If someone had once told Arthur that he would gladly give everything he had for a set of dry matches, he probably would have rolled his eyes and dismissed them as paranoid. He had listened to that "End of the World" crap for most of his life, mainly from classmates and teenagers and, on one occasion, a particularly insane girlfriend who had begun to excavate a rather expansive bomb shelter underneath her apartment complex. Even now, Arthur would still probably classify people like her as crazy.

Still, Arthur had nearly had a heart attack as he watched Alfred strike their final match not once, but twice, and cuss as nothing happened. Arthur had motioned him over and, praying to a god he had stopped believing in after his dog had been hit by a car when he was twelve years old, Arthur had scratched the match against the packet. Both of them had stared in dumbstruck wonder as it flared to life, staring at the match as though it were the most beautiful thing they had seen in their entire life, laughing small, relieved laughs as the light from the match illuminated each other's faces. After a moment, Alfred had let out a loud whoop, Arthur continued to laugh his nervous, shaky laugh, and then they had quickly tossed it to the makeshift fire, Alfred pouring the final contents of their heavily rationed gasoline can on top. It had flared to life immediately, and Alfred had stepped back so fast he nearly fell, cheering.

Arthur was sitting directly in front of the fire wrapped in a comforter, Alfred's broken down truck a few yards behind him. Alfred was working on keeping the kettle safely situated over the fire, dangling at the end of a crowbar he had retrieved from the back of his truck. Every once in a while the two of them would switch places, each of them doing their part to turn the dirty river water into something worth drinking.

Arthur watched as Alfred pulled the crowbar back from the fire, the end that he was holding wrapped in a scarf to keep it from burning his hand. He set the kettle down gingerly, then dropped the crowbar with far less care. He poured the contents of the kettle into a long canteen in his hand, and then poured some of the water back into the little cup that served as the lid of canteen. Other than the kettle, some assorted silverware, and a few paper plates, it was the only real dish they had, the rest of them having been stolen or lost.

Arthur was staring at the fire when Alfred sat down next to him, gingerly holding the cup out. Arthur carefully took it in his hands, still gloved, thankfully, and took a small drink as Alfred sidled up next to him, pulling the comforter so that it covered both of them. Arthur was surprised to find, instead of just freshly boiled water, the faint taste of cheap, unsweetened tea. The flavor was mediocre and nowhere near strong enough, but to Arthur it was the best taste in the world. He didn't even care that he had practically burned his tongue.

"It's tea," he said in bewilderment, lowering the cup down and looking Alfred. "How-"

Alfred smiled, the light from the fire dancing across his face and warming up his features. The lighting was attractive on him. Arthur had long forgotten that it had been a long time since either of them had a proper shower, or that there had once been a time when neither of them had any dirt on their faces. It just looked natural now.

"Only the best for you, m'dear," Alfred said, smiling his large, lopsided smile. Arthur unconsciously reached up and flicked a piece of hair out of Alfred's face, wishing his glasses weren't so smudged. Still, Alfred's eyes were bright and blue behind them, even in the minimal light of their small fire. "I nicked a bag from that car we found further up the river."

"Oh," Arthur said, not sure how to communicate how incredibly sweet he found that. He passed the cup to Alfred and let his head drop down to lay on Alfred's shoulder. Alfred leaned his head against Arthur's. "I'm sorry we don't have any coffee, Alfred."

Alfred started to shrug but stopped halfway there, apparently remembering that Arthur's head was on his shoulder. "It's fine. I don't hate tea." He took a drink, and even from that angle, Arthur could see him screw up his face a little. Arthur smiled. "It's just horrible. Tastes like England."

Arthur's knees were drawn up toward his body, but Alfred's legs were stretched out a bit. Arthur gave Alfred a small kick, the corner of his foot hitting Alfred's ankle underneath the blanket.

"Nothing wrong with England."

Alfred nudged back with his foot, ever competitive. Still, there was no real venom to Arthur's words or their little battle.

Alfred tilted his head a bit to look at Arthur and smiled. "Yeah. Nothing wrong with England," He said softly. He passed the cup back to Arthur. "Still, coffee would be nice. Or beer."

Arthur gave a small laugh. "Yes, beer. Beer would be nice."

They sat like that for a while, staring at the fire. The damp ground was cold beneath them, but they were warmed by the hot breath of the fire, and by the comforter stretched out to cover both of them, body heat trapped underneath it. They would pass the cup back in forth, both of them taking small sips to preserve what was left. Eventually, Arthur took of his scarf and wrapped it around Alfred's neck, pointing out the fact that Alfred was using his to cup the hot canteen and catch any spilled tea. Alfred had rolled his eyes and resituated Arthur's scarf to wrap around both of their necks, despite the fact that Arthur called him an idiot for doing so. It was long and thick enough anyway, Alfred said.

Every once in a while, there would be faint noise in the distance. Sometimes there would be a slight vibration rippling under the ground. Still, they felt alone there by the fire, the quiet sound of the river reaching them through the trees. In other places there were explosions and noise, people sitting together like them and drinking or sleeping or crying or having sex and spending their final night they way they believed they should. Arthur and Alfred were away from all of that.

Alfred leaned down and gave Arthur a small, chaste kiss on the lips. He resettled himself again, head on top of Arthur's, and used a stick to prod at the fire, slowly diminishing as the night dragged on. "It feels almost like camping," Alfred mused aloud.

"Hmm," Arthur said, trying to scoot even closer to Alfred. Their legs were already somewhat entangled, Alfred's legs extended outward, shoe almost peaking up from under the comforter, Arthur's right leg loosely bent over Alfred's left one. His other leg was pressed tightly to the one arched over Alfred's. They were trying to stay as close and warm as possible. "I've never been camping."

"Really?"

"Mhmm."

"Huh." Alfred had his right arm looped around Arthur, hand draped lightly against Arthur's stomach. "I'll have to take you sometime."

"That sounds like fun."

"Yeah. No s'mores, either?"

"We tried making them once in the oven," Arthur said mildly , playing with Alfred's fingers under the blanket. The lid to the canteen had been screwed back on it and was sitting at his side, but every so often one of them would unscrew it and take a drink, or hold it up for the other. "It was a disaster."

"I can imagine. You probably burned the hell out of them."

Alfred received an elbow to the ribs for that, which just made him laugh and hold Arthur a little bit tighter. He smiled something of a sad smile, watching the fire. "I guess I'll just have to make you some real ones, huh?"

"Yes. You're quite the outdoorsman, Alfred."

"Yeah. We used to go camping every year for the fourth of July. We'd light huge fireworks off over the river, even though it's totally illegal. It was awesome." He leaned down and gave Arthur another quick peck on the lips, then laughed. "This one year, the forest police came and started cracking down at the guys camping next to us…"

They sat like that for the rest of the night, telling stories and laughing, the fire slowly dying before their eyes. They didn't lay down or try to sleep; neither of them wanted to spend their final night asleep and apart when they could have been awake and together. They told stories and traded small kisses and light laughs for the rest of the night, focusing on each other instead of wondering whether or not they, or anyone else, would survive until sunrise.

Some, End-of-Days-esque fluff. Saddest thing I wrote for this fandom.