"That smells like shit."

Arthur tossed a quizzical glance over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow at his friend. The blonde was sprawled across the couch, a general air of Not-Giving-A-Fuck radiating from around him ( Arthur knew better) as he looked idly around the dark room. He probably couldn't see Arthur's questioning expression, but he clearly sensed something, because he raised an eyebrow in return. "What?"

"…It smells like sugar cookies."

"I know," Alfred moaned, rolling over and pressing his face into the back of the couch. His response was muffled and longing. "But if I pretend it smells bad, maybe I won't get hungry."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Dumbass."

"So I've been told," Alfred rolled so that he was facing Arthur again, "Why don't you have a lighter? You're, like, the only person I know who uses matches."

"Because my mother told me to always play with matches," Arthur said sarcastically, scratching another match against the packet. The room was ringed with candles, most of which had been pulled from either Arthur's room or his parents' room, in a series of painful and difficult escapades into each territory. Arthur's room was far cleaner than his parents, but unearthing the long sticks and candelabras from his closet (a few of the many remaining traces of Arthur's occult phase) was another matter entirely. The room now smelled like a variety of aromas, some of which smelled delicious and some of which smelled… sub-par. Or waxy. Alfred wasn't fond of it, and tried to stay away from Arthur's candelabras. He claimed that all they needed was a skylight and a virgin, and they would be set for selling their souls to the devil (Arthur disagreed - it was a far simpler task than Alfred made it out to be; his Grimoire even said so).

"Annnd…. Here we go. Last ones." Arthur struck the match out, and turned to look at Alfred. He spread his arms in a flourish, motioning to all the candles. " 'Then God said, "Let there be light"; and there was light.'"

Alfred frowned. "I didn't know you were Jewish."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "I'm not. That was just from the bible."

"Oh." Alfred frowned again. "Then why do you have a Menorah?"

Arthur turned, looking at the object in question. It was sitting peacefully on the small table between two recliners, blazing in all its nine-candled glory. "That is an excellent question, Alfred."

Alfred nodded. He slid from the couch to the floor, and sat criss-cross applesauce, holding a couch pillow to his stomach. He pulled his laptop towards himself, and watched with a determined look as the screen lit up, casting him in a bluish light. Arthur didn't find it a very attractive color, not with all the real candles in the room. Alfred muttered a swear word.

"What is it?" Arthur asked, flopping onto the carpet next to Alfred. He reclined back against the couch.

"The internet isn't working." Alfred told him unhappily. Arthur let out a small snort, and rolled his eyes.

"No shit. Just play some music or something. If you're going to kill the battery, you might as well put something on anyway."

"Nah, five seconds from dying anyway." Alfred turned the laptop off and slid it away from himself on the floor. He stretched out with an unsatisfied sigh and glared at one of the candles childishly.

Arthur stood up and flopped directly onto the couch, one arm beneath his head. He could hear the storm raging outside. There was no lightning, only occasional thunder, and a lot of wind. And rain. The rain was absolutely pounding. Arthur would have preferred if Alfred's laptop hadn't died, because the sound was really getting annoying. Of course, he could still fall asleep with it. Arthur could sleep through anything.

"Hey, Arthur-"

Including Alfred.

"No."

"You don't even know what I was go-"

"I will not let you roast marshmallows over the Menorah in the living room," Arthur said, rolling onto his side to face the back of Alfred's head. "My parents would kill me. There must be some purpose to it, and I'm sure that that purpose has nothing to do with s'mores."

Alfred pouted. Arthur couldn't even see his face, but he could tell he was pouting. When he turned to face Arthur a few seconds later (nearly smashing the back of his head into his friend's nose), Arthur saw that he was right. Alfred spent a few minutes sulking, and Arthur spent a few minutes ignoring him. After a while, Alfred looked at the couch.

"Hey, scoot over."

"What?" Arthur raised an eyebrow and spread himself out a bit more. "No."

"C'mon, just move."

"Alfred-"

He was scooted, albeit against his will. He ended up in a slightly uncomfortable position on the couch, with Alfred attempting to snuggle into his side, while he quipped back that the British didn't "snuggle". Alfred whined. Arthur told him to move to the other fucking couch.

"You're too fucking big for this, Alfred! Move!

"But you're totally scrawny, so it's fine."

"You asshole, get off of the couch!" Arthur attempted to shove him off of it, but Alfred was strong. He, like the idiot he was, wouldn't budge.

"But it's fucking cold!" Alfred whined. "I won't move."

"You idiot. If my parents come home to you and I passed out on the same couch, in a room full of candles, they would definitely think I was gay."

"I don't even see why you keep denying it-"

"Because I'm not gay, you asshole!" Arthur gave one last, futile shove. "Move your ass, Alfred!"

"I won't!" He burrowed further down into the couch, tossing the throw blanket onto the both of them. "Your parents wouldn't even care if you were gay, Arthur! They would just welcome me into the family and bake some brownies."

Baking brownies was how Mrs. Kirkland dealt with problems and achievements alike. Arthur suspected that it was a habit acquired from years of drug usage and a steady supply of marijuana butter in her high school years, but he never directly asked her. Judging by the stories his father told, though, he was inclined to believe that his theory was correct.

"While I'm sure you are correct, I don't think that would be the proper way to come out to my parents."

"You're right. I think you should paint your chest rainbow colored for the next football game and come running onto the field with a banner and some glitter. Don't worry. If you come at me with a flying hug, I'll catch you. We can even give you a dance number."

Arthur smacked Alfred in the face with a pillow. "Thanks, Alfred," he said sarcastically.

"No problem, man. I got your back."

Arthur made a face and pulled the small, green blanket closer to himself. Alfred gave it up almost willingly (so much for being cold). He spent the next few minutes musing over Alfred's sexuality.

"What about Kiku? If anyone could turn you gay, it would probably be Kiku. Nice and calm. Seems like your type."

Arthur burrowed back down into the couch, pulling the blanket to his chin. He looked at Alfred out of the corner of his eyes, and said, very sleepily, "Doubt it."

"Doubt what?"

Arthur's eyelids were getting heavy. "Kiku."

And with that, he fell asleep.

He woke up about ten minutes later and shoved Alfred off of the couch, yelling at the blonde to go blow go out all of the candles. Alfred obliged, ignoring the blowjob jokes that came every so often. By the time he stumbled back to the couch, the room was pitch black, the wind was still howling and the rain still pounding. He stubbed his toe four times, and Arthur hogged the blanket. Mr. and Mrs. Kirkland arrived home the next morning to find the two of them snuggled together on one couch and the room covered in candles. Both of them were puzzled about the Menorah, and Mrs. Kirkland set off toward the kitchen to start on breakfast and a batch of brownies.

AN: This one was fun to write! It's one of the oldest ones.