A/N: Seriously, people. My heart. It's yours. Divvy it up as you please. /huggles

Have a nice, long chapter, just 'cause I didn't have the heart to cut it off where I originally intended to. ^_^

For the twentieth time that day, Alfred curses his 21-year-old self's utter lack of fashion sense.

"Ugh! Damnit!"

Another button-down, another brief spark of hope that all is not lost, and then… another ketchup stain.

The shirt is tossed to the floor of his closet, joining the pile of long-since-ruined clothing that's accumulated while he's rummaged for something remotely acceptable to wear. There's a basket of nice, clean t-shirts on his bed, but all of them are either emblazoned with superhero logos (too nerdy) or expensive brand names (too frat boy douche bag), and are, therefore, quite unacceptable.

But now he's down to a plain white oxford with a tear in one of the side seams, or a plaid, pearl-snap number that his grandmother in the Midwest sent him for Christmas while he was still in high school that's always been too small… So he can either look like a broke slob or a fat Okie. Fantastic.

With a groan, he collapses on his bed, thinking that next time he gets paid, a little shopping is in order—but then his phone buzzes on the pillow next to him, and he forgets all about clothes when he sees the screen.

Arthur
I've just found my copy of
The Silmarillion if you'd like
me to bring it with me this
evening.

He grins and starts to type out a reply, but then another message pops up:

Arthur
That is, if you still want to
meet tonight...

"You gotta be joking," he mutters to himself, quickly typing, Absolutely! And that'd be great thx, before sending it. A few moments pass before the reply comes, with Alfred anxiously drumming his fingers, then:

Arthur
Not a problem. I'll see you
round 8 then.

Alfred sends a smiley face, then flops back down to the mattress… then lets out a (rather manly) giggle that he'd deny were he asked about it.

… And then he remembers that he still has to find something to wear.

"Shit!"

Just as Alfred's making his way toward the front door at 7:15 sharp, he hears the distinct sound of Ye Olde Key of Privilege jingling against a maple-leaf-shaped keychain as it makes its way out of his twin's pocket towards the lock.

The fire escape sounds like a good plan, but then it's too late, and the door opens.

"Al—oh hey," Matthew says, then pauses, giving Alfred a confused once-over. "Where ya headed, Tex?"

Alfred frowns and looks down at himself. Of his few options, the western shirt had been the least horrible, and rolling the sleeves had hidden the fact that they were two inches too short. It was a little tight, but it didn't look that bad. … Right?

"… Is it that bad?"

Matthew shakes his head slowly, still staring at him, then apparently shakes it off. "Nah, it's fine," he says. "Seriously, though. You fixed your hair. Where are you going?"

"Um… nowhere," Alfred lies, and Matthew rolls his eyes. Should have known better… He tries, "Study group?" instead, but that doesn't get him anywhere either.

"Are you fooling around with Mei behind Yao's back again?" Matthew asks with that I'm-disappointed-in-you tone. The name doesn't ring a bell, and when he only has a vacant expression to offer as an answer, Matthew makes a disgusted noise and says, "His little sister…? The one that he expressly told you to stay away from?"

"… Oh yeah, Mei! Aw… she was cute."

"Alfred Jones. That was two months ago. You're a terrible person."

"Anyway," Alfred cuts in, "I'm not seeing Mei, but I'm on my way out, so… y'know… See ya."

But Matthew doesn't move from the door. Instead, he crosses his arms and leans against the frame, giving Alfred that look that says he's not going to budge until he gets a satisfactory answer, the one that reminds him so much of their mother it makes his chest hurt.

Good mood sufficiently checked, Alfred lets out a sigh and takes a few steps toward his brother. "Look Mattie," he says, pushing up his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose, "I know I've had some… manwhorish tendencies in my life—" (Matthew huffs out a some?) "—but I swear to God, I'm over it, alright? I'm done with that. Promise."

Matthew's eyes narrow. "Alright, who is she?" he says, and Alfred groans.

What's with all the she business anyway? Good lord, he's been out for what… four years, now? That's right. October 23rd, 2010. The day he finally—oh.

It's September 10th. Matthew doesn't know.

Oh.

Taking a deep breath, Alfred holds out his hands placatingly and says, "Matthew, wonderful brother that you are, I'm going to tell you something, and you are not going to freak out, okay?"

Matthew just stares, then gets a wild look in his eyes.

"If you're screwing Natalia, Al, I swear I'll fucking kill—"

"Mattie, I'm gay."

"… Oh."

In the end, Alfred is only ten minutes early instead of the fifteen he was planning on, but he supposes it was worth it to be honest and open with his closest family member. Like the first time, Matthew said it wasn't a big deal to him, but, like the first time, he'd also proceeded to squeeze the life out of Alfred for three minutes straight, telling him that he'd always love him and be there for him, and now if someone broke his heart, he could totally kick the guy's ass, and then wondered aloud, Oh, I should probably give this guy The Talk, eh?

Alfred had delicately pried Matthew from him at that point, telling him that, no, that really wasn't necessary, because he really liked this guy, and he'd seriously hurt Matthew if he scared him away.

But now he's straightening his shirt and smoothing down his hair as he steps through the door at the White Hart (and this time, the owner gives him a nod of recognition as he walks out from a side room—progress!).

For all his punctuality, he's surprised to see that his—their!—booth is already half-full, the occupant fidgeting with a worn paperback, shifting it to one side, then the other, then straightening it slightly, but then Arthur notices him approaching and quickly settles into what Alfred assumes is supposed to be a nonchalant pose.

"Hey," he says, sliding into the booth, then smoothly knocks his silverware off the table when Arthur smiles back at him.

Arthur appears not to notice, saying, "Hello," and sliding the book across the table towards him. "As promised," he says, "though it still bewilders me that, as much as you say you love Tolkien, you still haven't read The Silmarillion."

"Well," Alfred starts, scratching at the back of his head, "I started to, once, but the really old school sort of style kinda threw me, and I gave it up."

"Ah. Well, people do take issue with that, not to mention the fact that it seems to be more Christopher Tolkien's work that his father's, but that's a debate for another day. … Anyway, how was your week?"

Alfred smiles, thinking of a failed test, a write-up at work for constant tardiness, and the fact that he'd come out to his brother not half an hour ago.

"Long," he says, and lets out an exhausted laugh.

It's only been two and a half hours, but Alfred is in love.

Of course, he'd known all along that he loved Arthur, he's known it for years, but now that they're sitting here talking and joking and laughing and sharing a massive piece of bread pudding (with ice cream on the side because Arthur doesn't like it, but Alfred can't live without it), everything has sort of clicked more firmly into place for him, and he can't imagine that he could have ever loved anyone like this, even if he'd eventually gotten over Arthur.

Arthur is still surprising him, though, unknowingly reminding him of the fact that he doesn't know as much about the man as he thought he did. But even the idea of Arthur playing football (soccer, whatever it is) in school and actually being good at it instead of being the adorable little bookworm he'd always imagined, or the two pints he's had making him a little more talkative than just two pints should have (he'd always assumed Arthur could hold his liquor like a champ, from the way he'd written in his journal) is only more endearing, and he's beyond ready to find out more.

Something he doesn't quite understand, however, is why Arthur has been giving him that analyzing look for the past few minutes, as though something has suddenly offended him about Alfred's face. But then, Arthur shifts his attention to somewhere a few inches above Alfred's eyebrows, and says, "That's it."

Confused, Alfred looks up, sees nothing, then looks back at Arthur, offering a questioning smile—but then Arthur's reaching across the table, muttering something about things just not looking right, and Alfred freezes when those thin fingers brush against his forehead, slide up into his hairline, and give his hair a little ruffle.

His heartbeat is loud in his ears with Arthur so close, leaning in and biting his lip in concentration. He can see each freckle dusted over Arthur's nose and high cheekbones, each blond eyelash fanned over green eyes, the golden flecks around his pupils—

And then Arthur leans back, satisfied with his work, and says, "There now. Much better."

Alfred doesn't move for a full five seconds, but then slowly turns to the mirror on the wall beside him to find his one-hundred-times-accursed cowlick standing proudly at the part in his bangs.

Arthur meets his gaze in the mirror, grinning…

Then promptly turns a rather vivid shade of pink.

"I-I happen to find it sort of… charming," Arthur says, ears red and pointedly avoiding looking at the section of hair in question.

Alfred groans and opens his passenger door, allowing Arthur to climb in and shutting it after him, then quickly running around to the driver's side and getting in himself.

"I'm serious," Arthur continues once he's in, fiddling with the seatbelt. "It's charming. It really is. Like your silly cowboy shirt—"

"Oh God, kill me now," Alfred mutters, letting his forehead hit the steering wheel, and Arthur laughs. "You're just making fun of me."

"Don't be dramatic, Alfred. If I wanted to make fun of you, I could go on about how clumsy you are, or your accent, or—"

"Like you have any room to talk," Alfred challenges, smirking at him before pulling out into the road. "You're the one who knocked over your glass when I said your eyebrows were cute, and don't even get me started on your accent, Queenie."

Turning red, Arthur huffs and crosses his arms, though Alfred can see him smiling in the side mirror. A few moments later, though, he says curiously, "Alfred… you just turned on Oak Street."

"Yeah?"

"… How did you know to turn on Oak Street?"

For a second, Alfred panics. He's known where Arthur lived since 2011, when his brother Rhys had given him the address, and he doesn't know how many times he's just driven by to take a look at the place and wave at Miss Addie out working in her flowerbeds (he had once considered renting it, but Matthew had outright forbidden it, and for once, Alfred had agreed with him after giving it a little further thought)… He hadn't even thought to ask for directions as he should have…

He hesitates, but Arthur has turned to look at him, confused, so he says, "Don't think I'm a creeper or anything, but I maybe sorta watched you walk down and around the corner last week—just to make sure you made it that far, y'know?"

Arthur stares a moment longer, but then he smirks, and it's Alfred's turn to look confused.

"Don't lie," he says, and Alfred gulps. He's ready to spill every last bit of it and beg for forgiveness, but then Arthur's grin widens.

"You were looking at my arse," he accuses.

Alfred pauses at an intersection longer than necessary, staring at Arthur… But then sees the out he's been given and latches onto it, turning to look out his window and grumbling as though he's been caught. It's (sort of) the truth.

(Partially.)

Arthur snickers, but pats his shoulder comfortingly. "It's quite alright. Though, as long as we're confessing things… I may have looked at yours, too. Possibly."

Alfred feels his own face flush, and looks over at Arthur out of the corner of his eye, just to make sure he's joking.

He's not.

"It's very nice, by the way."

And then Alfred chokes.

By the time they pull up to the curb in front of Arthur and Miss Addie's shared townhouse, both of them are laughing hard enough that Alfred has to pull off his glasses and wipe his eyes. While he's doing so, Arthur unbuckles himself, but stops short of opening the door with his hand on the latch.

"You know," he starts, messing with the buttons on the side of his phone, "I don't think I've had this much fun since I've been this side of the pond… and I don't think I've ever had a date this good in my life."

Alfred's stomach gives a pleasurable flip at the word date, but rather than acting like the excited teenage girl he really feels like, he grins and says, "Date, huh? But you wouldn't even let me pay."

"There's such a thing as going Dutch, you know. Besides, if we're not calling this a date, then I don't suppose I'd be inclined to do this—"

Arthur suddenly leans over and presses a quick kiss against Alfred's cheek, and it's a miracle that he doesn't melt and/or combust right there on the spot.

Arthur stays close even after he pulls away, waiting for a reaction, but all Alfred can manage to say is, "Okayit'sadate," in a slightly higher-pitched voice than usual, and Arthur gives him a grin that's borderline smirk (despite the blush on his face).

"Hm... That's what I thought," he says.

A/N:I have to admit that I had way more fun with this than I thought I would :D

Also, I'm aware that Arthur was a little… not himself the last half of this chapter, but that was intentional. Between the alcohol and his nerves and the fact that he thinks Alfred's looking like his Prince Charming already, he may have found himself a little bolder than usual. This is going to be addressed next chapter.

And for those that don't know what I meant by a pearl snap western shirt: i39 DOT tinypic DOT com/2i6j66u DOT jpg