Archive of Our Own

Arthur knocks back his drink, noting that the whiskey goes down so very smooth, hardly burning at all this time. He motions the barkeep for another one and fishes in his pocket for a tip before turning to weave his way through the party. He can't even remember the occasion. The world conference is on this week, of course—the Netherlands, that much he knows. But he doesn't think this is to do with that. They generally don't dress up to go drinking during world conferences. His fingertips caress the petals of his boutonnière before smoothing down the lapel of his tuxedo jacket. Likely it's a celebration in honor of someone or something; a royal birthday, perhaps, or an anniversary celebrating victory in some battle or other. There have been so many through the years, they're all starting to blur together.

Whatever it is, it's important enough that many of the others are in attendance as well. Or they were—he seems to remember seeing Francis and some of the other Continentals leaving. He thinks Matthew may have gone with them—most probably did, really—but that still leaves Ivan and Alfred. Unless they fucked off elsewhere as well. Or unless he did himself. He might well be the only one of them at this particular shindig, whatever shindig it is. He finds the prospect unaccountably depressing.

Then he sees one of them outside on the terrace. Flagging spirits renewed, he lifts a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. When he turns back, the terrace is empty. Puzzled, he looks 'round the room, but doesn't see anyone he recognizes—at least no one he'd want to talk to right now. So he goes out onto the terrace anyhow, champagne in one hand, scotch whiskey in the other.

Alfred is there after all. He's sitting sideways on the ledge, one leg folded up under him, the other dangling down, tuxedo jacket pushed back at the hips, cummerbund only slightly askew. There are four empty glasses on the ledge with him, and apparently they are occupying his attention because he doesn't greet Arthur straight away. Arthur leans against the exterior wall, wanting neither to interrupt the meditation nor to return to the dull chaos inside.

After a moment, Alfred looks over at him and smiles. Arthur smiles back. "Is that for me?" Alfred gestures at the champagne flute Arthur has forgotten he's holding. Arthur crosses over and hands it to Alfred, who thanks him with another smile before turning to pour the champagne carefully into his glasses, filling them each to a different level. Arthur watches him moisten his index finger and swirl it 'round the rim of the first glass. Leaning in closer, Alfred tilts his head and frowns. Then he looks up, brow still knit.

"It's too loud," he says, leaning to look past Arthur, glaring at the party through the open door. Arthur goes over and slides the door shut. When he turns back, he sees that Alfred is again intent on his goblets, trying to elicit forth the exact tones he wants from them with his saliva-slickened finger. Edging back, Arthur watches Alfred put his middle finger in his mouth, watches him suck on the tip, and swirl it 'round the glass rim.

"Sometimes I like to think it didn't happen." Arthur doesn't know what compels him to speak, but he can't stop himself from adding, "That none of it ever happened."

There is a pause during which Alfred continues to look down, his middle finger still swirling, charming forth and sustaining an exquisitely eerie note. It lingers in the air for a moment when he lifts he finger away.

When at last Alfred looks up into Arthur's eyes, his expression is neutral. "Maybe it never did," he says. "Maybe it was all a terrible, beautiful dream."

Arthur opens his mouth to reply but finds he has neither words nor thoughts, and merely moistens his lips instead. They hold each other's gaze, eyelids flickering in half-blinks and not-quite-flinches.

"Maybe we're dreaming right now," Alfred goes on, straightening up. "Maybe it's happening." He leans in close. "Right." Whisper of the word in Arthur's ear, whisper of a kiss on his neck. "Now."

Arthur senses more than feels the glass slip from his fingers; he hears the sparkle of it breaking. His head tilts back as he inclines into the touch of lips. He's holding his breath and starting to ache, but he doesn't seem actually to be feeling anything, and for a brief moment he wonders if perhaps it really is a dream.

Then Alfred pulls back and looks at him. The music seems so distant, Arthur hardly hears it. A curious roar is muting it—and he realizes it's his blood, his heart pumping it through his body faster than normal.

Alfred's still just looking at him, and Arthur realizes he's just looking at Alfred. "When I look at you," he hears himself say, "I have obscene thoughts."

Alfred doesn't say anything, doesn't smile, just blinks like he's in slow-motion, his eyelashes doing something behind the lenses of his glasses that Arthur can only call fluttering. Somehow the muscles in his stomach are tied to Alfred's lashes, because when Alfred flutters, Arthur does too. He swallows hard, still looking at Alfred's face, though avoiding his eyes; he finds himself focused on Alfred's lips as he says, "I want to do things..."

"Obscene things?"

The lilt in Alfred's voice sounds so amused it makes Arthur turn away with a snort that isn't quite a laugh. Grinning, he shakes his head in self-deprecation—but when he looks up, Alfred isn't smiling back.

Now it's Alfred's turn to swallow, but before Arthur can consider that, Alfred leans in again and kisses him, this time on the mouth.

Arthur closes his eyes and parts his lips. God, he loves the way Alfred kisses! Alfred becomes his tongue when he kisses, and you are only your mouth, and he makes love to you like that, with flicks and twirls and little tricks, with slow, wet strokes and thrusts—until his hand brushes your cock, and you remember the rest of your body. And you growl and sigh, because you want his mouth everywhere on you, you want him to make love to the rest of your body the way he makes love to your mouth.

When Arthur growls and sighs, Alfred slides off the ledge, rubbing the length of his body against Arthur's as they kiss. He twists in Arthur's arms, grinding back against him now. He's giving Arthur a vertical lap dance, gyrating and undulating against him, head back and resting on Arthur's shoulder, exposing the skin of his neck. It makes Arthur feel vampiric, makes him want to lick and kiss and bite, to taste and mark and own. He presses his lips to the slope of Alfred's neck, lets them slide open along the skin, breathing Alfred for a moment before he closes his teeth around the skin, drawing it into his mouth. Arms around Alfred, Arthur pulls at his clothes, pushing the cummerbund out of the way and untucking the shirt enough to slip under the material, palm flat against the warm skin, fingers splayed on his abdomen. Then as Alfred arches, stretching himself, Arthur's hands slide down, his fingers dipping beneath the waistband.

Alfred's hand over his arrests Arthur and he says something Arthur doesn't catch. Arthur doesn't know if it's important enough to ask after, so he makes a small noncommittal sound. Alfred half-turns in his arms.

"I said it's not safe out here," Alfred repeats patiently. He says something else, but Arthur gets momentarily distracted by the way Alfred is smiling at him, and he misses it. "Arthur?" Alfred touches his face to get his attention. "I'm going to the men's room. Follow me in a few?"

Arthur nods; his fingers linger over Alfred's skin as he lets go. He watches Alfred straighten his clothing and run his fingers through his hair to tame it, flushing when Alfred gives him a wink before sauntering off into the party.

As Arthur casts about for a way to occupy himself whilst he waits a suitable length of time, his glance falls on the glasses Alfred was playing. He goes over and tries to play one himself, but it doesn't give him the same tones it gave Alfred; Alfred's fingers are good at that, at doing things no one else's fingers can do. Arthur gives up and downs the contents of the glass. He thinks it's surely been long enough now, and follows after Alfred.

Alfred isn't in the first gents Arthur finds. He wanders down a hallway, around a corner, up a flight of stairs, and down another hallway. He's lost the party, lost track of himself, and he hasn't found Alfred. When he comes to the next corner he spies an exit sign, and wonders if perhaps he shouldn't just take the hint.

But then he sees another sign: a blue rectangle with a little white man in it, and a black arrow above the rectangled man. He follows it down the hall.

When Arthur enters this gents, at first he thinks it's empty as well. Then he notices the tuxedo jacket flung over the stall door. "Hello?" he says politely, in case it's only someone who came here to avoid causing a scene by being sick in public.

"Lock the door," Alfred's voice answers.

Arthur turns and fumbles with the lock for a moment before he gets it twisted the right way. He tests the door from the inside to make sure it's secure, then turns back around.

Alfred is leaning against the outside of the stall now, weight back on his shoulders and on the heel of the foot that touches the floor, the other pressed against the metal wall, pushing his hips out. He's taken off his glasses, discarded his cummerbund along with his jacket, and he's got several shirt buttons undone—from the bottom up. His hands are behind him, holding the opened shirt back from his torso. His tuxedo trousers are undone as well, the zipper dragged down just enough to reveal the golden treasure trail that starts below his navel.

With Arthur's gaze on him, Alfred brings one hand up to his mouth and rests the fingertips against his lips before sucking the tip of the middle finger into his mouth. Then he draws it down his body with a languid caress, leaving a glistening path on his smooth, taut skin.

"Oh fuck," Arthur says softly.

Alfred's lips curve up in a smile.

Arthur crosses to Alfred quickly, presses his lips to Alfred's, tongues that smile until it splits open and he's licking along the inside of Alfred's upper lip, slipping between teeth, into Alfred's mouth. Feeling Alfred's hand between them, Arthur reaches down and their fingers intertwine briefly before Alfred relinquishes the territory to Arthur, moving his own hand to stroke the back of Arthur's neck. Alfred's kissing with his eyes open, and Arthur draws back to blow on his eyelashes so they'll flutter closed. Then he's kissing Alfred's mouth again, that damnably soft mouth; Alfred's kissing like a girl now, and it's so soft it almost hurts.

Pressing their bodies closer together, Arthur reaches 'round to find the hand Alfred's keeping at the small of his own back, and entwines their fingers. As their bodies move together and shift against each other, Arthur feels how hard Alfred is. Alfred keeps rubbing up against him, swiveling his hips and grinding into him until Arthur is hard, harder than Alfred, harder than ever. Arthur is flushed warm, blood rushed to his cock, to his face. Alfred's tongue is in his ear and all Arthur can hear is his own heavy breathing; then Alfred withdraws his tongue to whisper, "please, please let me," his talented fingers already undoing Arthur's trousers.

"Not here." Arthur stills Alfred's hand and has to fight himself not to thrust against it where it rests over his cock. "Not like this."

Alfred looks at him with a liquid gaze. "You can have me anywhere you want. Any way you want me." His eyelids flutter without closing and Arthur's belly clenches. Alfred smiles, luminous and innocent, gazing into Arthur's eyes as he wraps himself around Arthur, arms winding about Arthur's neck, one leg hooking up 'round Arthur's waist, pressing their cocks together. Even as Alfred closes all space between them, he's opening himself up, offering himself completely. Arthur's body jerks and shudders and before he means to, before he wants to, he comes.

Arthur starts to say something, an apology or a curse or both, but Alfred hushes him. "It's okay," Alfred whispers in his ear, pressing a kiss to his neck before he slips down to his knees. He unzips Arthur, peels his clothing down, and takes him out. Holding Arthur's still semi-hard cock carefully, Alfred dips his head and begins cleaning it with his tongue, swiping along the surface of the head until every trace of come is gone before taking Arthur into his mouth, suckling and making these sounds in his throat, whimpering—dear god, Alfred on his knees, whimpering with the desire to give him pleasure—oh, it's too much; too much, and not enough. Arthur's head falls back, eyes closed, body arching, pushing his swelling cock deeper into Alfred's mouth. His own mouth moves, silently at first, and then the words come out in a whisper, praying: "Alfred, oh god Alfred, oh fucking christ~"

Arthur looks down again, his fingers stroking Alfred's hair, resting cupped around his ear, his thumb tracing the smooth, curved shell. His hand slides down and nudges Alfred's chin up as Alfred's mouth continues to pull at him; Arthur must, imperatively, see that face. Alfred tries to accommodate him, shifting himself and tilting his head as far as he can so Arthur can watch his face as he sucks and sucks, his tongue gliding and swirling along the shaft, flicking over the head.

And then Alfred does that fluttering thing again as his eyes come open—but Arthur can't look into them right now, he'll weep if he does—so he shoves himself in, all the way down Alfred's throat, fast and hard enough to make Alfred close his eyes as his head snaps back. That was all Arthur wanted and he's about to shift himself back into Alfred's mouth, when he feels Alfred's throat constrict and relax and constrict around him, convulsing deliberately and methodically, and Arthur's knees buckle. He reaches up to brace himself with his hands over the top edge of the stall. Alfred releases Arthur's cock back into his mouth and holds his head still to let Arthur fuck him. Using the metal wall for leverage, Arthur finds his rhythm, thrusting harder and faster, his cockhead nudging the back of Alfred's throat each time.

The wall seems to be rippling under his clenched hands, and for a moment Arthur wonders just how much drink he had tonight. When he looks down, though, he realizes it's that Alfred's head is banging against the wall with each stroke. He reaches down to cradle the back of Alfred's head, using his hand to cushion the blows as he keeps slamming in.

He's close, so close, so fucking gorgeously close, when Alfred twists away to release him entirely. Alfred's hand comes up to curl around Arthur's cock immediately, holding the head before his tilted-up face. Arthur watches Alfred's lips form the words as much as he hears the husky murmur: "Come on. This is what you want."

And it is, so he does. His come splashes onto Alfred's face, and as it drips down, Arthur thinks that come looks different sliding on skin than it does on glass. Alfred's eyes are still closed and there's a glob of come stuck to his lashes, and Arthur feels shattered. He doesn't remember doing this before. He fumbles for the handkerchief in his inner breast pocket and kneels to swab the come from Alfred's face. Arthur remembers wanting to do what he just did, he remembers dreaming about it, but he never cried in his dreams.

It's not a dream. It's happening.

"Hey, shh, no." They're standing again. Alfred looks shattered too, and Arthur's afraid he's broken one or the other of them this time. There's still a trace of his come on Alfred's cheek and he reaches up to wipe it away, but Alfred captures his hand and kisses the palm. "It's a dream. It's just a dream," Alfred tells him, using his other hand to brush the tear from Arthur's face, and only then does Arthur realize he's spoken aloud. There's a desperate quality in Alfred's tone that Arthur has never heard before, and Arthur wonders if this is the first time it's been there or if that desperation was there all the other times too. "It's not happening," Alfred goes on, his tone honeyed, smoothing over the desperation so that Arthur almost doubts it was there now.

But it is happening. Arthur pulls his hand from Alfred and tells him so.

Alfred swallows hard and his eyes slide away for a moment. "Do you want another drink, maybe?"

Arthur knows it's not a dream, because he recognizes the haze of alcohol surrounding him now, just like it has every time. But as he looks at Alfred looking at him, Arthur notices the haze isn't surrounding Alfred; Alfred isn't drunk, he realizes, and it occurs to him that Alfred hasn't been drunk any of the times.

"Don't move." Alfred's words bring Arthur back from the reflective silence he's lapsed into. "Let me get you another whiskey."

Wordlessly, Arthur brings Alfred close to him, and Alfred's whole body seems to sigh as he molds himself to Arthur, melting into him. Their arms wind 'round each other, Alfred rests his head on Arthur's shoulder, and the way they sway slightly in the embrace it's almost like they're slow dancing. Arthur doesn't remember anything like this either, though he thinks that sometimes, maybe, he holds Alfred in bed.

The respite is becoming too intimate, unbearable.

"Is there somewhere we can go?" Arthur hears the rough edge in his own voice. "To fuck properly?"

The spell is broken. Alfred pulls back and jokes, "Three times in one night, old man? Are you sure you can handle it?" Arthur just smiles back, so Alfred suggests the obvious—the hotel. Arthur nods agreement and they stand there looking at each other until Arthur realizes Alfred is waiting for something, so he gives Alfred the card key to his room.

With the gents door unlocked and cracked open, Arthur pauses to glance back.

Alfred looks ravished, debauched. His clothing is in complete disarray, his hair is mussed, his face is flushed and there are still traces of dried come clinging to it. "Come soon," Arthur says, his smile fading to a naked expression that makes more than Alfred's lashes flutter.

There's a click as the hotel room door opens and shuts, and then Alfred is standing there at last. His clothes, the same ones he's been wearing all evening, are in place now minus the cummerbund, his glasses are back on his face, and it looks as if he's made a bit of an attempt to comb his hair though it's still a little wild; that one lick of hair never will stay down for long. Arthur's own tuxedo has been traded in for the complimentary terrycloth robe that always comes with rooms like this one, his hair still damp from the shower.

"Not watching porn?" Alfred jests, looking over at the all-news channel on the telly.

"I don't need a porno." Arthur smiles as he clicks off the telly. "I've been thinking about you for—" He picks up his watch from the nightstand to consult it. "Forty-seven minutes."

Alfred's expression changes, the amusement falling away, dissipating into the air. "I've been thinking about you too."

"And what have you been thinking about me doing?"

"Kissing me." Alfred touches his fingertips to his mouth, lips parting as he traces the lower one, fingertip resting there, flash of his tongue flicking over it. Arthur moistens his own lips in response. "Touching me," Alfred continues, trailing his fingers along his own jawline, his head tipping back as they continue their path along his throat, over his shirt now and moving down in a straight line as if drawn there; his hand cups the swell of his erection, and he starts stroking himself through his trousers.

Arthur drags his gaze from Alfred's hand up to his face. Alfred's eyes, half-lidded, fall shut completely just before Arthur's eyes meet them. His shoulder hitches as he slips his hand beneath his waistband. "Your hand is on my cock, and it feels so good." Alfred's voice is low, his head still tilted back. "You're drawing it out, though; you're not giving me what you know I want, what you know I need." Brow knit, lashes quivering against his skin but staying shut, Alfred's body ripples with a small undulation of protest before going still again, and a whimper of frustration escapes his parted lips. "You're just holding me," Alfred murmurs, "feeling me get hard just from your touch; your hand isn't moving at all on me yet."

Arthur feels his own cock twitch, and wraps his hand around it.

"It's hard and swollen in the curve of your hand," Alfred says, "and when you brush your thumb over the head, so lightly you're almost not touching me, you feel the slickness."

Arthur watches the slight movement inside Alfred's trousers, feels his own thumb sweep over his cockhead, and it's just as Alfred says.

"Finally, you start stroking"—Arthur's hand begins to move in separate rhythm with Alfred's— "and it feels so good, Arthur, so good; and then you start touching me all over." Alfred's other hand goes up under his shirt, and Arthur watches it slide up to his chest, the shirt pushed up to expose Alfred's belly. Alfred's downstrokes catch against the waistband of his trousers just enough to let his treasure trail peek out intermittently, making Arthur's own belly contract. Legs splayed and trembling along with the rest of his body, Alfred moans as he pinches and rolls his nipple, hand moving steadily on his cock.

Arthur's robe falls open completely as he shifts on the bed, but Alfred is constricted by his clothing. Restrained, Alfred utters soft open-mouthed cries of desire and frustration, twisting with it, and it heightens Arthur's arousal. Arthur's hand moves with increasing speed and pressure as he focuses on Alfred; Arthur is so attuned that he stops when Alfred does.

"You don't want me to come yet," Alfred says, "so you stop to undress me." He drags his hands from his body to slowly peel off his clothing, removing each item with teasing caresses until he stands naked. "You want me to beg for it, you want me on my knees begging," Alfred says.

"Yes," Arthur whispers.

Climbing onto the bed, Alfred kneels at Arthur's feet. "Please, Arthur." Alfred arches in supplication. Helpless in the face of such yielding, Arthur renews his own stroking. "Please, I need it, I need you, your hand on me."

When Arthur says "yes" this time, Alfred begins fisting his cock, sweeping the length with fluid strokes, closing over the head before sliding down to the base and back up, over and over. Back arched, eyes closed, mouth open, body starting to shudder, he's a mixture of performance and genuine arousal; and as Arthur watches Alfred bringing himself off, he breathes, "Oh, fuck me." Alfred's only response is to let go of his own cock, eyes open now as he coaxes Arthur's legs apart to lie between them. He wriggles his way up and, propped on his elbows, reaches for Arthur's cock as he moistens his lips.

"Alfred," Arthur hears the words outside himself, "fuck me."

Alfred looks up uncertainly, expectantly, hand wrapped 'round Arthur's cock.

Arthur takes a deep breath. "Do you want to fuck me?"

"Is that what you want?" Alfred is calm except for a slight tremor in his voice.

Arthur doesn't bother pointing out that it is impolite to answer a question with a question, because this is not about being polite; this night, this whole thing they have, is not about being polite, and it never has been. So he smiles and nods, and Alfred's breath hitches.

Sitting up, Alfred leans over Arthur's body without contact and kisses him. He slides down next to Arthur, kissing and caressing him all over, easing him onto his stomach. Arthur feels the bed shift beneath him and turns his head to watch Alfred reach for the small tube on the nightstand next to Arthur's watch and the telly remote. Arthur closes his eyes as Alfred rubs his back soothingly, feels Alfred's breath warm against his neck, a tender kiss pressed there. And then Alfred is spreading him open, massaging in a dollop of lubricant, slick fingertip gently probing, worming its way inside of Arthur, making him grunt into the pillow.

Alfred is inside him to the second joint and Arthur can't imagine how he's going to get his cock in, because this one finger is uncomfortable enough. Then Alfred's fingertip bumps against Arthur's prostate, and Arthur makes another guttural sound, squirming with pleasure. "There," Alfred says, and Arthur hears the smile in his voice, "That's pretty good, right? Kind of awesome?" Another delirious nudge. "You want a little more?"

"Yes~" Arthur moans. He feels the second finger; feels Alfred opening him up more until he doesn't know how many fingers are inside him, corkscrewing as they slide in and out.

When Arthur starts moving with the fingerstrokes, pushing back, inner muscles contracting around those fingers to suck them deeper inside, Alfred withdraws. "Could you turn over onto your back?" he asks. Arthur opens his eyes again, lifting his head from the pillow to look over his shoulder at Alfred. "I know it sometimes upsets you to look at me." Alfred's tone is light, but Arthur catches a flicker beneath the self-deprecation. "But, just this one time, I'd kind of really like to look at you."

"It doesn't upset me," Arthur says.

Alfred drops his gaze. Very softly, he says, "It makes you cry."

"Alfred," Arthur breathes. But he can't finish, he can't even start the sentence. "I don't..." He stops again, rolls onto his side, pushes partway up. "That's not it," he says. Alfred is still looking down, his whole face downturned. "That's not why," Arthur tries again. "Alfred," Arthur says, reaching out and tipping his face up, "I love—" Alfred's eyes are still down. Arthur's voice drops lower. "I love to look at you, Alfred."

Alfred nods, but he still doesn't raise his eyes. "Alfred," Arthur insists, and now Alfred looks. Their eyes meet. Arthur's mouth curves up into a faint smile. His fingertips caress Alfred's face. "You're very nice to look at," Arthur tells him.

Dimples showing now, Alfred leans in, kisses Arthur warmly, and pushes him onto his back. "Tell me if you want me to stop, okay?"

Arthur knows Alfred will stop if Arthur tells him to. He might stop even if Arthur doesn't say it, if he thinks that's what Arthur really wants. Arthur doesn't know how much of that is to do with past sovereign relations and how much is something innate to Alfred; how much is natural, how much is Arthur's fault.

Privately resolved not to give Alfred cause to stop, Arthur nods.

"Okay." Alfred smiles. Adding another coat of lube to his fingers, he presses them into a cone and reinserts them, glancing up to watch Arthur's face. Arthur closes his eyes, focusing on the sensations, the strangely slick friction. Back and forth, in and out and in.

When the fingers withdraw entirely, Arthur starts to protest—but the quality of his moan alters when he feels Alfred's cockhead rest against his entrance.

"You ready?"

Arthur opens his eyes and looks at Alfred, who is looking at him not with the grin Arthur expected, but with a quiet intensity. He nods.

"Are you sure?" Alfred's eyes search Arthur's. "Are you really sure?"

"Yeah." The word cracks at the end, and Arthur clears his throat. "I—yeah."

The fit as Alfred nudges in doesn't feel possible; but then Arthur feels an impossible stretch, feels that impossibility filled, and knows Alfred is inside him. Gaze on Arthur's face, Alfred pushes slowly until he's fully in, and Arthur's teeth press together tightly. He closes his eyes, wishes for darkness; the pain makes everything too bright.

Alfred pulls out and again Arthur opens his eyes, opens his mouth to keep his resolve—but Alfred's only slathering on more lube. He leans over to kiss Arthur as he enters him again, cock pushing in as his tongue slips between Arthur's lips. Arthur's breathing shallows as Alfred starts to move inside him.

"You have to relax, Arthur," Alfred tells him, breaking the kiss. "It won't feel good if you don't relax." Alfred curls his fingers around Arthur's cock, fondling him. "I just want to make it good for you. Let me make you feel good."

The touch, the words transmute to a pleasure that enters and ripples through Arthur, melting him in its wake. Alfred is caressing and kissing him again, shifting back to reposition himself, finding a new angle of entry, going slowly, with such small movements; until Arthur relaxes and starts to move with him, moaning more as the pleasure swells.

Wrapping Arthur's legs around his waist, Alfred starts to drive into him. Arthur's gaze slides the length of his own body to watch Alfred's cock thrusting in and out. As it goes on, Arthur doesn't feel plundered or impaled or ravaged. He feels filled; an emptiness he never knew he had is now filled, and he never wants to feel empty again.

"Tell me when you're ready for me to come," Alfred murmurs.

"Don't stop," Arthur says, practically begs, his voice as ragged as his breath: "Don't ever stop, oh fuck Alfred, don't stop~"

But Alfred comes right then, shooting off deep inside Arthur, a cry escaping his throat. Arthur is still hard, still writhing. "Sorry, Arthur," Alfred says as he slips out. "Let me make it up to you." He shifts from between Arthur's legs and urges Arthur onto his stomach.

Propping the pillow under his head, Arthur wonders if he will get to feel Alfred's fingers inside him again; he just needs Alfred inside him, any part of Alfred. Then he feels something wet and warm along his crack—Alfred is licking him, his tongue dipping in, eating his own come out of Arthur's arse. Arthur starts grinding his erection into the sheets, his cock seeking physical contact wherever he can find it. Now Alfred coaxes him onto his knees so that as he lies, his hips are lifted just enough, and he feels Alfred's arm going 'round him, Alfred's fingers closing around his cock; relief and ecstasy as Alfred jerks him off, still rimming him, until Arthur's rush of pleasure crests and spills out of him.

He turns over, watches Alfred licking and sucking Arthur's come from his fingers, and Arthur wishes he were that young again so he could go all night, fuck Alfred 'til his nose bleeds, 'til the both of them are raw.

Watching Alfred like that and thinking about him like this make Arthur feel somewhat dizzy, so he closes his eyes for a moment, just for a second, it's only a long blink, he's going to open them again...

They're over at Francis's house after a meeting in Paris, not all of them but some of them. There are a few bottles of wine going 'round; still more bottles are strewn about, empty and abandoned. They're watching an American film—a not entirely bad one, actually. Still, Arthur finds his mind drifting to other things, going in and out of the film.

"It is dangerous to mistake children for angels."

The line catches Arthur. His gaze wants to slide to the boy sitting at his feet, but he makes himself focus on the screen. He thinks there might be an answer there. But the other character only denies it, and Arthur snorts. Eyebrows raised, Alfred turns to look at him from the floor by his feet. It seems he's always sitting near Arthur, or if not near him then in his line of vision. It's deliberate. Arthur knows it is. Arthur holds his gaze, sees the question there, but doesn't answer; instead he gets up for another drink.

He's somewhere else now—his hotel room, drinking straight from the bottle. It's that same night, just later. He brings the bottle to his lips, his head going back more and more as he tips the bottle farther and farther. It's empty. He looks for more, but there is no more. It's too late to go to the shop and buy some. He thinks Alfred might have some, so he goes down to Alfred's room. Knocks. Alfred answers the door, and Arthur shows him the empty bottle, asks if he's got any more. Alfred lets him in, brings him a drink, their hands touch in the exchange of the glass. They look at each other and neither moves until Alfred leans in and kisses him tentatively. "Is this what you want?" Alfred asks, studying Arthur's face. Arthur kisses him. Alfred asks him a few more times, and each time Arthur only responds with a kiss.

"Do you like girls, Alfred?" Arthur asks, breaking one of the kisses. Alfred looks at him like he doesn't know what answer to give. "It's all right, I know you do," Arthur reassures him. "I like them too. I like the way they kiss." He takes off Alfred's glasses. He holds Alfred's face in his hands, slips down to cradle his neck, his fingertips not quite meeting at Alfred's nape. "I like how soft their mouths are," he says, brushing his lips to Alfred's. "I like how they open their mouths when they kiss, how they invite you inside." Arthur's other hand comes up to cup Alfred's cheek, stroking it with his thumb as he kisses Alfred again, slipping his tongue inside briefly. "I like how they welcome your tongue with theirs, yielding, caressing," Arthur murmurs, letting his tongue linger inside Alfred's mouth this time. Alfred's tongue massages his, gently at first but then with an insistence that causes Arthur to pull back. "Softly," he says, and Alfred chews his lower lip for a moment, then closes his eyes and tilts his head, lips parted slightly, tongue flicking out to moisten them. This time when Arthur kisses him, Alfred's mouth is soft, his cock hard, as he yields.

Arthur awakens.

Alfred is still asleep beside him. Arthur feels the warmth against his back, hears the steady rise and fall of Alfred's breath.

He remembers waking up the first time too. Waking up or regaining consciousness. He gathered his clothes and went back to his own room that time. He didn't see Alfred that day. The day after, Alfred gave him the same huge smile as ever when he arrived at the conference, but even when they chanced to be alone later, Alfred didn't say anything about that night. Didn't try to kiss him or give him any special, meaningful look. Just grinned at him like always.

A few nights later, some of them went to a pub. Alfred bought the first round.

Alfred bought a lot of the rounds.

And so it went. And so it goes.

They've never talked about it to each other nor, he suspects, to anyone else. He thinks Kiku is the only one who's guessed anything.

That had been a lapse, and Arthur can't blame it on the alcohol because he was cold-sober when it happened. He was visiting Kiku when Kiku mentioned he'd been experimenting with digital photography, and shyly asked if Arthur would mind sitting for a portrait. Naturally, Arthur said he would be happy to oblige.

As Kiku bent over his computer, he invited Arthur to look at some of the pieces he'd done so far, laid out around the room. Arthur spent some time looking at a stunning landscape series bathed golden-red. He wondered what sort of filter Kiku used to achieve the effect, because he didn't think it came from lighting alone.

And then he came to one that was breathtaking. Or at least Arthur found himself holding his breath as he looked at it. Not a landscape but a figure, backlit and outlined in halo. Yet it was not a silhouette; or it was a silhouette, but one that pulsed, dark and bright, with raw detail. A portrait—and a landscape: the tag read "Alfred," but the photo was Alfred and America at once, transcendent, as if Kiku's lens had made visible all the intangible things which made them Nations. Arthur tilted his head as he contemplated the image.

And then a strange thing happened. The world started to fall away, and there was just the photograph, and there was just Arthur with it, and the back of his neck started to prickle and a knot formed in his throat, and he didn't cry because he felt too much peace, and his only coherent thought was, Oh!

A rare thing happened to Arthur looking at that picture. He didn't then and doesn't now have words to describe how strangely, how wonderfully strangely looking at that picture made him feel. He looked at it for a while, and then he moved away from it. When he turned back, he thought he caught Kiku just glancing away, but Kiku didn't say anything and neither did Arthur.

Some time later, Arthur received a package from Kiku. "A few photographs I thought you would like. I have taken the liberty of framing them for you, but if you do not care for what I have done, please have them reframed," the note read. "I will not take offense."

The first picture Arthur unwrapped was "Alfred." He held it for a moment, lost himself in it again. He hung it along with the other photos, and if he allowed himself to look at it a little more than at any of the others, that was only because it was, quite simply, a lovely photograph.

Then one night he came home drunk from an Arsenal match, flopped onto the sofa, lay there looking at the picture on the wall—and he didn't remember starting, but he found himself stroking off to it. Hand wrapped around his erection, he got up and walked over to stand in front the picture. After a few moments, he took the picture down, set it on the table, and shot come all over it. He felt an urge to lick it off, but just stood there looking at it. He was elated by the anointment, disgusted by the desecration. Finally he picked it up, watching the come slide down the glass and drip off as he hung it back on the wall.

The next day, he couldn't look at the photo. It no longer brought him peace. He put it away in the hall cupboard under some long unused sports gear.

The next time he was drunk, he took the photograph out again.

Now Arthur feels the mattress shift as Alfred rolls out of bed gently, careful not to disturb Arthur. Arthur doesn't know when he awoke; he didn't notice Alfred's breathing change. Alfred moves around, gathering up his clothing.

This is the first time Arthur has been awake when Alfred has left. It's always Alfred who leaves, even if they end up in Alfred's room. It was something he started doing after the first few times Arthur left in the middle of the night or early in the morning. Arthur never had to say anything, Alfred just knew.

Alfred's good like that. Like when Arthur was reading Order of the Phoenix. He felt anxious about it, and made the mistake of saying so. Of course, Alfred began to tease him right away. The ribbing went on for a while, until Arthur was holding the book in his hands—and then the depths of his feelings must have shone through, because Alfred laid off. He set next to Arthur as Arthur read, even made tea so Arthur wouldn't have to interrupt himself. And when Arthur's hand found Alfred's knee, Alfred allowed it without comment; he put his arm across Arthur's shoulders, squeezed the back of his neck, rubbed his back, soothing and comforting Arthur even after the final page had been turned.

Later, when Arthur admitted to himself that he felt something vaguely more than soothed and comforted, he was disgusted with himself. It was sick and wrong to be aroused by having Alfred so close, Arthur told himself—Alfred was just being a mate, he was just a lad, really, a boy...

Not long after, they saw Magnolia. And that's when it really began, later that night when he got himself absolutely fucked on drink to give himself the courage to go down to Alfred's room, when he taught Alfred how to kiss the way Arthur likes it, when he took Alfred to bed for the first time. At first he worried he was being too rough, but Alfred was pushing back against him, on his hands and knees, writhing and moaning and fucking begging for it. It was obviously not his first time, so Arthur let go and fucked them both senseless.

Different, so very different from how Alfred was with him last night.

He doesn't remember it ever being quite like last night. Not just Alfred fucking him. There was more last night. More to last night.

He doesn't remember ever holding Alfred, just holding him. He doesn't remember Alfred's whole body ever sighing and melting against him like that.

He does remember crying before. Sometimes Arthur looks at Alfred, and there's something about Alfred. He's not beautiful by traditional standards, but he is beautiful, and his beauty is pain. "It is dangerous to mistake children for angels." It is; oh, it is.

Now Arthur hears Alfred moving quietly, getting ready to leave. He can feign sleep and let Alfred go, knowing that sooner or later there will be a next time, another hotel suite, gent's, lift, car backseat, deserted alleyway...

Or he can say Alfred's name, bring Alfred back into his bed, fall asleep next to him and—for once—wake up next to him.

Alfred is moving across the floor, going for the door now. Arthur doesn't have much time for his decision. In a moment, Alfred will be out the door. And though there surely will be a next time, Arthur knows he will be drunk again, he will need the haze more than ever. Either he can accept this thing he has with Alfred, accept Alfred, accept himself; or he can be so drunk the next time he won't remember.

This is happening. It's not a dream.

And for once, he's lucid.

He shifts as if in sleep, rolling onto his back.

Hand on the doorknob, Alfred looks back at the movement.

Light is seeping into the room around the edges of the curtain where it's been pulled back so Alfred could find his things; there's just enough light for their eyes to meet.

If Arthur doesn't say something now, the moment will be lost, Alfred will be gone.

In the time it takes Arthur to think this, the door is already shutting behind Alfred as he leaves.

Arthur closes his eyes. He thinks about going back to sleep. He thinks about telling himself this was part of the dream when he wakes up later, as if for the first time this morning.

Eyes closed, Arthur concentrates on his own breathing. He doesn't think about anything else. He doesn't think about how his body feels the echoes of last night. He does not think about the way Alfred's lips, just before he turned away in the doorway, were curved up, but his eyes weren't smiling.

Arthur's chest rises and falls with a deep breath that is not a sigh. Opening his eyes, he rolls off the bed to his feet and goes to fill the electric kettle. He reckons he'll need all the fortitude tea can provide him to get through today's session of the world meeting.

The meeting has been going on for hours. The past hour or so has been occupied by Alfred and yet another of his dubious schemes, the finer points of which have escaped Arthur, who has chosen to forgo strict attention in favor of yielding to the residual haze of last night's besottedness.

The words may not be penetrating the haze's membrane, but Alfred's exuberance has managed to seep through. Arthur can feel how much Alfred believes in it, whatever it is he's going on about. More than that—how much Alfred believes in himself and all of them, how he believes they can accomplish great things for the world; how the world can be made a finer place. The plan he's espousing almost certainly will not achieve such lofty ambitions, but the desire is there.

He's always been like this. When he was a child, he would come to Arthur with all manner of schemes; and when Arthur would explain patiently and in detail precisely why they wouldn't work, Alfred would say, "Okay." And then invariably he would grin and tell Arthur, "I'm going to do it, anyhow!" And he'd do it too. Often it wouldn't work out the way Alfred had imagined—but sometimes it did. Sometimes it worked out even better. A smile crosses Arthur's lips as he recalls the one that would grace Alfred's face on those latter occasions.

He raises his hand.

Alfred finishes his sentence before acknowledging it. "Yes? A question from England?"

"No," Arthur says. "I'm voting for it. Your plan."

He doesn't actually know what he's just voted for—until Alfred's face lights up with the brilliance of the sun.

"Awesome! Thank you, Arthur! Okay," Alfred shines that smile around the room, and Arthur wonders how many others will vote for that instead of the words that preceded. "Let's take a vote! All in favor…"

The vote is inconclusive, but before debate can begin Yao suggests a break. It won't really be a break, of course; it's a chance for those in favor and those opposed to have private words with the undecideds and anyone else they think they can sway.

Arthur makes a quick exit through the side door to the courtyard. He glances up at the sky: even though there's little cloud cover, it doesn't seem as bright out here as it was in the room just now.

You could have that, he tells himself as he takes a seat on one of the stone benches. You could have that brilliance, that warmth in your life. You could.

But, he argues back silently, it is dangerous to mistake children for angels.

Why? Why is it so dangerous?

He doesn't have an answer for himself.

Let go of the film, he tells himself now. Let go of the implications for those characters. Think about it for yourself. Think about what it means for you. Think about what it means for you and him.

Alfred is not an angel.

Alfred also is not a child, not anymore. Not for a while.

It is dangerous for Arthur to mistake Alfred for a child, because he is a man now. It is dangerous for Arthur to mistake Alfred for an angel because—

The side door opens again and a small group comes out into the courtyard, Alfred among them. When his eyes meet Arthur's, Alfred grins and raises a hand to him and then says something to the others before breaking away to cross to Arthur.

"Hi, Arthur! Thanks for the vote in there."

Fearing that Alfred is about to ask for more in-depth thoughts on the plan, Arthur makes a noncommital sound.

Fortunately, though, Alfred just says, "Listen, some of us are going out for drinks after this. Do you want to come?"

It is, of course, more than an invitation to casual drinks. Arthur has known this every time Alfred has invited him drinking, but this is the first time Arthur is letting that knowledge to the fore. "I believe I'll decline." It's only because he's looking for it that Arthur catches the flicker in Alfred's eyes.

"Okay." Alfred smiles, but the sun isn't in it. "No problem. Another time, then. See you back inside!"

He's halfway across the courtyard when Arthur says, "Actually."

Alfred stops and looks back at him.

It is dangerous to mistake Alfred for an angel, because Alfred is here on earth. He's right there. He's right here.

He always has been.

"Actually," Arthur restarts his sentence, "I was thinking perhaps we could have dinner. The two of us."

There's a flash of warmth as Alfred says, "Great, yes!" before he goes.

Lingering in the courtyard when the others have returned inside, Arthur wishes, quite badly, for a drink.

After the meeting, they arrange to meet at a restaurant a few blocks from the hotel. By the time Arthur arrives, Alfred is already at a table in the back. Almost as soon as Arthur sits, a waiter appears with two whiskeys, jack for Alfred and a scotch which he sets before Arthur. When Alfred raises his in toast, Arthur hesitates before reaching for his water goblet.

"Oh," Alfred says. "Sorry, I assumed about the whiskey—did you want something different?" He twists in his seat, lifting his free hand to signal the waiter.

"No," Arthur says, and Alfred turns back to him. "I. I'm not drinking tonight."

There's a flicker. Maybe more than a flicker. But Alfred still manages a smile as he sets down his drink and picks up his own water instead. "Well, then," he reaches across the table to clink it against Arthur's, "cheers!"

"Cheers," Arthur returns. Alfred drops his attention to the menu and Arthur does the same. But awkward silence has no chance because Alfred asks for his opinion about two of the dishes and which of them Arthur would recommend.

The evening continues with Alfred asking Arthur's opinion on many things covering a range of topics. Arthur has never paid attention to the way Alfred constructs conversations with him before, but as he listens now to things that seem casual, he realizes Alfred has thought out the conversations carefully, designed them to run a certain way well within comfort, steering clear of the personal and the political. Not just for comfort: for Arthur's comfort.

It would be easy to think Alfred's being oblivious to the personal, but that's not it at all. It's a front. Maybe it's a front all the time. Maybe he doesn't want them all to know how perceptive he actually is. Or perhaps it is not so much subterfuge as willful oblivion. A conscious choice not to think about the things he perceives, because he doesn't want to live in that kind of world. Alfred chooses the rose colored glasses over the jaded-green ones.

At the conclusion of the meal, they stroll along the canals back to the hotel, the conversation carried by Alfred's observations and speculations about the people they pass.

When the lift doors open onto Alfred's floor, Alfred exits and then puts out a hand to hold the doors open. "I know you didn't drink with dinner, but do you—are you in the mood for a nightcap?"

Arthur shakes his head. "I'd best not. Want to be rested for tomorrow's session."

"All right." Alfred offers Arthur a smile. "Well, thanks for dinner. And if you change your mind, you know where to find me. My door's always open if you want to talk or anything!"

The doors close at last and the lift proceeds upwards. As he walks down to his room, Arthur wonders at Alfred's words. He doesn't recall Alfred ever saying anything about talking before, but it could be that Arthur was never listening for that offer before.

He lies in bed for at least an hour before he gets up, dresses again, and goes down to Alfred's room.

The relief in Alfred's smile when he opens the door to Arthur's knock is unmistakable. "Came for that nightcap after all, huh?"

"No," Arthur says. "I thought—the other." Alfred's brow furrows, and Arthur says, "For the talking."

Alfred blinks. The furrow doesn't disappear, but he says, "All right," and steps aside to let Arthur in.

Then it's quiet. Alfred appears to be at a loss; Arthur knows he himself is. Casting about the room, he catches his own reflection on the sliding door leading out to the balcony. Although he wants to look away immediately, he holds his own gaze for a moment. Then he turns to Alfred and gestures. "Shall we go out there?"

Alfred's brow smooths as he agrees, though Arthur sees the uncertainty lingering in his eyes.

They stand side by side at the railing. They don't talk. Taking the railing with both hands, Alfred leans his weight on it, tipping his face up and opening his mouth as if he means to drink the night.

Arthur looks up too. The stars are so bright, so far away. As he gazes up, Arthur shifts to the space between those darts of brilliance; how easy it would be to get lost in that cold and infinite space…

A flash of warmth jolts Arthur, bringing him back from infinity and into himself.

"Sorry," Alfred says as he moves his hand back from the stray brush against Arthur's.

"No worries," Arthur says, and means it.

Alfred upturns his face again, and so does Arthur.

"I'd like to lick it," Alfred says, with a casual, tranquil desire. He doesn't turn when Arthur does, but he must sense Arthur's gaze because he continues, "The moon. That color—what would you call that? Apricot? Pale apricot?"

"Light refraction," Arthur says, and now Alfred turns to him. Arthur knows full well Alfred knows about refraction, but with Alfred looking at him, Arthur has to say something. "It's to do with the angle at which light from the sun is coming 'round to hit the moon, and the atmosphere that light passes through as it bounces to us."

Alfred looks at the moon again. "It's really pretty."

Arthur looks again too, and it is.

"Make a wish!" Alfred says suddenly, lit up all over again.

Following the trajectory of his finger, Arthur sees the shooting star. "Do you know what that is?"

Alfred's face scrunches. "Great, Arthur. Now you're going to give me a scientific explanation of beauty, aren't you?"

The repressed undercurrent to the tease stops Arthur. He knows he should say something, that the moment is passing into awkwardness and that it will pass beyond awkwardness, back to the closed silence.

"Well," Alfred clears his throat. "They're suns, right? And planets. That's what stars are." He's just saying anything, of course; anything at all, anything to keep going.

Arthur wants to say anything too. But he doesn't think there's anything he can tell Alfred about celestial objects; Alfred, as he is fond of reminding everyone, was the first of them to put a man on the moon, after all.

When Alfred was a child, Arthur used to tell him stories about the moon. About a boy and his rabbit frolicking on the moon. As much as he loves science, Alfred has also and always loved stories.

"Not shooting stars," Arthur says.

Alfred nods, attentive as he looks at the sky, politely waiting for the scientific explanation of beauty.

When nothing comes, he turns, mouth already open to say something—but seeing Arthur's face, he goes quiet. Alfred touches Arthur's hand and looks back into the sky.

Arthur listens to his own heartbeat. Alfred's hand is touching his so he lifts his fingers, intertwines them with Alfred's, holds Alfred's hand and listens to the beat of his own heart.

"Once," Arthur says after a swallowed pause, "there was a boy who was so beautiful, it hurt to look at him."

Alfred's fingers tighten around Arthur's, and Arthur goes on, "He shone from inside out, with a beauty so bright that when you tried to look at him, your eyes had to slide away before they got scorched, and soon people learned not to look directly at the boy. And so it came to pass that the boy didn't know how beautiful he was; he thought no one wanted to look at him." Arthur turns his head to meet Alfred's gaze, soft but steady.

When Alfred looks to the stars again, Arthur angles his body towards Alfred. "The gods and goddesses could look at him, though; it was only mortals who felt the pain of his beauty. The gods and goddesses were all in love with him, and they took pity on him; and because he loved the night so much, they fixed him as a star in the sky, and everyone could look at him then and admire his beauty."

Alfred looks at Arthur again, holding the gaze.

"At first the boy was happy, but soon he grew restless at being fixed in what he was told was his place. And he grew lonely, because even though everyone looked at him now, they didn't really see him—he was too far away.

"Then one night, the boy felt a gaze upon him, and the gaze caught his eye. Someone was looking at him. Not the way the others looked at him; someone was looking at him like he was a boy, not a star." Arthur pauses. "No," he corrects himself, "someone was looking at him like he was a man. And he looked back at the someone, and—"

Arthur hesitates, and for the first time drops his gaze from Alfred's face. "And he fell in love."

He feels Alfred shift bodily to face him, but Arthur fixes his gaze on the dark horizon as he continues, "So he came down to earth. And that's what a shooting star is."

There's more to the story; the story can end there, but there's more to the story.

Arthur swallows, breathes, listens to his heart beat, breathes.

"He defied the gods and goddesses who wanted to keep him fixed, defied the very cosmos; he risked everything and came to earth, and he found the someone who was looking at him, and the someone was another man."

"He was beautiful too," Alfred says then.

Their eyes meet.

"He was beautiful," Alfred says again, "but he didn't know it either, did he?"

Arthur looks at Alfred, lets Alfred look at him. "No," he says in soft agreement, "he didn't know."

Alfred reaches for Arthur's face. "Is that why he came down to earth? To tell the man he was beautiful?"

Closing his eyes, Arthur feels Alfred's fingers trail down his face. "To show him." He opens his eyes, nuzzles into Alfred's cupped hand, and smiles. "He didn't know anything until the man from the night sky looked at him."

"And then he knew?" Alfred is rapt, lashes fluttering. Each flutter eases Arthur's heart a little more, spreads warmth through him.

Arthur nods. "He knew, but he kept forgetting. He couldn't see the man from the night sky during the day, when the sun was shining. The man from the night sky was still there, but the earthbound man couldn't see him, couldn't see him looking, couldn't feel him, and so during the day he would forget.

"But then one dawn, the earthbound man caught a glimpse of the nightsky man just as the sun was starting to touch the sky. He saw the nightsky man in the light of the sun and instead of disappearing, the nightsky man shimmered. And he was beautiful in the light of the sun, so beautiful—"

Alfred flutters again and Arthur kisses him, breathes the flutters, swallows them.

As Arthur sinks down, he draws Alfred with him until they're lying under the stars. As hands slip under clothing, they shiver from the first cold touch; skin warming against skin, they shiver now from something other than the night air.

Their kisses are unhurried, their caresses easy. Alfred reaches for Arthur leisurely, fingers brushing against his cock; and Arthur takes Alfred's hand, brings it from his cock to his lips, kisses Alfred's fingertips, kisses his palm, and Alfred's whimper of protest slides with overlapping sighs into contentment and pleasure. Arthur kisses Alfred's mouth again, feels how soft and yielding and inviting and welcoming Alfred is—

Arthur breaks the kiss. "Don't, please." A furrow appears on Alfred's brow as he looks at Arthur. "You don't have to kiss like that."

"But—you like that, don't you?"

"Yeah," Arthur says, "but now I want you to kiss me how you want. The way you kiss others."

Alfred's eyes shy away before flicking back to Arthur's; in that brief moment, Arthur realizes Alfred hasn't been kissing anyone else since he's been kissing Arthur.

"Alfred." Oh, Alfred~ "Kiss me like yourself."

Alfred smiles. And then that radiance is touching Arthur's lips, slipping into his mouth, and he tastes Alfred's unbridled enthusiasm, his tenderness, his wildness bright and dark.

Arthur accepts Alfred's claiming tongue strokes; and gives them too—give and take, twining, licking and sucking, possessive; mutual possession.

Sometimes Alfred kisses with his eyes open, so Arthur opens his own and yes, Alfred's eyes are open now, not fluttering, just looking at Arthur and Arthur is looking back; and their mouths are still together, moving slower, kissing not like girls nor like men, not like men nor angels nor nations; kissing, just kissing like themselves.

Arthur falls through himself. The back of his neck starts to prickle and a knot forms in his throat, and he doesn't cry because he feels too much peace…

"Is this what you want, Alfred?"

Alfred smiles, lashes fluttering as he blinks, nods, "Yes."

"It's not what I want," Arthur says. Alfred's brow knits, his smile fades, and Arthur reaches out to smooth the worry lines with his thumb. "It's what I want," he tries to clarify, "but it's not all, it's not enough."

Alfred sits up and so does Arthur. Alfred's just looking at him. Arthur's heart doesn't have words, so it's silent between them. He wants his mouth to tell Alfred what's in his heart, wordlessly, with touch.

But a kiss is too easily misunderstood, and if he kisses Alfred now, no matter how he's doing it, Alfred will misunderstand, and when he kisses back, Arthur will let him: he'll let Alfred misunderstand, and he'll let Alfred kiss him into misunderstanding.

So Arthur needs words.

He looks at Alfred: at Alfred looking at him, fluttering and trying not to—and suddenly Arthur needs to protect those flutters. He imagines taking those flutters into himself, and as he imagines it, it happens, and the flutters shape themselves into the words he needs:

"I love you."

Arthur breathes; he listens to his heart beat.

Alfred only looks at him. Then he draws his legs up, wraps his arms around them, and puts his head down. Arthur isn't sure what it means or what he should do. He starts to reach for Alfred, then notices that Alfred is pulling at the skin on the back of his hand. "Alfred?"

"It doesn't hurt." Alfred lifts his head, his expression calm, neutral. He looks at Arthur, sighing as his thumb and forefinger gather up the skin and pull again. "It doesn't hurt."

Arthur reaches for Alfred's hand—and Alfred yelps. He blinks at Arthur

"The secret is in the twist," Arthur explains with a smile, gathering Alfred's skin, twisting as he pinches, making Alfred gasp. Then Arthur takes Alfred's hand in both of his, presses his lips to the now-tender skin. He raises his eyes to Alfred's and smiles again. "It's not a dream, Alfred," he says, and now Alfred smiles back.

It's not a dream; it's happening.

Alfred's hand slips from Arthur's to touch Arthur's face. He kisses Arthur, slides into his lap, and Arthur's arms go 'round him. As they settle into the fit, Arthur strokes Alfred's hair, his neck, his back, feeling the vibrations as Alfred hums contentment, Arthur thrumming with it himself.

"I love you," Arthur murmurs.

"Love you, Arthur," Alfred breathes.

Time recedes, the world falls away; the world is not in slow motion, the world is just the two of them.

Light is starting a slow seep into the sky and Alfred straightens up to look at it. "It's a new day," he observes.

Arthur looks at him, the way the light falls on him, the way Alfred absorbs the light and the way the light comes off him, and the light doesn't change Alfred; he's still and magnificently Alfred.

"Yeah." Arthur smiles. "It is."