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Alfred is at another meeting—in London or Paris or Brussels; wherever; he hardly even knows anymore—and he is so exhausted he can barely stand up straight. He’s sure to be in for another lecture. It doesn’t matter who from; all Alfred knows it that he doesn’t have the energy to deal with it.
He manages to make it through the morning though, somehow, manages to skate through pretending to pay attention (it’s the coffee, he thinks; maybe his hands tremble and maybe he can’t write legibly, but at least his eyes are open. That’s the most important thing.)
They finally break for lunch and Alfred leans back in his chair, sighing. He plans to spend the two hours in the meeting room, napping if he can.
(He can’t, he thinks, with something akin to despair rising up in his gut as he watches Lars walk toward him, frowning—and though Alfred doesn’t know what he’s done, he braces himself for an argument anyway.)
He’s so concerned with trying to figure out what Lars wants that when the other country raises an eyebrow and asks, “When’s the last time you slept?” Alfred is so honestly perplexed that he merely gapes up at him.
That seems to be answer enough for Lars though: he sighs and reaches for Alfred, his hands surprisingly gentle on Alfred’s forearms. “Come on then,” he mumbles, gruff, and tugs Alfred up.
The last thing Alfred remembers is stumbling into his side.
When he’s next conscious, it’s dark, and his nose pressed to Lars’ shoulder. “Lars?” He asks, groggy and confused. “Huh?” He doesn’t know how he got to be here—wherever here is—lying against the other nation’s back.
“I asked you when you last slept,” Lars says simply, “And you couldn’t remember.” He’s unfazed by Alfred’s proximity, and Alfred wonders how he could be so nonchalant, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to be lying down with his legs curled between Alfred’s.
“What?” Alfred replies, once he is awake enough to be astonished. Lars shrugs against him, and Alfred’s chin sinks down with the movement.
Lars is very warm, and Alfred thinks he likes it. He presses closer as Lars begins to speak.
“You were falling asleep where you sat,” he tells Alfred, his own voice rough and drowsy. “So I brought you back here, to the hotel, instead.”
“Why?”
He feels Lars shrug again. “No one else was doing anything. And I don’t have the time or the patience to sit there listening to them yell at you. Besides, you don’t work efficiently when you’ve been awake for so long that easy questions confuse you”
Lars makes it sound like an inconvenience, like he has much better things to be spending his time doing, but even half asleep, Alfred can hear the affection in his voice, and he knows that if Lars really meant that, he wouldn’t be lying in the darkness with Alfred now. It surprises him a little though—they’ve been friends for centuries, the two of them; Lars is one of his oldest friends, in fact, one of his longest allies, but he’s not… Well. Alfred’s always been a little jealous of his close friendship with Matthew. He shifts, and his cheek brushes Lars’ neck.
“I’ve been missing you lately,” Alfred says then, although he hadn’t meant to at all, and isn’t quite sure where it had come from. (It’s the truth, though, oh god is it the truth.)
Alfred flushes, and is grateful that Lars can’t see him in this position. But Lars’ answering chuckle rumbles through him, and the feel of it leaves Alfred’s belly warm and fluttery. It’s a pleasant thing, soft like springtime sunshine, and Alfred smiles a little into the darkness.
“Go back to sleep, Alfred. I’ll take you out to eat when you wake up again,” is all Lars says. But there’s a promise in his voice, one that sets Alfred’s heart racing, breath caught in his throat. All he can do is nod.
(And after dinner, Lars kisses him, slow and sweet and Alfred knows that this is the beginning of something. When Lars pulls away, finally, Alfred can’t help but grin up into the dour nation’s unusually bright eyes.
He’s always loved beginnings.)