Archive of Our Own

Arthur had never been to New York before, much less America. He looked around him with wide eyes, in awe of all the towering buildings that admittedly made him dizzy just staring. This was madness - how was such a young nation able to build itself so quickly? His home London was nowhere this premiere! Manhattan was gorgeous, and the weather was lovely, too.

"Pretty thing, yes?" The chauffeur asked, noticing his wonder. Arthur laughed sheepishly as he settled back down on his seat, nodding. "I was the same when my family arrived. How the Americans did it, I'll never know."

Arthur smiled at the man. He was an olive-skinned fellow, with undoubtedly Mediterranean features and an unmistakable Italian accent. He was lively, as he'd heard Italians were, and Arthur quite liked him. After a little more chatting, the chauffeur - Aberto, he’d mentioned his name was - let him know that they'd arrived at Sutton Place.

Arthur found himself looking out his window, and once again he felt rather small. Bloody hell, he was here, Sutton Place. He could practically smell the money from inside the car and hear the laughter of socialites down the street, even though it was well before the parties would actually begin. He clutched his jacket tighter to himself, trying to soothe his nerves.

They stopped in front of a massive townhouse. Arthur swallowed. This was it, this was really it. He didn't get nervous easily, he rarely did. He knew who he was, he was Arthur Kirkland, damn it, and he was a bloody fantastic pianist. That's why oil tycoon and business mogul Allen Jones himself brought him over from his London flat to upscale New York, after all.

But Arthur did not feel very fantastic. He felt like a fraud, even though he knew that he wasn't. He was a prodigy, with skilled fingers and hands people swore were directly touched by God's hands themselves. That, or he had traded his soul to the Devil. But he wondered if he truly deserved to be here, to have the opportunity to tutor Allen Jones's eldest child and perform his compositions to tens if not hundreds of the most influential people in America – perhaps even in Europe.

Aberto opened the door for him, and Arthur hesitantly stepped out, staring at the towering building. Lord, this whole thing was theirs.

"Don't worry, Mr. Kirkland, the Joneses are a very good people," Aberto assured, perhaps sensing his nervousness. Arthur offered him a weak smile, which was undoubtedly nowhere near as radiant as Aberto's wrinkled one. "You will like them."

Arthur chuckled dryly. "Liking them won't be a problem, I'm sure."

The matriarch of the Jones family, Amelia Jones, was a lovely woman, both in appearance and personality. Rather than a valet that should have attended to him when he arrived, it had been her, bustling with excitement as a little Maltese terrier puppy yapped in her arms, practically begging to leap into Arthur's. It had been a silly sight, but Arthur had delighted in it. He had heard that Amelia had supposedly been a Southern belle, though Arthur would not have known at all from her rather rambunctious personality fit for a New Yorker.

She chatted with him for what felt like hours in her little tea room (well, coffee room would be more appropriate), about how glad she was that he had arrived, how she had heard so many good things about him, about how handsome he was, and almost everything she could think about under the sun. Arthur could barely find an entry, but he didn't mind it too much. She had a nice lilt to her voice and was a very sensible and funny woman - a true socialite, and Arthur could see why.

Eventually a little girl arrived, who Amelia introduced as Madeleine, Allen Jones's second and youngest child. She was an angelic little thing, just twelve-years-old but with a mature and docile personality, and with perhaps one of the sweet smiles Arthur had ever been fortunate enough to see. Madeleine briefly stayed with Amelia and Arthur for a bit of tea before excusing herself, resuming the exchange between Amelia and Arthur alone. With a quiet voice, Amelia explained that Madeleine had been born from an affair during the rocky part of their marriage, though she willingly and happily took in Madeleine as her own after Allen's mistress passed from childbirth. The way she had suddenly transitioned to a sunnier topic jarred Arthur a bit, but he let Amelia take control of the conversation and politely listened as she spoke about some American things Arthur couldn't give a good damn about.

Suddenly, there was thumping, and for a moment Arthur wondered if there was a third Jones child he was to be expecting. Instead, in ran a handsome young man, and Arthur nearly dropped his lukewarm coffee.

The man was approximately the same height as Arthur, if only by a bit. He had honey blonde hair and radiant blue eyes, just like Amelia's, and a charming smile on his lips. He had lightly tanned skin and sturdy-looking broad shoulders. He was handsome, in every sense of the word, and Arthur hated himself for thinking so in a manner that was definitely not appropriate.

Alfred Foster Jones, Amelia introduced proudly. Her eldest, her son.

And the young man Arthur would be tutoring for the next three weeks.

Amelia then excused herself and let the young men become acquainted, mumbling something about her husband that Arthur hadn’t quite caught. Arthur was left alone with the beautiful stranger, and he wasn't sure if he hated it or not.

"So, hi!" Alfred greeted first, extending his hand, "Arthur, right?"

Arthur nodded slowly, firmly taking Alfred's hands as best as he could without arousing suspicion. "Yes, that's-that's me."

"You seem like a nice fella!" Alfred declared as he slapped Arthur's arm amicably. "Father talked about ya a lot. Magic hands, right?"

"I...suppose." Goodness, how was Arthur supposed to function right now?

Alfred pouted. "Aw, come on, you gotta loosen up, Artie." Damn, Arthur was not doing well right now. "It's just me. I'm a nice guy."

Arthur stared, confused, his attention slightly misplaced due to his brain's muddled state. "Artie?"

"Yeah, Artie!" Alfred nodded. "That's your name now."

Oh. Oh, no, that was ugly, though of course Arthur would never say that aloud. Instead, Arthur grimaced. "It's...Arthur. Just Arthur, please."

Alfred laughed, and it was a little too loud and obnoxious than what Arthur deemed acceptable, but he liked it, in the strangest way. It had its own charm. "Nah, you definitely look more like an Artie to me." Alfred grinned. "And y'know what?"

"What?"

"Something tells me we're gonna get on just fine."

Arthur looked at their hands, still firmly grasping one another. He pursed his lips, trying not to think about how warm Alfred's hands were.

"I hope so, Alfred."

Arthur had been staying with the Joneses for a week, and he had seen nothing wrong with the family. He'd shared many meals with them, and nothing typically seemed too amiss. There was this strange tension that loomed over them sometimes, but most times they were alright. As Aberto had said, they were nice people, and conversations with them flowed rather nicely, if not a little mechanically.

And Alfred had been right, too. Alfred and Arthur got on rather well, though they had their little squabbles and rows, largely lacking malice. They’d become quick friends, and Alfred was not too terrible a pianist - just incredibly lazy sometimes, preferring to chat with Arthur rather than practice. But when he worked, he worked well, and so Arthur let the idle moments come and go.

Now was one of those times.

"Alfred, you really must-"

"So you're telling me London's really old and dusty?"

"Alfred..."

"You should take me there sometime!"

"Alfred!" Arthur hissed. "Your parents are paying me to teach you, not to chat."

"Hey Artie, do you have a broad at home?"

Arthur groaned as Alfred completely disregarded him, and he decided that they deserved a break, anyway. He regarded Alfred before shaking his head with a sigh. "No, Alfred, I do not."

"Well, why not?" Alfred asked, facing away from the piano and swinging one leg over the piano bench so that he was fully facing Arthur. Arthur simply turned his torso to the young American, though he decided not to mirror what he did with his legs. Arthur didn't need another distraction.

"I just don't." Arthur answered curtly with a shrug. "No one has really expressed interest in me before."

Alfred's eyes widened. "Really?"

"Really." Arthur confirmed. He only felt slightly guilty for lying to Alfred.

"That's surprising." Alfred said absently, though he looked to be smiling wider. "Haven’t you ever tried chasing after a doll or two?"

Arthur laughed, perhaps a little too loudly. "Of course I have, once. How old do you think I am?"

"Was she pretty?" Alfred only asked, leaning in a little closer to Arthur, paying keen attention. Arthur's heart raced, his chest constricting. Too close, Arthur thought, but he didn't move away, nor did he want to. "What was her name?"

"Ah, erm, yes. She...was pretty." Arthur began slowly, watching his words. He felt terribly self-conscious, especially with the way Alfred was scrutinising his face, as if he knew .

But Alfred couldn't, right? Arthur was simply and rightfully paranoid. He’d been careful. Oh, so careful. "Her name was Jane."

"Oh." Was all Alfred said. For a moment, Arthur thought that that would be all, but instead, Alfred asked, "Have you done any necking?"

Arthur turned scarlet. "That's a hardly appropriate question to ask someone!"

"Why?" Alfred asked, smiling innocently, though Arthur was sure it was far from innocent. "You have, right?"

Arthur huffed, turning back to the piano. This conversation was over. "Of course I have. Now hurry, break's over."

"I've never necked a girl before."

"Alfred, please..."

"Something tells me you haven't, either."

"Alfred-"

"But you have necked someone, right?"

Arthur froze.

No.

No.

This was...this was not happening.

No.

No, no, no, no, no.

Alfred couldn't- Arthur hadn't- Did Alfred-

No.

No .

He could still be wrong.

Alfred liked to joke with him. This had to be another one, right?

"What...what are you talking about?" Arthur asked as he clasped his hands together, hoping Alfred wouldn't notice them shaking. Alfred was quiet for a moment, and Arthur waited patiently for a giggle, a chuckle, a burst of laughter, anything but what he was expecting.

"You're a homosexual, aren't you?"

Oh, bollocks.

Arthur turned back to Alfred quickly, ready to defend himself, to retort, to call him ridiculous for even accusing him of such a thing, to hurt him if he had to. No. No, no, no. He had to do everything he could to save himself.

But before Arthur could even open his mouth to retort, Alfred's expression caught his eyes, and he found himself staring. 

There was no look of disgust. Or contempt. Or anger. Or disdain. Or anything like that.

Just anguish, really. And perhaps a touch of desperation. Fear.

Alfred was searching his eyes, and Arthur found himself doing so, too.

They stared, and stared, until finally, Arthur found what he was looking for, and his stomach churned and twisted with joy and sorrow. 

"Are you , Alfred?"

Arthur’s voice was but a whisper.

And Alfred's pretty blue eyes darkened, and Arthur was afraid for a moment that he was wrong.

But then Alfred cried, and Arthur realised he had been right. And he felt happy, for a moment.

And then he felt very afraid for Alfred.

It was Arthur's second week, and the Joneses decided to throw a party. Arthur had always heard about these Manhattan parties, and he had always wanted to attend one himself. But now that he was actually in one...well.

Arthur decided that it simply wasn't his cup of tea. Although the Joneses lived in quite a large home, there was not nearly enough space to breathe without catching a waft of cigarette smoke and strong perfume. There were far too many people, and far too many people he didn’t like. He was practically swimming in a sea of pompous bastards with far too much money and time to blow, wife in one arm, the other grasping another woman’s waist, and eyes leering at another. The collective laughs and talks of business and money and trade and everything sounded like nails on a chalkboard to Arthur, and he needed to get away.  

The only part he truly enjoyed was when he had been able to showcase his music, but once his time had ended and the congratulatory greetings subdued, he found himself wandering aimlessly around, even unwillingly ambling upstairs.

And besides, what the hell kind of a gathering didn't have any goddamn alcohol? Curse the prohibition.

Suddenly, Arthur felt an arm grip his, and he turned around to find warm blue eyes. He felt his heart flutter. “I see you managed to get away,” he commented with a smirk.

“Ugh, don’t remind me. I had to ward of a bunch of drugstore cowboys staring at my ma’s gams, for God’s sake.” Alfred sighed as he started guiding Arthur through the halls - to his room. Arthur tried not to think too much about it. 

Alfred ushered Arthur into his room before locking the door, sighing in relief. It only muffled the noise slightly, but it was relieving, still. Arthur felt safer already. “You could stay here with me for now.” Alfred said gently, a smile on his face.

Arthur raised an eyebrow at the doorknob, and then at Alfred. “You say that as if you’ve left me a choice.”

“I mean, I’ve got a window.” Alfred quipped. Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Do you expect me to climb down the window like some sort of forbidden lover?”

“Maybe.” Alfred grinned as he settled on his bed, patting the empty space next to him. Arthur hesitantly let himself occupy it, heart beating something awful. He eased onto the pillows and sighed contentedly, happy to lay down. It was peaceful. And Arthur felt very happy.

They shared a moment of silence, and Arthur finally asked, “How did you know?”

Alfred was quiet for a bit, and Arthur found himself becoming nervous again. They hadn’t spoken about their conversation ever since, after all. Perhaps Arthur had read Alfred wrong. Perhaps-

“You’re not exactly subtle with your eyes.”

Arthur’s blood rushed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh, yeah, you do.” Alfred snorted, turning to him. Arthur did the same, his heart still racing. “I could tell from the first day.”

“Oh, Christ.” Arthur hissed as he cringed. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For making you uncomfortable.”

Alfred laughed. It was soft and warm. Arthur felt soft and warm, too.

“It didn’t make me uncomfortable at all.” Alfred admitted. “It felt..uh, it felt nice, actually.”

“Oh.” Arthur said smartly, and it was Alfred’s turn to blush.

“I’d never been looked at that way before. I mean, not by another man.”

Arthur pursed his lips, staring at Alfred encouragingly as he smiled slightly. Alfred smiled crookedly in return. “And you were really pretty.”

“I’m handsome, not pretty.” Arthur countered, though his heart soared all the same. “Women are pretty, men are handsome.”

Alfred laughed again. “And men are supposed to like women, but here we are.”

Arthur found himself grinning, too. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And how.” Alfred concurred, and Arthur’s breath hitched when he moved closer. Arthur saw it, the way his ears turned redder, the way Alfred looked more nervous. He saw Alfred’s fingers twitch, and the way he stared at his lips. Arthur felt like he was being smothered, but in the best way possible. Slowly, Alfred’s hand lingered close to his. Arthur knew where this was going.

“May I?” Alfred whispered with a quiver in his voice.

Arthur nodded, smiling widely. He moved his own hand and interlocked their fingers.

And then he pressed a chaste kiss on Alfred’s hand, and Arthur could practically feel the ecstasy radiate from Alfred.

Alfred was kissing Arthur in the empty kitchen.

Alfred was kissing Arthur, and his fiance was just in the other room.

Three weeks was hardly enough time to fall in love, but that was how Arthur felt. That was what Arthur could taste from Alfred’s lips. That was what Arthur could feel from Alfred’s warm embrace. When they pulled away, Arthur felt a part of himself go, too, as if Alfred’s body against his was the final piece of the puzzle that was himself. Alfred stared at Arthur intently, as if memorising his features, and then he kissed Arthur again.

And Arthur kissed him back, hands grasping Alfred’s soft face in his. Their chests were flush against one another’s, and Arthur swore their hearts were beating the same pace, the same time. Arthur didn’t want to let go, but when they heard footfall approaching, they quickly untangled from each other’s arms, though they stayed tied at heart.

“Is the tea ready?” Madeleine asked. “Father’s getting impatient.”

Alfred laughed nervously. “Almost ready.” He said, and Arthur withheld a smile. With all the time they’d wasted, he knew they had to reboil the tea. “Let them know, yeah?”

Madeleine nodded, and Alfred chuckled, ruffling her hair. “Attagirl.”

Once they were sure Madeleine was away, Alfred embraced Arthur from behind, resting his chin on the Englishman’s shoulder. “That was close.” He grumbled, and Arthur kissed his cheek. “Why’d they have to arrange this during the maids’ day-off?”

Arthur chuckled. “Because they knew we’d be using the kitchen.” And Alfred’s pout disappeared at record speed.

They reboiled the tea and kissed a little more, a little more needy and desperate and painful each time. When the kettle whistled, Arthur felt his heart break even more, and when they returned to the common room, Arthur already began mourning.

“Alfred has been practising piano with Arthur to impress the young lady,” Allen began, nodding to Alfred as he fixed the sheet music. Arthur and Alfred exchanged a quick glance, a very quick one that was nothing short of encouragement. Alfred fixed his posture and took a deep breath. Alfred played the first few notes, and Arthur immediately felt his eyes sting with tears.

When Arthur had chosen Irving Berlin’s ‘What’ll I Do’ for Alfred to play, he hadn’t known yet that it would crush him like it did. It was a nice and relatively easy tune fit for Alfred’s level of expertise at piano, that was why Arthur had chosen it. But if he had known he was going to fall in love with Alfred, he would have chosen a nicer song, a brighter song, one that wouldn’t relate to their predicament too much so that his heart wouldn’t have to bear with the abuse - so that his and Alfred’s hearts wouldn’t have to. And Alfred had never played with such emotion before, as if he was wearing his heart on his fingertips. 

And no one - none but him and Alfred - had any idea. Alfred’s parents, Madeleine, his fiance, his fiance’s family, the photographers - none of them knew anything, about why Alfred seemed to move with his whole body as he played the keys. Good practice, they must have thought, but Arthur knew why, and a part of him died a little.

When Alfred finished, everyone applauded, smiles on their faces. But not Alfred. Not Arthur. They couldn’t smile. This was no happy day.

When Alfred finally had the strength to look back at his family, he didn’t bother looking at Arthur, and although it hurt him, Arthur understood it. It was for the best. But when the photographs began, Alfred stood behind his fiance, next to Arthur. 

And Alfred clasped Arthur’s hand tightly until it was all over, and they had to part again.

That evening, as the valet and chauffeur placed Arthur’s luggages in the car, Allen and Amelia thanked Arthur and paid him handsomely for the guidance. Allen had shaken his hand. Amelia had embraced him, and so had Madeleine.

When it was Alfred’s turn, he simply stuck his hand out, and Arthur took it, giving it a firm shake. “Goodbye, safe journey,” Alfred had told him, and Arthur bade him good luck. But they said nothing else, nothing else verbal. It was all in their eyes.

‘I love you.’

“Peter, you don’t hit your friends!” Arthur called as he rubbed his arms, feeling the unforgiving bite of the New York chill.

Peter turned to Arthur with a frown. “But that’s the whole point of snowball fighting!”

“I know, but just-”

“Oh, don’t be such a wet blanket, Arthur.” A voice cut off, and Arthur sighed and rolled his eyes. He looked up over his shoulder and found Alfred all bundled up and adorable, two mugs of some hot drink in either (gloveless) hand. Arthur felt his heart warm instantly.

Alfred was older now, nineteen all but a distant memory, and yet he was still so unfairly handsome and youthful in his own way. He joined Arthur’s side and sat on the steps to the front door, grunting as he did so. “Ah, geez, my back is killing me.” He grumbled. “These goddamn kids don’t know what they’ve got till they’ve lost it.”

“And you call me the grandpa?” Arthur scoffed.

“Well, you are older.” Alfred quipped, nudging Arthur’s shoulder. “Older fellas get the grandpa title.”

“That makes no sense.”

Alfred grinned, and Arthur blushed. That damned smile still looked as good as it had two decades ago. “Don’t be in denial, now.”

“Oh, please.” Arthur chuckled before giving one of the mugs a pointed look. “I’m assuming that one’s for me?”

Alfred shrugged. “Actually, it was for me, but you can have it.”

Arthur chuckled again at Alfred’s light teasing, about to take the mug until Alfred moved slightly away. “Get your gloves off, it’ll feel better.” Alfred said. “Gets your frozen fingers all warmed up.”

Arthur shrugged and took Alfred’s word for it, slipping off his gloves and accepting the mug, heart racing as their fingers brushed together, as Alfred’s touch lingered. He knew he was too old to be blushing like a teenager, but he couldn’t help himself. 

“Jesus.” Arthur shivered. “That didn’t help at all.”

Alfred smiled at him warmly. “I know.”

And silence befell them.

Arthur took a sip of the cup of hot chocolate, his system warm for more reasons other than the warm liquid. His and Alfred’s knees were touching, if only by a hair. They were close, and that was what mattered.

“...I’m glad you came, Arthur.”

“...me too,”

“Twenty-four years?”

“Twenty-four.”

And when Alfred’s wife - the very same young lady from twenty-four years ago - called them for dinner, when Arthur’s wife ushered in the young ones back home, Arthur and Alfred rose from their places and separated, tending to their own families. Alfred was humming a little song Arthur had taught him as a back up, all those years ago, and Arthur felt like crying.

‘The song is ended, but the melody lingers on.’

“What’re you doing out?”

Alfred jumped and looked at Arthur, and a warm smile spread on his face. “Hey,” he greeted. “Just wanted some fresh air. You?”

Arthur drew out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. “Was gasping for a fag.”

Alfred’s eyes darkened, and his smile faltered. He looked uncomfortable, and that was the last thing Arthur wanted. It took a while for him to realise his error, and when he did, he, too, felt his stomach drop.

“Oh...oh no, I-” Arthur spluttered, panic striking his heart as he waved his pack around, “I mean, erm, this , you know. Cigarettes. In the UK we- Christ, I would never- Alfred, I’m the last person who’d-”

“Oh, um, I get it! Sorry, I just, um-” Alfred interrupted, looking embarrassed. He, too, struggled with his words as he awkwardly rubbed the back of his head. He cracked a nervous smile, but looked relieved, nonetheless. “Let’s just stick with callin’ ‘em ciggies, yeah?”

“Yes.” Arthur agreed, relieved that Alfred looked at ease again. He joined Alfred’s side and leaned against the railings of Alfred’s roofdeck. The Manhattan nightlife was quieter than in the morning, but Arthur could hear distant chatter and holiday cheer in the background. He could hear some Christmas carolers down the street, too, and he sighed and retrieved two cigarettes from his tin. He stuck one between his lips as Alfred accepted the other, putting it between his lips, watching as Arthur fumbled with his lighter, which was refusing to spark a flame.

When Arthur managed to light it (somehow), he first brought the tiny flame to Alfred’s own cigarette. There was something absurdly intimate about the gesture, the way they had to lean in towards each other and the way Arthur was being careful not to burn Alfred’s handsome face, in which staring at the American’s lips was entirely unavoidable. Arthur had to clasp his hand over the light so that it wouldn’t burn out from the winter wind. Arthur’s hand was so close to Alfred’s face that he might as well have held his cheek, but instead, Arthur simply let his fingers lightly graze Alfred’s skin, wishing he hadn’t had gloves on to actually feel Alfred’s warmth. It could have easily been an accidental gesture, but to Alfred and Arthur, it was everything.

When it was Arthur’s turn to light his, a flame wouldn’t set, and he realised that he’d run out of lighter fluid. “Damn,” he cursed, shaking his head. “I’m out of oil.”

“I can see that,” Alfred commented, unnecessarily. Arthur lightly glared at him, but Alfred only smiled easily as he took a drag of his cigarette. He then held it between his fingers and blew a puff of smoke into the air, and he held the stick to Arthur’s face. Arthur stared, and Alfred laughed. “Let’s share it.”

Arthur wanted to say no - he was supposed to. But the drumming of his heart said yes, and he tentatively accepted it and took a drag. He felt more at ease already, and he passed it back to Alfred, who was watching him the whole time with that soft smile of his. Arthur smiled back, heart fluttering.

Alfred took a puff before returning it to Arthur. “Wait here,” he said, and Arthur nodded. When Alfred returned, he had a bottle of Budweiser on hand, and Arthur found that Alfred was standing much closer than he had been earlier. “Figured this’d be funner with some alcohol.”

“Where’s the other?” Arthur asked, genuinely confused.

“We’re sharing this, too.” Alfred grinned, and that was the end of it. Alfred took a sip, and Arthur took a drag of his cigarette, and then they traded. Arthur hummed contentedly, grateful for the cigarette. Grateful for the beer. Grateful for New York. Grateful for Alfred. But a part of him ached, because while he was grateful for the covert kisses he and Alfred were sharing, Arthur wanted to do more, much more. His mind played and danced with inappropriate thoughts, thoughts that would have both of them beaten to a bloody pulp, surely. He thought of moving closer to Alfred, of holding his hand, of sharing an embrace, of kissing him.

As Arthur stared at Alfred’s darkened lips, his heart wept with pain. He wanted those pretty things, wanted to kiss them. He wondered if they were as soft as they had been twenty-four years ago, and as his eyes flickered to Alfred’s blue ones that were staring at his, he knew that Alfred was thinking the same, too. Arthur inadvertently licked his lips, and Alfred’s pupils blew. Arthur immediately looked away, blood rushing to his cheeks, because how could anyone possibly find him appealing at forty-seven ?

“So, uh,” Alfred started, perhaps noticing Arthur’s discomfort. “What have you been up to these days, Art?”

“First Artie, now Art?” Arthur quipped as he took a sip of the beer. “How lazy are you?”

Alfred laughed and puffed the cigarette. “It’s not lazy, it’s cute.”

“Oh, Lord save us all.”

“You don’t agree?”

“No. Little girls are cute-”

“And men are handsome.” Alfred finished, a pained smile on his face as he craned his head to look at Arthur. He lowered his voice to a whisper, “I agree, you know.” And he winked.

Arthur was at a loss for words, and he awkwardly swirled the bottle of beer, feeling too warm for a winter evening. “Careful,” was all he managed to say, and though he’d meant it as a joke, and though he knew that Alfred knew it was meant to be one, a new type of tension hung over them.

“I’ve been careful.” Alfred said, holding his hand out for the beer. Arthur passed it to him, and in the same way, Alfred passed him the cigarette. “I’ve been a good husband. I’ve been a good father. I’m a good American.”

Arthur nodded, chest constricting. He didn’t like where this conversation was headed, but he knew in his heart that it was coming, and that they needed it. “I never doubted it for a minute.” Arthur said politely, and Alfred snickered.

“I’ve been careful.” Alfred repeated, taking a swig of the beer and passing it back. There was barely alcohol any left, and in the same way, the cigarette was dangerously shorter now. Arthur dreaded the moment there was nothing left. “I mean, we’ve got kids in college. Isn’t that the cat’s meow?”

Arthur snorted and drank the beer, and just like that, it was an empty bottle. He set it down on the floor and tried pretending everything was fine. “No one says that anymore.” He said, and Alfred raspberried childishly.

“You sound like my eldest.” Alfred teased, and Arthur nudged him lightly, chuckling a bit. “Can you believe we’ve got kids in college?” He repeated.

“I can hardly believe it myself,” Arthur agreed, smiling fondly as he remembered when his children were all but small little bundles of helplessness and cuteness. They were the most important people in his life, and nothing would ever change that. “That’s why we’re cherishing Peter for as long as we can, that spoilt brat.”

Alfred barked a laugh. “I hear ya.” He smiled. “Matthew’s a good kid, though. Never asking for too much or too plenty. He’s just like Madeleine.”

“Oh, Madeleine,” Arthur recounted, feeling himself smile. “Where is she? She was such a dear.”

“Paris.” Alfred answered as he stubbed out the cigarette stump on the snow. Arthur’s heart broke even more, but he tried his best not to show it. He didn’t want to upset Alfred, especially since he looked happy just thinking about his precious little sister. “She teaches English.”

Arthur smiled. A teacher. It suited Madeleine well. “Is she married?”

“Yep.” Alfred nodded before making a face. “A Frenchman who drinks too much wine, I think. But Francis is nice, he takes good care of her.”

Arthur was relieved to hear that. “I’m glad.” He said sincerely, and he and Alfred exchanged a smile. Then, it was quiet again, but Arthur felt Alfred move closer, and he did, too. This was dangerous, he knew, but he let their arms touch, and immediately did Arthur feel like it was the summer of ‘27 again, when days were simpler and not all at once.

“I’m sorry.” Alfred suddenly spoke, and Arthur looked at him. They were so close. Arthur could smell the cigarette smoke, beer and cologne on Alfred, could feel his breath warm his face.

“For what?” Arthur asked, genuinely confused.

Alfred looked to be in pain. “I stopped calling.”

Ah.

Arthur swallowed, feeling the rage and anguish from twenty years ago fill his heart again. He wanted to cry, to scream, to laugh, because it had been so long ago, supposedly, but it hurt just the same. He wanted to push Alfred back, for being such a horrible buffoon and hurting him as much as he had. But all he did was let out a choked sound as he buried his face into his hand, slumping against Alfred’s arm carelessly. He felt tears wet his eyes as he sniffed, and he sobbed quietly when Alfred slowly put his arm around Arthur’s waist, supporting him.

“Why did you?” Arthur asked pathetically. “You didn’t even tell me you would.”

“I’m sorry.” Alfred said again, sounding just as broken. Arthur felt Alfred shift beside him, and soon enough, Arthur was sobbing into Alfred’s chest, gripping his winter coat tightly. “Things weren’t going well, and-and...god, Arthur, I’m so sorry.”

Arthur let out a broken wail. “I waited for you, Alfred. I needed a friend , for god’s sake. I wanted out. We both did. Do you know how worried I was? That you’ve gone and done something idiotic?” Arthur was raising his voice now, but no one except Alfred could make it out, not when his voice was muffled by Alfred’s clothes. He refused to look up and see the face of the person who had made him the happiest man in the world, for that was the same face that had broken him, and the face he’d last thought of when he’d thought that he’d die a horrible death in Dunkirk

“I know, I’m sorry,” Alfred said again, and the way his voice trembled...Arthur could taste the salt in his tears. Alfred’s hold was so firm and desperate that, for a moment, Arthur thought he was going to get absorbed into Alfred’s being. “I’m so sorry, Arthur.”

Arthur said nothing else, simply clutching on to Alfred like a lifesource. He cried a little more, and Arthur felt Alfred crying above him, too, his gentle sniffles filling Arthur’s heart with anguish and pain and also...relief, because Alfred felt the same way he did, loved him the same. And so Arthur moved to look at Alfred, and Alfred did, too. In the dark, Arthur couldn’t see Alfred’s wrinkles, but the moonlight illuminated just enough, and suddenly, Alfred was nineteen again, and unbeknownst to him, in Alfred’s eyes, Arthur was twenty-three again, too.

And they stared at one another, holding one another. Their hearts were beating, their blood was rushing. They were like young again, and it was as if they’d hopped back in time, as if they were back to simpler times. It was as if time hadn’t passed at all from July of 1927, as if twenty-four years hadn’t passed them by, as if a whole damn world war hadn’t left both of them worrying about the other.

And when Alfred leaned in to kiss him, Arthur let him. For the first time in a long time, Arthur felt truly happy, like when his children had been born, like when the war had come to an end, like when Alfred had kissed him for the first time, like when his telephone had rung one day and it had been Alfred, inviting him to spend Christmas in New York.

Arthur sighed contentedly and pulled Alfred closer to him. His lips were, in fact, not as soft as they had been in his youth, but they still tasted the same, still made Arthur feel the same. Alfred’s hands were moving to dangerous places, forbidden places, but Arthur didn’t stop him, not when Arthur was doing the same. Alfred slowly backed him up against the wall, and Arthur gasped gently when Alfred cold hands snuck under his shirt, but Arthur could only feel warmth. Arthur kissed Alfred in a way that he had never done before, but whatever it was, it felt good and perfect and just lovely, and he knew that from the way Alfred groaned, he liked it, too. This was wrong, Arthur kept hearing in his head, and though he knew that because it was wrong, he had to stop, Arthur didn’t. He couldn’t.

When they pulled away, Arthur saw that Alfred’s hair was all messed up, and that his lips were red and slightly bruised from kissing. Arthur’s body burned with pleasure from the sight, and his heart was doing flips. That dopey grin on Alfred’s face was too, too beautiful that it surely must have been a forbidden sight, and he placed a hand on Alfred’s cheek. Alfred keened into Arthur’s touch and kissed his wrist, that smile never wavering.

“I love you,” Alfred whispered, and it had been such a silent declaration, but to Arthur, it was the loudest and greatest thing on earth. Arthur’s cheeks were starting to hurt from smiling so widely, but he simply couldn’t help himself. “I never stopped loving you, Arthur, never stopped thinking about you, not for a moment.”

Arthur’s eyes were burning again, and true enough, warm tears dribbled down his cheeks, and Alfred kissed them all away. “You did?” Arthur whispered back, and Alfred nodded. “I...I did too, Alfred. You were all I could think about when I…”

“Mhmm?” Alfred hummed, kissing Arthur’s jaw.

“When I’d gotten shot.”

Alfred pulled away with alarm, staring at Arthur worriedly. “You got shot?” he repeated, looking very anguished, but Arthur smiled and caressed Alfred’s cheek. “Gee, Artie, I had no idea you...you were-”

“Someone had to.” Arthur chuckled, bitter yet sincere. “I’m fine now, Alfred, don’t worry about me.”

Alfred still didn’t look at ease, but he looked relieved, and he kissed Arthur again. “I love you,” Alfred repeated into Arthur’s lips. “I love you so much, Arthur, I do. I would have gone after you to the after-life if you’d actually- oh, god, Arthur, I don’t even wanna think about it.”

“I know that.” Arthur breathed before locking their lips together again, craning his head so that he could have more of Alfred. “I love you too, Alfred.”

And Alfred pulled away to look at Arthur again, a simpering, whimpering look on his face. He really did look and act nineteen, so much that maybe the twenty-four years had all been a dream, and that they were actually together. Together and in love and without circumstances and responsibilities looming over them.

But when Peter’s voice started calling for Arthur, they were suddenly doused with cold reality, and they quickly removed themselves from each other. Suddenly, Alfred looked forty-three again, and though he was still as gorgeous as ever, he was forty-three, nonetheless, and he was no longer a young nineteen-year-old in college who needed assistance with the piano. Alfred was a father and a husband - a good one, too, and Arthur had just done something terribly wrong, no matter how right it felt. Arthur no longer felt twenty-three, and it definitely wasn’t the summer of 1927. It was 1951, December 25, and Arthur was no longer a pianist; he was a veteran, a veteran who now worked a monotonous life as a doctor, whose children and wife were only a couple of steps away from him whilst he was cavorting with someone who wasn’t his wife, who was a man .

Arthur felt horrible for not feeling disgusted with himself, but he maintained a respectable distance between him and Alfred as they returned downstairs to their families. Arthur’s wife Alice noticed his appearance and looked concerned, and she believed him when he assured her that it was simply the cold. Arthur could feel Alfred watching him from across the room, but they didn’t engage with each other, nothing outside of what looked to be a friendly pat here or there, or an exchange of teasing names and phrases. Alfred’s wife praised their friendship, and Arthur and Alfred laughed, because that was a big joke.

When Alfred announced that he would be playing the piano, Arthur almost felt jealous, because he missed playing the piano himself. He was Arthur bloody Kirkland, after all, except he knew that his left arm could no longer function as well as it had before the damned Nazis fired a hole through his left shoulder, infection and rigorous work worsening its condition until he was broken beyond repair.

But Arthur felt mostly excited when Alfred rolled his sleeves up, rubbing his hands together before playing the keys.

And when Alfred played, he played with outpouring emotion, and Arthur’s heart shrivelled and sank to the pit of his stomach as he shut his eyes tightly lest any tears escape. Alfred was playing a new song, one that had just come out that very year, and Arthur excused himself to the kitchen under the guise of getting more alcohol.

There, he cried as he listened on to Alfred’s haunting playing, feeling broken. He wished that they’d be given another shot in life to be in love again, except without any worries, because this wasn’t fair at all. He cried and he prayed and he begged whatever was out there to please, please let him and Alfred have a do-over in another life, because they surely weren’t going to have one in this one.

And Alfred continued playing, as if he was communicating with Arthur through those piano keys, and he was.

’I'm a fool to want you. Pity me, I need you. I know it's wrong, it must be wrong, but right or wrong I can't get along without you.’