NOTE
The beginning of this chapter reflects on Alfred's views. It contains some religious mentions and views, so I thought I should point it out. Oh, and there is a little bit of head-canon involved.
It returns to the present when it jumps back to Arthur's perspective. :D.
As soon as they found themselves stepping forwards, past that gigantic oak doorway and onto the stone floor tiles; Alfred could tell that they were in a place of harmonious sanctity and devoutness. The church parish was small but yet grand in the young American's eyes.
The little child devoured himself within the appearance of the place – stone flooring, high arches ascending towards the heavenly skies above, stained glass spinning beams of light and colour upon the scene, and benches standing attention and halted towards the front; where the holy trinkets stood.
The altar itself was carved rather immaculately. The eyes looked so emotive, the granite hair seemed to be flowing in non-existent wind, and the soft expression his face wore seemed almost scarily realistic. His melancholic smile rained down them and touched their hearts.
When the small golden-haired boy spoke to the man holding his hand like a loving parent, the other nation proudly knelt down and whispered into his ear. The person there – created in granite and nailed to wood – was the son of a very important thing, he had said. It was something that nobody understood, but believed in all the same.
Alfred didn't understand at the time what that all meant. How could someone believe in something that wasn't proved to exist? In his young, childish opinion, he thought it was far too strange. All the adults, and the Kingdom of England himself, seemed to absorb themselves to appreciating a force that was silent; a force that they were not allowed to see and sometimes felt betrayed by.
Many times, Alfred had heard men cursing the skies – or saw them begging for forgiveness from something named as 'God'. Alfred found it ridiculous ten times over. How could they have been devoted to something that seemed to bring them so much internal guilt and misery?
They took their seats, and the first service in that church began. As Alfred's first, he was fascinated. The benches they sat on were cushioned but still were hard, and he could not possibly understand the meaning of the hymns Arthur insisted that he joined in singing to. Lamb of God, Kingdom of Heaven... so on, so forth, and the little American found himself chaotically lost.
Upon complaint, Arthur either laughed it off or told him sternly to be quiet in conflicting times. The priests were friendly and had an air of wistfulness about them that further confused the young boy. Why – for instance – were they so apparently all-knowing about things that happened over fifteen hundred years ago?
And what was this force called 'God'?
That force, Arthur explained, could give and could take away. When things are taken away from people, they grieve. But it is only because they do not pay tribute, thanks and appreciation, to what they had removed that they were stolen away from them in the first place. Therefore, if there was something one appreciated with the entirety of one's heart; they should pray for its protection – so that they do not lose it. Such was the way of the world. If one neglects something then it is easily lost.
Another thing that had confused Alfred at the time was why, at the end, all of the people there in the parish knelt down on their knees and buried their heads close to their hands. At first, Alfred thought they were all suddenly in mourning. Arthur included.
A kind partaker broke his silence and spoke to Alfred to settle his curious little mind. They explained to the boy about the action they were doing; a little ritual known in the church as 'prayer'.
Prayer is a form of communication, a way of talking to God or to the saints – he said - a humble and sincere request, or an utterance in praise. Or, alternatively; a supplication of confession to the sins a person had committed. It could be a plea for help or a whisper for forgiveness, as well as a way of thanksgiving for what one has received throughout the years.
Alfred asked his adoptive brother after the ceremony was over what Arthur had prayed for. The Englishman had laughed, the American remembered, and smiled widely. "My welfare, for one. My King and people for another. But I'll tell you a secret, my sweet little America."
Secret?
"I pray for you the most."
Was that ever a secret?
Questions began to fill the young American's mind from that point onwards. He realised that Arthur was possibly obsessed with protecting himself against grievance. But mostly, he was undoubtedly afraid. Afraid that Alfred would one day be taken away from him. Afraid that he would lose something – the one thing – that was most important to him in the world.
Even then Arthur was internally terrified. He was absolutely convinced that he second he stopped paying tribute to him, stopping paying attention to him – that Alfred would be taken away. Good things never happen to those that are wicked.
He remembered once. Arthur had come to visit him for the first time in months. The American may have been little, but he was not blind, deaf and dumb. He knew of the wars progressing elsewhere in the world. The Austrian war of succession, for one, was raging in the East – far beyond the corners of the New World.
Although his childish heart yearned for the Englishman to see him far more; he was not the most selfish child to walk this Earth. It made him bitter to not see Arthur in a long time, but he understood. He knew that Arthur cared for him. He knew that much of the warfare Arthur engaged himself within was to protect Alfred, America, and keep him underneath the Briton's wing.
The moment that Arthur had stepped inside, Alfred had noticed that the man was a complete mess. Alfred didn't know what it was at the time, but there was sticky and concealed red stuff in the Englishman's hair. His lip was split and his clothes unkempt and gruff, but yet he still fought to maintain his composure. He had smiled. He had told him that he 'needed to see' him. The connotations that Arthur had to see his face to hold himself on his own two feet – to stop himself from giving in and crumbling to the pressure – was not lost.
Alfred tried to ask Arthur what had happened, but the Englishman never took his badly placed hints. The question was avoided constantly much to Alfred's chagrin. But the young American was far smarter than he ever got credit for. He could tell that something bad at the time had happened, and it made him feel sick. Just looking into the hollowness in Arthur's eyes betrayed it all. The child understood why Arthur never spoke about it as they had tea and supper, or again as Arthur tried to have the boy explain to him what he had learnt within his absence.
It was natural for someone to disguise their worry and pain in front of the one they wanted to protect. Indeed, it hurt Alfred to think. So he disguised his grief as well. He did not dare show the Englishman that there was, undoubtedly, something wrong. If there was anything that Arthur's attitude had taught him over the years; it was to be enthusiastic about his ideas, his views and his excitement... but, his feelings were a different story. Just like Arthur, Alfred had grown up to push his frustration and upset deeper inside – to hide them away, and be ashamed of that negativity.
The sands of an hourglass had hardly fallen when Alfred was tucked into bed, with that split-lip smile and false pretences to fuel him into a grieved, frustrated sleep. Although as Arthur left his bedside and retreated back downstairs, Alfred had quietly followed not long after. The second he heard sobs, he had become scared. It was a natural reaction, of course, to hearing the voice of one's mentor cry; pain or panic in their voice.
Peaking from the doorway at his beloved brother nation, Alfred discovered it. Hearing Arthur cry, cursing the Heavens and the so proclaimed 'God' for what he supposedly had lost, or even had been forced into; Alfred felt his heart become struck. It could have been a sense of grief, maybe – a feeling of regret knowing that the Englishman had driven himself to desperate tears just with the strain of protecting him. But Alfred soon evaluated it to have been different.
He hated it - absolutely loathed the thought. If Arthur damaged himself, mentally and physically, trying to protect him – then why, on Earth, did he even bother? It hurt them both to see the Briton in pain. But instead of being sad for his apparent brother, Alfred had felt angry. It seemed pointless. The Englishman was convinced, evidently, that he could not communicate with the rest of the world without becoming tainted against him.
Maybe Arthur was right. The man, his supreme Empire, was not revered with the rest of the world. It would have rubbed off on the child with ease. But that was not what was the most insulting. Alfred wanted to show Arthur that he did not need his protection. That he was young, yes, but also strong. He did not need somebody to stand up in front of him and defend him against everyone else who wanted to own his lands or steal his worth. He did not need to be sheltered.
And then, he realised something that had never left him throughout the several hundred years of his life. He was trapped. He wanted to be free.
So become free was exactly what he did.
There was no point cotton-coating everything. The Revolutionary war was not because Alfred loved Arthur; but because he wanted to be free. It was for his own benefit - and the benefit of those residing within him - that he broke away. He was not sorry, in the slightest. They all knew it was better this way. Arthur included.
But Alfred quickly realised. It was not the proclaimed 'God' that had taken him away from the Englishman; but it was he, himself. Nobody was pulling the strings to his feelings. Nothing visible was tearing him away from Arthur, and certainly not something physical forcing him to act as he did. But still, he had heard the Briton pant and cry afterwards – while they were surrounded by blackened skies and rain drenching the fabrics of their red and blue coats – over 'why'.
Why had God betrayed him? Did he not pray his thanks or love him enough?
It was then that Alfred's vision of God was finalised. Take it as you will, religion and the sort; but to Alfred himself, it felt that this religious entity could have been symbolic. Heaven was euphoria – a happiness, satisfaction, and fulfilment. The red strings of fate that tied people together, tangling the threads and forcing edges to fray, was representative of exactly what Alfred came to understand.
It was a connection between them; something that couldn't be explained but was truly there. Nothing had to be one hundred percent physical to exist, he came to understand. There had to be a reason, for instance, why they had been put on that Earth. Why they became who they were. Why they met one another.
It was nonsensical – yes – but there was no true explanation for it. Alfred found himself absorbed in the idea; the whole origins of religion, origins of their lives and why things turned out like they did. He studied; Bible, Qur'an, other holy books and stories of old – desperately trying to find a purpose to it all. He looked to the skies, wondering if there were other means of life out there on other planets, or where the so called Heavens were.
Without realising it, Alfred had fell prey to what had seeming captivated thousands – millions even – of people in the past. He managed to make himself religious in a way; cursing the same God when he was hurt or upset. Praising the same God when he felt there was something worth celebrating, and pleading to the same God when he needed help. Like many, he was never sure if there was something there to listen to him – in fact, he did strongly doubt it – but he felt fulfilled in believing so.
There was something now to blame, or to praise; or to hope understood him when nobody else could or even tried. Alfred was a curious boy and even more curious man; and his people reflected it. Not only was he one of the most openly religious nations, but also he was the most conspiring to discovery.
The theory of evolution came and Alfred was – if somewhat disturbed at first – fascinated. The theory of aliens excited him desperately. Reaching out of the Earth and touching the starry skies was his dream becoming true. Alfred defined himself on beliefs sparked from what that certain Englishman had taught him hundreds of years ago – even without realising it.
Alfred was never sure when he had begun to fall in love with his ex-coloniser in the first place. Perhaps it was indeed stemmed from his life when he was young; some sort of Freudian affair, no doubt, with a child falling in love with that which raised him. From the very moment they began to spend time together, Alfred had shaped himself into a mould that Arthur had constantly solidified. His language, fighting spirit, and self were a combination of appreciation for what Arthur had him learn and rebellion against it. Perhaps Alfred had always appreciated that. His young heart really did feel hurt whenever he saw Arthur pained.
It was only after the revolutionary war was long over, admittedly, that Alfred ever abandoned adolescence enough to realise that there was more than brotherly feelings residing there inside of him whenever he thought of that certain Englishman. It took even longer to recognise it as love.
But just as he had subconsciously learnt from Arthur that his true feelings should be pressed aside, to maintain composure in front of other people for as long as possible without breaking; Alfred managed to hide the fact completely. Even when he wanted to take that man into his arms and press their smooth lips together so much that he couldn't bare it – Alfred managed to push through.
Eventually, however, it became far too much. Like almost all infatuations. But Alfred could tell it was different from something simple, like a school girl's crush or some simple bound of lust. Though he hid his thoughts behind a goofy smile; an apparent mentality that showed he couldn't read the atmosphere or just didn't pay attention anywhere nearly enough... Alfred could interpret his own feelings far too clearly. He was smart – yet never credited for it. He did not, for instance, become one of the world's superpowers for absolutely nothing.
Alfred became to love Arthur just like a kid would do with their childhood sweethearts. They were split apart, but eventually they found themselves together in close quart once more; fighting alongside each other. Naturally, the part of him that did deeply miss the Englishman since his independence dominated him whenever he saw that man smile - as rare a basis that was. He realised he missed the time they spent together, seeing him and making him grin like he did back then. Then that feeling developed into a want to kiss, a want to touch and tell him that he was worth his private affection.
But unlike the past, he was no longer trapped. Alfred was free to want to be with the Englishman all he wanted – and he was free, consequentially, to walk away if he so desired. Alfred could be with Arthur out of his own choice, rather than obliged to.
And just like in the past, where Alfred did not want Arthur to find pain in protecting him; he did not want Arthur to be hurt by his affections now. It was severe insult to see, hear, Arthur accuse him of intentionally using his body for his own selfish desires instead of seeing past the barriers of the 'box' as into the obvious. He loved Arthur, and it was now all plain to see. He just had to make sure that the Englishman opened his eyes.
The first thing Arthur had done after he had felt the scene with malice filling him was, surprisingly, go to the bathroom and brush his teeth. As his usual morning ritual, Arthur would be damned if he changed it just because of what he had woken up to that day. He tried desperately to continue as he would have done; without their presence in his home. Not to mention, had they found some reason to possibly communicate with him – he would far rather go about ignoring them without the morning taste in his mouth.
Not only that, Arthur considered with a heavy feeling cramping his chest, but he had absolutely no idea what his mouth might have been forced to do the night before. He did not know whether the hoarse ache in his throat was from his moans and pants or something much thicker and much more solid.
The bathroom, as Arthur walked inside, was still in the exact same condition as it was last night. Bottles were scattered randomly everywhere, tossed around when he was desperately looking for some lubrication. He scoffed, remembering how he had deliberated over which to use. He no longer understood whether or not that so called 'memory' was a lie anymore. Who knew what other deceit was planted in him.
As he brushed his teeth, Arthur could hardly look in the mirror. Not only was he disturbed by what Francis and Alfred had apparently done to him barely twelve hours ago, but he was absolutely, fervently disgusted at himself.
Evidently, he had given in to his fellow nations. He couldn't even remember taking any alcohol the night before, so they must have done a real number on him. Perhaps it was date rape drugs that got him so intoxicated – his kidneys did feel a little weird now that he thought about it. The nation was a bit of a hypochondriac, though, so he didn't know if his body was just making the feelings up.
The very fact that they managed to bed him meant that they knew – they knew that he loved them, and that he could be easily exploited to their benefits. There was no other reason for their smugness and certainly for Alfred's attempt to kiss him earlier. The English nation refused point blank to think that the American's words could possibly have been true.
Good things never happen to the wicked. Consequentially, Arthur could never accept that Alfred and Francis were there for any reason other than to please themselves. It was all selfishness disguised until the false pretences of 'care'. How absurd. Arthur had far too much sense to believe in anything but deceit.
Anger boiled up in the Englishman far too much for the man to take. He tossed his toothbrush at the mirror, ignoring the minty splats that speckled all down the silvery glass. Spitting, rinsing, Arthur left promptly and headed downstairs – all the while entirely blanking out the very existence of his bedroom and the possibility of other nation residing there. Hearing something getting kicked inside, Arthur winced and clenched his fists. He prayed, internally, that they would just leave... let him get over the shock on his own terms.
Speaking of 'his own terms'; a swift craving for tea was entering the nation's mind. Tea; the dried leaves, internodes and leaf buds of a Camellia Sinensis – an eastern Asian evergreen shrub – prepared and steeped to make an aromatic, somewhat bitter beverage. Above anything, it is a social device for afternoon tea or dinner parties; although it's wonderfully relaxing and alertness heightening qualities were particularly what Arthur craved. To him, personally, it was a means to calm him when he most needed time to actively reorganise himself. Today, indeed, was no different.
The wait itself, however, was always horrific when he was in the highest disparity for the amber liquid. Kettle filled and on the electric stand, Arthur stood facing it – frantically trying to terrify or guilt the pot into boiling all that little bit faster. It was times of utter silence like this that he naturally began to reflect on what had happened. Arthur loathed himself greatly as the thought of Alfred came into mind, with all of his beautifully naked qualities.
The nation was so simmering in his handsomeness; the sort of attractiveness that could instantly take breaths away. It was unfair, certainly. Alfred had picked up on a body that the entire world had wanted to possess – whether it was for land or for personal reasons. While Arthur was, well, he was hardly anything commendable.
The very thought of him or Francis - the most seductive and elegant nation of them all – wanting to be with him made the Briton crumble. It was absurd, false, and could never be proclaimed true. As a sober man, he was far too sensible to fall for such a thing.
Just like the heating kettle, Arthur's feelings were beginning to bubble in his chest until it felt absolutely unbearable. He shook his head, forcing the thoughts out of his mind – to think of happier things, yes, like flowers; rhododendrons, roses, fuchsia, lilies. With an angered sigh, Arthur realised that it was useless. The thoughts reappeared constantly in his mind despite his eagerness to have them ridded.
Reaching to the little tin that he kept the tea bags in, Arthur's hand briefly hovered over the one in which he kept coffee – just in case any of his guests had horrendous taste in hot beverages. Almost one hundred percent of those guests were the certain two nations he was trying to mentally avoid. Francis, he knew, drunk coffee around him just to stir him up and Alfred was a-given every since the incident in Boston harbour.
Instead of guiding his hand away from it and to the tea; Arthur frowned darkly and picked the damned thing up – right before he chucked it at the wall with the full brunt of his internal malice. Coffee granules scattered everywhere, and the metal tin racketed and rung as it hit the floor.
"What the hell—Arthur, damn it, what are you doing?" Came a voice in the same direction he had thrown the coffee. Truthfully, Arthur really hadn't noticed the American's presence at the door; but had he done, he would have chucked something much more painful and large than coffee. "Calm down, space cadet! You could have hit me!"
"What makes you think, Alfred, that that was not my intended purpose?" Arthur scathed back, pointing an accusing finger at the other. Said other nation looked momentarily wounded, kicking a path through the coffee and approaching ever cautiously. "...Don't you dare come a single step closer!"
Obediently, Alfred halted with an overly exaggerated sigh.
"I told you to get out of my home – not to wait fifteen minutes and then pester me!"
"Like hell would I do that!" Alfred replied, holding his hips. He pulled a slight pout, tapping his fingers impatiently.
"Do not use that language and tone with me, boy." Arthur said, practically growling with mirth at the other.
"I can use whatever language or tone or whatever I so like. So ha, and live with it." Alfred said, taking another few steps closer. Arthur tensed up noticeably, but he did not dare move from his position. Their eyes locked, before the Englishman pointedly eyed up the telephone on the other side of the kitchen with vigour. The American didn't take the threat. He knew that Francis was right about Arthur's threats being much more bark than bite.
"Listen, Arthur. Just let me talk for a second—Hey, don't pull that face! It's not gonna kill ya, y'know?—Good. Alright..." He sighed deeply, not entirely sure how to communicate with the stubborn Briton; especially when that stubborn Briton was not entirely enthusiastic about talking as well. "...okay, here goes. I know that you might feel all, like, hurt right now and stuff... but... well; you're not the only one."
Arthur snorted at that, folding his arms. Please.
"Don't be like that. Come on, damn it, listen to me!" He added, stroking his hand through his hair; nervous pretences, as ever. "Arthur, look, I've kept this inside for a very long time now – but – I can't let it be held in anymore. I know you might look on what happened wrongly, but... I didn't lie, you know? And—And I didn't force you into doing something you didn't want to do. I swear. I wouldn't d—"
"—Enough." Arthur interjected. His voice was woven with spite. They stared at each other for a tense moment. The tension could have been chopped into chunks. Inevitably; hurt and anger was beginning to flow intensely through both of their veins. The kettle behind the Englishman was getting close to the boil.
"Let me tell you this, Alfred. I will not accept your pity." The Briton continued, staring him down sternly. He knew the American was uneasy by the way he was shifting with weight on the balls of his feet. Arthur scoffed, and turned around to finish making his tea. "I don't care what you say, Alfred. 'I love you'...? Don't make me fucking laugh. You have no idea what love is. Let me be the first to tell you that whatever you did to me last night is nothing but a sick, fucked-up joke. You and Francis must think that I am a complete fool for believing that you care about my 'feelings' now. Perhaps, I am already a complete fool for falling for it."
Arthur went to pop the tea bag in his mug. His heartbeat sky-rocketed, however, when his wrist was seized.
"This is a joke!" Alfred spat. The Englishman could feel every word that passed his lips, putting continuous pressure onto an already heavy heart.
"You don't think, Arthur, for one single minute that what was said and done last night was actually real? Don't be so full of yourself! This is not about us violating you and forcing you to do things you don't want!"
The Englishman suddenly felt scandalised. He snarled, grinding his teeth together as Alfred continued.
"I never thought I would say this, but, put down your pride and consider someone else's feelings for once. Did it even occur to you for a single second that maybe, just maybe, we were with you last night because we loved you...?
For God's sakes, Arthur. You accused me of being demeaning, but think about what you're saying! Don't you realise that sometimes, I don't know, good things can happen? I don't know about Francis, but I know what I feel. Don't you dare doubt that.
I know that I love you.
Got that into your thick British skull? I-Am-In-Love-With—You."
Arthur narrowed his eyes, shaking his head. Alfred was blind to what love really was. An infatuation, maybe, was the height of his affection; something impure as a faked diamond and just as easy to crack as glass.
"...You're not going to listen, are you? You're just not going to listen. You really think I'd take advantage of you?" Alfred's voice, now, was so filled with irritation that it was cracking. In front of them, the kettle finally boiled.
"Well, fine."
Arthur hardly knew what hit him, when he was suddenly thrown onto the kitchen countertop – stomach down. Gasping for breath proved as a fruitless action, and he quickly found that the force had winded him. Own back, he supposed, for earlier. The mug that he was going to use knocked onto its side, and rolled all of the way to the edge. He tried grabbing for it, panting desperately to retrieve that breath of his back, but his arm was suddenly yanked away. Arthur watched in horror as it tumbled off of the side – and winced when it hit the floor with a prominent smash.
"Y-You—What the hell are you doing?—That mug was..."
The Englishman never got the chance to say why the mug was worth mourning, although it was something far too insignificant anyway. Their eyes didn't link before Alfred suddenly pushed Arthur's head down against the cold, hard marble. He snarled, trying to force his arm out of the other's grip and resist.
"Al—Alfred F. Fucking Jones—What is...!"
The same hand that forced his head before moved, grabbing Arthur's jaw and yanking it away from where the American was. He tried to resist, going to bite the fingers there – when a sudden presence closed in behind him. The way Arthur's arm was twisted revealed what he had already figured out. Alfred had climbed onto the countertop, on top of him. And Heavens betray him if his heartbeat hadn't gotten that little notch faster.
He let out a muffled noise of surprise when he felt Alfred's tongue lick the shell of his ear. Arthur's eyes widened, taking the American's last words into consideration. 'You really think I'd take advantage of you'?
"A-Al...?" Arthur whispered, panicked.
A sudden terror jolted through his body, making him feel weak at the knees. Which was just as well; Arthur felt the American slot his legs in-between his own, and slowly nudge them apart. He fought back, resisting the attempt – but that quickly proved useless too. Alfred let go of his now sore jaw and wrist, spanning his legs wide as the American pushed his knee into the cavity created. Feeling tangled, Arthur let out an accidental gasping moan as the other nation pressed up against his crotch – intentionally, no doubt.
With both his arms now released, Arthur went to try knocking the American off of him – only to find that he was completely pinned in; hardly any room between he and Alfred's naked chest. When had he gotten so damned close, anyway? The Englishman could hear his breaths come out in exasperated pants, and his stomach stammer with heat. Once he realised that those arms could be a hindrance, Alfred took the two thin wrists in his one hand – shoving them up above his head and out of the way.
Arthur cried out, muscles locking, and tried to tug back. But Alfred was too strong to force away. The grip on his wrists was surprisingly immense, and he was completely boxed in. The leg pinned him in from behind while the hand above made sure he couldn't escape that way either. He squirmed, racking his mind for a way out...
"See how easy this is for me to do, Arthur? Do you?" Alfred growled dominantly. The rage was not lost on his tongue, and Arthur found himself hastily shaking his head in disbelief. What exactly was Alfred trying to do? He... God, he wasn't being serious, was he?
"I can dominate you completely. I'm strong and you know it. I could have forced you down to the ground and had my way with you a long, long time ago."
Arthur swallowed thickly at that, almost choking on the hard stone feeling in his throat. The nation tried not to whimper, but he had become rigid with horror; shocked that the American would dare push him down like this. That said, however, he believed it of the night before... why on Earth would this not be the same?
"Alfred, please... this is ridiculous!"
His words trailed off when Alfred's other hand bent down underneath them, brushing the Englishman's torso through the fabric of his haphazardly done up shirt. Arthur tensed again as the American's hand slid across to the buttons, and began forcing it open with fierce tugs. Hardly any time at all passed before it was completely undone, a few of the buttons having had been popped out of the seams. That strong hand of his dipped inside the cotton; stroking all the way up his sensitive side. Arthur couldn't stop himself moaning at his touch.
"—Touch you, violate you." Alfred's knee pressed right up against his crotch. Arthur was incoherent with shock. Even his body no longer knew if it should fight back in outrage or let the American use him and abuse him like this. The Englishman was conflicted, along with the thoughts filling his mind. Surely – surely this was all a lie. Alfred would never touch him like this... he wouldn't – he just wouldn't. But then—what was last night supposed to be?
"Take everything that you have to give. I could break your bones and lock you up for me to use any time. My own little slave – wouldn't that be lovely, Arthur?" Alfred pressed against him, pulling the collar of the Briton's shirt backwards so that he could dip his sly and damned tongue across Arthur's thin, breakable neck.
But the touch never came. Arthur blinked wide-eyedly; confused as the hot breath on his skin retreated and the knee between his thighs disappeared. He was just about to voice his further shock when the weight on him was removed and his wrists were also released. A few seconds of silence filled the air with vacancy.
"But I don't, Arthur. I don't." Came the emotive reply.
Arthur froze, realising that the seductively agitated tone in Alfred's voice had suddenly changed. He turned around, rolling onto his back. His heart hit repeatedly in his chest - thump thump - as he gazed up at that American's face. Instead of seeing what he expected there – anger, lust – in the other's expression; he saw a melancholic frown of what seemed to be sympathy.
He stared, not knowing at all how to react to it. Alfred was just touching him, so, why...? Why did he stop...?
"Because there's no way in hell that I'd hurt you. I don't want you to be afraid of me, and I'll be damned before the day I use you in that way. Damn it, Arthur, don't you realise how insulting this is? I can't believe that you - of all people - would have that little faith in me. We've been partners in fixing this world for years, haven't we? You didn't doubt me all this time – did you...?"
The genuinely upset expression on his face was what confused Arthur the most.
"You think that you're the only one that could get hurt by this, do you? Think again. Francis is another case, but for me... last night was something good, Arthur. You know how I felt when I heard you say you loved me? You really, really think I was lying when I said four words back?
Maybe I do say things that I don't mean sometimes – 'cause I'm still young and I'm still bashful, and I know! But seriously - I'm not so stupid to just toss around meaningful words without knowing the consequences! Independence, love - I don't care! Do you think I'm soulless, Arthur?
I love you. Has that just not sunk in yet?"
Arthur was flabbergasted. He opened his mouth to speak, but found himself tongue-tied. Searching for lies in the American's posture, expression or eyes revealed nothing other than truth; and, Arthur had no idea how to react. His body went rigid in incredulity.
Above him, Alfred's lips curled inwards in hushed sorrow. Arthur really did feel scandalised by that face. "...D-Don't, don't ever make me have to do something like that again... alright? Has it sunk in yet, Arthie...?"
The Englishman breathed slowly, and nodded.
The American, consequentially, smiled widely. His hand brushed lightly against Arthur's cheek. Below, Arthur's own slowly snaked up and wrapped his fingers around that hand. He was shocked to discover that it, Alfred's, was shaking. It probably had been the whole time...
"...Good." He smiled a smidgeon wider, and descended down; kissing the Brit deeply.
And there you have it, loves.
I haven't written anything more than this yet...
I'll point out that I will be updating the Kink Meme a lot quicker than here. Basically, I'm pooling chapters together when the updates are big enough. It might be a little while before the next chapter, but I'll try keep up with it.
Thanks for reading so far, m'dears.
