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Arthur woke up slowly, and as the world fell back into focus, he realized there was a leg draped over his hips, holding him down to the bed. The blankets were tangled around them, and clung painfully around one thigh. He turned his face, slowly, and met Alfred’s sleep-softened face. He was still sleeping, deeply, his chest rising and falling slowly as he breathed into the pillow. Arthur stared at him for a long moment, his face slowly heating up.
He didn’t move. His throat felt too dry coupled with the unpleasant taste of morning. His heart hammered in his chest, because seeing Alfred there—it was disarming. Lying there, so vulnerable and unguarded. Sleeping. The slightest hint of a smile curving his lips, even in sleep. Long lashes against his cheek, the relaxed slant of his eyebrows—it was all too much.
The night before returned to him, and he felt the weight in his heart flutter just a little. It’d finally become so—he remembered them going to bed together, staying together, could remember the flush of bodies, the splay of fingertips over skin, the whispered words against the shell of his ear before Alfred broke away with a quiet moan, his hips bucking up against Arthur’s.
Arthur remembered, and it was making his face heat up. It was usually in these quiet moments that Arthur knew himself best, but now his thoughts were weighed with thoughts of Alfred—and often, Alfred occupied his thoughts but this time it was different. This time, it was Alfred whose leg was pressed against Arthur’s hips, their legs and blankets entwined together. This time, it was Alfred’s arm that pressed uncomfortably against the back of Arthur’s neck. This time, it was Alfred who was pressed so close to him, still naked, still close, still there.
Arthur remembered. The night before, when they finally understood just how their fate was forever intertwined, how they’d shaped each other, how they’d changed each other, how they’d always found their way back to each other—how they’d been able to, finally, speak words that couldn’t be misunderstood—
And Arthur was afraid.
Afraid of the moment Alfred would wake up, the moment when Alfred would see what they’d done lying out before them, understand everything in the morning light—terrified of if things had changed, yet again, that something had been damaged beyond repair.
The morning light wasn’t so bright yet—it was muffled by outside clouds, Arthur reasoned, glancing away from Alfred’s slumbering face and trying to see through the crack of the curtains Arthur remembered throwing together haphazardly before being distracted yet again by Alfred’s mouth doing things to his collarbone that should not be natural. It was a steady kind of light, though. Arthur took some satisfaction in that steadiness.
He contemplated Alfred’s leg. The weight was comforting, and it pressed Alfred up close to him. Arthur turned his face, observing Alfred again. His nose bumped up against Alfred’s cheek for a moment and he breathed in. He closed his eyes, savoring this moment of peace, fearing the moment when those eyes opened and the world ripped apart again.
What have I done? he thought to himself, and he turned his face away, felt his hands shaking. He’d damaged something beyond repair. Things had gotten smooth—smoother, at least. Constantly changing political environments meant that relations with other nations could change at any given moment, and yet Alfred had slowly become a constant. They were not without their bumps in the road, not without their issues—
But he could still remember how nonchalantly Alfred had looked in the past, how he’d gone to Arthur’s house without asking and hooked his video game up to Arthur’s TV and when asked Why in the hell are you even here? We aren’t supposed to like each other anymore, Alfred had just looked at him like Arthur was the idiot and said, That’s just politics, Arthur. I don’t care about that when it comes to you. At the time, Arthur had tried to read into that statement, tried to dissect it to see if perhaps Alfred felt towards Arthur what Arthur felt towards him—but in the end he had given it up, decided that it was Alfred being brainless with his wording, as always.
He’d been wrong, of course, and now he had the naked, sleeping Alfred in his bed and the almost uncontrollable urge to card his fingers through Alfred’s hair. He resisted.
Things had gotten easier for them. They’d gotten to a place where they could be friends, not just allies. They’d gotten to a place where they could just roll their eyes at the periodic declaration that the Special Relationship was dead. They’d gotten to a place where they could ignore the way their respective newspapers represented the other. Things had, Arthur almost dared to say, gotten easier.
And now his heart was thundering and his hands were shaking and he was so sure he’d made a mistake. Not a mistake in that he hadn’t wanted it—because God knew how much he’d wanted Alfred, and for how long he’d wanted him—but rather a mistake in that he shouldn’t have acted on it.
He closed his eyes, but he could only remember the images of the night before—
The rush of silence against their lungs as Alfred pushed up against Arthur, as Arthur pushed back, and it was just at a crooked angle and lack of finesse, and a rush of breath and gasp and the right spot—that moment when they connected, that moment when he understood—
That hand on his back, the other hand in his hair, the hot flushing and the ragged breath against his ear with a whispered yesyesyes—
His touch trailing, the sweet friction—Alfred lifting his legs, the space growing tighter, the distant strains of a radio Arthur had forgotten to turn off before their stumbling trip upstairs to a bed—but everything else silent, everything else quiet except for the roaring of Arthur’s heart—a roaring he was sure that Alfred could hear as if it were his own.
Soft words, soft gasps, a note that pushed against the bottom of his throat and threatened to spill over until everything he’d ever held inside him was up and gone and in the air—until every single passing thought passed from between his lips and into Alfred’s ear.
Alfred shifted beside Arthur, rousing Arthur away from the night before and to the movement of the other’s body. The sunlight was pale now, though it still could not dodge around the curtain. The cracks of the fabric threatened the spill of sunshine, moving like liquid, but for its worth, Arthur remained in the dark and watched Alfred’s eyelids flutter in his near-waking. Alfred shifted, and sighed out, and the leg over Arthur’s hip shifted and slid down so that their thighs were pressed together—but Alfred was snuggling closer, nosing at Arthur’s neck, arm around his chest and pressing them together.
Arthur closed his eyes. He relished the feel of being needed, of being near to something—relished the feeling of peace before the ultimate moment when they would have to speak together.
Eventually, though, it did end—
Alfred woke up. He could both hear and feel the shift in breathing. He felt Alfred’s eyes open against his neck and then watched as, slowly, Alfred stiffened up, and then pulled away. He sat up. He yawned, rubbed at one eye, and then blinked his eyes down at Arthur, who couldn’t summon the strength to sit up right away. He stared up at Alfred in turn.
“Oh,” was all Alfred said.
He scratched at his ear and then tried to harness the runaway nature of his bedhead—and Arthur swallowed the urge to tell him that he looked just fine as he was, very lovely, always so lovely.
He couldn’t read Alfred’s expression, until, after a moment, Alfred smiled—a nervous, unsure kind of smile. “Um. Morning.”
“Good morning,” Arthur said, quietly, and was shocked by how ragged and hoarse his voice sounded. He swallowed a few times, trying to clear his throat, trying to maintain some sort of dignity in the wake of what he supposed was a deer-in-the-headlights kind of look.
“What time is it?” Alfred asked, squinting at the clock on the bedside table, though he could not see it without his glasses.
Arthur turned his head and read off the time, “It’s half-ten.”
“Damn, I slept in then,” Alfred said, yawning again and scratching at his scalp now. His eyes slanted away, and Arthur watched him, his eyebrows knitting—not knowing what was going on in his mind and wanting to know desperately.
“Yes,” Arthur breathed.
“So…” Alfred began, but then seemed to think Arthur would start speaking. He trailed off awkwardly, and they both stayed there in a long silence.
With a sigh, Arthur sat up, keeping his head down. He pulled the blanket up over his hips, for modesty’s sake, and because he felt too damned awkward to speak to Alfred right now while stark naked. He heard Alfred swallow beside him and when he hazarded to look up, Alfred was looking away from him, his cheeks a slight pink.
They sat in silence.
“I’m… um. Going to go make some coffee,” Alfred said suddenly and turned away, searching for something to pull on. He found the clothes thrown haphazardly around the room and glanced over his shoulder as he stood up, and when he caught Arthur staring at him, he had to look away. Arthur looked away, too, until he heard the bedroom door open.
Arthur didn’t say anything, just watched him go. He sat in silence, fearing he’d hear the front door open and shut. Instead, he heard the distant sound of grinding coffee and the bubble of a coffee maker. He was staying.
Arthur breathed out—he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath.
A few moments later, Alfred wandered back into the room, and he looked a little more awake now that he was walking around. His hair still stuck up in some strange places, and he looked so lovely it made Arthur’s heart ache and—
“Do you have my glasses?” he asked.
Arthur looked to the bedside table and grasped the pair of glasses, and held it out to him mutely.
Alfred grinned and walked forward, taking them from him. “Thanks.”
“Of course,” Arthur said, damning himself for his inability to find his voice.
Alfred pushed his glasses up his nose and looked as lovely as always, grinning—but it was still slightly awkward, there was still a touch of something in his eyes that left Arthur unable to say anything because he knew that his own eyes must mimic the look. He hoped they did, at least.
“I—um. Started boiling water, too. In case you wanted some or something. Hope that’s okay.”
Arthur nodded. “Yes—quite. Thank you.”
“Yeah, no problem,” Alfred said, scratching at the same spot on his ear, a nervous tick.
They stood in another long, awkward silence.
“So…” Alfred began, as if expecting the words would come if he prompted them. But this, too, trailed off into silence. Alfred laughed, nervous. “Anyway. Um. Coffee, right.”
He turned away, moving to leave the room.
Arthur waited until he was gone to pull himself from bed. He showered, quickly, fearing that when he left, Alfred would be gone. He dressed quickly for the same reason and nearly tumbled down the stairs, sure that he would find a lonely cup of coffee at the sink.
Instead, he was greeted with Alfred sitting at the table, nursing his cup of coffee.
“I always fuck the tea up, so I kinda just left it for you,” Alfred said, tilting his head towards the stove, where a freshly boiled kettle of water was waiting.
“Of course,” Arthur said and walked, numb, stiff, towards the counter and prepared himself a cup of tea.
He stood and waited for the tealeaves to uncurl and stain the water. He turned, slowly, and looked over towards Alfred. Alfred was watching him from the table, drinking his coffee. When their eyes locked, neither of them looked away this time.
Not right away, at least. Arthur was the first to flicker his eyes away.
The weight was pressing up against his chest. He longed to say something, longed to step forward and kiss Alfred until there was no need for words, longed to sweep his arm out over the table and knock all the stray papers and plates askew and throw Alfred onto the table and make good on a round two. But the words weren’t coming, and the fear weighed down on him. The constant terror that, perhaps, he’d made a mistake, that perhaps things would have been better if he’d just let it lie. Things did not magically disappear the next morning—perhaps they could never return to that relative peace they once had.
Alfred finished his coffee.
They both stayed there for a long moment.
“I guess I should go,” Alfred said at last, and the air sucked away from Arthur’s lungs. Alfred smiled, just slightly, and stood up.
Arthur watched him leave the kitchen, and stood there for a long moment before swallowing thickly and following after him, to see him off.
The words pushed against his throat.
It shouldn’t be this awkward. It shouldn’t be. They should be happy. They should be spending the day together. The silences should be pleasant, comfortable, because there wasn’t anything left to say.
He licked his lips.
“Alfred,” he said, and swallowed thickly when Alfred didn’t turn around. He said, louder this time, “Alfred!”
Alfred stopped and turned around, eyes wide. “Yeah?”
“Wait,” Arthur said, stepping forward. “Don’t go yet.”
Alfred didn’t move, eyes still wide. “You—”
“It’s fine. I don’t… Stay here for a little while.”
“Are you sure?” Alfred asked. “You seem kinda… um. Preoccupied?”
Arthur frowned. “You aren’t saying anything.”
Alfred shrugged, and pushed his hands into his pockets. He chewed on his lip. “I guess not.”
This is what happens, Arthur feared silently to himself—when there are so many years staring them down, something like this pushes it too over the edge. He’d already told Alfred everything—Alfred had already said so much. Now they were left with nothing to say. Now they were left, waiting for the other to speak. Now they were left wondering if they’d made a mistake.
Arthur knew he hadn’t. Knew that he could never see Alfred as any kind of mistake—not in these cases, at least.
“I… want you to stay.”
And once he actually spoke the words—it seemed natural, seemed to be as easy as anything in the world.
And there was a flood of relief on Alfred’s face, and he smiled a smile so huge that Arthur’s stomach twisted into knots and left him completely incapable of thought other than that he was the most beautiful boy he’d ever known. He felt waylaid, completely vulnerable, in the face of such an ecstatically relieved expression.
“I’m really glad to hear that,” Alfred said and stepped away from the door, letting it fall shut.
“You are?”
“Of course,” Alfred said, still grinning and now he was standing in front of Arthur. “I said it last night, didn’t I? I like—I like being with you. I like it when you want me near.”
Arthur looked away, blushing furiously, and then he stepped closer, too, lifting a hand to touch at Alfred’s cheek. And suddenly everything seemed so easy, everything seemed as if it’d always been, only now he was allowed to touch, now he was allowed to look at Alfred like this, he was allowed to say what he wanted—
And how easily the words came now—
“I always want you near, my darling.”
—Yes, that’s what he’d wanted to say all along.
The relief in Alfred’s eyes nearly made Arthur want to cry. Alfred nodded his head.
“Well—good!”
“Yes,” Arthur breathed out. “Yes, it’s good.”