HEY HOW DID THEY FINISH A FILM IN LIEK SIX MONTHS?
LOLOLOL IDK THEY LIEK JUST DID I GUESS!11!111!111
Seriously, though...I don't know how the timeline came out this way. (Oh wait, yes I do. It's because I didn't think about it at all…ahaha…ha…) Please be kind and ignore its outright physical impossibility.
Also,
OMG U GAIZ WATER U DOING SAYING SUCH WONDERFUL THINGS TO ME. STOP THAT. In all seriousness, you're far too kind; I don't deserve you as it is, don't make it worse! XD Really, though, I'm incredibly grateful, and I sincerely hope the conclusion to the story (along with Arthur's word – eek!) doesn't disappoint.
In Brief: The premiere. 'Nuff said.
(Btw, happy Yom Kippur, everybody. I haven't eaten anything today…T_T Actually, come to think of it, I probably shouldn't be on the computer. BUT I AM. OH WELL.)
And without further ado…the *technical* end to this veritable monster of a fanfic. I hope you enjoy!
A word. Arthur had lived his entire life surrounded by words, he had grown up amongst towers of dusty books and documents and tattered old scripts, lurked through the hallways of his schools with novels overflowing from his arms - too many words (if that was possible), so many, in fact, that he had taken a job altering their very structure so that they could flow with movement and sound and life, redrawing their outlines delicately so that a camera and an actor could pour color into the predesigned shapes, and yet in spite of all this it had been nearly half a year and he still had yet to find the perfect one, really just a lone syllable, nothing more than the slightest movement of the lips and tongue, to describe the world he had crafted for their movie.
It was the night of the premier and Arthur glanced a little guiltily at the thesaurus that was resting on the edge of Elizaveta's desk; he finally turned the chair away and draped an arm over the back, leaning out far and craning his neck in an effort to distract himself by trying to peer down the hallway that lead to the room where Elizaveta and Alfred were getting ready. Francis, balancing himself on the edge of the desk beside Arthur, coughed as a thick wave of perfume assaulted them; this was followed only a moment later by Elizaveta, all classic Hollywood glamour in a strapless crimson silk gown that fell to her toes, diamonds catching the lamplight at her ears and the hollow of her throat, hair long and loose and curling over at the ends, altogether delicate and tall and graceful and glittering, nothing but smiles as she clattered over to them in her high heels and threw her arms gleefully around both their necks at the same time. Arthur smiled and patted her waist, trying to be discreet about peering over her shoulder to get a glimpse of Alfred, who had just emerged himself and was paused at the entrance to the study, fidgeting with his bowtie and trying to adjust his glasses at the same time. The stylist had dressed him simply, elegantly: a handsome tuxedo, superbly fitted at his waist, full tails, shining shoes, hair neatened only slightly because its flyaway sort of sloppiness was all part of the charm, soft messy gold bringing out the high blue of his eyes – they were paler tonight, Arthur thought to himself, but then he looked away because he realized that he was probably paying too much attention.
When Elizaveta released him, Arthur stepped back, straightened his own bowtie, and smiled at her, keeping a hand about her waist affectionately.
"We did it," crowed Francis quietly, and they grinned at each other, forgetting Alfred for only a moment, namely because he almost immediately barged through their circle, actually puffing his chest out a little bit as he struck an exaggerated sort of pose.
"So how do I look?" He pulled his bowtie tighter and sent a little wink to Arthur, who rolled his eyes while Elizaveta chuckled and Francis simply leered.
"Positively Hollywood," muttered Arthur as he licked his thumb and briskly straightened a flyaway strand of Alfred's hair, clucking his tongue against the roof of his mouth exasperatedly. "I must admit that it's rather fitting."
"Well, you can hardly blame us," said Elizaveta, giving a little twirl and watching the scarlet skirts of her dress flare out around her ankles, "after all, this may be the last we'll ever see of Hollywood glamour, so we might as well make the most of it."
"Agreed," sighed Francis. "What a shame that such an age of romance is fading," he took Elizaveta by the shoulder and spun her again, nodding approvingly before he stopped her and allowed her skirt to fall back into place. "You, my dear, look nothing short of splendid. I must say, Gilbert and Roderich will be beside themselves with envy," he shot a smirk at Alfred, who was squirming beneath Arthur's relentless fussing, trying to bat him away with his hands as he fluttered at his bowtie and hair and glasses. "Little do they know…"
"Bah, better they don't," Elizaveta wrinkled her nose in disgust, smoothing her hands over the bodice of her dress. "I still haven't decided between them, after all. Once I do, though…" she glanced over at Alfred and Arthur. "I suppose it's really up to them."
At this, Alfred stopped his whining, though he kept his hold tight around Arthur's wrist to get him to stop trying to smooth out his hair.
"That's right," he murmured, a little crease appearing between his brows. "Once this is all over…I mean, there'd be no reason…so…" he paused. "What do we want to do, Arthur?"
Arthur took advantage of the situation to spring upwards and thumb Alfred's bangs back across his forehead, rocking back on his heels and letting out a little cry of triumph despite the fact that they fell right back into their previous position not a moment after.
"Oh, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it," he said dismissively, then reached for Alfred's jacket, frowning when he tried to wriggle away from his grip. "Please, Alfred, your lapels…" He gave a little hiss of frustration. "Stylists these days, really…so incompetent, every last one of them…"
Alfred grinned and grabbed his wrist, catching him by surprise and pulling him forwards to successfully land a little kiss on his forehead, right in front of Francis and Elizaveta (though admittedly they weren't paying much attention), Arthur letting out a little cry of surprise before he blushed splendidly and pushed Alfred away, straightening his upset bowtie and glaring at him as best he could given the circumstances.
Alfred rebalanced his glasses and ran a hand through his hair quite casually, though his smirk betrayed that he knew very well how he was upsetting Arthur's careful handiwork. Arthur merely intensified his glare and turned away, reminding Francis and Elizaveta, who were still gossiping excitedly about the guests they were planning to entertain, and the designers they would be wearing, and the food and the music and the décor, that it wasn't long before they had to get going. Elizaveta squealed and attached herself to Alfred's arm as if they were already standing before the paparazzi; it was planned that, seeing as they were the principal masterminds behind the movie itself, Francis and Arthur would attend the premiere together and take their stroll down the red carpet after some of the hubbub surrounding the golden couple had abated.
They left Elizaveta's apartment and loaded into the limousines parked outside; in an excessive display of gallantry, Alfred actually stepped in front of the chauffeur to open the door for Elizaveta, though he wouldn't stop grinning foolishly at Arthur until he had disappeared behind the tinted windows. Arthur rolled his eyes for his own benefit and slipped into the other limousine after Francis, crossing his legs primly and allowing his forehead to press against the cool glass of the window as the car sped up and the streets of Los Angeles ran together into a blur that was oddly darkened by the tint of the glass, little more than a smear of grey for almost the entire ride until color exploded against the cement and asphalt with an almost unpleasant suddenness. Arthur had to blink to dispel the shock of the abrupt noise and brightness and the glitter of the cameras snapping open and shut, announcing that they had arrived at the premiere. The limousine gently eased to a stop at the curb, and from there Arthur and Francis could see Alfred and Elizaveta poised in the center of the red carpet, waving with the arms that weren't busy wrapping around each other's waists, each grinning enormous smiles that hit on a strange juxtaposition between entirely real and unpleasantly fake: they were both obviously truly happy, but they showed a little too much teeth and so their grins glinted almost eerily in the frantic flashing of the cameras.
Arthur and Francis slipped from the limo, and although the cameras didn't bother to turn towards them for even a moment, Arthur found that he couldn't manage to quell the thrill that arched up his spine when he edged his toes onto the hem of that carpet, stopping to stare a little breathlessly at his feet pressed against the brink of red cloth before Francis grabbed him by the elbow and began to yank him forwards, which somewhat ruined his private moment of revelry but really was rather fitting, all things considered.
For all its fame, the walk was nothing remarkable: they took a few steps, waved a bit although nobody was really looking at them, exchanged one disbelieving little glance of triumph, and then it was over, they were at the end, suddenly surrounded by the throngs of people who were trying to get at Alfred and Elizaveta, the incessant chattering of the camera lenses, and Gilbert and Antonio and Romano (who had for once been allowed to dress in normal attire) as well, laughing and shouting and giving Arthur and Francis painfully enthusiastic pounds on the shoulder every once in a while. Antonio couldn't seem to stop leering at Romano, and Gilbert's smile grew a little forced whenever he glanced over at Elizaveta, who clung to Alfred's arm as if her life depended on it, but overall the mood was a pleasant mixture of victory and relief, to the point where it was almost overwhelming, and Arthur more of stumbled rather than walked into the theater to take his seat before the screening began. He ended up squeezed between Gilbert and Francis, with Antonio and Romano whispering in Italian and Spanish from somewhere above them and Elizaveta and Alfred enthroned just one row in front of them, their fingers wound together on the armrest between them. As the theatre began to dim, Alfred turned his head and winked at Arthur, the movement betrayed only by the glitter of his glasses in the growing darkness, shadows marking out the crooked line of his grin. Arthur smiled softly, and because the theater was nearly black by then, took the risk of reaching out and running his fingers through Alfred's hair, only lingering for an instant before he drew back and folded his hands primly in his lap, refusing to meet the smug looks Alfred was sending his way, instead focusing determinedly on the screen as it crackled to life.
The audience hushed as the first scene began, the screen glowing with a sort of brassy vintage light, almost like an antique photograph except very much alive, vibrant, applicable to modern day situations but just a little removed from the world they lived in nowadays (whatever that was, exactly). Alfred appeared, and he was devastatingly handsome, boyish and already too-grown-up, fallible and invincible in the same instant, with too much strength for himself and yet not enough for what his tiny world (composed of his parents and his school and his lovely foreign girlfriend) asked of him. He was a contradiction, and he was breathtaking, even if he bumbled over his lines like a child tripping over rolls in the sidewalk. Elizaveta complemented him splendidly, supporting his lack of experience with her grace and intelligence as an actress but never once threatening to overshadow him, never overstepping the role she had been cast into, and of course traipsing through Paris with that red scarf flowing out behind her like a dream (Arthur heard Gilbert sigh beside him at several points throughout the film).
And Arthur had to be proud. The dialogue and the screen directions expanded and contracted around each other as naturally as breathing, skipping and falling like little stones at first, then gradually growing to be larger and larger, almost like something crumbling, but in the most thrilling way possible, a sort of grand chain reaction of characterization and explanation and plot and pauses and gestures all shattering together to create a fantastic mess at the finale. When the end credits rolled Arthur exhaled and found that he didn't dare to smile or laugh or react at all as applause filled the room. He could only sit there, hands still folded crisply on top of one knee, gazing blankly at the quiet screen.
Eventually, he felt Francis' hand on his shoulder.
"We've done well, my friend," he said quietly. "We ought to be proud."
"We really…" Arthur paused, and then smiled cautiously. "That was certainly something, wasn't it?"
"You bet your ass it was!" cried Gilbert, springing from his seat and grinning like a madman. "That was so fucking awesome, you guys, I can't even like, fully express it to you! Except," his expression darkened slightly. "I hate to say this, but I think it was a bit too romantic. We don't need all that sappy stuff. I mean, come on…" he trailed off, eyes flickering towards Elizaveta a bit forlornly. "Who really cares, after all…"
Antonio leaned down towards Arthur and Francis, a knowing smile on his face.
"Pay no attention to what Gilbert's jealousy makes him say," he winked. "You have done an admirable job. Una verdadera maestra obra, if I may."
Arthur found that his smile kept widening with every moment that passed. "Thank you, Antonio," he paused. "For everything."
Antonio grinned and shook his head. "Claro." He turned back to Romano, the grin melting into a smirk. "Già, Romanino, dobbiamo partire, no ?"
Romano rolled his eyes. "Shut the fuck up," he said, and Arthur jumped at hearing him speak without the faintest accent. "Speak English, you bastard. Nobody here can fucking understand you."
Antonio pouted. "Qué cruel eres conmigo."
"It's no mistake, asshole." Romano stood up, straightening his jacket, an unusually authoritative gleam in his eye. Arthur realized he had never seen him outside the office before, and thus had never considered that he perhaps didn't live his life in a constant state of submission. "Let's go."
"Andiamo?" asked Antonio hopefully.
"Let's go."
"¿Vamos?"
At this, Romano merely began to walk away; Antonio grinned sheepishly before hopping up to follow him, using various different tongues to give voice to what were presumably endearments as he went.
"I should probably go with them," said Gilbert to Francis and Arthur, though his gaze kept straying to Elizaveta as he spoke. "But I'll totally see you all at the after party, right? Our place, as usual."
Before Arthur could protest, Francis had said that they would absolutely be there, Gilbert had awarded them a thumbs up and a toothy grin, stolen one last furtive glance at Elizaveta (who was still chattering contentedly away with Alfred), and finally hurried away, the tails of his tuxedo flapping behind him. Arthur sighed and glared halfheartedly at Francis, who wasn't paying attention anyhow – he was too busy eagerly telling Elizaveta that he had counted how many times Gilbert had looked at her in the past five minutes and he was running out of fingers, at which she snorted and laughed but turned a little pink around the cheeks and ears and glanced almost nervously at her hands a couple of times, as if she were secretly pleased. Arthur smiled, then he felt something sharp press against his knee and discovered that Alfred was poking him, just with the tip of his finger, but firmly and persistently, a little grin turning up the edges of her mouth, eyes sparkling with a curious mixture of mischief and pride.
"Yes, oh dearest love of my soul?"
Alfred's grin deepened. "That was awesome."
Arthur reached down and grabbed Alfred's hand to get him to stop harassing his knee, reaching across the top of the seat to return it to his lap. "Indeed," he paused. "You were quite impressive, Alfred."
"Only because of you, Arthur."
Arthur blinked and looked away despite himself; Alfred's expression was so suddenly earnest that it was bringing a little heat to his cheeks.
"Well, you exaggerate."
"Not in the least," Alfred was grinning again as he stood up, reaching for Elizaveta's hand and tucking it up around the crook of his arm even as he winked suggestively at Arthur. "But don't let that make you think I've forgotten," they started towards the exit of the theatre, already able to hear the gentle roar of the paparazzi outside the heavy door. "You still owe me my word."
The after party was a classic Gilbert-Antonio sort of affair, bursting with big names and glittering stars and heavy Spanish cocktails, pounding with music and conversation and the cries of high heels against white marble floors, glowing with lights and chandeliers and diamond jewelry, extravagant to the point of a sort of thrilling gaudiness that was only increased by the patriotic theme chosen for this particular occasion. Arthur was convinced that, if all the American flags hung in that house were counted, they would number at least one hundred, if not more - and as if this weren't enough, they were all of varying sizes and designs, some only about as wide as tablecloths while others stretched across entire walls, dating from various points in history (Arthur even thought he caught a glimpse of one that included a bit of the Union Jack). All of this, of course, thrilled Alfred, and they were hardly through the door before he and Elizaveta had disappeared into the throngs of people to make sure that there would be plenty of photographs of them dancing and celebrating and looking all-around fulfilled and enamored with each other. Arthur supposed they would kiss a few times, make the rounds introducing themselves to important celebrities, try to avoid Gilbert and Roderich (Arthur had caught a glimpse of the latter lurking near the bar, looking very dapper but not particularly happy, as per usual) and drinking themselves silly in order to survive it all.
Well, Arthur would have drunk himself silly anyways, but at least he could use that as some form of excuse. He swiped a glass from a passing waiter and had the misfortune to take a sip before he realized that the cocktail had been mixed according to the theme and was therefore some vile concoction of cherry juice, vodka, blue raspberry flavoring, cream, and what appeared to be a handful little silver sugar stars. Arthur coughed, wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve, and discreetly set his glass on the nearest coffee table; he wanted a drink, not a dessert, and headed towards the bar in the hopes of snagging a gin and tonic or perhaps a bourbon. He chose to avoid Roderich and slid into a space at the far end of the counter, motioning to the barkeep and settling in for the long haul. He had already plowed through half a drink when he heard a soft cry of recognition from behind him and felt a hand on his shoulder; he turned to face Kiku and smiled enormously, reaching out to clap his old friend on the shoulder.
"And so we meet again, in much the same fashion, no less!" he cried. "Sit down, mate, sit down," he gestured to the empty stool beside him. "I assume you were at the premiere?"
Kiku nodded, folding his hands on top of the counter. "Indeed I was, Arthur-san. It was truly wonderful. You should be proud."
Arthur made a dismissive gesture. "Please, you exaggerate. Every single element of the film was absolutely necessary for its success," he gazed into his drink contentedly. "There was nothing dispensable, not in the least – it truly was a collaborative effort."
Kiku smiled. "Nonetheless, the script truly stands out," he paused. "It is no exaggeration to say that you have become a master of your craft, Arthur-san."
Arthur snorted. "Bollocks." Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Alfred waving wildly at him, and sighed, deigning to give him a little nod in return just as Kiku laughed and patted him on the shoulder, leaning in slightly to tell him he was being ridiculous, the screenplay was positively fantastic, that much was evident throughout the entire film. Arthur echoed his laughter and asked who was being the ridiculous one now? but kept one eye trained on Alfred, who suddenly had a very curious look in his eye (evident even from a distance) and was standing almost entirely still, just watching. Arthur raised an eyebrow at him pointedly and then turned back to Kiku, who was chattering eagerly about a new costuming project he had recently been assigned to.
"That's wonderful, Kiku, that really is," he said quite attentively, as if he had been listening devotedly the entire time. "I'm so happy for you."
"Yes, Arthur-san," Kiku glanced rather shyly at his hands. "I am happy, too. And…" he paused. "And, Arthur-san, what about you?"
Arthur felt his gaze flicker to Alfred, who had returned to chattering animatedly with a group of what were presumably admirers, and smiled softly, toying with his glass so that the bit of gin left in the bottom swirled against the sides.
"I…am happy," he said finally, almost as if it was a decision that he had just made (perhaps this was not so far from the truth). "I am, I think, Kiku. That's…" he allowed his gaze to slip towards Alfred one last time. "That's quite amazing, isn't it? All things considered."
Kiku nodded. "All things considered…yes, Arthur-san. Quite amazing."
Arthur reached out and put a hand gently on Kiku's shoulder, pressing affectionately and lifting his glass in a toast, which Kiku returned with a genuine smile (because he didn't have a drink), very slight but very real, nothing like the heartbreaking expression he had worn nearly ten years ago when Arthur had asked him how he perceived the world. However, this abruptly faded, and Kiku tilted his head to the side questioningly; Arthur glanced behind himself and saw that Alfred had suddenly materialized with a very curious look on his face - it was rather blank, something that Arthur couldn't quite define.
"Hello, Alfred-san," said Kiku, as politely as always, bobbing his head respectfully. "How wonderful it is to see you again. I would like to congratulate you on a fantastic job with -"
"Yeah, yeah," said Alfred shortly, and Arthur glanced up at him sharply, surprised by his rudeness – he was obnoxious, certainly, but usually so good-natured that such behavior didn't even seem possible of him. "Arthur," he put a hand on his shoulder, not meeting his eyes, expression still unfathomable. "May I speak with you for a second?"
Arthur blinked. "Sure."
A moment passed; Alfred raised an eyebrow. "In private?"
Arthur blinked again, set his drink down on the counter, gave his temporary goodbyes to Kiku along with a promise to return soon, and allowed Alfred to take his wrist and drag him through the crowd, too confused to protest, though he did try to crane his neck to catch a glimpse of the expression in Alfred's eyes (unsuccessfully). He couldn't even see where they were headed through the masses of people, only gaining some sense of his surroundings when they suddenly neared a wall and Alfred opened a door, pushing Arthur inside ahead of him. Arthur stumbled a bit and felt his back press up against something soft for an instant before he heard the door slam and felt powerful arms wrap around him, fierce and strong and crushingly possessive. He registered that he was being kissed harshly, without even the faintest trace of finesse, mouths open from the offset, the impact almost bruising against his lips. It was a long moment before Alfred moved to his neck, traveling hungrily up and down his throat, quite literally laving his tongue all over and biting rather too hard, making Arthur cry out in pain and irritation and, most of all, confusion.
"Alfred - " he could only manage those two syllables before he was being kissed again; Alfred's hands had fastened into the fabric of his jacket, making escape nearly impossible, and he was gasping by the time they had parted. "What are you - " Again, Alfred was suddenly and irrepressibly surrounding him, their teeth clacking together almost painfully. However, that time around, Arthur was more the wiser and submitted a little, let Alfred relax a bit, so that he finally managed to pull away, taking a gulp of air and pushing ineffectually at Alfred's shoulder as he made another dive for his throat.
"Alfred, this isn't like you!" A fourth kiss, wet and hot and open and forced. "I demand that you explain this to me!" A fifth. "Alfred I won't -" And one more; finally, Arthur pushed at Alfred forcefully and managed to hold him at arm's length, awarding him his finest glare.
"Alfred F. Jones, what the bloody hell has gotten into you?"
Alfred merely wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his tuxedo, not a glimmer of remorse in his still-unreadable expression.
"I'll tell you later," he said, then straightened his bowtie, ran a hand through his hair, and was gone without another word, shutting the door behind him as he went. It was only then that Arthur realized that they were in the coat closet, of all things, that the softness he had felt against his back had been the blazers and jackets of the guests, that Alfred had just pushed him into a coat closet and given him a sizeable hickey near his Adam's apple for no apparent reason, and that Arthur now had to suffer through at least one more hour of socializing with the aforementioned hickey glaring at anyone who dared to attempt to make conversation with him. He groaned, sinking down slowly against the wall, and ran his hands through his hair to straighten it, because at one point Alfred had tangled his fingers into the back and messed it up almost beyond repair. He had to undo his bowtie altogether in order to look remotely presentable, though perhaps that was altogether a lost effort, seeing as it soon became miserably clear that his collar wouldn't reach even remotely high enough to cover the obviously-fresh red mark on his neck. Perhaps he could stay in the coat closet for the rest of the evening? He glanced at his watch; nearly eleven. They wouldn't be there for much more than an hour, would they? And then the party would be just getting started; he hated to be so rude to Kiku, but overall he was much safer in the closet - so to speak, he thought, grinning to himself at the irony as he rummaged through the coats and found a particularly luxurious one to spread on the floor, making himself as comfortable as possible. He was furious and confused with Alfred, but nonetheless he thought he could at least make good use of his time, and though he wished he had a dictionary or a thesaurus to help him along, he pushed his anger aside for the moment and settled in to think of that word.
Alfred knew where to find Arthur, and they drove to his apartment together in silence, Arthur resolved not to speak until Alfred had attempted to explain his behavior, and Alfred, apparently, resolved not to speak at all. On their way out, they had managed to escape the cameras, so Elizaveta was being driven home by Francis, meaning that the stubborn silence between them was only broken by Alfred tapping his finger against the steering wheel and Arthur occasionally shifting in his seat, gazing determinedly out the window.
They pulled into Alfred's driveway and got out, ascending the stairs without a word to each other. Alfred didn't look at Arthur as he pulled out his key and opened the door, merely stepped aside to allow him to pass first, knowing that he already knew where all the light switches were and where he could put his jacket. When Alfred clicked the door shut behind them and turned to face Arthur, he was met with a glare, and finally his expression melted into something palpable, perhaps a mixture of sheepishness and defiance.
"Arthur, I - "
"That behavior was absolutely inexcusable, Alfred." Really, Arthur was of half a mind to slap him; instead he concentrated on unknotting his bowtie. "I demand that you explain it to me this instant."
Alfred blinked and glanced at the floor with what Arthur certainly hoped was shame. "I didn't…er, well, you have to understand, Arthur, I - "
Arthur took a step forwards, his glare deepening. "You what? First of all, you were incredibly rude to Kiku. Second of all, you shoved me into a closet and gave me this," he gestured to the glaring red mark on the side of his neck, "meaning that I had to stay there for the rest of the bloody night, which in turn cause me to be even ruder to Kiku, a beloved friend of mine who was expecting me to come back and finish our conversation. And, as if this weren't already quite enough," he added, finally undoing his bowtie and letting it fall to the floor, taking another step forwards. "I didn't get to finish my drink."
Alfred frowned. "I'll make you another one."
"Alfred."
"Well, Arthur, you're not exactly letting me finish my explanation!"
Arthur crossed his arms over his chest. "Fine then. Finish. Then, I'll return to shouting at you."
Alfred rolled his eyes. "Great, how encouraging. Still," he took a step forwards and grabbed Arthur's wrist; before he could properly react, Arthur was pulled flush against him and being kissed again, not quite as harshly as before but just as forcefully, Alfred's arms wrapping securely around his waist to deter any attempts at escape. After a long moment, Alfred broke his mouth away, and before Arthur could recover his breath enough to yell at him, he was hovering close to his ear, breath coming and going at the side of his neck.
"I don't want to wait anymore, Arthur," he whispered.
"Wait? What the…wait for what, exactly?"
"You said we'd cross the bridge when we came to it, but…" he paused for a moment. "I don't want to wait for that bridge."
"Bridge…I…Alfred, you're making absolutely no sense!"
And suddenly Arthur was pressed up against the wall, Alfred's hands on either side of his head, blue eyes trained on his, glittering fiercely behind his lopsided glasses.
"You're mine, Arthur," he said. "And I don't want to hide it anymore. I can't take it. Not when I have to watch you…" he wrinkled his nose, "flirting with old fuck-buddies of yours. I won't stand for it. I don't want to tip-toe around anymore."
Arthur gazed at him in silence for a moment, and then dissolved into laughter, actually doubling over against the wall as Alfred pulled back in surprise, his façade of dominance instantly melting away to be replaced by the sheepish and awkward and endearingly genuine overgrown boy that Arthur knew so well and really very much preferred.
"You…you actually have the nerve…" Arthur was overcome by another fit of giggles. "When I've had to watch you playing house with Elizaveta for months now...never saying a word in complaint…you actually have the nerve to be angry with me for having a polite conversation with a friend that I fucked once or twice ten years ago?" He dashed a tear from his eye, shoulders still trembling with laughter. "Jesus Christ, you're really amazing sometimes, Alfred."
"Arthur, I was being serious!" Alfred looked a little hurt; this was good, he was behaving like his usual self again.
"I know you were," chuckled Arthur, putting an affectionate hand on Alfred's shoulder. "And I'm both stunned and flattered by your idiocy. Really, Alfred," he shook him fondly. "You must like me a lot."
"I love you," said Alfred immediately, and Arthur's smile softened; Alfred took this as encouragement and stepped forwards, capturing Arthur's wrist in his. "I love you and I want the whole world to know it."
Arthur sighed. "It's hard to stay angry with you when you say things like that, you know."
Alfred smiled tentatively. "That's the point," then his expression sobered; he turned Arthur's wrist in his hand, gazing at it thoughtfully. "I meant what I said, though," he murmured. "I don't want to hide anymore."
"Neither do I, Alfred," admitted Arthur quietly. "But we all have to do things we don't want to. It's part of being an adult, yeah?"
"Well, being an adult sucks," muttered Alfred, pressing a kiss into his wrist, and Arthur smiled, stepping forwards and freeing his hand so that he could wrap his arms around Alfred's neck as his arms fell to his waist, no longer so fiercely possessive but warm and strong and secure.
"So I take it you forgive me?" Alfred murmured, meeting Arthur's gaze hopefully. "I am sorry."
Arthur pretended to consider this for moment. "I suppose," he said eventually. "You'll have to apologize to Kiku as well, though. Next time we see him."
"Sure," Alfred leaned forwards to kiss him; Arthur met him halfway and wound his fingers into his hair, glad that this time, there was no harshness or particular urgency to the kiss, nothing more than a simple sort of longing encouraging him to stretch up further, press deeper.
"Hey, Arthur," Alfred murmured when he had pulled away again. "Do you think we can…"
Arthur smirked and unwound himself from Alfred to take off his jacket, turning to hang it up and gasping when Alfred wrapped around him from behind, actually lifting him from the floor, and began to run towards the bedroom, more of dragging rather than carrying Arthur at all as he squawked in protest. Eventually, he was tossed onto the mattress, and sighed as Alfred pressed his mouth into the hollow of his throat, allowing him to work at his buttons, arching upwards slightly as his shirt came away at his shoulders and Alfred traveled downwards, over his collarbone, across his stomach, pausing to scatter kisses near his navel.
Alfred was smirking when he returned to kiss Arthur properly, hands going down and under to cradle his back and press them close even as Arthur fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, cursing at his cravat. Alfred merely chuckled against his ear and leaned back to undo it himself, and it was then that Arthur realized that Alfred was rather heavily straddling his hips; he propped himself up on his elbows somewhat dazedly, raising an eyebrow.
"Get off to let me flip over, would you?"
Alfred's smirk deepened. "Not tonight, Arthur… I'm still feeling a bit possessive," and then he was hovering over Arthur again, wearing nothing but his socks and trousers, eyes dancing. "Besides, it's been long enough, I reckon."
Arthur swallowed when he realized what Alfred was implying; nonetheless, he quirked a brow challengingly. "You really think you can get away with that? I'm not going down without a fight, you know."
Alfred chuckled and kissed him forcefully, opening his mouth and rumbling appreciatively at the back of his throat when Arthur couldn't help but respond enthusiastically, fingers tangling tight into his hair. Eventually Arthur broke his face away with a little huff of irritation, trying to ignore Alfred's self-satisfied grin, and instead focused on doing away with his trousers, curling his legs up to wrap around Alfred's waist so that he could get a better angle on the button.
"Eager, are we?" smirked Alfred, nudging a knee gently into his crotch, and Arthur pulled his waistband back and let it snap against his stomach vindictively before he managed to shove his trousers down to his ankles, tangling his legs tighter around his waist to bring him down so that he could kiss him again.
"Get on with it," he muttered eventually, sitting up so that he could finish dealing with his own clothes. Alfred wrapped around him from behind, trailing his mouth up and down his neck and shoulders, but when Arthur tried to press him into the mattress again he wound his arms fiercely around his waist and effortlessly flipped them, propping himself up on his elbows as he kissed Arthur all over, all along his throat and collarbone and chest and shoulders and cheeks and nose but very purposefully not his mouth, at least not until the end, at which point Arthur actually moaned and pressed himself into the kiss because he had been anticipating it for so long.
Really, when had Alfred gotten so clever? It was rather unnerving. Then again, Arthur thought to himself as Alfred kept on kissing him, perhaps it wasn't that Alfred had become particularly clever or masterful at all - in fact, he was actually a bit clumsy, slightly nervous despite his self-assured façade, stumbling a little bit over Arthur's body, hands sometimes too rough, mouth sometimes too wet and open, not a particularly deft or resourceful partner to say the least. But if this was the case, why did the slightest touch of his breath against his throat make Arthur gasp, why did he arch into the faintest brush of a fingertip, why could he helplessly do nothing but wind his fingers through Alfred's hair and his legs around his waist when their lips were scarcely touching?
Alfred leaned back for a moment and told Arthur that he loved him, whispering it ragged and breathless in his ear, and then Arthur understood. Francis could kiss and paw his way over him until he was dizzy, Kiku could grip at him and cling and gasp and grit his teeth, the other shadowy partners in his life could bring him to climaxes that shattered his vision and rendered him near-immobile between their sheets, but all of this was nothing compared to the sense of defenselessness that Alfred caused him, the way his stomach swooped and his pulse skyrocketed whenever he brushed Arthur's hair aside or took the trouble to kiss him on the cheek, the way he was cradled to his chest as though he were some sort of precious object, and even though Arthur might protest and say he wasn't made of porcelain, he found that he rather liked being treated like that, almost like a treasure (or so his mind dared to venture, though he blushed immediately at his own disgusting romanticism).
"Are you ready, Arthur?" asked Alfred eventually, and Arthur tried to think if anyone had ever once bothered to ask him that question as he nodded into Alfred's shoulder and took a deep breath, a precaution against pain which would never come because Alfred was gentle, almost too gentle, and very deliberate in going about it (perhaps because he knew how much stronger than Arthur he was), constantly asking him if he was alright, if it felt good, if he was going too fast or too hard, and every time Arthur merely shook his head against his shoulder and tried to wrap himself closer, digging his hands into Alfred's powerful back and hooking his heels over his trembling waist, whispering encouragement into his ear. Eventually, Alfred leaned up and kissed him desperately, and when they had parted took a low, shuddering breath against his chin.
"God, Arthur," he was biting his lip in concentration and Arthur realized that he had forgotten to take off his glasses; the frames were scarcely clinging to his nose, slick with sweat. "I'm close."
Arthur nodded soothingly, rhythmically, though he was gasping a bit himself. "M-me too," he managed, dipping his head to kiss Alfred on the forehead. "Keep going."
Alfred nodded and kissed him again, whispering that he loved him, he loved him, with Arthur sighing the same right back, and when it was over they merely lay there for a moment, chests heaving as they recovered their breath. Eventually, Arthur realized that Alfred was still wearing his socks, and started to laugh; after a few moments of confusion, Alfred registered this as well and dissolved into giggles, kicking them off before he returned to Arthur's side, wrapping him into his arms, still chuckling.
"Arthur, let's come out," he suggested, letting the words drop nonchalantly between rolls of laughter, and Arthur stiffened, turning over in his arms to look at him sharply.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You heard what I said," Alfred gripped his shoulders, now gazing at him quite seriously. "We finished the movie and I don't want to wait anymore."
Arthur sighed. "Alfred, I was hoping you would forget about all that. You're being quite selfish, you know," he reached out and ran his thumb across Alfred's cheek. "I'm right here, aren't I? You know it, and that's all that matters - there's nothing you're going to gain from telling anyone."
"But there is," Alfred insisted, catching his wrist and planting a kiss on his pulse. "I want people to know. I guess you could say I'm proud, Arthur, and I want to tell the world."
"But you can't," repeated Arthur dryly, glancing away because he was faintly embarrassed by the sweetness of Alfred's words; when he dared to look again, however, he was dismayed to see a challenge glittering back at him. "Alfred," his voice dropped warningly. "I know that look in your eyes; this is serious. You're still in the public eye and you can't exactly go - "
He was silenced with a kiss, and then Alfred sprung from the bed, still without a stitch of clothing on, and turned towards the window, yanking back the curtains and allowing moonlight to spill into the otherwise-dark room.
"My name is Alfred F. Jones, and I am in love with Arthur Kirkland!" he shouted, spreading his arms wide, the moon cutting strange shadows across his body. "Let anyone who dare protest it speak now or forever hold their peace!"
He was quite a comical sight, standing there completely naked in the moonlight, shouting at no one through the glass, and Arthur chuckled a little hysterically, faintly disgusted and amused and completely amazed all at the same time.
"Forever hold their peace? We're not getting married, Alfred."
Alfred glanced backwards to flash a grin at him; he cupped his hands over his mouth again. "And, in case there was any confusion, Arthur would like all of you to know that we are not getting married!" he paused. "That wouldn't be very legal anyways!"
Arthur rolled his eyes. "Thank goodness the window's closed."
Alfred jokingly (or so Arthur hoped) reached for the latch. "Want me to fix that?"
"You wouldn't dare."
"Try me."
"Oh, please, Alfred," Arthur smirked and opened his arms invitingly despite himself. "Stop making a fool of yourself and come here."
Alfred gazed at him for a moment, looking torn, and then finally abandoned his post in favor of clambering back between the sheets, encircling Arthur's waist with his arms and pressing his mouth into his hair.
"That's not very fair, Arthur," he murmured, "making me an offer I can't refuse."
Arthur chuckled, patting his chest affectionately.
"Yes, well, whatever it takes," he sighed; it was late, he was tired, and Alfred was very warm and secure around him. "We can stop with our midnight soliloquies and sleep now, yeah?"
He only vaguely felt Alfred's laughter rumble against his cheek as he shifted to put away his glasses and draw the sheets closer around them, returning his cheek to its comfortable position atop Arthur's head.
"Goodnight, Arthur," he whispered into his hair. Arthur smiled softly and managed to whisper the same back even though he was on the very brink of sleep, exhausted not only by the ordeal of the day but by the last six months, just sort of realizing then that it was all really over and there he was, falling asleep in his boyfriend's arms after work, really quite the domestic picture, but he supposed that was alright, after all, perfectly fine.
He woke with the morning sun spilling in through the window (because Alfred had forgotten to draw the curtains back after his glassed-in audience with the entire city of Los Angeles), pale and clear, illuminating the room and casting little shadows into the pockets of the sheets and the contours of the tired but happy expression on Alfred's face: he was still asleep, but Arthur could see the dark circles beneath his eyes and the peaceful half-smile on his mouth, and unconsciously reached out to run his thumb across his cheek, smiling gently. Eventually, Alfred stirred, groaned, and caught Arthur's hand in his to get him to stop.
"S'early, Arthur, stop touching me and go back to sleep."
Arthur chuckled. "I'm not the fool who left the curtains open last night."
Alfred shot him a reproachful look, but eventually got up and pulled the curtains back into place, casting the room into a more comfortable state of semi-darkness. He returned to the bed rubbing at his eyes and yawning, and bundled Arthur into his arms under the pretense that he had made Alfred get up in the first place and, therefore, the least he could do was offer him a little cuddling. Arthur protested only halfheartedly, eventually surrendering and resting his cheek against Alfred's chest, listening to the thud of his heartbeat despite himself. They were quiet for a long time, and then Alfred suddenly shifted, hooked his thumb beneath Arthur's chin, and met his gaze very seriously.
"Time's up, Artie," he said. "I want my word."
Arthur smiled slowly, savoring the moment, because this time he had thought ahead, he had found what he was looking for, and he knew it was perfect, that there was nothing Alfred could say to the contrary.
"Well?" Alfred said after a while, raising a brow. "Out with it."
Arthur reached up to touch Alfred's cheek, kissed him briefly on the mouth, and then pulled away, sighing as he went: "Blank. The world as my script sees it is blank."
Alfred gazed at him for a moment, his expression unreadable.
"Explain," he said finally.
Arthur blinked. "Blank, Alfred, what else is there to say? There is merely nothing - nothing of value, nothing of goodness, nothing worth hanging on for. Even so…" he paused, "this is not to say that there is no possibility of there being something. The world is blank, blank like an empty artist's canvas, desolate but not unalterable, if you will. A miserable world, but yours to make better," he smirked, "if you're of any skill as a painter, that is."
Alfred was silent for a time, then he took Arthur's face in his hands, letting the silence linger for one moment more.
"God, I love you, Arthur," he said finally. "You damn cynic, you corrupt, lonely, isolated, lost, eccentric, inconstant, cynical man," he seemed almost angry. "What gives you the right to say something so wonderful?" Then he kissed him, almost desperately. "How can you be a hopeful cynic? It's a contradiction. It's impossible. And yet," he pulled back, still cupping Arthur's face in his hands. "You've managed it. You never cease to amaze me. And you're right, of course," suddenly his face was full of tenderness, "the world is blank. It's up to us to give it color. And what's more, Arthur…" he paused, and smiled breathlessly, "you've rediscovered the old spirit of film, and not only that, you've found the old spirit of America. The American Dream, it's the quest for making something from nothing, for pouring color onto the canvas. You're brilliant, Arthur, you're fucking brilliant sometimes," he pressed their foreheads together, hands still against Arthur's face. "And I love you more than you can understand."
Arthur met him halfway in the kiss that followed, reaching up and securing his hands in his hair and opening his mouth and simply allowing himself to be overwhelmed by everything, by their success, by the end of it all, by Alfred, surrounding him, filling every aspect of his perception, a new and radiant and exhilarating and exasperating shade of color that had so far done nothing but challenge the spectrum Arthur had always known. When they parted, Arthur left his eyes closed for a long moment, then kissed Alfred on the line of his jaw, whispered that he loved him too, and pressed his face back into his shoulder, considering something. Finally, he came to a conclusion, propped himself up on his elbow, and took Alfred's chin in one hand, meeting his gaze seriously.
"Look, Alfred," he bit down on his lower lip for a moment before he continued. "About what you've been insisting on over these past few days…I can't tell you when, I can't tell you how, probably a long time from now, probably in some backwards way, knowing us, but I can promise you…one day, we'll tell the world, and we'll be proud. Not now, maybe not even soon, but…one day. You have my word."
Alfred gazed back at him for a moment, then leaned forwards to kiss him softly, cradling the back of his neck in his palm.
"Thank you, Arthur," he murmured against his mouth. "For everything."
"Don't be a fool, Alfred," whispered Arthur. "You know it's no trouble."
Alfred chuckled. "I love you, Arthur," he murmured. "So don't think I'm going to go letting you forget about your promise. And rest assured that I'll fight with everything I've got to make it sooner rather than later."
Arthur smiled fondly, too fondly, far too fondly, and kissed Alfred on the tip of his nose.
"I love you, too, you fool," he whispered. "And keep dreaming."
ASDFGHJKL
IT'S OVER (except for the epilogue).
And DAYum, guuuurl, would you look at that word count! That's like, a novel! *headdesk* WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE, I DON'T EVEN…
Bit of translation:
Una verdadera maestro obra = a true masterpiece
claro = sure, of course, etcetera
Già, Romanino*, dobbiamo partire, no ? now, Romano, we should go, right?
*-ino is a diminutive suffix in Italian; it makes the name more…adorable, for lack of better word.
Qué cruel eres conmigo = how cruel you are to me.
Andiamo, vamos = let's go in Italian and Spanish, respectively. The joke here is that Antonio keeps trying to get Romano to use different languages, and he's like: fuck off, bastard, speak English. Ahaha. Linguistics jokes. So funny, u gaiz.
Thank you all SO MUCH for putting up with me and leaving your lovely comments and being all-around the most fantastic readers anyone ever could ask for. I've had such a great time writing this that I can only hope you've enjoyed it half as much. Again, thank you from the bottom of my heart, and stay tuned for the epilogue next week. ^^