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It was a war that never existed, yet at the same time, it felt too real.
Alfred was currently spinning in his chair, toying idly with his telephone wire, unaware of Arthur’s vicious glare at his own telephone in the British embassy in New York, the same city Alfred was in, but miles away.
Alfred hadn’t even looked at him during his speech in Security Council today, Arthur remembered and scowled, fixating his eyes on the telephone, waiting for it to ring, wanting to answer it after a few beats, to not seem desperate or to give the impression that he was, indeed, waiting for him to call him. He would then only to be greeted with a rude American on the other side, asking whether we would be coming over to his place for ‘Drinks and stuff, you know, a night-cap. You can stay, too, if you want to.’, although it was never a question and more a request, and there were always more words hidden in Alfred’s speech.
He hadn’t even acknowledged Britain’s unconditional support for his plan, a plan that, in Arthur’s personal opinion, was absolute rubbish, but who was he to say so? He depended on Alfred, whether he liked it or not, as his secretaries and diplomats and other colleagues tended to remind him any manner he found it necessary.
Arthur, an honest and old fashioned man, considered Alfred’s harsh, whispered words to him, his secure hand on his waist, shoulder, thigh, hand, and the warm, moist breath on his neck as he marked him as his and only his, a perk of the job.
The fucking was also a perk of the job.
Nothing more and nothing less.
Arthur truly didn’t know what Alfred thought about the whole matter. It was most likely just marking his territory, the intense jealously between him and Ivan was enough to drive anyone mad, not to mention the P-5 members themselves or any other nation at that. They were all torn between representing their own countries and the wishes of their allies because it was always ‘Red Or Be Dead’ and ‘Rather Dead Than Red’, a confusing mix which Arthur did not question, he was too old and too apathetic these days.
An Iron Curtain.
Arthur laughed sharply at the telephone at the thought of the metaphor, arms folded, creasing his slim, tailored black suit jacket and black, skinny tie as he did so, clashing against his prim white shirt.
Licking his lips, his thoughts trailed to Churchill and the war, and back to America all over again. He was so hopeful, so wonderful, so full of love and life, it was refreshing and dangerous because Arthur found himself invested in Alfred all over again, without his knowledge that it was happening.
It had just happened.
The whole manner was useful, in a sense, to Arthur’s diplomatic skill, because he did get certain perks from their situation: The Lend-Lease and loans, unconditional support even after the equally unconditional surrender.
It was simple to understand.
It all seemed so permanent, nowadays, perhaps Arthur felt that he was being taken for granted, because Alfred needed the other nations to know that Arthur, Great Britain, still a powerful leader of the Commonwealth and influential to many, was under his control, was simply America’s.
It was frightfully silly, too, one nation indirectly belonging to another, but that was diplomacy in its best and most horrifyingly terrifying manner.
It was unsure whether Arthur was Alfred’s, not just the nations and governments.
Was it was the other way around, too? A sort of mutual possession? Emotions were not part of this entire situation, it was merely diplomacy- Wasn’t it?
Arthur hoped it was.
He longed to not have a heart, it makes most people unhappy. If Alfred knew it, he would be jealous of Arthur, because one is truly in luck to not have a heart.
Alfred had a good heart, beneath the exterior of economic madness. He always longed to play the hero, now that Arthur remembered, even before the war-
The loud, metallic sound of the telephone shook Arthur out of his lost thoughts.
He waited until it stopped ringing.
It would be interesting to see if Alfred would try again, Arthur thought, and he was surprised by the fact that he did ring again.
Arthur picked up after a short wait.
“Yes?” He answered patiently, looking at the paper in front of him on the dark brown desk. It was eerie to remember that the embassy had set him up his own office because he worked here so often when he visited New York, “What is it?”
“Can’t I just ring you up to say hi?” Alfred answered, and Arthur pictured him swinging back in his chair, feet propped up on the table, cigarette in his mouth, smoking blowing in all directions as he moved it between his fingers as he spoke, gesturing his words as he so often did.
“It seems that you truly can’t bear to be without me, you saw me a mere couple of hours ago.” Arthur answered, digging around in his desk drawer for a packet of his own brand. Having located it, he threw it on the table in an almost aggressive way. He lit one as Alfred continued.
“Ha ha,” He mocked, “Very funny. Listen- Do you want to come over or not? I’ve got news from D.C.”
“Business or pleasure?” Arthur said with a sigh, trying to sound reluctant at the offer.
Don’t give in too easily.
“You can have both, Arthur. You can have anything if you want it enough.” Alfred replied, sharp smile visible in Arthur’s mind, “The American Dream.”
“Utter rot.” Arthur said with a sharp laugh.
Regardless, he still found himself asking after a moment of silence, “Is Washington concerned about your diplomatic ties with Whitehall and Westminster?”
“Yeah,” Alfred answered, “Always. I’m a bad, bad, man, Arthur, you should know that by now.”
Arthur swallowed thickly and closed his eyes, “Yes, I suppose I do. More than anyone, I do.”
“All I want is my freedom, Britain. I’m no longer a child, nor your little brother. From now on, consider me independent!”
“I won’t allow it. You idiot! Why can’t you follow anything through to the end? ....There’s no way I can shoot you. I can’t. Why, damn it, why? It’s not fair.”
“... You know why. What happened? I remember when you were great. ... You used to be so great, Britain.”
“Britain, you know I can’t join the war without congress-”
“Shut up, I don’t want to hear your excuses! ... I’m not asking America. I’m- I’m asking Alfred. You, personally. Forget about congress.”
“... I- I can’t- Just- Put yourself in my position, Arthur, please-”
“Put yourself in mine! I’m dying, Alfred. I’m dying.”
“... I can’t.”
“... You should come over.” Alfred said after some time, causing Arthur to remember where he was and forget about his memories. His tone was strangely gentle.
“Why? You could just tell me over the phone-” Arthur replied shortly.
Don’t give yourself up to him.
“You know exactly why I can’t do that, baby.” Alfred said with a loud laugh, “They listen in. The Commies.”
“Of course,” Arthur said with sharp sarcasm, “I forgot. How foolish of me.”
“You’d better not forget again.” Alfred threatened, and Arthur sighed.
“Yes, yes. I’ll come over. Give me twenty minutes.” He said, looking at his wrist watch. It was only 11 pm, the lights of New York were bright and there would not be a lot of traffic.
“Come for the business, stay for the pleasure.” Alfred continued with a loud laugh.
“The American Dream?” Arthur questioned, spinning a finger around the telephone cord.
“Always.” Alfred replied.
Arthur merely laughed sharply before hanging up.
:::
Arthur arrived at Alfred’s luxurious penthouse quicker than he expected, and upon Alfred spotting him at the end of the hallway to Alfred’s front door, he was shoved inside violently, ignoring any sound of protest.
“Does anyone know you’re here? Did someone drive you?” Alfred asked him, pinning his body to the wall, covered in tacky wallpaper, a framed picture shaking due to the force, grabbing his wrists and holding them to the wall, dragging his body towards his. Arthur could feel his breath on him.
“No, I took a taxi.” Arthur replied loudly, back burning due to an old wound from the war, “And lest you forget, I’m Europe’s capitalist whore. I don’t have friends.”
“Good,” Alfred said, “I don’t want anyone to know what I have to tell you.”
“Strange, you’re such an exhibitionist in everything else.” Arthur said, dragging his wrists away from Alfred’s hands.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you leave marks where you know the others can see,” Arthur said calmly, rubbing his wrists from Alfred’s bruising force, “It means that you know that these days, I only ever seem to smell of you, cigarettes, and alcohol.”
“The American Dream-” Alfred began with a leering smile, walking closer to Arthur once more.
“Shut up.” Arthur said in a final tone walking into Alfred’s living room, shoes clicking as he moved. He saw Alfred close his mouth, eyebrows furrowing in anger.
“Is that so bad?” Alfred shouted, bursting into the large room behind Arthur, “To want to tell the world that you’re mine?”
Arthur swallowed and poured himself a whiskey from Alfred’s lacquered cabinet. He drowned it before answering while refilling it, “You are a horrible, horrible man, and a tearfully sad excuse for a nation. You know that’s what I think.”
Alfred laughed loudly, and Arthur laughed around his glass before continuing, “My country hates you. The entire world hates you. Your enemies and your allies hate you.”
“True,” Alfred said, pouring himself a glass and sitting down with a sigh on his sofa, “I know that.”
“You’re smarter than I thought.” Arthur replied, sitting down next to him as Alfred lit a cigarette, “Now, tell me what Washington thinks about this.”
“How did you it was about this?” Alfred said curiously.
Arthur shrugged, setting his drink down on the glass table with a ‘clink’, looking for his own cigarettes before remembering that he had left them in his office and giving up.
“Don’t know. Instinct, perhaps.” Arthur answered eventually, sighing.
“Hm,” Alfred said, “Good enough. See, they called me this morning.”
“Yes?” Arthur urged as Alfred paused to drag on his cigarette.
“D.C. wants to make an alliance, a partnership, whatever. Between us. A ‘more permanent and personal one’, they said, on a ‘cultural, ethical, moral, economic, and nevertheless political and deeply valued level’.”
“Alfred, we already have an alliance.” Arthur said shortly.
“I know. It’s not that. It’s not a military thing. It’s about this. They want the others to know.”
“... Know what?”
“You know what.”
Oh.
“... But they all know already. It’s gossip. I really don’t see why-” Arthur began, moving his body nervously to look away from Alfred’s stare at him.
“I do. I know why.” Alfred proclaimed, “It’s to let the other’s know, truly, that you’re mine. And,” He paused, inhaling a shaky breath and Arthur observed him, “That I’m yours.”
“Are you?” Arthur asked, “Mine, that is?”
“If you want me to. D.C. certainly approves.” Alfred answered while sipping from his beverage, eyebrows raised as he looks straight ahead, out of the large window showing New York.
He’s clearly uncomfortable.
Good.
“Ah,” Arthur replied, “I see.”
Alfred finished his cigarette and extinguished it in the ashtray, as Arthur thought about the proposal, biting his lip in concentration before tossing his head back and sighing.
“It’s beneficial, I suppose. Makes me seem as though more than your favourite European whore.”
“... Would it make you happy to know that you’re my only European whore?” Alfred said slowly, carefully, as if he was unsure of how to phrase his question.
“Perhaps.” Arthur answered, unfazed by Alfred’s wording.
“... And my only whore in general. There’s no one else.” Alfred finished, closing his eyes.
“... What?” Arthur asked, in an unbelieving tone after a moment of staring at Alfred, trying to read his strangely uncertain face, “You can’t be serious. You’re a fucking ‘super-power’, or whatever else they call you these days. Don’t flatter me, Alfred.”
“That- That doesn’t-” Alfred sighs, as though embarrassed by stating his own confession said previously, “Look, none of this matters.”
Arthur scoffs, but Alfred continues, ignoring his protests, “Arthur, everybody knows about us. We could just stop right here and now and lie to the others. We could tell them that we still do this, even though we wouldn’t really. But we don’t. We would never do that, because I won’t let you.”
Arthur laughs loudly and grabs Alfred’s cigarettes from the table to light one himself, but Alfred grabs his hand, sending them down to fall on the floor, Arthur’s eyes following them before shooting up to Alfred’s angry stare as he continues.
“I wouldn’t let you. I won’t let you. I’ll kill you,” He sneers, “If you leave me, I’ll kill you. I could kill you here and now.”
“That’d be an awful mess. A shame, really. I quite like this flat of yours.” Arthur replied calmly, with an almost arrogant tone as he leaned towards Alfred, lips barely touching his, although his wrists are still forcefully in Alfred’s hands, “Very modern. Very American.”
“Fuck you, Arthur,” He said, smiling darkly.
“Alright.” Arthur answered, tilting his head towards Alfred as his grip loosens on Arthur’s wrists.
“I mean it. I’ll kill you.” Alfred said, breath over Arthur’s lips.
“I don’t think you could.” Arthur replied, eyes closed, eyebrows furrowed, and teeth grinding, “You’re a coward. A lying, scheming coward. It makes you a horrible person and an awful nation. And I hate you for it. I hate you.”
And then Alfred kissed him, just like he handles everything in life, with misplaced certainty and youthful energy, as well as false wisdom and imaginary experience. He kissed Arthur hard, gripping the sides of his face with a forceful manner, his glasses painfully ebbing themselves onto Arthur’s face, digging in his pale skin, surely leaving a mark.
Between them, it was never gentle and slow. It never had been, not in the war, not before it, and certainly not after it. Arthur opened his mouth to Alfred, and allowed himself to indulge in the contrast between Alfred’s sloppy, harsh movements of tongue and Arthur’s own sharp, quick gestures, rather like his speech and all of Arthur, in a quick-witted and insulting yet oddly polite and diplomatic way.
Arthur inhaled sharply through his nose, breathing heavily, as he was pushed back slowly on his back to rest on the sofa, pulling Alfred on top of him as he did so, one hand tangled in his gelled back hair, the other brushing along his back, nails scratching the shirt as Alfred ground forward, bringing his hips to arch into Arthur’s skinnier, slimmer ones.
Breaking apart from the kiss with some reluctance, seemingly caressing Arthur’s cheeks, hooking his thumb into Arthur’s mouth, and he complied by opening his eyes and intensely staring into Alfred’s own while slipping his tongue around it, kissing it a little as well.
Alfred spoke in a hushed and deep tone, “I’d kill you,” He leans his forehead against Arthur’s, removing his thumb as the atmosphere shifts, staring directly into Arthur’s eyes, “Don’t ever leave me.”
Arthur swallowed and remained silent.
“Please,” Alfred repeated, his voice breaking, as he closes his eyes, “Don’t ever leave me.”
Arthur closed his eyes, drawing a shaky breath and biting his lips as his eyes burned.
“How... How could I? What choice do I have?” Arthur said slowly, eyes still closed, refusing to look at Alfred.
The best way to lie is to tell a carefully edited truth.