I'm at the beach u gaiz! Along with a Chemistry project, my extra class work, and a gaggle of small children who might lean over my shoulder and wonder why the lovers in my stories both have boy names…
ANECDOTE CORNER: So, as many of you probably know, Hurricane Irene ripped through the East Coast last week, and this is how much I love you guys: I actually managed to post the last chapter in the middle of the storm while the power was out in my town. Basically, I borrowed my dad's iphone, telling him that I really needed to check my email, updated the story, and then promptly cleared his web history.
Therefore, I think it's only fitting to dedicate this chapter to U, DAD! LOL FUNNY STORY YOU'LL LIEK NEVAR KNOW!111!11 (Or at least I sure as hell hope not)
Alright. Actual matters of business.
I'm actually surprised that I got as many reviews as I did last week. Sorry if the last chapter made any of you angry. I hope this installment makes up for every offense. Oh, and don't hate on Elizaveta, you guys - she's just doing what any of us would have done in her situation.
In Brief: Elizaveta's aforementioned metaphorical bomb detonates, with some very interesting results for our two beloved heroes.
Gilbert and Roderich…are so NOT gay, so don't expect them to run off together in this fic anytime soon. My list of heterosexual (male) nations goes as follows: Prussia, Austria, Switzerland. Ironically, this is a favored OT3….but anyways, it is my personal opinion (emphasis on the personal) that the guys listed above are very much straight. Well…okay, nobody can say that the Bad Friend's Trio was exactly platonic, so maybe Gil's bisexual - maybe. As for the entire rest of the world? Psh, they practically bleed rainbows.
(Oh, and the ladies of Hetalia mostly strike me as straight. Mostly. I do have my doubts about the Ukraine, however. I think it's her tits. They're rather suspicious, amirite?)
Nobody hate me for declaring sexualities. These are merely my private outlooks.
Ahem. And without further ado, the latest installment of Keep Dreaming, America.
Everything, as of late, had been undecided for Arthur, and this theme did not exclude his reaction to the tabloid that portrayed Elizaveta's and Alfred's star-crossed (or perhaps star-studded was the more apt descriptor) relationship with an exactness that detailed every meal the gilded couple shared down to the garnish. Such was his confusion that it was only dully that he heard Gilbert railing in drunken, obviously heartbroken German and Roderich lamenting softly to himself; Arthur himself was unsure of how to feel at the moment, though gradually he realized that merely standing in front of the aisle clutching a magazine as though his life depended on it would eventually attract unwanted attention and returned the tabloid to the rack before he dragged Gilbert, Roderich, and an enormous sack of specialty chicken feed from the pet store.
It was not until he had helped Roderich into a cab and escorted Gilbert back to his couch at World Series Entertainment that Arthur finally was able to reach some sort of conclusion regarding his opinion of the situation.
Firstly, he believed it should be understood that he was neither hurt nor heartbroken. He was no fool and therefore had not allowed whatever he may had previously begun to feel for Alfred distract him from reality; nothing had been promised to him, nothing in Alfred's attentions, nothing in his conversation, nothing even truly in the indistinct outlines of the feelings that he had drawn out for Arthur, for those were so easily misinterpreted that to call them suggestions would be generous. He most certainly did not feel jealous or robbed and would not be found mourning losses or nursing grudges. Elizaveta had stolen nothing from him because there was nothing to steal, or at least nothing more than a grudging friendship and a business contract, both of which could still easily be maintained under these new circumstances.
But therein arose the problem; the circumstances were changed. No, Arthur was not sad or envious or vindictive, he still retained his cynicism and pride after all, but he was very angry. This was not because Alfred had hurt him or abandoned him or snapped his tender heart in two, but because Alfred had mislead him, not by suggesting that he might have feelings for Arthur - Arthur's dignity couldn't be bothered with such matters - but by suggesting that he was also homosexual when in reality he clearly was not. Arthur was furious and humiliated not because Alfred was no longer available, but because it was now clear that Alfred had never been available, that Alfred had been mocking him. And amongst this anger Arthur was a little sad, not because he was nursing a broken heart but because he could no longer trust anything Alfred had ever told him. He could now no longer trust the bumbling but genuine blue-eyed boy because the genuine aspect of his nature, which had always been the most endearing, the best facet of Alfred F. Jones, was lost; he had essentially lied about his sexuality, presumably all for the sake of ruse, and nothing that had come or came from his lips could be believed anymore.
Perhaps Arthur was most angry and most sad because this entire ordeal went entirely against the Alfred Jones of his script, the character into whom the flesh-and-blood Alfred had seemed to fit without flaw, filling the mold Arthur had crafted to the brim without shattering its confines. Now it seemed the boy was a more skillful and cunning actor than he first appeared, and Arthur could think of no idea he disliked more.
He took the bus back to his apartment and put the kettle on for tea. The place seemed terribly empty without Francis and his clutter, and for a moment Arthur took heart in remembering that he and Elizaveta would return from Europe in two days, only to recall who would be accompanying them and sink deeper into his anger. He steeped his tea and sat down on their old fold-out sofa. He was tired from the day's ordeal and the gin he had drunk earlier was wearing off; he considered fixing himself a stiff glass of something but decided against it, knowing that one glass would lead to another, then another, and that getting drunk would probably not be very conductive to his current state of mind.
Sunday, he decided, would be spent with sleep and reading, thumbing through old books with pages that had seen themselves dog-eared a thousand times and would no doubt serve as comforts to him. This would primarily serve as a method of composing himself – Arthur vowed to meet his colleagues at the studio on Monday with nothing but congratulations and his usual warmth for Elizaveta (she carried no blame in this situation and he loved her too dearly to conjure some sort of crime for her to have committed) and detachment for Alfred. Possibly, he considered, if he could get the boy in private for a moment, he might give him a stern lecture regarding the follies of telling fibs about one's sexuality, then afterwards they could return to what they had shared before their friendship had begun: a simple brand of mutual ignorance, perhaps occasionally breached by Alfred's overt tendencies and taste for annoying Arthur. But, he promised himself, they would never again step beyond that boundary. Arthur didn't want to do so; he didn't need to do so. If he was absolutely positive about one thing, it was that his life would continue quite easily without the disruption of Alfred F. Jones.
Paris was lovely, Europe was grand and ancient and unshakeable and filled to the brim with culture and light and fantastic food and wine, but even so Alfred found that little compared to the swelling sensation he felt in his heart when he stepped from the airplane concourse into the terminal and heard greetings cried in English, watched people who all seemed somehow familiar rush to embrace each other across the airport, saw the American flag hanging from the far wall, and most of all, detected the faintest suggestion of hamburgers in the air. Los Angeles may have been a broken city that was fast crumbling into a veritable ghost town, but despite all of this, despite the decline and the restlessness and the animosity among her own people, Alfred was immediately reminded of the brightness that he was now reassured would never quite fade from his country.
His mood went unaltered by Francis' ostentatious sigh, presumably designed to express his distaste at stepping back onto American soil after his feet had floated over not merely French but Parisian earth, and he nearly skipped down the escalator and towards their baggage claim, completely oblivious to the winking of the cameras at his and Elizaveta's backs as they tore through the airport and then screeched to a halt so that they could wait to receive their luggage. A few people asked for their autographs or congratulated them, and though Alfred was sure he would never become entirely accustomed to fame, he beamed nevertheless and winked at every admirer, effectively dissolving them.
Elizaveta had to quell her smirk of victory as she reached out to lug her baggage from the conveyor belt only to discover that Alfred had beaten her to the punch; the cameras were positively seizing with excitement at his display of gallantry. The horde of paparazzi haunting their steps had not doubled, not tripled, not even, Elizaveta fancied, quadrupled or quintupled, but rather increased by six-fold, since their little sojourn. She had been worried that the fresh fervor for herself and Alfred could be attributed to the dizzying glamour of Paris, but her doubts had so far proved to be in vain; the swarm had followed them back to the home-front and was just as rapacious as ever.
Alfred was arranging both his and her luggage on one of the carts offered by the airport, and when he caught her gaze he grinned dopily at her and gave her a tiny salute. When she joined him he was still putting the finishing touches on the somewhat forebodingly unstable tower of suitcases, but immediately launched into his typical chattering as he worked.
"…so anyways," he was saying, "what do you think Artie's gonna say when he sees the stuff we filmed? Is he gonna be totally thrilled or what! Oh, man…" She glanced down at him and saw that his grin had softened almost imperceptibly around the edges. He reached up and straightened his glasses, his expression growing more thoughtful. "…I can't wait to see his face." His eyes suddenly flickered up at her almost nervously for a moment and she thought she could perceive the faintest suggestion of a blush on his cheeks and the tips of his ears. "When he sees the footage, I mean."
At this she was unable to suppress the smirk any longer.
"Of course, Alfred. What else would I think you meant?"
And with that she took him by the arm and led them towards the taxi Francis had since hailed down. They piled into the backseat together and Alfred promptly fell asleep, dropping his cheerful façade in favor of surrendering to the effects of jet lag. Francis patted his head almost paternally and then took to gazing out the window, probably losing himself in pretentious reminiscences of his home country. Elizaveta crossed one leg over the other, folded her hands in her lap, and leaned back into the seat rest, immensely pleased with herself. When Alfred let out a little snore and an unintelligible murmur through his sleep, her smirk returned.
She had nearly forgotten that the best was yet to come.
When Arthur awoke on Monday he found Francis sprawled on the floor on their old air mattress, still dressed in a fine silk shirt and clutching a pillow to his chest. He smiled exasperatedly, stumbled towards their kitchenette to put the kettle on, then prodded Francis' side with his foot, provoking an exhausted moan before he finally managed to rouse him.
"Arthur, mon cher," cried Francis when he was more or less fully awake and had recalled his surroundings. "How wonderful it is to see you. I would have woken you when I got in last night but I'm afraid you were already asleep."
Arthur raised an eyebrow.
"Oh really. Your breath positively reeks alcohol, I can smell it from here."
Francis coughed into the cup of his hand and blinked.
"So it does," he seemed to consider this for a moment. "Ah yes! I remember now! Alfred and Elizaveta and I stopped for drinks to combat the jet lag," he grimaced. "It seems we were carried away."
"I'll say," muttered Arthur, fondly nonetheless. Francis' accent had thickened considerably even with the short time he had spent back in his home country and he served as an almost comforting reminder of the normalcy to which Arthur was so desperate to return. "Do you want some tea?"
"Please," yawned Francis, standing up from the mattress and making a face as it sunk to the floor, entirely deflated. "But first I am going to take a shower; I feel as though I am positively covered in aeroplane."
Arthur nodded, folding up the sleeper sofa and making himself some toast while the water boiled. When Francis returned, a towel between his neck and shoulders and hair hanging dripping around his face, he accepted the mug offered to him gratefully and sat down on the couch, where Arthur soon joined him.
"So," Arthur began, suddenly cautious. Would Francis mention Alfred and Elizaveta or merely assume that Arthur had already heard? "How was le cité de amour, mon ami?" He drawled out the last syllables sarcastically and Francis rolled his eyes.
"Magnifique, bien entendu, mais je ne t'espère pas comprendre mon amour pour Paris…mais d'ailleurs…" he smiled fondly. "We filmed some truly magnificent scenes; we think you'll appreciate them and were hoping to show them to you today."
"I should hope so," said Arthur sharply. "You're going to show me every instant of footage there is to be shown, I won't be left out of anything in the slightest."
Francis laughed and clapped him on the shoulder affectionately. "Elizaveta and our dear Alfred were positively marvelous," he told him contentedly, and Arthur swallowed his tea rather too quickly. "I have never seen either of them express such raw emotion in their words before. I suppose it is true, what they say," he sighed excessively. "The beauty of Paris infects the heart and mind."
Arthur raised an eyebrow suspiciously, but even upon closer inspection there was no trace of sarcasm or malice to be found in Francis' words. It was uncharacteristic of him to be so ignorant, especially when it came to romance, but then again, he was still very jetlagged and faintly hungover, so perhaps Arthur would be spared his predictable series of barbed comments and remarks until he had freshened up a little more. If Arthur was ridiculously lucky, his friend would actually choose to be sensitive regarding this particular situation, but that outcome seemed highly doubtful. Even so, Francis said nothing of Alfred or Elizaveta as they dressed and washed up for work, merely rambling on about the exquisite sightseeing and dining that he had nearly forgotten his beloved city had to offer. Arthur was grateful, it would be easier for him to maintain his composure throughout the day when it wasn't shaken first thing in the morning, and tolerated the monologue considerably well. He was even starting to believe that everything could really stay as simple as it seemed at the moment, that everything could be solved through his simple conclusion that he was not heartbroken, only angry, and they could really return to business as usual just as Arthur had been desperate to do ever since Alfred had dragged him out to explore Los Angeles on their impromptu day off.
However, when Arthur stepped into World Series Entertainment and entered the elevator to find Alfred and Elizaveta already inside, when he accepted Elizaveta's embrace and, looking over her shoulder, observed a beaming Alfred, took in his crisp black suit jacket and printed t-shirt and worn, fitted blue jeans, the gold in his hair and the blue in his eyes and gleam in the always-smudged frames of his glasses, and when he received his grin and his wide-opened arms, clearly inviting an embrace, with nothing more than a stiff good morning and a quick bob of his head, when he had to watch his expression change from surprise to confusion before he composed himself to greet Francis, it became clear that from this one conclusion stemmed a thousand fresh dilemmas.
"You must see the stuff we filmed, Arthur, it's absolutely brilliant," Elizaveta was saying eagerly, wrapping her hands around the crook of his arm. "Oh, I wish you could have been there, it was incredible; you would have loved it!"
"Totally," piped up Alfred, apparently recovered from the initial shock of Arthur's coldness. "The movie theaters made us think of you. There was so much enthusiasm, man, you really wouldn't believe it."
"I wish I could have been there too," Arthur told Elizaveta, warmly patting the hand she had on his elbow. To Alfred, he merely added: "You know, in Europe, they're called cinemas."
The elevator doors chimed open at their floor and Arthur stepped out so quickly and stared straight ahead so determinedly that he didn't hear Francis' suppressed snickering or catch Elizaveta's struggle to maintain a composed expression even though she still hovered at his elbow. He nearly tore down the hall and through the doors that led to their usual set without glancing behind him to see if Alfred and Francis were in pursuit. The camera crew was already at work setting up their equipment, the makeup artists were in an absolute frenzy, the assistants were bustling around arranging long tables of fruit and sandwiches, and Arthur's heart began to slow, considerably comforted by the sight of their routine resumed.
"It's nice to be back," sighed Elizaveta. They were alone at the moment and suddenly Arthur was terrified that she was going to give him the news of her relationship, but she merely remained observing contentedly at his elbow until Alfred and Francis rejoined them, brandishing a few rolls of film.
"Come, mes amis," grinned Francis, gesturing towards a little room off to the side of the set. "It is time we show nôtre cher Arthur the magic we have made, ou non?"
Elizaveta beamed and clapped excitedly, running ahead of Arthur to follow Alfred and Francis into the side room. Although she fell into step beside Alfred, she didn't take his hand or even this arm like she had with Arthur, and he thought that altogether they were behaving remarkably unromantically, especially for such a new and highly publicized couple. Arthur briefly considered that the tabloid Gilbert had discovered in the pet store had been false, but quickly dismissed this idea, seeing as the entire city of Los Angeles was caught up in a veritable frenzy regarding their brand new golden couple, even going so far as to broadcast a few news stories reporting on their travels in Paris. There was neither doubt to be had nor created, and therefore Arthur was still considerably angry and humiliated at being so deceived. He was beginning to wish more fervently that there would soon be an opportunity to give Alfred a good talking to, as he very well deserved.
Despite this, he sat down beside Francis in the dark editing room with perfect composure, dedicated to not giving Alfred the satisfaction of seeing him so obviously discomfited. He chatted about Paris and cinema quietly, for all dark rooms seem to impose hushed voices on the people inside, with Elizaveta while Alfred sat with his hands folded on his lap, a curiously pensive expression obvious on his face even in the dimness, and Francis fiddled with the machinery until the screen crackled to life with color and the air abruptly filled with sound.
Arthur really should have remembered that nearly every scene filmed in Paris was extremely romantic; he was finding it harder and harder to maintain his impassive posture and expression as he was forced to watch Alfred and Elizaveta stroll leisurely across the banks of the Seine, their pace no doubt slowed by the severity of their love, frolic through the Parisian gardens and museums, stare into each other's eyes across the tables in quaint French bistros, and kiss in front of the Notre Dame cathedral, all performed with a violently real sense of honesty and emotion that Arthur had never seen them display before and could only explain by the presence of a budding off-screen love that had eventually blossomed, as was made evident by the final kiss scene. At least, Arthur considered, the crimson scarf that he had so carefully designated for Elizaveta's character during this sequence flattered the adoration on her face and the high color in her cheeks, which, he noted, was surely beyond the skill of any makeup artist to forge. He supposed he could now rightfully consider himself a genius of allegory; the texture and mobility of the fabric personified her feelings down to the slightest irregularity of a heartbeat, and the color, of course, was iconic and truly perfect. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if she became famous for that scarf after the release of the film.
The footage sputtered to an end and when Arthur turned his gaze from the screen, he was startled to find that where Francis and Elizaveta had been at his sides moments before, they now were nowhere to be found. Alfred, however, was still there, and when he glanced around himself and realized their situation, he turned to Arthur, who had been staring at him but immediately averted his gaze, opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again, said Arthur's name, and was cut off by a hand raised to stop him.
"Whatever you may be trying to accomplish, Alfred F. Jones," Arthur said shortly, glaring at him from behind his raised hand. "I can assure you that it is not very wise."
"But Arthur - "
"Alfred, what did I just tell you?"
Alfred blinked. He looked hurt; Arthur wasn't sure what to make of that.
"But I just don't understand…"
Trying to ignore the dizzying speed of his pulse, Arthur raised an eyebrow sharply and Alfred trailed off at the sight of his expression.
"What, exactly, is there to be misunderstood in this situation?"
Alfred blinked again, then bit down on his lower lip, his eyebrows drawing together.
"I just don't get…why you're being so cold to me all of a sudden."
Arthur sighed exasperatedly for effect.
"What do you mean, I'm not being cold, Alfred."
"What…yes you are!" Alfred's voice broke angrily on the last syllable; Arthur was not prepared to hear something like that in his tone and swallowed abruptly, glad the dimness of the room disguised the fresh color he could feel in his cheeks. "You didn't seem glad to see me this morning, in fact, you barely acknowledged me! Arthur, stop looking away!" Arthur turned his glare on him and Alfred faltered. "I mean…it's just that…you're acting like you did when we first met, before we ever became friends…"
"We were never friends, Alfred." Alfred's eyes widened and his mouth fell open slightly, but if Arthur was angry before, he was furious then. To hear Alfred sound so genuinely heartbroken was only a reminder of his surprisingly cunning acting skills; how dare he attempt to make Arthur out as the villain, how dare he, after lying to him and blatantly mocking his sexuality! It was beyond forgiveness.
"I…" Alfred was saying, sounding a little lost. Goodness, he was talented; if he didn't nab an Oscar for his skill Arthur would be surprised. "I can't believe…I thought…no, I was sure we were..!"
At that last forlorn syllable, which Arthur would have believed and been broken by had he not known better, he sprung from his chair and violently pointed an accusing finger at Alfred, who flinched so believably that Arthur let out a harsh laugh.
"Good show, old boy, really marvelous," he chuckled before his voice hardened. "Friends, Alfred, if you haven't heard, don't lie or mock one another."
"Arthur, what are you - "
Arthur held up his hand.
"Friends would never mislead each other all for the sake of a bloody joke!"
"I don't know what you're - "
"Alfred!"
Alfred fell quiet; it could be easily seen that Arthur was beyond himself with anger.
"As I was saying," he continued between his teeth. "Friends are honest with each other, friends support each other regardless of personal…quirks…in short, Alfred, friends don't coax each other into a false sense of security before outright lying about their fucking sexuality for a laugh!"
At this, Alfred was on his feet as well, eyes glinting with anger.
"Arthur, I don't know what the hell you're talking about, but I never-!"
"Oh for goodness' sake, Alfred, who the hell do you think you're kidding anymore?" Arthur faintly registered that he was shouting now and found that he didn't care. "It's not as if I give a damn about the other shit you might or might not have suggested regarding you and me, but when you lie to a gay man about being gay, well, that is absolutely beyond forgiveness! Oh, don't give me that look, that sort of stunned innocent expression. You basically said so, Alfred, and you would have if it weren't for Gilbert, and you fucking know it so don't try to deny it. You told me that you were gay, and look, you can do whatever you like regarding your own relationships, Alfred, it's not as if I ever cared or hoped or anything, but to tell a homosexual, an effective outcast from society, that you're just like him, that you might be able to bleeding understand him, when you're not, and you aren't? That's cruel, Alfred, and it mocks who I am, and I absolutely will not stand for it!"
He took a deep breath. Alfred was obviously stunned beyond words.
"I have my pride, you know," sighed Arthur, exhausted. "It would do you well not to trample on it."
He turned to leave but felt Alfred's hand snag on the edge of his sleeve.
"I didn't lie," he said.
"Stop it, Alfred."
"But I didn't!" His voice broke in indignation. "I really am gay! I mean it! Where the hell is this coming from, Arthur? Why would I lie about something like that?"
"Oh, I don't know," Arthur turned back around, feeling the angry heat rising again in his face and neck. "I merely assumed it was for a good laugh, but perhaps you'd like to explain, Alfred?"
"But Arthur…why would I ever want to laugh at you?" His expression was so plaintive that Arthur felt his heart skip a beat in spite of himself. "I admire you, I respect you, I've said so before and I stand by it now! Arthur," his voice softened and Arthur felt faintly ill. "Where on earth is this coming from?"
Arthur laughed shortly and ripped his sleeve from Alfred's grasp.
"Alright then, if you're so curious I'll tell you where it's coming from, Alfred. Where it's fucking coming from is the tabloid I found in the store, the newscasts I've been watching on the tele, the incessant talk in this sodding town, all about you and Elizaveta and your brand-bloody-new status as America's golden boy and girl, Alfred, girl, because the last time I checked she's got two tits and no dick and that pretty much establishes you as a liar! That's where this is coming from!"
Alfred was silent for a moment then let out a cry of exasperation.
"Is that what it is? Oh my god, you're kidding me," he glanced up to see the Arthur was most certainly not kidding him and his eyes hardened. "I am so going to kill Francis, he totally said he would tell you but now it's pretty fucking obvious that he hasn't! Oh, man, he is so dead!"
Arthur was only getting angrier with Alfred's babbling.
"I don't see how Francis has anything to do with this," he said tersely, arching an eyebrow. "At least try to think up a better excuse."
"No, man, you don't understand," Alfred actually let out a short little laugh. "It's all a joke, don't you get it? Or, not a joke, more of a ploy. It was all Elizaveta's idea, you see. She was trying to think of a way for us to get more publicity and more money and stuff and she realized that I was a total fruit and so if she and I pretended to have a relationship it wouldn't hurt our friendship and would drive the paparazzi totally nuts, which it has, and bring us lots of attention and therefore lots more budget and stuff to make the movie better, and it has brought in more stuff, like, more than we ever expected!" He made a big windmill sort of motion with his hands. "And Francis was supposed to tell you about the whole thing when he got back but…" he blinked sheepishly at Arthur. "Judging by your expression right now I'm gonna guess that never happened."
Arthur really couldn't believe this display of acting prowess; it was so well done, everything, Alfred's posture, the fretful line of his brows, the bashful wringing of his hands, that it was difficult to perceive as the façade it was and Arthur was nearly convinced despite himself.
Nearly.
"Christ, Alfred, you really think I'm a fool, don't you?"
Alfred blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"I'll give you credit for thinking up an impressive excuse, but do you really expect me to believe it? I mean, honestly. I may have trusted you before but I'm certainly not going to again."
Alfred's mouth was hanging open.
"But…Arthur…I'm not…I swear to you, it's the truth!"
"If you applied that sort of skill to the camera you'd win every Oscar there is, Alfred, I really almost believe you're being honest."
"What…that's because I am! I mean it, just go and ask Elizaveta!"
Arthur chuckled. "I'm not going to give you the satisfaction of seeing me chasing around your lies."
"I'm not lying to you, Arthur!"
Arthur chose to ignore this. "Perhaps, and I mean perhaps," he glared at Alfred warningly. "We can talk about apologies later, when you're not too busy making up stories. However, until then, my dear boy," he waggled his fingers in the air and turned to make for the door. "…this conversation is over."
He was stopped a few feet from his destination by Alfred's grabbing onto his shoulders and forcing him to turn and look him in the eye.
"Don't you understand?" he cried, giving Arthur a slight shake. "I'm not lying to you because I can't!"
Arthur curled his upper lip into a sneer, wishing Alfred would loosen his hold enough so that he could avoid his gaze.
"What exactly is that supposed to mean?"
Alfred sighed in exasperation, looking as if he would pull at his hair if his hands weren't otherwise occupied. "Don't you see, Arthur? There's something about you, I don't know what it is, that makes it so that I just can't lie around you! I can't do it! I say things to you, sometimes, that I wasn't even sure I knew myself! It's crazy, Arthur, and I can't tell what it is. But," he flexed his fingers on Arthur's shoulders to emphasize his point. "I can tell you that I am not lying to you."
Arthur rolled his eyes.
"Oh, very convincing. You must be telling the truth because you simply can't lie to me because," he quirked an eyebrow patronizingly. "Because why, again?"
"Because," Alfred was shouting now. "I'm incapable!"
They were both stunned into silence for a moment. Alfred's hands had fallen slack on Arthur's shoulders and he could have escaped if he wanted, but instead he felt a smile tugging at the corners of his lips and without warning exploded into a breathless grin.
"Did you hear that?" cried Alfred ecstatically, Arthur's smile mirrored on his face.
"I bloody very well did!"
"I said it!"
"You said it!" Arthur laughed with delight before he furrowed his brows and ran for the door, Alfred in pursuit. "Fuck, where's Francis…we gotta find him…I certainly hope the film crew is ready…Alfred!" he pointed. "For all that you hold dear, you stupid boy, run go find Elizaveta! We can't let this moment go to waste!"
Fortunately, the set currently established in the studio was the exact one necessary for filming that particular scene, and by the time Arthur had fished Francis from a crowd of giggling makeup artists and explained the situation to him, Alfred had already fetched Elizaveta and they were getting into costume as quickly as possible, changing in full view of the crew and the assistants, all shame forgotten in their haste to get in front of the cameras. Arthur was so caught up in the rush and the thrill of the moment that he didn't even think of what had just occurred in the screening room until Francis was established on his director's chair and the cameras were rolling, and then he considered that Alfred had never been able to say that line until he had truly meant it, and perhaps if he had truly meant it, and therefore meant everything else, then perhaps Arthur had been mistaken, and then perhaps he was entirely mortified.
"Arthur," Francis leaned over and whispered in his ear when he noticed the flush in his cheeks and how he fidgeted with his collar. "That boy is as uninterested in Elizaveta as you or I. It is nothing but a ploy, a strategy to enlarge our budget."
"I…I…" Arthur took a deep breath, willing his neck and face to cool. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Francis merely chuckled.
"He is a fool, but an honest fool. Alfred is telling you the truth."
Arthur swallowed. "Wait a minute…Francis…" he furrowed his brow as he began to realize something. "If you knew all along then why didn't you -"
"Arthur," Francis sighed. "You are a brilliant screenwriter, but at times your plotlines can tend to lag. When this happens, Elizaveta and I know when to give your scripts a little encouragement, if you follow me, speed up the dialogue so that the, ahm, audience, so to speak, does not become bored." And with this he picked up his microphone and called the end of the scene, springing from his chair to congratulate Elizaveta and Alfred on a flawless performance before Arthur could react.
Alfred was beaming with the thrill of success at long last, standing there with his hips jutted slightly forwards and one hand tucked in the pocket of the costume bomber jacket as he gave Francis a victory high-five with the other. His glasses were slightly askew on his face and, in their rush to get him ready for the cameras, the hairstylists had forgotten to gel the persistent tuft of hair that usually stuck up from his forehead; it bobbed with the rhythm of his voice. There was a faint flush of excitement in his cheeks and when he laughed the sound was short with giddiness. Arthur had to fight down the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and tiptoed across the set, slipping behind one of the plywood walls in the hopes of finding a quiet spot to recover his composure before he apologized to Alfred for refusing to hear him out.
He was just running over what exactly he was going to say in his head when he heard someone knocking on the side of the plywood; he whipped around, prepared to scold whoever it was for giving him a fright, only to fall wordless when he saw that the intruder was Alfred.
"Hey, Arthur," he said, smiling tentatively. "I…um…so, that was pretty great, huh?"
Arthur fiddled with the sleeve of his shirt. "Yes, I daresay it was quite amazing, Alfred. You've certainly grown as an actor."
Alfred chuckled. "So you've pointed out."
Arthur felt his cheeks grow warm.
"I…well I…well…I can't be blamed for…just because Francis…and then you…and…" he glared, the planned apology falling lame on his tongue. "I'm still rather peeved at you, I hope you understand."
Alfred took a step towards him then stopped and rocked back and forth on his heels, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. "What for?"
"Just…in general."
Alfred sniggered. "That's the Artie I know."
"Yes, well. At least you're accustomed to him."
They were now only a few feet or so apart; Alfred stood there for a moment, hands still stuffed into his jacket pockets, chewing distractedly on his lower lip as though he were considering something. He seemed to come to some sort of conclusion and took another step towards Arthur, leaning his body forwards, apparently set straight on a course for collision. Arthur, understandably, stepped to the side, raising an eyebrow questioningly.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Alfred didn't answer, merely sidestepped and attempted the curious lunge again, and this time he would have struck Arthur somewhere around the shoulder had Arthur not stepped backwards to avoid his strange maneuver.
"I say, are you having some sort of stroke?"
"Argh, Artie, just stay still for a minute!" And he repeated the motion; Arthur sidestepped him and jammed his hands on his hips.
"First of all, don't call me that, and second of all, I will most certainly do no such thing, at least not until you give me a reason." He had to avoid Alfred again; by now they had nearly completed a circle. "Christ, Alfred, you're acting extremely weird. I demand that you explain yourself."
"I don't gotta explain nothing…" said Arthur as he lunged forwards to find himself sidestepped again. "You'd figure it out just fine if you stayed still for two seconds!"
"It's you haven't got to explain anything," corrected Arthur, stopping with his back against the wall of the set and folding his arms across his chest. "And, very well then. I'm still. Now explain yourself."
Alfred seemed to take a deep breath, and to Arthur's surprise put his hands on his shoulders, then leaned forwards again, hesitating a moment before closing his eyes and making a curious sort of face, and it was only then that Arthur figured it out.
When he tried to pull himself away he ended up causing Alfred's mouth to ram into his chin rather sharply; he let out a cry of surprise that was mirrored by Alfred's own cry of pain.
"Jesus Christ, Arthur, that hurt!"
"I - I don't very well give a damn!" Arthur knew that he must be a very deep shade of pink from the heat about his neck and ears. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"I'm trying to kiss you, what do you think?" roared Alfred, clutching his swollen lower lip before he seemed to realize what he had just said and blushed very deeply indeed. "I…er I…"
Arthur readily filled the silence. "You can't just go bloody assaulting people at random, you idiot! What the hell is wrong with you?"
"I…what? It wasn't assault! That definitely doesn't classify as assault!"
"In what way?"
"Well…in that…" Alfred's brow furrowed. "Well, it wasn't random!"
Arthur crossed his arms over his chest. "How so?"
"Well," Alfred hesitated. "Well, it might have seemed random to you but I've kind of been thinking about it for a while so it wasn't really…" he looked at the ground. "….random, per se…I mean…er…I…" he faltered. "I guess I…"
Arthur sighed and glanced up at Alfred's face. His brows were furrowed and he was back to chewing on his lower lip, swollen from its collision with Arthur's chin, and he wrung his fingers together sheepishly. The frames of his glasses were still askew across his face and the high color was still in his cheeks; when he tentatively met Arthur's gaze his eyes were wide and worried and very blue indeed, and Arthur felt his heart soften and his face warm and that feeling that he had never quite been able to classify as hope thrum to life in his chest again. The sensation was for the most part the same as it always was, except stronger, more persuasive, forcing him to take a step forwards, though he rolled his eyes exasperatedly as he did so, and to take Alfred's tie in one hand while the other hooked beneath his chin, breathlessly waiting out that moment of hesitation before he decided that he was sick of indecision, closed his eyes, tilted his head at a promising angle, and, by stretching upwards slightly and pulling Alfred gently down by his tie, pressed their lips together.
Alfred was unresponsive for a moment and Arthur felt his heart skip a beat in fear before he felt the kiss slowly begin to be returned. A moment of this passed before Alfred tentatively looped his arms around Arthur's waist; smiling against his mouth, Arthur reached up to wind his fingers through his hair, tilting his chin to the side and parting his lips slightly, hesitantly. Alfred opened his mouth and Arthur was relieved to find that he didn't taste of hamburgers of coca-cola or else something ridiculously American, but rather only faintly of cigarette smoke, if anything at all. After another long moment of this Arthur pulled away, letting his hands fall to rest on Alfred's shoulders.
Alfred exhaled deeply, eyes still closed, grinning just as insipidly as he always had. Arthur smirked.
"See how much more easily things go when you ask first?"
Alfred chuckled, opening his eyes to wink at him. "But you didn't ask me, either."
Arthur shrugged. "I at least gave some form of indication before throwing myself at you."
Alfred smiled more deeply, eyes gleaming, and Arthur felt his own composure wavering.
"Alright, then, Arthur," Alfred said softly. "Can I kiss you now?"
"May I kiss you -" Arthur began, but his words were cut off and he sighed, wrapping his arms more tightly around Alfred's neck and digging his fingers into the supple leather of his jacket as he felt the flat of his palms press against the small of his back before they traveled downwards, over his lower back and down to rest on the swell of his behind.
Abruptly they heard loud, sarcastic clapping from behind them, and jumped apart, Arthur blushing furiously as Alfred shamelessly wiped his mouth on the corner of his sleeve. Elizaveta was leering triumphantly at them, her expression aglow with the thrill of her accomplishment.
"E-Elizaveta!" Arthur wasn't quite sure how to react. "It's not…it's not what it looks like?" He realized how ridiculous the words sounded the moment he had said them but nonetheless glared at Alfred when he sniggered.
"If it's not, then to be honest I'm a little disappointed…" Still, Elizaveta reached over and pinched Alfred's cheek affectionately. "Oh, Alfred," she sighed exaggeratedly. "How dare you cheat on me with this…this man!" She pointed melodramatically at Arthur and the two of them dissolved into fits of giggling. "Is that how you thought I'd react, Arthur?"
"I…well I…"
She smiled affectionately at him. "Relax, my friend. Everything has gone perfectly according to plan."
"According to plan?" Arthur quirked a brow. He would certainly like to hear of this entire scheme from its apparent mastermind.
"Yep!" she beamed. "Firstly, because Alfie dear and I are playing Hollywood's golden couple, we get a ton of publicity and therefore a ton more money for the movie. Secondly, because to the unaided eye it seems that I am currently occupied," she patted Alfred's arm affectionately. "Gil and Roderich will leave me alone for the moment and I can use the time and breathing room to straighten out my thoughts about them. And thirdly," she turned to Arthur again, smiling warmly. "Now you and Alfred can be together without the scrutiny of the cameras. Provided, of course, that you tiptoe around a bit. Everybody wins, but Elizaveta the most, because I get money, fewer annoyances, and to get off on seeing you two together."
"Wait a minute…" Arthur blinked. "Did you just say get off on -"
"Hold on!" Alfred cut him off, addressing Elizaveta. "So you and I are quote-on-quote staying together even now?"
"Well of course you are," said Arthur matter-of-factly, and Alfred blinked at him, obviously surprised. "I mean, it's only logical. After all, we need money, I'm also tired of being annoyed by Roderich and Gilbert, and you and I don't want to draw any negative attention to ourselves. They say all press is good press, Alfred, but they lie." Arthur returned Elizaveta's smile. "It's better this way."
"But…seeing me and her together…it wouldn't bother you?" Alfred blinked at him suspiciously. Arthur merely shrugged.
"Well, now that I know it's all a ruse, no." He suddenly blushed. "N-not that it really bothered me before, I'm not a fool, you know, I was just angry because it looked like you had lied to me about being gay and whatnot. A-also, there's nothing saying we have to get terribly serious or anything right off the bat, or get serious at all, come to think of it, and besides, it's not like I'm not some psychotic jealous type to begin with, I mean…I'd just rather…" he faltered. "I'd just rather like to see where…this goes, you know?"
Alfred was silent for a moment, then he positively beamed, and Arthur felt his heart plummet.
"Yeah," Alfred said simply. "Me too."
Elizaveta stifled a squeal by biting down hard on her knuckle. They were gazing into each other's eyes…they were actually gazing into each other's eyes! It was just like a scene from one of her romance novels, meaning it was simply too good to actually exist, and yet, there they were, staring dopily at each other in light of their confessions.
"Everybody wins!" she cried giddily before stepping quickly back from behind the set, grinning like a madwoman. It was perfect, absolutely perfect. Everything had gone according to her plans: they would have money, she would be less annoyed, and Arthur, oh, Arthur, who deserved nothing more in the world than to finally keep a treasure for himself, now had one more golden than any she had ever seen.
Elizaveta triumphantly decided that she truly was a mastermind.
It was a miracle they made it up the stairs at all, really.
After they were interrupted by Elizaveta it was about time to get back to work; they filmed and rehearsed and edited and saw infuriatingly little of each other until their work was done, at which point they went out for drinks at that bar Arthur always seemed to end up in at the end of the day. They both had scotches, perhaps in unspoken testament to the impromptu sleepover that, in light of these new circumstances, could be considered their first date, and talked about Alfred's impressions of Paris and Europe and Arthur's dull week spent without them, and of the Parisian cinema and of the enthusiasm and passion Alfred had seen that he so sorely wished to return to Los Angeles. Arthur had put a hand on his shoulder and promised him that all was not lost and Alfred had smiled and thanked him for saying so. Altogether, they looked and felt remarkably normal, and if it weren't for the added warmth in their smiles and gestures they would have been old friends out to reminisce on their glory days and past girlfriends. How ironic that the opposite was true.
This sense of normalcy, however, was quickly forgotten in the dizzying rhythm of their heartbeats when they kissed, too briefly, in the alleyway outside the bar, the alcohol on their breaths mingling. Unthinkingly, they took the bus back to Alfred's apartment. They were followed on occasion by the snapping eyes of cameras, though the loss of privacy was of little importance seeing as they were still too nervous around each other to do such romantic things as hold hands or whisper sweet nothings at all, let alone in public.
The stairwell, however, was another matter entirely, and on the first landing, when Alfred grabbed Arthur by the shoulders, pressed him against the wall and wrapped his arms firmly around his waist, Arthur could only be thankful that there were no other people nearby because he dissolved into the kiss and dug his fingers into Alfred's hair and, though he refrained, desperately wanted to hook his leg around his hips.
Eventually they heard voices, and, giggling like schoolchildren, broke apart and took the stairs to Alfred's door two at a time, clinging to each other's hands now both as a means of balance and of staying connected, for they found that at this point, when everything was so fresh and ready to be explored, even the briefest separation was nearly unendurable. In fact, Alfred had his tongue back in Arthur's throat before he even managed to fit the key into his lock, and they stumbled through the doorway, laughing and cursing as they nearly fell over and only managed to right themselves by grabbing onto the coat rack.
When they were both standing again, Arthur eagerly wound his arms around Alfred's neck, but faltered a moment, hesitantly meeting his gaze.
"Alfred, are you sure you want to…" he trailed off. "I mean, it's rather soon, don't you think?"
Alfred chuckled and brushed him thumb across Arthur's cheek.
"We don't have to do anything tonight," he said softly, pressing their foreheads together. "But…I don't want to say goodnight quite yet, either."
Arthur smiled, digging his fingers into the leather of Alfred's collar as if to hold him there. "Me neither."
"Well then," Alfred tilted his face and leaned closer so that their lips nearly touched. "Let's not say it, hmm?"
Arthur nodded and closed the distance between them, just enjoying the feel of Alfred for a moment before he opened his mouth and deepened the kiss, running his hands through Alfred's hair and pressing himself into his chest, sighing in appreciation as he began to draw slow circles across his back with his hands. They continued this for a few minutes, then Alfred pulled away and suddenly began to trail his mouth down Arthur's neck, breathing into the soft skin at the conjunction of the line of his jaw and neck, leaving a kiss so light Arthur wasn't even sure if his lips had touched him before he journeyed further downwards, biting gently at his jugular. Arthur sighed and ran his hands through the soft golden hair at the nape of Alfred's neck, then down his back, then further, experimentally testing the curve of his behind through his jeans.
Alfred chuckled smugly against his collarbone and Arthur gave him a quick pinch as a retort; he yelped and laughed out loud, bringing their faces up again so he could cup Arthur's cheek in one hand and kiss him properly. Eventually his hands began to wander, thumbs sliding down Arthur's sides, and Arthur transitioned to his ear, biting down gently and smiling at Alfred's little intake of breath. Eventually Arthur grew impatient and found himself struggling with Alfred's jacket; despite their conversation beforehand Alfred shrugged out of it as quickly as he could without breaking their kiss and then tossed it to the floor, drawing Arthur in close again by the waist.
Now Arthur could really appreciate Alfred, really feel the warmth of his body through his shirt, really get the suggestions of his muscles through the thin cloth, could run his hands up and down his exposed arms, caress his neck without the hindrance of a leather collar. Alfred moaned, only very softly, but even so Arthur desperately pressed closer to him so that his elbows were hooked over his shoulders and they only remained upright because of the support of the wall. The thrumming in Arthur's chest was swelling to the point where it seemed to threaten to snap his ribcage.
Alfred pulled away for a moment so that he could gasp that they should transition to the living room, and Arthur nodded before he kissed him again and they stumbled forwards, only halfheartedly struggling to maintain their balance because Alfred's hands were fumbling with the buttons on Arthur's shirt and Arthur's hands were tangled in his hair and they were still kissing in spite of the inconvenience. Alfred had three buttons undone before they tumbled to the floor of his living room amidst the towering piles of movies, a situation which was rather fitting, all things considered. Laughing, Alfred pulled Arthur up to rest on his chest and kissed his cheeks and chin and nose but very determinedly not his mouth, one hand resting on the back of his head, grinning all the while. Arthur tried to right himself but was stopped when Alfred finally touched his lips, giving up his efforts at dignity entirely and surrendering to the kiss, though he bit down on Alfred's lower lip to chastise him for his presumption. The fourth button of Arthur's shirt came somehow undone, and the collar was beginning to fall from his shoulders as he exasperatedly thrust his hands beneath Alfred's t-shirt and began to try to pull it over his head; a good portion of his stomach was exposed when they heard someone cough lightly from above them.
"I have no qualms with what you guys are doing, but if you go at it missionary style I'm going to have to leave; I mean, come on, that is so mainstream."
They leapt apart, Arthur desperately trying to pull up the collar of his shirt while Alfred went leaping to his feet to inform Matthew, who had been perched on Alfred's couch the whole time, that missionary style wasn't exactly the same for two guys, duh, he should totally know that by now, being gay himself, and therefore wouldn't be so mainstream, as he liked to put it.
"I still think it's unoriginal," was Matthew's opinion, and Alfred rolled his eyes.
"Well, dude, it's like, the first time, what do you expect?"
Before Matthew could answer, Arthur had stood up, blushing furiously and clutching his shirt to his shoulders.
"E-excuse me Alfred, but it wasn't going to be anything at all, I mean, we were just -"
"Just humping each other on my floor?" asked Matthew, raising an eyebrow.
"Hold on," cried Alfred. "This is my floor, and I'll hump someone on it whenever I like!"
Arthur gaped, unsure of whether to laugh or actually faint of mortification, and Matthew shrugged.
"Your floor, maybe, but you're my brother."
"But it's still not…hold on a second…why are you even here, anyways?"
Matthew blinked. "You just got home from a week in Europe, man, I was gonna crash here and hear about how it went…" he glanced at Arthur, smirking at the sight of his rumpled state. "If I had been expecting this, I wouldn't have come, trust me."
Arthur glared at him and Alfred sighed.
"Do you have anywhere else to stay tonight, bro?"
"Not exactly," said Matthew, his gaze flitting to Arthur again. "And if you guys really aren't planning on doing the dirty tonight, it's probably best that he go home anyways, because otherwise, I think it's gonna get done whether you plan it or not."
Alfred sniggered appreciatively but Arthur's mouth hung agape. The nerve of that boy! And as if this weren't enough, Matthew was again wearing some sort of bizarre ensemble that seemed to consist of cutoff shorts, an enormous woven poncho, schoolboy sneakers, fingerless gloves, and a woolen cap that looked suspiciously similar to a beret. As if this weren't enough, one lock of his hair had been strung through a handful of multicolored beads and then hung in front of his eyes. Altogether he looked completely preposterous, although certainly not very conventional, which Arthur supposed was the goal.
Arthur sighed; his libido aside, he would have enjoyed spending a little bit longer with Alfred, even just talking or sharing a nightcap, before he went home for the night. At this point, however, that was clearly out of the question, though perhaps it was for the best. Arthur hated to admit it, but Matthew was right. It was most likely that talking or sharing a nightcap would lead to sex, something which probably wasn't the best decision to make on such a new relationship, if, Arthur reminded himself, whatever this was could even be called a relationship at all. In truth he wasn't entirely sure.
He finished buttoning up his shirt and ran his fingers through his hair, hoping to smooth it at least slightly before he stepped back onto the streets.
"Alright then, Alfred," he said crisply. "Thank you for a lovely time, and goodnight." Immediately he regretted the businesslike quality of his words, and glanced nervously at Alfred before stretching up on his tiptoes, hesitating an instant, and then giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. Alfred absolutely beamed at him and Arthur was able to ignore Matthew's snicker.
"I had a…er, lovely time, too," Alfred said with a wink, and Arthur gave him a swat on the shoulder before turning back into the hallway to retrieve his coat. He was just opening the door to leave when Alfred appeared again, reaching for his bomber jacket.
"Hold on, Arthur," he hesitated for a moment. "I'll walk you home."
Arthur raised an eyebrow.
"It's quite far, you know."
"Y-yeah," Alfred was blushing. "But still…I dunno…I kind of…"
"I'm not a girl, Alfred, I can walk home myself."
"I know," Alfred smiled tentatively at him. "But I kind of…want to, you know?"
Arthur paused in the doorway, feeling a little heat rise to his neck.
"A-alright then, if you insist," he tried to compose his expression into a glare. "Just don't complain when your feet start to hurt or you've realized that since you've walked there, you have to walk back as well."
Alfred chuckled. "I'll try my hardest."
They said goodbye to Matthew and descended the stairs in silence, and though it wasn't necessarily awkward, Arthur felt compelled to bring up some sort of conversation subject, and they were quickly back to discussing Alfred's impressions of Europe. When he related a speech Francis had given him regarding the ancient quality of the continent and her people, especially when compared to North America, Arthur laughed and said that was pretty pretentious and Alfred chuckled and said maybe so, but it was also true, Francis had a point: Americans needed to define themselves before they could prosper again. At this his eyes grew sad and distant and Arthur glanced jumpily at the hand hanging at his side, suddenly wishing that he could take it and hold it as they walked, and resenting the occasional crackle of a camera lens at their back. He merely patted Alfred's shoulder in a way that could be easily construed as friendly and tried to communicate his sympathy with a smile. Fortunately, Alfred seemed to understand and returned his gaze gratefully as they neared Arthur's apartment.
They stole into the stairwell and then Arthur rather fitfully reached out and grabbed Alfred's hand, daring to wind their fingers together as they stood at the base of the steps. Alfred grinned and squeezed gently, and they went up to Arthur's apartment without letting go, not even as they lingered in front of his door for a moment.
"Well…" Arthur said eventually. "Thank you, Alfred. It wasn't necessary, but it was…rather nice to have some company."
Alfred grinned and kissed their still-joined hands. Arthur felt his face heat up and glared, ripping his fingers away.
"D-don't do such silly things, you idiot, I'm not a girl! Which leads me to wonder," he refused to meet Alfred's gaze, fidgeting with his shirt sleeve instead. "Why on earth did you walk me home, anyways?"
"Well," Alfred blushed faintly. "I've kinda got something to tell you, Artie, and I uh…didn't want to say it in front of anyone else, you know?"
"For the thousandth time, that's not my name -" His words were lost against Alfred's mouth and he rolled his eyes, putting up a brief fight before he allowed himself to be kissed, sighing slightly when they parted and glaring at Alfred's hushed laughter.
"If that's what you had to say, I've rather already got the message," he muttered, wiping his mouth.
Alfred wrapped an arm around Arthur's waist and brushed his thumb across his cheek.
"I…well I…I really, really like you, Arthur," he murmured, not meeting Arthur's gaze.
"Oh really?" Arthur arched an eyebrow. "I never would have guessed."
Alfred chuckled and looked back into his eyes, and Arthur felt that feeling throbbing in his chest again.
"Is that all you have to say to me?"
Arthur pretended to consider a moment, running his fingers slowly through the downy hair at the nape of Alfred's neck.
"I suppose I'm rather fond of you, too, you stupid boy," he said after what he judged to be a good while. Alfred beamed and Arthur struggled to maintain his droll tone. "Now was all that really necessary?"
Alfred nodded. "I want to do this right."
Arthur blushed and looked at his feet. "R-right? What does that entail?"
Alfred blinked. "I mean, I know you did the whole let's see where this goes thing, but…I'd kind of like to…I dunno, predict a little bit into the future, if you will. I want to…I mean…I want this to be real, Arthur, I really do…I've liked you for a while now and I sort of want to establish where we stand."
Arthur tilted his head to the side. "…a while now, you say?"
Another nod. Arthur smiled tentatively.
"I…well, that's very sweet of you, Alfred," he pressed their foreheads together, and then spoke so softly that his voice emerged scarcely above a whisper, as if he were afraid of the words. "I want this to be real, too. You're…well, you're…"
"Special, amazing, awesome, the best, sexy, perfect, all-you-ever-dreamed-of -"
"…an egoistic imbecile," Arthur kissed him briefly to take the sting from his words. "But I seem to like you nevertheless."
Alfred grinned and kissed Arthur again, but when he pulled back his smile had faded.
"You know I'm leaving for London at the end of this week, right?"
"Oh," Arthur tried not to let his disappointment at being reminded show on his face. "Well, yes. I suppose I did know that," he hesitated. "It's only a weeklong trip, though," then he smiled. "Let's at least use the time we have right now to get more…acquainted, with each other, and…" he cupped Alfred's cheek in the curve of his palm, gently forcing him to meet his gaze. "…with this."
Alfred nodded and tilted his chin, shutting his eyes and meeting Arthur halfway in a kiss that was by far the gentlest of the evening, soft and maybe a little bit sad, definitely a goodbye kiss, even if the goodbye was only for the night. They both sighed and were still for a moment once they had parted, only opening their eyes when they had to unwind themselves from each other. Arthur straightened his jacket and ran his fingers through his hair even though he knew Francis would mock him relentlessly no matter what he did to attempt to alter his ruffled appearance.
"Goodnight, Alfred," he said softly.
"Night, Arthur," murmured Alfred, then grinned and waved before he turned to descend the stairs. Arthur couldn't help but to follow the back of his leather jacket until it disappeared from view, then leaned up against his door, bringing his hand to his lips despite himself.
Arthur knew he must look like he came straight out of a scene from one of those movies that he could never stand to watch, and yet he found that he couldn't bring himself to move or, really, to care at all. It seemed all his decisions had been made and all of his dilemmas had been solved in one way or another. He certainly didn't have to be unsure anymore, and it was then that he realized that he was suddenly, almost irrepressibly, very, very happy.
GRAAAAH U GAIZ I HAVE BEEN WAITING SO LONG TO WRITE THAT!111!11
Seriously, you have no idea. I actually had a fangirl after I typed those last few sentences. XD
…which could explain why it's so damn fluffy. Believe it or not, that's not the worst it's going to get - the next two chapters will be so saccharine your dentists will be very thanking me because the bills they will be charging you to fill your cavities will be positively enormous, and for better or for worse, that's a promise, ahaha…ha…
French: Magnifique, bien entendu, mais je ne t'espère pas comprendre mon amour pour Paris…mais d'ailleurs = magnificent, of course, but I don't expect you to understand my love for Paris…but besides…
-sous-titre is the French equivalent of cut, if you don't remember from previous chapters.
-nôtre cher means our dear, as opposed to the more commonly seen mon cher.
A note: If any of you have noticed, yes, when Francis says 'he is a fool, but an honest fool' (referring to Alfred) I am blatantly quoting from The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers (the film, incidentally), in which Gandalf actually says 'he is a fool, but an honest fool' (yes, effectively the exact same line) as a method of describing Pippin after he grabs up the Palantir of Sauron and nearly gives away the fact that Frodo is traipsing through Mordor with The Ring right under his nose. Or...Sauron doesn't have a nose...but the expression applies nonetheless.
Ahem.
I just felt that I should cite that.
XDD
Anyways. I hope you guys found Arthur to be very much IC throughout all of this; I really tried to keep him from melting into some pile of heartbroken goo, because that's just not in his character…anyways, tell me if I either pulled it off alright or screwed him up beyond recognition.
Oh, and I forgot to tell you: I have in fact been to Paris before, so in the last chapter I was retelling my impressions of the city. She really is rather dirty. o.O Incidentally, that vacation was not how I picked up on the little French I have – at the time, I only knew how to say le petit oiseau est mort, 'the little bird is dead' (oddly enough, I know) a phrase which, as can be imagined, was not very helpful in getting around. Oh well. I was only like…twelve, after all.
Ahem. It would appear that I have nothing more to say. The next chapter, you can expect some MOAR surprises for Arthur, each one more sugary than the last. ^^
And review, please, because guess what, OUR STAR-CROSSED LOVERS HAVE FINALLY CROSSED!1!1!11!
…so to speak.
Until the next chapter!