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Oh, Fuck It: Let’s Get Married.

“I heard you got your elections soon,” Alfred started, leaning back in his suede evening chair and mustering Arthur, “Good luck.”

“Thank you.” Arthur said through gritted teeth as Alfred threw his feet on the table, staining the pristine white tablecloth, “It will be quite a struggle.”

Alfred laughed, “Yeah, I can imagine.”

Arthur drank the remains of his wine from his glass, and stole the British ambassador’s champagne as well, who was busy dancing with his wife, as Arthur observed. He stared at the spinning pairs and socialising generals, officials, and the ever-present polite and charming wives. The light was dewy, dark, even, and terribly, terribly romantic.

Alfred sighed loudly, trying to captivate Arthur’s attention again, and smiled to himself as Arthur spun his head to him again and frowned.

“Don’t you have some girl to bother instead of me?” Arthur moaned.

“Nope,” Alfred said with a smile, raising his arms to cross them behind his head, “Dude, remember the war? I got loads of your girls! And you, too, I guess. But hey: All those pretty British girls are back on your droopy island with their best guy! That, or dead, I guess.”

“My island is not droopy.” Arthur sniffed, and snatched another champagne glass from a waiter without even getting up, “It’s proud and green.”

“And wet.” Alfred finished.

“Yes, well, Alfred, rain tends to be wet. And rain makes things grow,” Arthur raised the glass to his lips and drowned it, “That’s why it’s green, too.”

“Your eyes are green,” Alfred said in a distant tone of affection laced with drunkenness, “So’s your uniform.”

“I’m so glad we cleared up that you are truly not colour blind.” Arthur drawled, and rolled his eyes at Alfred’s far too loud laugh.

“I like your uniform.” Alfred replied, gesturing at Arthur’s proud British Captain address, “It looks real fancy.”

“It is fancy,” Arthur corrected. He gave Alfred’s own uniform a long look. It was as though they had travelled back to any war they had fought in, side by side: Alfred’s ever-present dirty bomber jacket, smelling of fuel and sweat, his lopsided smug grin, his wrinkled pants and stained shoes.

“Don’t- Don’t you have anything slightly more official to wear?” Arthur asked, grimacing at the stain that shone on the white tablecloth when Alfred removed his feet from the table and adjusted his seat to sit closer to Arthur.

“Well, I thought it would be appropriate. I never wear anything fancy during war,” Alfred resting his arm on the back of Arthur’s chair, “Why do it now?”

 “Fair enough.” Arthur nodded and took a drink from his champagne, only to frown when he discovered that it was empty.

“Hey, do you want me to buy you something to drink?” Alfred asked with a tilt of his head towards the bar and a small smile, “‘Could add it to your war debt.”

Arthur scowled, “You are such a prick.”

“Only for you, babe.”

“Don’t call me that,” Arthur scoffed, “I’m not a girl.”

“Yeah, I know.” Alfred laughed loudly, inching his head closer to Arthur.

“Say,” He continued, “Are you staying in this hotel?”

“Why do you want to know?” Arthur mumbled.

Alfred grinned viciously, “‘Might be fun.”

Arthur tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling, groaning. When he finished, he quickly pulled his head up again and faced Alfred, eyes hooded a little and buzzing from alcohol.

“Sure,” Arthur said cheerfully, getting up with a wide smile, “Why not?”

Alfred laughed again, “People will talk.”

“Let them,” Arthur replied, “It’ll hardly do any harm. I need your economy.”

“Great! I need a European partner.” Alfred said, putting his hand on Arthur’s waist as they walked towards the elevator.

“Really? How interesting.” Arthur drawled and slowly stopped walking as he watched Alfred push the button to call the lift. He leaned against the wall, tilting his head to give Alfred a long look.

“Mhm,” Alfred agreed, pushing towards Arthur so that he could feel Alfred’s breath on his lips.

Arthur had hoped that this time that they would make it to their rooms.

 “What meetings do you have tomorrow?” Alfred whispered.

“The earliest is Security Council with you.” Arthur replied, and glanced behind Alfred, checking whether any intruders were visible.

“Cool,” Alfred said in a breath, and Arthur heard the elevator open its doors.

“Perfect.” Alfred repeated, and pulled Arthur inside.

Fuck it.

Pushing the button to the correct floor, Arthur pulled Alfred towards him, arms around his neck, and he opened his mouth to feel Alfred’s lips, Alfred’s breath, just all of Alfred. It was as though Arthur, not England or Britain, wanted this, truly wanted it.

It was as though they needed each other-

Maybe it was just politics, diplomacy-

Maybe it was more, maybe it was-

Damn.

Alfred ran his hands across Arthur’s back, broad fingers and palms searching and mapping his spine, enjoying Arthur open his mouth for him, allowing Alfred to press further towards Arthur, a minimal distance between their chests and bodies, clothing acting a minor barrier as Alfred ground forward with a certain remarkable, if not loveable, clumsiness towards Arthur, whose moan Alfred’s lips swallowed. Arthur carded his fingers through Alfred’s hair, long fingers graceful and elegant compared to Alfred’s too enthusiastic and rushed touch.

Alfred broke free first, and Arthur licked his lips and stared at his shoes, a faint blush tainting his cheeks and neck, straightening his posture and shirt. Alfred’s glasses were skewed and a little foggy, hair messy, and he smiled at Arthur, who merely stared forward with a familiar determinacy to ignore Alfred.

The doors opened, and Arthur quickly walked out with a certain eagerness that made Alfred grin, leading the way to his hotel.

Unlocking the door, he was pushed inside quickly by Alfred, who slapped him playfully on his backside, enjoying the cry of outrage of Arthur.

Alfred threw himself onto the spacious double-bed, spreading his arms widely.

 “God, this is so much better than that boring dinner,” Alfred groaned, “I hate watching all those boring old geezers and their wives. They always call me Alfie. Why do they do that? Who calls me that?”

Arthur laughed a little, and began to put off his complicated gear by the closet to Alfred’s left. Alfred smiled at the sound.

“I cannot think of anyone who ever did,” Arthur drawled, “Alfie, dearest.”

“Shut up.” Alfred said, “I hate those wives. Why is it that they always put ‘and spouse’ on those fancy invitations anyway?”

“It’s polite, Alfred,” Arthur scolded, “I find it strange. Most couples these days aren’t married, even if the ones that attend these dinners are.”

Alfred sat up and watched Arthur undress further, enjoying the view of Arthur’s elegantly sloped back as he continued talking, “It is quite old-fashioned, in a sense. I’m surprised you Americans still do it. I thought you were supposed to be modern.”

“Mhm,” Alfred agreed absent-mindedly, “It’s weird.”

Arthur did not reply, and instead pulled on an overly-large t-shirt from Alfred’s days in the 90s of shirts two sizes too large. It had been left at Arthur’s Mayfair flat many years ago, and somehow, it had traditionally become the shirt Arthur always wore when he saw Alfred in a place other than both of their houses.

He probably knew that it turned Alfred on.

Sneaky bastard.

Watching Arthur pull up his Manchester United sweatpants and flop on the bed to lie next to Alfred, draping an arm and a leg across him as Alfred continued, “So, technically, if I would work in government, I would not be able to take you with me.”

“What?” Arthur asked, sitting up to stare at him.

Alfred sat up, “We’re kinda together, right? But we’re not married. So I wouldn’t be able to take you with me.”

Arthur stopped and thought about his words, “I suppose so, but I was invited regardless, so it doesn’t matter, does it?”

“Yeah, but it’s still weird.” Alfred answered, looking at the tired and dishevelled Arthur, with his messy hair and pale skin, his dark eyebrows and sharp collar-bone that was showing so very nicely above the slope of Alfred’s shirt.

That damn shirt will be the death of him.

“It’s traditional,” Arthur replied, “Inconvenient, nevertheless, but traditional.”

“But what if there would be some official thing and I’m invited, but you’re not, and I need you there because I’d be bored out of my mind otherwise and your commentary on the ‘distasteful, Americans’ is amazing?” Alfred asked quickly.

Arthur opened his mouth to reply, only to close it again, “I’d get in somehow. I may not be the Prime Minster, but I am quite highly ranked on the official records and such.”

“Washington is a douche ‘bout shit like that,” Alfred explained, shrugging off his bomber jacket and unbuttoning his shirt and throwing them lazily across the room to land on a lamp shade, “It’d be pretty hard.”

“Well, there would only be one option,” Arthur said as he watched Alfred stand, toe off his shoes, and balance on one leg to attempt to pull off his trousers, “We’d get married.”

Alfred promptly catastrophically fell on the floor with a loud noise and a painful groan, lying on his back, glasses lopsidedly skewed on his face.

“I-I-” He stammered, looking up at Arthur, whose head towered over him and attempted to help him up.

“We would get married,” Arthur repeated calmly, expression unfazed as he pulled Alfred up to stand with him, “It would be the only option, and we’re practically married already now.”

“What?” Alfred asked, face almost grimacing in confusion, “I’m- I’m pretty sure I would remember if we ever got married. Why are we- We’re not- Only old people marry!”

“You are old!” Arthur shouted, “You’re, what? 300? Accept it! You are not a nineties kid, perhaps a 1690s or 1790s one at the most.”

“If you put it that way- Okay, fine. But my point still stands.” Alfred proclaimed.

“Don’t get so worked up,” Arthur replied, turning away from Alfred, “We aren’t married, calm down. I didn’t realise the thought would be so horrible to you.”

“It’s not!” Alfred said a little too quickly, “Really! It’s just- I don’t see how we act like a married couple.”

“We go to boring dinners together, get shit faced drunk and fuck in the lift because we never make it to the hotel room and if we do, we never manage to land in the bed and in the morning, I wake up and read the paper in bed and smoke, you complain about the fact that I smoke and woke up earlier than you, and the you mutter something about science before you open your eyes. Eventually, you get hungry and order something up to the rooms, complain about the price, eat, I shower, you sneak in with me, and we both arrive late to the meeting because you wanted a blowjob.” Arthur crossed his arms and smiled smugly, at Alfred’s shocked expression.

“We’ve got a fucking routine.” He whispered, “Jesus, Arthur. We’re married.”

“Come on, don’t be silly.” Arthur replied, uncrossing his arms to place one hand on the back of Alfred’s hand, trying to beckon him to resume the earlier actions in the lift, “We’re not really married, I was just joking. And we’re nations, we can’t-”

“We should get married.”

“...What?” Arthur breathed.

“You heard me,” Alfred said, leaning close to Arthur, “Marry me. Like, now.”

“Are you serious?” Arthur questioned, voice loud again.

“Totally. I mean, I don’t have a ring or anything, but still. The offer stands.” Alfred smiled.

“Fuck off,” Arthur laughed, “You’re joking.”

“I’m not!” Alfred said, taken aback, “Cross my heart and hope to die!”

“How would that even work? We’re nations.” Arthur asked, “There’d be all sorts of trouble.”

“You- You could just say the Pledge of Allegiance? And I’m sure you can think of something I would say.” Alfred said, placing his arms around Arthur’s waist.

Arthur trailed his eyes to the floor.

Fuck it.

“Okay,” Arthur said, with a lopsided grin that charmed Alfred to great extents, “Why not? It’s two a.m. in a hotel room, so let’s get married right here and now.”

Alfred laughed wildly and spun Arthur around in his arms, burying his nose in Arthur’s hair. “Damn, we are kinda fucked up, aren’t we?”

“Indeed. Otherwise, it would be terribly boring, and the sex would most likely be merely satisfactory.”

“Great! Cool!” Alfred smiled, “Awesome! You start, ‘cause you’re older.”

“I- I don’t know your ‘Pledge of Alliance’.” Arthur said shyly, with a small smile.

“Just repeat after me, although I’ll try and make this official.” Alfred winked at him.

“‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today, in the sight of God and this, uh, lamp!’” Arthur laughed at Alfred’s words and stammering, as well as the rather loveable blush on his cheeks. “‘To witness and celebrate one of life’s greatest moments’, something else I don’t remember about love and Jesus-”

“Leave it out, I still want to celebrate my wedding night and honey-moon this night!” Arthur exclaimed.

“Dude, you’re so hot!”

“I’m flattered by your smooth words, Alfred, but the point still stands.”

“Love you too,” Alfred cooed, “Repeat after me, and don’t laugh, okay? ‘I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America,’, no wait, just say ‘to the United States of America, alias Alfred Fucking-Awesome Jones,’!”

“Come on, I won’t say that!”

“Do it, or you can still go marry France. I’m sure his offer is still open.”

“Fuck you,” Arthur replied, smiling nonetheless at the absurdity of the situation, “‘I pledge allegiance to the United States of America, alias Alfred Fucking-Awesome Jones,’”

“‘And to the Republic for which he stands,’”

““‘And to the Republic for which he stands,’” Arthur repeated solemnly.

“‘One Nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all!’” Alfred finished with a broad grin.

“That can’t be what it says! It’s such a fucking cliché!”

“I swear it’s true! Google it if you don’t believe me.”

Arthur stared at Alfred’s innocent expression and watched him raise his hands with a smug smile before Arthur scrambled to his trousers and pulled his phone out of his pocket. Out of Alfred’s sight, he quickly searched for the answer.

“Well, fuck me,” He mumbled.

“Told you so!” Alfred replied, “Just repeat it.”

“Fine,” Arthur groaned, “‘One Nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.’ This is just silly. I can’t believe your citizens have to say it every day at school.”

“I think it’s weird, but ‘yanno, Republicans.” Alfred drawled, “What should I say?”

“Well, I know the oath of citizenship.” Arthur stated.

“Good enough.” Alfred settled on.

“I, Alfred Fat-Ass Jones, do solemnly, sincerely and truly affirm and declare that, on becoming part of the United Kingdom-’”

“I, Alfred Fat-Ass Jones, do solemnly, sincerely and truly affirm and declare that, on becoming part of the United Kingdom-’ Hey, wait a minute! I’m not agreeing to this! I don’t want to lose my United States of Awesome, I won them from you fair and square n the 1770s and shit!” Alfred shouted.

Arthur rolled his eyes and begrudgingly corrected himself, “Fine: ‘On becoming Arthur Kirkland’s husband, I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, her heirs, and successors, and Arthur Kirkland, the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, according to law.’”

“Gee, what a mouthful,” Alfred said, “I’ll say it anyway, that’s how much I love you: ‘On becoming Arthur Kirkland’s husband, I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, her heirs, and successors, and Arthur Kirkland, the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, according to law.’”

Alfred finished and smiled brightly at Arthur, who smiled back. Upon seeing it, Alfred laughed brightly and hugged him tightly.

Grinning at each other still, Arthur said, “Well, I guess we’re married. Theoretically, that is. No rings and all.”

“That’s good enough for me.” Alfred laughed, and cupped Arthur’s face.

“You’re so silly,” Arthur breathed, “You’re mental.”

“For you.”

“Stop it,” Arthur warned as Alfred began to rock back and forth, causing Arthur to lose balance in his arms, although it was pointless, as Alfred always did as he wanted, and presently, he wanted to get Arthur into bed, so he pushed both of them into bed, laughing at Arthur’s shriek.

Lying down side by side, Alfred trailed a hand from Arthur’s hip bone along his arm eventually cupping his cheek again, staring directly into his eyes.

“Your eyes are so green,” Alfred whispered, and Arthur could smell the alcohol on his breath, “Just like your uniform.”

“It used to be red.” Arthur complied, not breaking eye-contact with him.

“Yeah, I remember. I like green more. I don’t think about red when I think of you.”

“And what do you think of when you think of me?” Arthur asked, leaning closer to Alfred, lips grazing his ear.

“That,” He answered, swallowing thickly, “This in general. It’s just us, in here, no politics or phone calls. It’s silent and warm with you.”

“It’ll return in the morning, though, the noise of the world.” Arthur said sadly.

“I know, but right now, it’s just us. It’s Alfred and Arthur, not America and Britain.”

“Alfie and Artie.” Arthur laughed.

Alfred snorted, “Shut up.”

“Maybe this is just one big metaphor for the NATO.” Arthur retorted.

“He’s weird.” Alfred mustered, “Freaks me out, the kid.”

“He’s hardly a kid. I heard he’s fucking the European Union. Francis said so.” Arthur said.

“Should I be jealous?”

“No,” Arthur replied, “She pisses me off. Lazy oaf. Full of corruption and bureaucracy. Too bloody continental.”

“Become a part of the United States.” Alfred lazily mumbled into Arthur’s chest and he rolled towards him.

“That wasn’t funny in the forties and fifties, and it sure as hell isn’t now.” Arthur drawled, but laughed nonetheless.

“I don’t get it,” Alfred said, moving away from Arthur and looking at his face as he spoke, at his slight smile and warm eyes, at his pale skin and dark eye-brows, “Why is it that you never laugh at meetings and at work and shit, but here, you’re giggly as fuck?”

“I don’t know,” He replied, throwing an arm across Alfred’s chest, “I really don’t. Perhaps it’s sunny in London. Other than that, it’s extremely unprofessional to laugh at meetings. Remember what Ludwig said in the last one: ‘Potholes are no laughing matter.’, and you just lost it at the combination of ‘pot’ and ‘hole’. You are very unprofessional.”

“This whole thing is unprofessional, Arthur, chill!” Alfred stated, “I know you won’t VETO anything I say if I promise you a blowjob.”

“Bullshit!” Arthur exclaimed, “I’m not your bitch or something! Did you know that Ivan called me your bitch? What a prick.”

“Yeah! You’re my husband, not my bitch!” Alfred agreed.

“Damn straight.” Arthur faked his worst American impression of Alfred and patted his chest.

“I say,” Alfred said in a horrible English accent, “What an unruly fellow this Ivan chap is!”

“I do not speak like that.”

“Not all the time, I know, only when you need to be all fancy, but you used to. Now you sound like a- What do you always say?”

“A chav.” Arthur laughed.

“A chav! Or maybe more Northern. Like Manchester or something. Totally ghetto, dude!”

“Indeed, Alfie-boy. Is that what George called you? George Bush, that is. Senior and-or Junior.” Arthur teased.

“Come on!” He exclaimed, “That’s a low blow, man.”

“He was elected twice.”

“I was never charmed.” Alfred said proudly.

“Liar!” Arthur shouted.

“Your mom!” Alfred shouted back, and with that, he promptly smashed his head down and kissed Arthur, long and hard, Arthur tangling his hands in his hair, and opening his mouth, lips never soft and slightly chapped.

“We are so fucked up.” Alfred whispered, “Do you ever think about how fucked up we are?”

“It tends to be a little off-putting.” Arthur complied, and pulled Alfred down again, not letting go for a long while, enjoying Alfred pulling at the hem of his shirt and raking his hands up and down his rib-cage and brushing his thumbs against his hipbones as Arthur arched towards him.

“Jesus,” Alfred whispered against Arthur’s lips, “We’re married. I’ll buy you a ring tomorrow, probably a cheap one ‘cause we’re both broke as fuck, but still. It’ll be like ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’, minus the cat and the tears, okay?”

Arthur laughed lightly.

Alfred found himself falling for him all over again.