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To time travel, you need an anchor.
Alfred knows this. He knows it better than anyone, really - he’s the one who made it possible in the first place. Though you could argue that it’d technically always been possible - he just so happened to open the door to it through countless hours of formulas and dead ends fueled by a degree in Physics and oceans of espressos.
Nonetheless, it was a brilliant feat. One that could propel the world into a new era of discovery and endless possibilities. One that could render almost every one of those sci-fi movies Alfred watched as a little kid in a suburban home completely redundant. One that could help mankind erase its mistakes and change itself for better.
Even so, he’s kept it to himself.
It won’t always be this way. Alfred wasn’t cruel enough to withhold such groundbreaking material from the human race forever. He’ll just take a while to assess its capabilities, maybe try it out once a year for good measure. There’s no doubt that this technology would be prohibited from being used so nonchalantly if it were to get out to the public, after all.
But, despite everything, one thing will remain constant:
To time travel, you need an anchor.
Today is Saturday, the 14th day of February, and he’s leaning against the soft, cool blanket of a bed he’d grown long accustomed to seeing. With one hand holding his revolutionary device, and the other intertwining fingers with his anchor, Alfred time travels once again.
He wakes up with a gasp.
Blinking away the sleep he doesn’t remember having in his eyes, the ceiling above him focuses into view, and soon all his senses have rewinded to that same Saturday morning three years ago.
He’s lying in bed, feeling strangely rejuvenated. (Must the the throngs of youth seeping back into him - not that he’s old in the first place, twenty-nine is still pretty young, right?) His arms and limbs curled around a sleeping figure resting against his bare chest.
His heartbeat stutters, like it did every other time he’d travelled back here.
“Arthur.”
Arthur. Arthur.
He tightens his hold the Englishman, pulling that warmth closer and relishing in the small hitch in the breath against his chest. Alfred would’ve been content just lying there, spending the entire day cuddling with Arthur (ArthurArthurArthursosoftandwarmandnotin—) and sleeping in bed. But he knows that won’t happen, they have plans for the day after all.
Alfred pulls back a bit, tilting his head down to observe Arthur’s sleeping face at a close proximity. It’s one of the few moments where Arthur’s completely relaxed, yet the complete blankness of it terrifies him to the bone.
So he kisses it awake.
Once. Twice. A couple of times before—
“H-Hey.” Arthur tilts his head to the side, averting Alfred’s lips to his cheek in order to let him catch his breath. But the plan backfires as Alfred continues to plant butterfly kisses along his jaw and neck. “I’m still jet la—hah—gged, you p-prick.”
Alfred ends with a small peck on his collarbone, looking up at his lover with a small pout. “I just wanted a kiss.” His mouth lifts into a grin before pulling back up for another kiss - which Arthur stops with a single finger against his lips.
“Morning breath, dear,” chides Arthur, ignoring Alfred’s prompt frown. “It’s sweet of you but we won’t be exchanging anymore kisses until we’ve br—Alfred—“
Arthur’s lighthearted commands are stopped short as Alfred manages to maneuver around Arthur’s reprimanding finger and dive straight for his lips. Arthur promptly dodges by turning his head and Alfred’s lips smoosh against his cheekbone.
“C’mon, Artie,” whines Alfred as he pulls back. “Just a couple more.”
He tries again. Arthur dodges once more - this time the kiss landing on the underside of his jaw.
“A-Alfred, stop,” Arthur laughs breathlessly, struggling as Alfred pulls them together tighter in an attempt to limit Arthur’s movement. He pushes weakly against the other’s chest, unable to keep the dopey grin off his face as he constantly dodges Alfred’s attempts to land a kiss on his lips. “Your breath is absolutely foul.”
“No can do, sweetheart.” This time, Alfred’s hands glide down from their position around Arthur’s waist and down to his ass, squeezing lightly to throw Arthur off-kilter. His efforts seem to pay off as Arthur lets out an indignant squeak (Alfred swallows down the lump of affection in his chest) and freezes up.
Alfred uses the opportunity to capture Arthur’s lips in a kiss, bringing a hand up to dig into Arthur’s hair and hold him steady. The Englishman struggles at first, but eventually gives in, recognizing an uphill battle when he sees one.
For what feels like several blissful minutes, it’s just the two of them, kissing half-naked in a mess of ruffled sheets in Alfred’s apartment as sunlight spills in through the gaps between their blinds. Somewhere amongst the mush of thought bubbling through Alfred’s head, he knows that he’d give anything to be able to stay in this time period for more than a day.
“Happy Valentine’s day, Artie.”
At that, Arthur coughs and wrinkles his nose, but it’s more for good humor than anything. “Happy Valentine’s day, love,” he replies, pecking Alfred once more on the lips for good measure before propping himself up on his elbows. “And if I’m not mistaken, you promised me a movie date in an hour.”
Arthur gets off of the bed, leaving Alfred to perk himself up in a wake of realization. “Whoa, it’s that late already? How long were we asleep?”
Arthur hums thoughtfully, no doubt testament to his apparent good mood. “Give or take eleven hours, no harm in regaining sleep I suppose.” He disappears into the adjoined bathroom shortly after.
At a languid - albeit a bit rushed - pace, they get ready for the day. Alfred slips on his wear for the day, the usual jeans and shirt over his signature bomber jacket - remembering almost instinctively that he’d put everything he needed in it the night before. Arthur insisted on going in a pair of brown trousers, an oxford shirt, and a green peacoat - it’s the same coat he got for their anniversary last year, and just the sentiment alone makes Alfred’s heart jump.
“If you plan on taking me to see that god-awful excuse of a movie, you can consider yourself single for the day, Alfred F. Jones,” says Arthur during their ride to the movie theater in Alfred’s car. “Even if you are just planning to gawk about how atrocious it was afterwards.”
“Don’t worry, Artie, I would never ruin our date like that.” consoles Alfred, eyes still strained on the road and going a bit slower than Arthur would’ve liked. “Besides, what’s the point in watching a movie when we can try it out ourselves sometime?” The tease is light, but the implications have Arthur flushing and squirming a bit in his seat.
(Not that Arthur knew this, but that promise was fulfilled around two weeks later when Alfred got his paycheck. Studded riding crops don’t grow on trees, after all.)
They ended up watching a hearty romcom with just enough humor to keep Alfred entertained and just enough romantic sap to keep Arthur distracted from making sarcastic comments on the occasional slapstick humor.
Alfred attempted the good old “yawn-and-put-your-arm-around-your-date” trick a couple of times (one of them ending with an unfortunate slap to the face of the person sitting behind them) before Arthur - exasperated at that point - just gave up and yanked the American’s arm over his shoulder for the sake of the audience’s safety. Or, as he put it, “We’ve been together for three bloody years you don’t need some 1950’s greaser movie move to put your goddamn arm around my shoulders”. The statement still had Arthur blushing by the end of it, but Alfred didn’t miss the small smile he had on in addition to it.
Afterwards, they had a light lunch - if you could call a cup of coffee and half a donut a meal - at a nearby cafe. The popcorn they’d had didn’t leave much room for anything else, and Alfred didn’t want them full for their reservations later that day (Arthur didn’t know about it, but he didn’t protest against the light snacking anyway).
For the few hours between the end of the movie and their dinner reservations, they spent the time talking and walking around the area - dropping by various shops and stalls where Alfred pledged to buy Arthur whatever he wanted and Arthur made suspicious remarks on whatever hidden intentions Alfred had by doing so while (futilely) attempting to stifle the smug grin on his lips. Needless to say, Arthur took advantage of the situation to buy a couple of new shirts and various other expensive items of clothing (in order to replace the ones Alfred had damaged during some of their less…chaste get-togethers).
But he gave Alfred a quick peck on the cheek every time they exited a store, so it was pretty worth it in Alfred’s opinion.
An hour or two after the sun had fallen neatly below the horizon, Alfred shoved both of them back into the car and drove a slightly confused Arthur towards their final destination for the night.
“Alfred, I thought we were just ordering takeout for dinner, where are you taking us?”
“You’ll find out in a bit, sweetheart - no peeking, okay?”
And when he did find out ten minutes later, it was anything but a disappointment.
Arthur had seen it several times before - on various ads and one-off guest stars on local cooking channels and news stories. Though not the fanciest restaurant in town, it’s flair and balance of quality and ability to leave enough cash for a cab ride home in their customers’ wallets never failed to bedazzle their other competitors.
Needless to say, Arthur was beyond amazed.
Hell, he would’ve shown Alfred just how much he loved it right then and there in the parking lot if he wasn’t already on cloud nine.
“Alfred, this is just wonderful,” he says breathlessly a few seconds after they’d placed their orders. “Allow me to pay for the meal, you’ve already done so much toda—“
“Shh, it’s okay,” coos Alfred in a voice that makes Arthur feel like he could collapse despite being seated in a rather comfortable chair. “Today’s all about you, sweetheart. My treat.”
And Arthur was awestruck for the remainder of the meal. Hell, he was practically humming by the time he’d finished his dessert.
Looking back, it was a normal Valentine’s date. It was still special in itself - only on rare occasions does Arthur indulge his inner romanticist and give into the pleasantries of a single day of sweet, syrupy romance - yet it wasn’t very different from all those previous years. (Excluding that one year Alfred forgot, of course, but he’s made it a law to never bring that up under any circumstances.)
But, Alfred knows this day is different.
He knows by the small, velvet box sitting in his suit pocket that this day is different.
While Arthur’s admiring the view, Alfred takes the opportunity to swallow his fears and reach for the box. He knew how this would play out - he’s done it more than once after all - so why was he still so nervous?
“A-Arthur.”
The choked name alone manages to get his full attention, his brow furrowing in slight concern at the unusual use of his actual name instead of “Artie” or the various colorful selection of pet names Alfred’s set up for him. “Is something wrong, Alfred?”
“N-Not at all, it’s just…” He takes a deep breath, putting his free hand over the one Arthur had sitting idly beside his plate and looking straight into those beautiful, green eyes. “We’ve been best friends since we met in tenth grade eight years ago - and we’ve been dating the last three. You’re the smartest, strongest, most amazing person I’ve met and I don’t know what I did to deserve you in my life but I’d gladly do it a million times if it means I’ll just get to meet you.”
His hand withdraws from its position over Arthur’s in favor of lifting up the lid of the box in his hands, not missing the gasp from across the table. “I-I know it’s pretty cliche to propose during Valentine’s of all days. But I just want you to know that no matter what happens, I love you, Arthur Kirkland, and I always will, so will you marry m—“
He doesn’t exactly know how, but in a second Arthur’s yanked him into a kiss from across the table.
Everything afterwards is an ethereal blur of events that, even after all those repetitions, Alfred can barely recall.
After slamming a couple of hundred dollar bills on the tab and driving back to Alfred’s apartment, they can barely keep their hands off each other by the time they get through the door. Clothes are shed in a trail of desperation and soon enough Arthur’s thrown onto the mattress, panting and flushed with Alfred’s own heaving figure hovering over him not long after.
“A-Alfred,” he gasps in between kisses. “I love you.”
Everything stops.
The frantic pace they’d assumed before fades. The next time Alfred kisses him it’s strong and slow, and they move against each other all the same.
They make love that night, and it seems no different than before but it’s different, Alfred knows it’s different - after all, the best day he’s ever had should expectedly come with the best sex he’s ever had, as crude as the statement sounds.
Minutes after their exhausted pants fade into subtly steep breaths, Arthur’s head is resting against Alfred’s chest, half-lidded eyes admiring the way his new ring glints in the soft moonlight.
It’s nothing showy - testament to just how well Alfred knew Arthur when it came to such things - a silver band with an ethereal shine to it that sat perfectly on his ring finger. Arthur stares at it, as if mesmerized, until Alfred’s fingers crawl up to intertwine with his, putting a smile on both their faces.
“By the way you look at that ring, I’d say you’ve fallen pretty in love with it,” teases Alfred breathlessly. “Do I have competition for my new fiancee?”
Arthur chuckles, his grin now shining with a hint of mischievousness. “It’s a hard choice, I’ll need a bit more time to consider it.” There’s a hint of teasing in his voice, but it’s ultimately drowned out by how tired he is at the moment.
Alfred pouts, but it’s all in good humor as he shifts them into a more comfortable spooning position - Arthur’s not very heavy, but after that he’ll need a good amount of rest for his muscles to recuperate. “Well you’ve got a week, Artie, I’ll have a ring just like yours by the end of it.”
Alfred feels Arthur hum, now too exhausted to formulate a coherent reply beyond that one sound. The American smiles, wrapping his arm’s around Arthur’s now sleeping frame and pulling him closer - making their current position an echo of how they’d woken up earlier that day.
And, before the throes of exhaustion and afterglow pull Alfred under, a choked sob manages to escape him.
He wakes up with a gasp.
He’s hunched over that same bed again, face buried in the clean, white fabric as clouded sunlight filters in from the afternoon sky. It’s February 14th, Saturday, not a minute after he’d pressed the button on his device and relived one of the happiest days of his life. Not a minute after he’d grasped Arthur’s hand, holding it tight enough to paint his fingers white.
The air is blank, sterile, nothing like the sandalwood and coffee bean of Alfred’s apartment. He lifts his head, eyes adjusting to the darkness as footsteps shuffle through the halls somewhere beyond the door. There's nobody else in the room except for the two of them, Arthur lying in bed and Alfred hunched over the side, the rest of him sitting in a plastic chair he'd pulled up from the small table in the corner.
He’s always hated hospitals - hated, hated, hated them.
But just about as much as he didn’t want to be in here - didn’t want Arthur to be here - he needed to be here.
“Hey, Artie, can you hear me?”
His voice is a sad, raspy sound that echoes into the silence as a heart monitor beeps in the corner of the room.
He puts his device back into his bag - where it'll remain unused until this time next year - and then turns back to gaze over Arthur's sleeping form. The blankness of it strikes him to the bone.
Arthur didn’t deserve to be like this - frail and thin with IV needles hooked into his veins and an oxygen mask pulled over his nose and mouth. He deserved to be happy, he deserved to be smiling and laughing and not stuck in a hospital bed with dozens of needles and a machine doing his breathing for him just because he'd wandered into Alfred's lab one day and accidentally pushed something he shouldn't have.
Because to time travel safely, you need an anchor.
If he could, he’d rip them all out, rip them all out and kiss Arthur awake but he knows that won’t work, Arthur wouldn’t be able to wake up. But he will someday, they all told him it won’t work - Arthur’s brothers, Matthew, Francis, Kiku, and Gilbert they all think he’s a lost cause, that Alfred should just let him go.
But he will wake up.
He has to wake up.
“We’ll do it all, Artie, I promise. That Valentine’s picnic under the stars you wanted, I’ll even eat your shitty scones and everything.” Alfred’s vision is blurring, eyes wide as his trembling grip around Arthur’s hand tightens. “We’ll go visit England again like you’ve always wanted, and you’ll get to see your brothers again - you’ve always wanted to go back there, right? I know money’s been pretty rough right now with all this medical stuff but I can cut back. We can go there for our honeymoon, okay? I’ll do whatever it takes so just—”
He presses Arthur’s hand against his cheek, tears now rolling down onto his palm as he stares hard into Arthur’s closed eyes, pleading, begging.
“So please, please wake up, Artie.”