Scotland into the living room and remained standing when the man sat.
"As you like."
"I thought you'd be heading north by now," Cariad walked to the back of the room, where a bookshelf stood, and after a quick survey pulled out a thick volume on Iberian folklore. "Decided to stay for a while?"
"For as long as the lad will have me," Scotland confirmed in jest.
"Then I'd suggest you pack a bigger bag, or pack a small bundle here and take Arthur back with you."
Scotland snorted.
"The lad would kick me out in a week's time. I get on his nerves too often" he proclaimed proudly.
"Aye, that you do. But you also do more good than harm," Wales set the book on the coffee table. "Arthur's happier when you drop by. And your temper becomes a lot easier to deal with. You rub off on each other."
"Can be," Scotland allowed. "Ye still have business here?"
"I need the PM's signature on some documents, yes; and then I'm taking a long, lovely, blissful holiday by the sea, with that lovely anthology there," Cariad dropped ungracefully on a green stripped loveseat with a sigh. "And they can all piss off: MPs, PM, every government official. The bloody Queen can piss off," she leant back on the backrest and looked terribly dishevelled even in the pencil skirt and white blouse that she had donned for the day. Loose strands of dark hair slipping form the braided bun that had loosened since yesterday, and spoke volumes of how she had spent the night.
Scotland groaned to himself and regretted his decision before going through with it.
"Would you like me to drive you there?"
Cariad's fair smile made him regret it less, but then she was up and walking to the door with the book under her arm.
"No. You better be here when Arthur comes back," she stopped and turned to look at Alasdair, like she wanted to add something else, but settled for silence and wider smile.
The door shut behind Wales with a quiet slam, and Scotland felt cheated.
.
"Alfred, whatever it is, make it quick," England cut to the chase the moment America appeared at the other side of the threshold. "I was not expecting your visit, as you might understand, and have more than my fair share of assignments to fulfil."
Arthur's curt tone made Alfred feel much inclined to turning around while he could and forget the impulse that had brought him here altogether. He'd spent a rough night in tight cot in a motel, second guessing everything he'd thought settled after his regretful clash with Scotland, and mulling over all the times he had acted imprudently around England. It seemed more childish than enthusiastic in the light of day, and he'd had too much for breakfast but not nearly enough for lunch in his anxiousness, which left him feeling sick and his head reeling in a strange sort of sensation that urged him to forget. If though of rationally, it couldn't be worth it or prudent to do what he had done and follow through with what he thought he wanted in hopes it was what England wanted too. It was a big risk to be taking in such a short notice.
"Alfred?"
But then there was the way Arthur's brow furrowed, and the tea stain that adorned his left cuff, the pleasant cadence of his voice, whether he was angry or content, and the way he muttered in under his breath in a language that Alfred couldn't understand, but wanted to learn from Arthur's lips. There was black ink rubbed on his index finger and right thumb, and it was the small details like that caught his eye and drew him in.
It was now or never, America realised with a start, and took the last of his motivation to approach the increasingly perplexed country before him and place a hand on the side of his neck.
He went for it, closing his eyes and the distance between them, with a warm feeling in his chest that seemed to pound against his ribs in a pace his heart couldn't possibly match; their lips so close he could feel England's breath brushing his skin…
Only to be immediately pushed back by a sturdy hand on his chest.
Sorry for the absence!
I edited this chapter a bit in this chapter to help move things along in the next one and wrap up.
I'll be posting some oneshots on tumblr (and eventually here). So check 'em out if ya'll want to. Url's eldest-and-youngest-of-three.
Thanks again and until the next time!
-HyfrydCymru