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For humans, when one's partner used their government name, it was cause for alarm. As though they had committed a crime so terrible, they had lost all endearment privileges. By these standards, the lack of a nickname, even if only once, held catastrophic reflections of their character. As though, if they were no longer called "Sweetie", then they were no longer sweet. If they were no longer "Love", then they were no longer loved.
It was silly. Arthur had never really understood the sentiment. Arthur who'd, for the better part of the millennia, struggled to reconcile his status as a human, and as a nation. Arthur who, now, rather liked being referred to by his human name. Especially by his lover.
And as much as he enjoyed his Portuguese pet-names, and how they had evolved over the centuries — at one point being "Cabrão" — he still, often, simply preferred "Arthur". It was intimate. Allowed himself to disconnect from the cognitive dissonance that was his own innate human empathy, and the natural national desire for much more. The pure ecstasy that only an empire could feel, from all the world's riches, and all the world's power.
Perhaps for the better, Arthur had long forgotten that ecstasy. He'd given it up for more simple, human pleasures.
And while João was his most human pleasure of all, he found that, when upset, his lover wouldn't refer to him by his name. He wouldn't even refer to him as "England". Rather he'd seethe—
"Albion."
And it made Arthur's blood run cold.
The use of a nation's first name. First name, ever.
In some ways, it was a blessing. Arthur chose to view it that way for his mental health. How lucky were they to share centuries? To have known each other in their most chrysalis stage. Eyes starry as the ancient skies, and bodies green as the budding trees.
In other ways, it reminded Arthur of being hunted. Of being a nation, young in face and land. With swords too large for his frame, and legs too short to outpace his opponents. Prey, in all manners of the word. An island cast out to die. And reeled in to loot.
He felt much like prey, now.
"Our guests will be here in an hour," João hissed, present in the kitchen doorframe with a splotched, worn apron. His hands on his hips, foot tapping wildly. "An hour," he repeated with heightened intensity, "Where is the dessert?"
Arthur had few fears. War, famine, plague — they did not deter him. Demons, folklore, the undead — that was child's play. João angry, however… that shook the world.
"I've been cooking all day," João wasn't blinking, "Your only job was the dessert. Where is the dessert, Albion?"
Arthur's mouth felt increasingly dry. His throat felt like sandpaper. Placing friction between his head and his heart. Abrading his words into a nonsense shape that João would not care to decode. So he, instead, kept silent. Placed his keys in the bowl beside his front door, and handed João the bouquet of lavender he had hidden behind his back.
It had been intended, yes, for Arthur to grab a store-bought — but expensive, and thus, nice — cake to serve at dinner tonight. But the bakery had been closed, and the cakes in the other shops looked hopelessly dry, and Arthur had made a promise to himself long ago to never skip a florist in his path. To always bring lavender for João.
And it seemed that decision was smarter than returning empty-handed.
João's face twitched. His ocean eyes softening like the waves during a half-moon. Taking hold of the bouquet with feigned apprehension. His face relaxed with its scent, and Arthur felt like he, too, could take a deep breath.
Until João's eyes flashed towards him once again, "You have 2 seconds to get in this kitchen."
At least his tone was gentler?
Arthur was in the kitchen with 0.5 seconds to spare.
João gingerly placed the lavender into a vase, and began their planning session with a recap of his day. How Arthur had lacked the ingredients he needed, and even some of the tools. How he had to make do with what they had. How he changed his recipes on the fly. How the entire dinner was Portuguese, and it would be nice if the dessert didn't have to be his responsibility too.
Arthur nodded along. Fiddling with this fingers. Picking at his cuticles. Conscious now, more than ever, that he needed to file his nails an extra half-millimeter.
"Shall I contact Gordon?" Arthur offered. Like a child, using his most powerful Pokemon first.
João stopped speaking. He stared back at Arthur, blinking slowly. Seemingly putting in a great deal of effort to understand. And once his neurons fired, so did he. "Ramsay?" he nearly yelled.
Arthur nodded sheepishly in reply.
João released an exasperated, sarcastic chuckle. "Oh, sure. Wonderful," he said, "Should we watch The Great British Baking Show, as well? For inspiration's sake?"
Arthur rubbed the back of his neck timidly, "That was going to be my second suggestion."
He wanted to kick himself. Surely, this was not the same King of Strategy and Surveillance that he had boasted to be mere decades ago. The mirror in his mind was cracking.
João sighed, leaning forward against the counter, "You stupid, dense, gorgeous, idiotic, insolent oaf."
And just like that, the mirror was restored.
"Gorgeous?" Arthur's grin was anything but coy. He was prepared to hold onto any semblance of affection he could garner, with a grip stronger than that of Atlas. And like Atlas, he was prepared to hold the world up as well. For João. Just as he had centuries before.
Arthur approached his lover from behind, snaking arms around his waist and resting a chin upon his shoulder. When João didn't flinch or falter, he continued on. Peppering kisses along his lover's tan neck and back. Playfully nipping at his ear.
It was then that João laughed, ever-so-slightly. And gently shook Arthur's teeth from his skin.
"Go rest," Arthur murmured into his lover's hair, inhaling the aroma of his sandalwood shampoo, "I'll handle it. I promise."
João's mouth twisted in contemplation. He turned in Arthur's arms, facing the Englishman. But still denied him touch, hands stuck to the cold counter behind him. "What will you do?" he asked, inquisitive eyes searching emerald.
"Sticky. Toffee. Pudding." Arthur spoke as if the words were a spell that would magically cure all ailments, physical and mental alike. João's gaze drifted to his lips as he spoke. "It's fast and easy. And I'll get Alfred to pick up ice cream on his way."
"Does he even like sticky toffee pudding?"
Arthur sighed and shrugged, "Lately he hasn't been eating anything that's not Dubai Chocolate."
João laughed, this time louder and more content. "Are you sure you can handle this?" he asked once more. It seemed even in his irritation, he wished to ensure Arthur's comfort. It was soothing to see that his vigilance over Albion had not shifted during the millennia.
Arthur nodded.
João's hands warmed his lover's neck and jaw, finally granting him the touch he so craved, "And you won't burn the kitchen down?"
Arthur nodded once more. Inhaling soundly and fluttering his eyes shut. Melting into his lover's hold.
João tapped Arthur's lips with his thumb in a slow, aching tempo. Then trailed down to Arthur's chin. "And you're responsible for clean-up," he charmed, Arthur malleable in his grip. Like the purest gold there ever was.
"Of course, Love."