As the sun began to set gently, the two men ventured out of the pub, just slightly tipsy and giddy from the alcohol's effects. The streets grew quiet as the city people retreated back to their homes for the night. It would only be a little while before the night life burst into bloom, with loud men, screaming women, and not a sign of a child in sight. That was when London really came alive, under the cover of darkness in the late hours. It was when the fun began and when the secrets came to show themselves. It was a time to avoid, but also a time to join if you played it right.

Arthur found himself leaning lightly against Alfred's side, a little dizzy from the drink. Alfred happily held his weight, his arm around the Englishman's shoulder. He was sure that Arthur wasn't listening as he chatted to himself, muttering things about random topics that might have swam through his head at the time. But he didn't care. He wasn't really listening to himself either.

As the sun made its last mark in the sky, he stopped and smiled down at Arthur. "Hey, now I can show ya the river at night!" He gripped the smaller one tightly and walked a little faster, though not as the speed he would have liked. Arthur didn't look up to walking much faster than snail speed at that moment.

"You're going to love it," he said. "The city's got its own kind of beauty, ya know. It's like its own world!" Arthur grumbled to let him know he was listening. "I found it not long ago. It doesn't look as awesome in the day though."

A light wind whistled in, rushing through their hair. Arthur glanced up at the excited American, who swung his free arm by his side very animatedly as he retold the story of how he had stumbled upon the river, quite literally, almost falling in. His face seemed to shine in the low light of the night lamps and his blue eyes sparkled with such intensity that Arthur almost felt as if it was a sin to look away from them. But they were the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen, and that was what made him look away.

He would have loved to have those eyes. All he had was a moss green colour, clear under the bushy eyebrows that he hid beneath his low fringe. They were so unlike his father's, who had chocolaty brown, so warm and kind, and his mother with her bright green, so calm and happy. He had a mix of the two, and he didn't like it. He had always noticed the eyes of a person before anything else, and maybe it was Alfred's eyes that had spurred the hatred inside him before anything else. Jealousy? Was that what he felt? No, it couldn't be. How could he be jealous of eyes?

"It's so pretty," Alfred whispered in awe.

Arthur's head snapped up, fear pooling in the pit of his stomach as he wondered if he had spoken his thoughts aloud. But Alfred's perfect eyes were not on him, but scanning the area all around.

"London is really pretty in the night," he elaborated at Arthur's confused glance. "I know I've seen it so many times before, but it just gets me every time!" He gave a face-splitting smile. "And the river is so close now! If you listen carefully, you can hear the water running."

Arthur rolled his eyes.

They arrived on the bank of the river Thames just as the moon began to shine its gorgeous rays. Alfred wasted no time in pulling Arthur to sit down on the bank closely to him. Arthur stumbled but complied and watched as the river rippled in the cool night breeze. Dragonflies flitted across the water, going by so quickly that Arthur had to strain to watch them. The moon's reflection waved in the water, a white circle amongst the dark and murky surface. No stars surrounded it, not as Arthur was used to, but seeing the moon by itself seemed just as beautiful, that it was able to still shine through the pollution of the light of the big city.

His lip curled up a little as he gave a weak form of a smile. In his own mind, it was not a smile. But he noticed Alfred watching with his own beaming grin, his eyes wide as he held his breath.

The small smile disappeared from Arthur's lips. He asked, "What?" It was a little harsher than he had hoped it would come out and he wished he could take it back, but the look on the American's face did not falter.

"You were so close," Alfred replied quietly. "Just a little more and I'm sure you would have been smilin'!"

Arthur crossed his arms before his chest and looked away from the younger man to watch the water before him. It calmed him greatly, more than he would like to admit. He almost felt all of his worries, his pain, his weaknesses flow downstream. It even made him a little happy, but the strong gaze that he felt from Alfred denied him the smile he might have been close to showing.

"Bet it's going to be one hella awesome smile once I see it," Alfred chuckled. "Beautiful too!"

Arthur turned his face away so that Alfred couldn't see the blush that so shamefully formed on his cheeks. But the American wouldn't let him have his minute to let the blush fade. Alfred grabbed his shoulders and spun him around so quickly that he had had no time to ready himself or hide his face. He sat face to face with Alfred, his blush deepening and his shame growing more and more by each second. Alfred's blue eyes widened and he was struck speechless by it. Arthur, feeling embarrassed, pushed off Alfred's hands and turned away again, willing the red of his face to leave, just as his dignity had.

For a long minute, Alfred said nothing, but continued to stare at the back of the Englishman's head. Arthur wondered what it was that was going through his mind at that moment, whether he felt disgusted by Arthur now and leave him, cursing him, or if he would say nothing for the rest of the night.

But had Alfred thought anything of his situation, it was gone now, pushed down as he leaned forwards and placed a hand on Arthur's shoulder.

He announced cheerfully, "Look! There are ducks on the water!"

Arthur leaned back to look as the ducks swam across the surface, giving their last quacks and their last baths before they settled down on the opposite bank in their nests, ready to sleep until the rise of the sun for the next day. He watched as they fell into their slumber, then turned a little to glance at Alfred. Alfred's gaze was set on the shimmering water, but he turned to look at Arthur as he felt his gaze. He gave a smile, a much gentler one than he normally gave, and it warmed the core deep within Arthur. He wasn't sure what that smile meant, or what Alfred was trying to achieve with giving it, but it brought the blush back with full force. Why? Why was he, a grown man, blushing over this American youngster? Alright, maybe there wasn't that much of a gap, but he was still younger!

Alfred took the silence in and curled his arm around Arthur's shoulder, bringing him closer to lean in on him. Arthur thought of fighting back, but was unable to as he felt the warmth of the other's body press onto his side. It was nice, he admitted.

"So, tell me about the place you used to live before here," Alfred said softly. "I wanna hear about it."

Arthur gave a meek shrug, sighing a little. "There's not much to tell," he replied.

Alfred gave a small shake. "'Course there must be! It's a home. There's loads to tell about a home! It's what creates a person."

So what would that make Arthur? He had been brought up sheltered, in a grand house, with everything he had ever wanted. But there had only been his father and him. It was empty, and some rooms he had never visited more than once in all his life. And now it was broken, with only him as the survivor. Was that supposed to be some sort of metaphor for his life, then and now? He shook his head slightly. Of course not. It was a building he had grown up in. It meant nothing more.

"It was nice," he began faintly, the image of said building returning to his mind. All the memories and the experiences invaded once more. He could almost feel the whipping wind and smell the newly cut grass once the gardener had finished. "It wasn't much, but I liked it. There were only my father and me after my mother passed away. We didn't have much, but we got by."

He felt bad lying to the American, but he couldn't push himself to tell him of what had really become of his home. Just thinking about it hurt him. And to admit that he had once been so tall in society, but was sent plummeting after a second's mistake, he just wasn't able to do that either. Pride, his damned pride, would not let him. To lie and say he had been from the bottom seemed to somehow protect that.

Almost hesitantly, Alfred asked, "What happened to your father?"

"He was sent away to fight. Where we came from, there weren't any other jobs, so joining the army seemed the only thing he could do. Once he left, I couldn't keep the house by myself, so I packed up and came here." Alfred cast him a sympathetic and worrying look, and Arthur felt his gut clench in guilt. He would apologise and admit later, but he could not take it back now.

"Oh. It must have been hard for you."

Harder than you know, Arthur thought. "Yes."

To still the silence that had been starting to grow, Alfred joked, "But hey, you sound proper posh for living poorly. I thought only the rich have an accent like you."

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck. "Um, yes, well, my father always believed that first impressions were important. As much as employers say they don't judge on first impressions, they do, and accents make up for part of that. Out of someone with an accent like me and another with an accent so heavy you can barely understand, who would you employ?"

Alfred scratched his temple. "You, I'd guess. That's true." He gave the Englishman a nod and said, "Hey, your dad sound like an awesome dude to think ahead for you like that."

"Yes, he really was a bloody brilliant man." Arthur gripped the bottom of his top in a tight grip, sighing as he admitted, "Honestly, I've been thinking of joining him."

Alfred's head snapped towards him, his eyes wide and his mouth set into a deep frown. "What?"

"I've been thinking about it a lot. I hate this war. But what can I do to end it? Certainly not by just sitting here and complaining about it. I need to be out there, fighting – fighting with him."

"You're no fighter, Arthur," Alfred responded firmly.

"No, but I can learn. I'll fight if it means something to me and this means a lot. Besides, who are you to tell me I can't fight for my country?"

Alfred turned around and gripped Arthur's shoulders in a vice-like grip, not letting go even as Arthur complainedt. He stared intensely into Arthur's eyes, not allowing him to look away, not even for one single second. Slowly and deeply, he insisted, "Arthur, you don't know what it's like out there on the battle-field. You have no idea what it's like to fight in this war. And the enemy would pick you out because of that weakness. You'd be killed before you even knew what hit you."

"But-"

"No, you listen to me. I never fought before and they noticed that almost as soon as I landed in France. It was the hardest thing I've ever done – trying to gain the experience and the confidence, to put them off and to survive. If I hadn't fought against every instinct I had, I would be dead now. I did everything I could to stop being their target, and it took hella lot to do that. And they still got me, twice. I know a lot of people who weren't able to do that and they're all dead." He paused and then added, "I mean, I was a hero and I knew I could do it, but that's besides the point-"

Arthur lightly punched him in the stomach, then shook his head, tutting, "I knew you were just gloating."

Alfred took his chin and brought him to look at his face again. "Arthur, it really isn't the place for you. You wouldn't survive there. It's a place you have to give up every single fear you've ever had, or it's the end of you. It's hard to give up something you love, but it's harder to give up your fear."

Arthur took a deep breath, taken in by those eyes. There, he saw the fear Alfred had been talking about. Alfred had had to get rid of all of his fears – the fear that he would fail, the fear that the enemy would win, the fear his friends would die, and the fear that he would never return home. To get rid of all emotions, to discard terrors and nightmares so that if your fear became reality, it didn't take a hold of you like it would have before, and some of those had become reality.

But now there was a new fear, one that Alfred tried to convey through his gaze. He was scared that Arthur would be the one who wouldn't return. Arthur wondered why Alfred was scared of that when they hadn't known each other for long. But he concluded that the American was like that, that he feared for everyone's safety. As he knew first-hand what the war was like, he felt it was his duty to discourage naïve believers from going off and practically killing themselves.

Under those eyes, Arthur could only nod and swear, "Alright, I won't. I'll just look for a job. It was just a thought, anyway."

Alfred's smile returned, thankful and filled with relief. He gave an evident exhale of breath and let go of Arthur. "Good. Fighting is scary. Even my heroic courage had a difficult time!" He laughed.

Arthur turned his gaze on to the water again, trying to be rid of the frown that attempted to show upon his face. He couldn't even begin to think of what it was that had Alfred so shaken, of what he had seen in his time fighting. And to be shot twice after all his effort… it seemed unfair. But that was war, wasn't it? That was what Alfred was trying to say. The weakest were always the first to go, and as much as Arthur hated to acknowledge the fact that Alfred had practically called him that, he admitted he would have been weak in the face of the enemy. Not weak due to lack of strength, for he had taken many lessons in fighting and shooting in his time, for self-defence. But he would be weak to his emotions. When faced with all the enemies, his mind would be filled with rage over the loss of his home and father, and his rationality would be clouded with revenge. He'd really be the first to go.

He had heard the callers and the crowds in the village when the war had begun. They travelled from town to villages, asking for people to join in the fight, to bring honour back to their families and country. At first, many people join up, believing that it would not be a hard war to win. But when many didn't come back, as one by one they died off, or if they returned with missing limbs and tragic stories, the volunteers stopped flooding in. The harsh reality settled in, and Arthur had witnessed the tearing apart of mothers as they cried over their sons' graves, as siblings pushed the wheelchairs of their heroes who had no legs, or as friends waited to see each other, in full health and smiles as they remembered them to be, but returned with only silence.

The idea that he should join the army faded away as quickly as it had come. Witnessing it had been bad enough. But to be a part of it?

Alfred glanced down at the watch around his wrist. "It's gettin' late! Come on, we better get back!"

He tugged Arthur up on to his feet and rushed them back to the shelter, chattering happily about his own home, of his own family who waited for him back in America. Arthur listened carefully, taking in every detail. But soon his mind wandered as Alfred jumped to another topic, and he wondered what he'd have been like if he had known Alfred before. If he had received word that Alfred had been shot twice, how would he feel? Devastated, was the answer that came back to him. But thankful it hadn't been as bad as it could have been.

Arthur stood before a small book shop. He clutched at the material of his shirt tightly, drawing in the breath that he desperately needed. After the talk with Alfred a few nights before, he had decided to go looking for a job. After looking through newspapers, he had found and opening here, and instantly thought it sounded like one for him.

But now that he was here, he was nervous. He had never had a job before, he had no experience, he was new to the city and he had no idea how these things worked. Did he just go in there and ask for the job? Should he have brought something? Was there some sort of system for this? Oh, God, he didn't know.

Before he could collect himself, however, the door opened. A bell above rang. There stood a tall man, staring down at him as if waiting for Arthur to say something.

Deciding he had nothing to lose, Arthur stood straight and held his chin up. "Yes, hello," he greeted, chucking all of his nervousness away and adopting a strong, confident voice. "I'm here for the job opening."

The man gave him a glance that skimmed over his entire body, then nodded and said, "Fine, come in. I'll ask you questions and then I'll decide."

Arthur's shoulders sagged a little. "It's that easy?"

The man gave a small grin. "With our economy as it is at the moment, most people don't go looking for small jobs like this, they go for the big ones, or just go straight to the war. I haven't had many people who are interested." He stepped aside. "Now, you coming in or what?"

Arthur walked in behind him, slightly more confident than he had been. He was taken around to the other side of the shop, into the back where the beginning of the owner's house formed. Arthur sat down as ushered and was brought a steaming cup of tea, one that had his mouth watering immediately.

He took the cup almost reluctantly, as if it would break apart in his hands. At the other man's raised eyebrow, he explained, "I haven't had tea in a while. I have missed it." He sipped it and closed his eyes, savouring the taste.

Once he finished, the questioning commenced, beginning with small things, such as his name and what experiences he had in jobs before. Arthur gave each truthfully, admitting his full name and that he had no job before. If the other man recognised his name, he didn't show it, nor did he make any quip at his lack of experience. But as the questioning went on, it became more of a conversation than an interview, such as his favourite colour or fondest memory. Before he knew it, hours had gone by.

The owner stood up after looking at the clock above the table and said, "I think that will be all." He held out his hand and gave a one-sided grin. "I'll be happy to have you working here with me. There are two other workers and you'll get to meet them tomorrow, when you start work at seven am sharp."

Arthur gaped. "I have the job?" The owner chuckled and nodded his head. He took his hand and shook it quickly, repeating, "Thank you, thank you. I really needed this."

The owner clapped a hand onto his back. "You're welcome." He pushed Arthur to the door and bid, "Well, I'll see you tomorrow. I must get ready for the morn."

Arthur gave one more thanks and waved a goodbye before he dashed back towards the shelter, a smile playing feebly on his lips as he thought of telling Alfred the good news. He arrived at the door quickly, where the lights flickered on as dusk descended and evening crawled in. The homeless who had been standing outside rushed back in upon feeling the chill beginning to settle in. Arthur entered with them and immediately scanned for the American. He found him sitting in the corner, back in the seat he had first met him, with his feet up on the table. He had his eyes closed and he breathed lightly. Arthur wondered if he was asleep as he quietly made his way to him.

As he reached Alfred, the American instantly opened his eyes and sat up. He grinned as soon as he saw Arthur and motioned for him to sit down next to him.

Arthur decided to ignore his motions and sat opposite. Excitedly, he announced, "I managed to get the job I was looking at."

Alfred threw his arms up into the air, gasping. Before he gave any warning, he leaned over the table and wrapped Arthur in his arms, congratulating him. "I knew you would! The job was just made for you!"

Filled with happiness, Arthur allowed Alfred's arms to stay where they were. "Yes, I so hope. I can save up to move out of here now."

Alfred sat back and slapped the table, shaking his head. "You could have just moved in with me!"

Arthur crossed his arms. "You live here, in the same room as we all do."

Alfred shook away the statement. "But that's only while I recover. Once I'm all healed up again, I'm getting my own place here and you're welcome any time you want!"

"Won't you be going back to America? Back to your family?."

Alfred gave a shy smile and rubbed his arm. "Yeah, well, I kinda like this city. Kinda fell in love with it, ya know? I can stay here for a little while longer, at least until the end of the war of somethin'."

"Yes, it is a great city," Arthur agreed. "And thank you for your offer, but I really would like to get my own place. I'm alright to get along with for a few hours, but you'd be driven insane if you spent more than that with me." That was what his father always teased him about, anyway. It had always been told jokingly, but Arthur knew he was difficult to get along with.

"Nah, I'm sure I'd be able to handle you," Alfred laughed. He glanced over Arthur's shoulder and his eyes seemed to sparkle as soon as they fell on something. He stood up loudly, pushing the chair onto the floor in his haste, and he pulled Arthur with him as he paced to the kitchen. "Hey, it's free now!"

Arthur stared at Alfred through narrowed eyes, wondering if he had lost his mind. "The kitchen? Of course it's free. Dinner has already finished."

Alfred rolled his eyes, as if his thinking should have been the most obvious thing in the world. "I know that! I have an idea. It's too soon to sleep yet, and we need some way to celebrate your victory."

They stood in the middle of the dimply lit kitchen, where the newly cleaned tops shone and the sparkling utensils stood in their places. Alfred switched the lights on and they flickered to life. Some of the homeless people who strayed in the main dining hall glanced their way, but simply shook their heads with a smile as they saw Alfred, knowing it was better not to ask.

"I can come in here freely," Alfred said as he jumped about the room, taking the things he needed and placed them on the table in the middle. "So don't start complainin' and asking if we're allowed here." He turned and opened his arms, showing off the contents on the table. "So, let's make something! Anything you want to celebrate with."

Arthur's eyes widened, like a child's at a sweet shop. "Really?"

"Yeah! Seriously. End this awesome day with a bang!" He paused and added, "Well, hopefully not literally, but you know what I mean."

Arthur didn't need much time to think about what to make. He knew immediately, his mind falling on the one thing that he had loved to eat in his childhood. But it had been years since he had eaten it, and now he seemed to crave it as he looked at the bowls and spoons that rested on the table. "Um, could we possibly make Red Velvet Cake?"

Alfred blinked. "What's that?" But before Arthur could answer, he waved his hand and said, "Alright! I'll go ask the head cook if she has a recipe book with it in! Then we get to the mess." He grinned and ran off, only to return quickly with a pile of four thick recipe books in his arms. He placed them on the free part of the table. "She says they're in one of these, but doesn't remember which one. I bet it's going to be in the bottom on, so I'll take a look at that one first."

Arthur snorted and took the book from the top, leafing through it in search of the picture that would send his tongue to drool uncontrollably. Before long, he found it, in the second book he picked up. He gave it to Alfred, who grumbled something about it not being in one of the books he had picked up, and they set about to prepare.

The centre table was soon filled with everything listed on the page, from bowls to flour to icing. Alfred shoved an apron in his hands, insisting that he should wear it, despite the amount of times that Arthur complained that he would look stupid with such a colourful one, for it was obviously an apron for one of the female cooks as it was covered in flowers.

"Aw, but you look so adorable!"

Arthur grabbed the closest object, a wooden spoon, and whacked Alfred over the arm with it. "If you ever use that word again while I wear this, I'm taking it off and shoving it down your throat."

Alfred held his hands up in surrender but was unable to contain the laughter that pushed at his lips.

"Now, come on and let's make this monstrosity."

It began in a very civilised way, checking the recipe book and doing as it said. But as soon as the flour came into the mix, the childishness of their personalities made a show. Alfred chucked a hand full at Arthur as he was checking the measurements. In retaliation, Arthur threw an egg back, and it soon became a mess as predicted, with a game of hiding behind the table and a score system of points that were allocated to where a person was hit.

It took an hour to finally calm down, and by then the kitchen was white with the flour, as were Alfred and Arthur, and runny yolk slipped down their faces. With the eggs gone and the flour used up, they glanced down at the empty bowl.

"Well, I'll just go get more," Alfred muttered.

"Yes, and do make sure you don't throw it at me again."

"Hey, you better promise you don't make the first move!" As Alfred walked towards the storage room, he continued to glance over his shoulder at Arthur, as if the Englishman had hidden away an egg and was planning a surprise attack.

"I promise no such thing!" Arthur called back.

He picked up the bowl that was dusted with white and blew the flour away. The corner of his lip curled up and he couldn't help but give one small chuckle as he glanced down at himself. He had attempted to cook before, when he was young. He tried to help the cook of his house, but he had been terrible. Not just because of his age, but because of a 'natural ability to destroy the oven without much effort at all', as the cook had called it. It had been an interesting session indeed, resulting in one destroyed oven, countless broken utensils, burnt food and a re-painting of one wall of the kitchen. Arthur had enjoyed cooking while it had lasted, but feared going near the kitchen again for a while. The cook and his father had not been angry, but even they kept him at bay.

But this time, maybe he was going to be able to cook something without it turning into chaos with the help of Alfred. If the cake was going to taste anywhere near as good as it was fun to make it, it was possibly going to be the best thing he ever tasted.