Chapter Text
Alfred was trembling, he realized distantly, as he knocked on Arthur’s front door. He waited for a few agonising moments, his patience dissipating as his body thrummed with electrical impulses. C’mon, hurry up.
Only hours ago, he had watched the world combust through a car windshield. Endless colour surged, still, behind his eyelids: throbbing pulses of gold and violet and a thorough range of hues that didn't yet have names, and he was among the first to bear them witness. The resounding thunder in his ears had since migrated to his bones, burrowing deep in the marrow, reverberating the apocalyptic cry of the world’s first nuclear device around his own buzzing atoms.
The world's first nuclear device.
‘Device’ didn't seem adequate enough a word for it. As of 5:30 that morning, Alfred held the world’s fate in his labs. He knocked on Arthur’s door again, his anxious rapping synced with the uneven rhythm of his heart. Everything was different now, exhilarating, terrifying—urgent, like Arthur needed to open the door immediately or Alfred was going to lose it. Though, hadn't he, already? Had Alfred not, like an alchemist of tragedy, turned that one major loss into gold? Into a guarantee that he would never lose anything else, ever again?
“Oh—hey.” Alfred managed a crooked smile when the door opened, but it was a fractured thing set beneath a glassy gaze. “I was…about to knock ag—uh, good timing. Could I come in?” The toe of his shoe had already breached the threshold, moving without conscious accord. He was too—shell-shocked, maybe, to register the action. “You're not gonna believe the day I just had. Hey, you got anything to drink?”
Arthur closed the door as softly as he could, one hand still wrapped around a mug of tea. It was late, but he'd wanted to stay up, wanted to...be here, whatever that meant, for Alfred. For us. The American had sounded excited on the phone, but the man who crossed into his parlour was something else, something both manic and subdued.
"Assuming you mean liquor, there's whisky on the shelf just there," Arthur called, waiting a moment by the door. He peeked through dark curtains to survey the street beyond, eyes roaming between parked cars and bins until he was sure nothing moved. Habit. "Help yourself."
The door was again locked. Arthur moved further into his home, watching as Alfred made himself a drink. He held the mug to his chest, waiting for his guest to speak. When Alfred remained silent, clearly distracted by thoughts beyond the scope of his task, Arthur cleared his throat.
"You certainly made good time. Did you fly with the President? There's going to be a rendezvous in Germany tomorrow but I'm... I'll likely stay here."
For an uncertain stretch of time, only soft sounds filled the space between them—the clinking of glass, an absentminded sniffle, the bob of Alfred's throat around liquid fire—all of which felt preciously delicate in the bomb's aftermath.
"...Huh? I—Oh. Yeah. I'm not...going. To that." Alfred made a face at the burn on his tongue, then began pouring a second glass. Belatedly, his attention shot to Arthur, his brows knitted as though in apology. "Uh, did you want...? Here."
Rather than wait for an answer, Alfred produced another glass. Once both were nearly full, he offered Arthur's out with a sideways smile that almost passed for optimism. "Cheers! Here's to uh, never being fucked with again. Basically."
Arthur accepted the whisky with a small nod and smaller quirk of his lips, placing it on the nearby laminate. Alfred returned his attention to his drink as his host busied himself with taking his tepid tea to the sink to dump it fully in the basin.
"It was huge, Arthur,” Alfred said after a moment, sounding thoughtful. “Actually, 'huge' doesn't describe it. Like something out of a Superman strip. Have you seen those? Anyway..." He realized he was smiling again, breathless and buoyant with possibility. "When I saw that thing light up the sky—light up every blessed grain of sand in that desert—you know what I thought to myself? I mean, I thought a few things but... Arthur, when that thing went off, I just thought, 'Wow. No one's ever gonna try me again. No one's gonna dare.’"
Alfred took a full drink, then seemed to realize he was forgetting something, because he added, "Try us again. 'Cause, we're allies."
Arthur had turned on the tap as if he intended to wash and rinse the mug, but water simply filled it, spilling over the edge. The Englishman watched it for a moment, until his hand moved automatically, locking the tap. "I hardly expected any different," he said, turning a fond expression towards the man on the other side of the counter. "You always manage to make amazing progress in such a short amount of time. It's a gift, the things you can do."
Terrifying, really. But they were allies. Nothing to fear in those ocean eyes, endless and enticing as Atlantic waves. Arthur's swallow was heavy, even as he kept his smile light.
"I imagine you're eager to see its application, then? To be perfectly honest, I rather had hoped it wouldn't come to this, as I'm...well, barring the last four years, I had been quite fond of Japan. I would think we both were. Pity, how things play out." He leaned lightly against the sink, not ready yet for his drink but craving it all the same. "But it's good. I'm glad to hear that there's hope for this fucking war to end—hell, all wars to end, by the sounds of it. I don't want you hurt again."
Alfred stared a little longer than was necessary, turning Arthur's words over in his mind a few times before they registered. His fingers curled against his own sleeve at the mention of Japan. They'd been friends, once. "Yeah, well, hey. Ditto."
Something went a little quiet in Alfred's chest as he thought of radiant splendour and of the multi-armed Vishnu, destroyer of worlds. He acknowledged, passively, that the bombs might be evil. Briefly wondered if that made him evil, too. But the memory of the blast stole the air from his lungs all the same and confirmed what he'd known since dawn: He was now Alfred, destroyer of wars.
“Gotta say, I've never had to calculate the probability of incinerating the Earth’s atmosphere before.” Alfred laughed a little, breathlessly. Then, quickly added, “Zero, by the way. It's essentially impossible. I mean, you know that. So that's…good.” As good as a gadget of mass destruction could be, at any rate. At least Arthur supported him. He'd even smiled, nearly, which was enough to evoke a similar expression from Alfred, bigger and brighter —sharper— though it was.
"But yeah... Yeah! You get it. This means security, for both of us." Alfred stepped around the island counter as he said it, gesturing with both hands. It was July, but the night-time weather in England was cool enough that his jacket felt comfortable; the fur across his shoulders broadened his shadow on the opposite wall. “And okay, fine, a little birdie told me Braginsky’s been a spying bastard lately because of course he has and so he's probably gonna be a big pain in the ass about all this but—” He cut himself off with an even broader smile. “What does it matter? Even if he has a problem, if anyone has a problem, they can't touch—us. They can't touch us, Arthur.” He repeated his conclusion, to make up for fumbling it the first time. His breathing picked up as a current of energy raced through him. “We’re unstoppable. Can you believe it? We’re literally the strongest fucking military force on the face of this planet. Are you kidding me?”
He'd closed the remaining gap between himself and Arthur, at some point, and was holding the other’s arm. Too tightly, he realized, and promptly let go to smooth a crease from the man’s shirt instead. He swiped at the fabric near his shoulder, distracted. "...I knew you'd be happy for me," Alfred murmured. Then, he glanced up, reviving his smile, and his voice resumed its regular volume. "I'm happy you're happy. We're happy!" His palm didn't move from Arthur's shoulder.
It was always like this with Alfred. No matter how much Arthur mentally and physically prepared for their interactions, placing himself strategically diagonal from the younger man, keeping the conversation light, offering drink as a distraction, and then some—No matter how many times he rehearsed his responses and movements and choices, Alfred always...caught him, like this. Close, unavoidable, sunlight through a bay window in an otherwise colourless, doorless room. They were talking about a weapon of mass destruction, for fuck's sake, but Alfred looked as if he'd received a message from God. Arthur felt not for the first time like a shadow in his own home, a bevelled edge to Alfred's glow. His heart was a mushroom cloud of its own, large in a sudden moment, expanding, curling in on itself, too hot, too full, too...
"Yes, we are, aren't we?" Arthur replied, placing his palm briefly over Alfred's knuckles. His own voice sounded too reproduced, something overdubbed. "Which means we should be celebrating. It's a victory of sorts, after all." His hand retreated, and all of him with it. Pulling away from Alfred, Arthur leaned past him for his glass, looking forward to receiving aid from an old friend. "I hope you took some photographs of the event. I'd much like to see them."
Alfred's eyes brightened at the mention of celebration. He swivelled around to watch Arthur retrieve his drink, then thought to do the same. The laugh that left him, in that moment, served to soothe the hot bolts of tension that had previously been ricocheting through his chest. His shoulders shook with the sound, and he welcomed the eager warmth that melted through him.
“Man! It was insane. Like a mushroom made of sunlight. But brighter. Most of the other guys were wearing protective goggles and stuff, but… hey, good thing UV rays can't pass through glass! So it's all fine. ‘Least, that's what my physicist says.” He shrugged and propped an elbow on the counter beside Arthur. “It’s just like… My memory and my imagination could join forces, and they still wouldn't be able to recreate that… dude, that… It was like seeing, fuckin', heaven's light. No joke. If I hadn't been so confident things were gonna go as well as they did, seeing that shit might have made me think.… Ha, I don't know. The pictures don't even capture it right.” He scratched the back of his neck when he added, “I'm not really supposed to share ‘em, though… National security stuff, y'know, since it's all so fresh. But hey, soon! For sure.” He tilted his head far back, aiding his tongue’s attempt to chase the final drops of whiskey from his glass.
"Right of course," Arthur said quickly, washing down his own whisky with an unaffected smile. "I can be patient. I'm picturing it well enough from your description. I think it's brilliant." Horrible. "And I'm glad you're unharmed. I imagine I'll be made privy to the official report sometime soon, as I believe one of our scientists was present." He hoped, at least. A gnawing, familiar feeling poked between his ribs, dripping into his gut. They can't touch us. And how long was us good for? Alfred had turned on him before... Yes, years ago at this point, there wasn't anything to worry about. Too many thoughts collided, all of them half-formed. This was a celebration, albeit a small, pre-emptive one. But hell, didn't they deserve a bit of hope?
"Please, have more," Arthur said after too long a moment, watching Alfred's comical draining of his glass. "Make yourself comfortable. I should ask, have you eaten? I have roast I can warm up, if you're hungry."
Alfred's eyes all but glimmered at the offer. He abandoned his glass in Arthur's hand—refill it for me, was the unspoken request—and beelined toward the fridge.
"Yeah, your guys have been great. I mean, really. Really great." He rummaged through neatly packed food items until he found the leftovers he was looking for, marked with a handwritten expiry date. "Side note: I really wish we had a quicker way of heating this stuff up. Like, yeah, okay, preheat the oven for half an hour. Might as well build a fire over sticks and leaves, y'know?" He cranked the dial of the oven, despite his laments. "Maybe I'll invent that next. Something to just...heat up..." He trailed off, staring at the cold meal before him.
"...Anyway, pretty exciting day, right?" Alfred turned abruptly to face the other nation, grinning. "Kinda hate that it's come to all this but, y'know, Nazis. Got any sides for this, by the way? Besides Marmite, or whatever."
"I'd think bringing an atomic reaction indoors would be a little too much heat for a cooked roast, don't you think?" Arthur joked, but it fell flat, delayed and unfunny. He busied himself with refilling both their glasses, watching amber drain from the neck of the bottle. "But suppose once this war's over and you've got the economic boom that's sure to follow, you'll invent lots of wonderful things to make our lives easier. I'm looking forward to it." He offered Alfred his glass once more, topped up. Arthur’s grin was softer, slimmer, choppier water than Alfred's smooth-sailing smile. "Especially to your increased understanding of the world around you. No sane person puts marmite on a roast. I'll prepare sprouts and spuds in a moment."
Alfred’s eyes met Arthur's, bright. "You don't have to," he said, out of obligation. Both of his hands caught Arthur's around the glass, and briefly, he held them there. He smiled. "Thanks."
'Briefly' turned into 'just a few seconds too many' and the moment lingered. Alfred's gaze didn't move from Arthur's, and the ghost of his smile didn't fully dissipate...until a few seconds later, when Alfred turned unceremoniously to gulp from his drink and furrow his brow on a thought.
"Uh, but that's...like, what, veggies and potatoes? Maybe I'll skip the sprouts..." He shifted sideways, only slightly out of Arthur's way, as the other moved to prepare the promised meal. "...You really think this will stop it, though? The war?" Alfred cracked a renewed grin, torn between hope and the frazzled mess of thoughts that kept leading half his brain astray. "I mean, that's the goal, obviously. And changing all future wars, like... I guess I just, sorta, wonder what that'll look like." He mused around his drink, drifting off to the left of the kitchen as he did. He caught a glimpse of himself in one of the chrome fixings on Arthur's appliances, all distorted and unwound. Absently, he rubbed his thumb over the metal. At last, the corner of his mouth quirked upward and he raised his head once more. "So! What kinds of hardships does Arthur Kirkland have that a new invention would solve? Let's hear it, get the gears turnin'." Something else to focus on was good.
"Ending the war would most definitely solve quite a few of my hardships," Arthur replied with a slight laugh, knife already in hand as he set about preparing chopped vegetables for supper. "Then I suppose I'd like to focus on something other than...I'm not sure, just making things to have them. I miss being able to care about things like art. Maybe you could invent me a new style of art to critique." He remembered in a flash of recollection watching Alfred carve figures into tree trunks, his hand much smaller. Ah. "....Or music. In general, relaxing and going to a film, I think I'd very much enjoy that. A film that's not about Germany, that is."
Alfred chuckled distractedly. "Yeah... Oh! Actually!" He snapped to life suddenly, an animatronic powered ON after a period of inactivity. He fumbled, patting down his various pockets for something. "Here, you'll like this."
At last, Alfred found what he was seeking in the front pocket of his jacket. His eyebrows jerked upward and he grinned, holding up a finger before producing his wares.
"Ta-da. Ballpoint pen." Alfred beheld the small, strange writing utensil, brandishing it between the two of them so both could see. "Maybe you remember some earlier iterations of this...but, meh. Pretty great, honestly, the updates we've made to the original design. Look, check it out." Alfred sat so hard on one of Arthur's dining stools that it nearly toppled backwards. Then, he scribbled something on the sole of his shoe. The resulting scrawl of ink must have pleased him, because he beamed up at Arthur, gesturing passionately. "See that? Writes on all kinds of things, not just paper. And look, no smudging!" He scrubbed a finger across the wet ink, frowning when it smeared across both his skin and the rubber of his shoe. "Okay, minimal smudging. Should be great for all that boring desk work you make yourself do. After the patent gets worked out, people are gonna be so into these things. Like, after the war and stuff stops taking up so much time, and energy... Don't ya think?" He wiggled the pen in front of Arthur's nose.
Arthur’s returned smile was wry, half formed. "Well, would you look at that. Not a dull moment with your mind put to task." He jerked a shoulder in the direction of one of his cabinets. "Don't mark up your shoes, there's copy paper there if you'd care to write more. Perhaps you can show me how your penmanship's improved—and might I just say, I know you're taking the mick but I would really enjoy writing letters with something far more practical than a fountain pen, so, keep at it. Make it smudge-less, bring us into a new letter-writing era. Assuming we're leaving the telegram in the bunker."
It hardly took any time to finish preparing dinner, what with the casual company and ease of conversation. Arthur plated the food and offered it to Alfred before setting some aside for himself. He briefly considered relocating them to the dining room but...no, far easier and cosier to sit in the kitchen where it was warm and well-lit, happily comforted by scents of browning potatoes and melted butter. He took a stool opposite, ready to finally put something solid in his stomach before he noticed again that his glass was empty.
Moreover, the bottle itself was drained.
"Think maybe I'll switch to wine," Arthur commented, up on his feet again to fetch a bottle from the cellar. "Back in a moment." He was in front of the basement door before Alfred could protest, one hand steadying himself against the familiar paneling as his vision struggled to maintain clarity. Wine was slower, sweeter, pulled at his sensibilities a little easier. He'd expected that they would drink. He always did. It was fine.
"Mmmm... Mhmm?" Alfred looked over from where tore into Arthur’s cooking to watch his host contemplate the stairwell. "Mmhey, you should eat. You made it, you should eat! I'll get it. I got it." The American staggered off his stool, but his plan changed when he arrived at Arthur's side, threw an arm around his shoulders, and began ushering them down the narrow path. "We'll both go. Hey, yeah, let's go. There, like, a whole cellar down there? Oh, shit." He ducked an overhead light, inadvertently shoving them both sideways, in against the wall, as they descended. He laughed, regaining his balance and dragging Arthur with him. "What all've you got down here?"
"Wine," Arthur said bluntly, chuckling a bit at his own response shortly afterwards. "Pinot, shiraz, malbec, chardonnay; if you've thought of it I've got it, likely."
Arthur smoothed his hands over the wall until his fingers found a switch, recently installed but already familiar. The light illuminated several rows of cabinets and shelving, a library organised by region and type with handwritten labels. Some looked more ancient than others, but the scrawl was the same. He strode forward with some strange confidence and gestured to an aisle.
"Go on, then. Show me your preference so I can make a proper assessment of your palate." Arthur's smile was wide, a bit silly. "Man's world now, love."
"Good of the gentleman to appeal to the lowly tastes of a brute such as I," Alfred cheekily replied, adopting a playful accent whilst bowing his head, an action which turned into more of a full-body bow as he passed Arthur. "Sir."
Alfred's faux poshness made the Englishman laugh fondly behind a half-raised hand; Arthur watched his guest scan the rows and continued to chuckle to himself, wondering all the while what was so funny about all of this. Alfred looked odd there, between the bottles. The place was too ancient for him, too dusty and well-kept, too boring to host a person whose entire atmosphere whispered, what comes next?
As Alfred ambled along that first row of bottles, he became aware of how his frame filled the space more than it'd used to; the breadth of his shoulders nearly grazed the shelves on either side of him. It wasn't always the case, but he was bigger than this cellar now, bigger than anything that could try to contain him. Forget a man's world—this was his world, and wasn't that what they were here to celebrate?
"Mmm... Eenie, meanie..." Alfred leaned an elbow on one shelf, tap, tap, tapping his fingers across several aged whites before brandishing a bottle from its place sheathed among the rest. He held it before him, modeling the label for Arthur to examine before thinking to read it himself. "Pou... Poe... Pahl... This French?" He shot a wide, mischievous smile back at the other man and closed the space between them with just a few swaggering steps. He listened to the wine slosh as he shook the bottle slightly. "And got a screw?" But no sooner had the 'brute' inquired about this than he flipped a small knife from his pocket with intention.
"I—" Arthur began, pausing when he heard the flick of a blade. Throat dry, he looked down at Alfred's hands, catching the glint of silver that reflected off wire frames. "Upstairs. Don't—" He reached forward, lithe fingers closing over a warm wrist.
"Don't," Arthur said again, soft, tilting his chin to whisper the command into the space between Alfred's neck and shoulder. Not too close, but not respectably distant either. "You'll hurt yourself." A pull then, on that steady wrist. Arthur's back was against brick, boxed in by shelves and the smell of army-issued aftershave, but he did his best to clumsily turn against it, brushing his shoulder into Alfred's chest. "Upstairs."
Arthur's touch made Alfred's heart leap, but it was the urgency in his whispered command that set his skin to burning. His grin grew as he twirled the knife between his fingers. "'Don't, don't,'" Alfred mocked him, gently, and snickered into the small gap between them. He noticed Arthur turning toward the stairs and stepped easily to bar his path. "What? Scared of a little cut?"
There were scarier things. Alfred had witnessed one, up close and personal, just that morning. The memory of it sent excitement buzzing beneath his skin, amplified by the whisky. He was interested in drinking more, but he was doubly interested in the warm flush that threatened Arthur's skin. All at once, he slammed a forearm against the brick, caging Arthur in against him.
"Hey, don't you trust me?" Alfred spoke against the other man's ear, exhaling something like a laugh. He pushed the wine bottle to Arthur's chest, immediately releasing it so the man had little choice but to accept it, freeing Alfred's left hand. "I'll be super careful. Just hold it still." He ducked his head just enough for his eyes—electric, blue—to settle on Arthur's own. Smiling warmly, he searched that emerald gaze for a reaction, even as he tapped the flat of the blade against the back of Arthur's wrist. "You trust me, right?"
Arthur inhaled, swallowing a protest. Lately, Alfred was proving to be a far scarier thing than any flesh wound. He'd matured like a cannonball, quick at the outset, perfectly shaped for destruction. Arthur was fiercely proud of him, as he was proud of all his weapons; his own cruelty lay tangled in the American's veins, the thrum of ambition and pride streaked red and white and blue. They were the same deadly force, even though they both denied it when it suited them. And Arthur was worse than any blade, worse than a whole company of sabre-armed soldiers. Alfred, with youth and power and hunger on his side, was another beast entirely—he'd learned how to split apart life itself, to render the world to ash in a matter of incomprehensible, minuscule moments. A knife in his hands seemed childish now, too small and flimsy a device for the man who was meant to conquer the world. The Englishman exhaled, willing his face to stop burning. It was only Alfred. Trusting him was like trusting himself. Natural enough, right?
"Of course I trust you," Arthur lied, the consonants murky with whisky. His smile still hung like a noose across his face, lopsided and lethal. "I just don't want you to make a mess." Another lie. He tilted his head back against the brick, eyes narrowing as they maintained their hold on Alfred's. "But if you promise to be very careful, I'll allow it. You've picked a fine wine, you should taste it instead of splashing it over the floor." His volume dropped, following his eyes as they lowered again to the blade. "Easy does it, then."
Permission from Arthur felt, these days, like a rare and exhilarating thing. Alfred's grin broadened as he closed a hand over the other man's, encouraging him to grip the bottle more firmly.
"There ya go." Alfred considered a few different angles before finally wedging his blade into the very side of the cork, lodging it in against the neck of the bottle. He attempted to twist his wrist just so, such that the cork got leveraged up and out of its container. It didn't work, even after his third attempt. "Okay, wait, hang on..."
Alfred extracted the blade entirely and plunged it into the cork's centre instead, succeeding mainly in carving debris off into the wine. He hissed a sound of frustration before snatching the bottle from Arthur altogether to bodily twist the cork free. After a few lingering moments of struggle, Alfred heard the tell-tale pop of the lid being freed.
"Tah-dah!" Alfred held the mutilated cork out to one side, and the bottle of wine and litter off to the other, and bowed. Not nearly as simple as opening up a vein, but he'd adapted. He swigged from the bottle, only to spit out a few pieces of corkboard immediately after. "Truffles." He offered the bottle back to Arthur, grin never faltering, and distance never lessening. "It's not awful. And say, we're still drinking to celebrate, right? Like, this is happy drinking. Right, Art?" He cocked his head to Arthur, staring a bit too intently while his smile froze on his lips, and pushed the bottle against Arthur's chest, urging him to accept. "Big gulps, for the USA! Er, and allies, too."
"Should get a glass for this, you know... Honestly..." Arthur’s words were a mumble, an afterthought. "And Christ, 'not awful' is a given, you think anything I've got down here is cheap? None of it's sold in shops..." But despite his words, he accepted the bottle, cradling it against his chest as if it were some other, holier thing. "Ridiculous..."
A sudden surge of giddiness overtook Arthur, a goading spasm of joy that forced a tittering laugh from his throat. His eyebrows cocked, disappearing into his fringe as he decided he'd had enough caution for the evening.
"Fuck it," Arthur said simply, and tipped the bottle with a flourish, eager to feel as free and unburdened as he was long before he'd ever seen amber waves and sea-blue eyes. Too hasty, unfortunately; some of the wine made it into his throat, but a portion of it splattered down his front, dripping from his chin and onto his cardigan. It took him a moment to realise, and when he finally did, looking down to see the red seeping into his shirt, he simply laughed again, his cares distant. "Fuck," he said a second time, but this one sounded as though it was uttered from miles away, an obscenity split apart, unstable, underwhelmingly catastrophic.
"Fuck... Fuck." Alfred repeated, with a similar note of mocking as before. He swayed inward, distantly aware of the warmth of Arthur's neck as he snickered near its crook. "Somethin' on your mind tonight, Art?" His exhale was part laughter, part heat, as he stole the bottle back to claim his own messy swigs. The corners of his mouth ran wet, and he wiped them with a sleeve and a grin. "'Sides, sometimes cheap shit is some of the best you can get. You know that. I mean, c'mon, you ever...throw back cheap, fucking, vodka—or whatever—in a seedy, underground dive with good company and bad memory?"
Alfred gestured aimlessly with the bottle, as though to guide his meandering speech. Then, he laughed, shaking his head at some fond thought. "Yeah, and, maybe, you know, you don't speak the language super well or whatever but... There's this feeling in the air of...of connection or something, right, that just enhances the whole—even the taste, like...." His smile hovered somewhere in limbo as he lost himself in an unfocused thought. "Yeah... But I guess you can't really do all that these days, huh. Going and sharing a drink with people from across the, uh, war lines or whatever. Not even supposed to talk about having done it previously, apparently. Like it never happened, isn't that crazy? Why do we do that?"
Emerging from soliloquy, sentimental and scattered, Alfred snapped his awareness back to his audience. A broad grin stole over his expression. To emphasize his definitely renewed nonchalance, he shrugged with his whole arm, and a drop of wine spilled. "Shit, sorry. But hey, y'know, you don't seem to sweat the small stuff right now. You're in a good mood. You're fun Arthur tonight." Alfred seemed to notice the gap that re-emerged between them and filled it just as quickly. Close, he pressed the wine bottle to Arthur's chest, a glass weight reinforced by Alfred's own as he leaned into it. "And I'm glad we don't have to deal with all that stupid shit. It's like, we're so close, and so cool about stuff now. We can just do whatever and it's, like, totally fine. Because you get me. And that's why we get to have so much fun together now, even now, ain't that right, Art?"
Damn him. Arthur's laughter caught on the lapels of Alfred's shirt, absorbed by linen. He couldn't meet that bright blue gaze, dim as it was in the cellar light. Why the hell were they still down here, crowded against this old brick, smelling dust and aged grapes...? What were they hiding from?
"I'm fun all the time," Arthur mumbled, still caught on his own stifled giggles. It took more effort than he would've liked to push off from the wall, to force Alfred to step back with a gentle palm against his chest. "You just... You think all I am is who I've had to be when things haven't been..."
Arthur trailed off, re-familiarising himself with the feeling of space between them. He inhaled, willing his blood to quiet in his ears as he looked blearily again for the light switch. Finding it after some moments, he flicked it unceremoniously, plunging them both again into darkness. The hazy glow of the upper landing light beckoned them from above, encouraging them to find their way forward, but Arthur made no move to leave, rooted to the floor as he instead latently worked to process Alfred's disjointed ramblings.
War lines, seedy dives, language, vodka...Oh, damn him, Arthur thought again, this time with a tinge of dull, rusty anger. His chest prickled, damp with wine and burning from within. So, who was it, which 'good company' stole Alfred's thoughts this time? Because at the end of the day, they were so close; Arthur, even drunk, wasn't blind to the way Alfred's smile softened, wasn't deaf to the wistfulness in his voice, wasn't so caught up in himself that he misconstrued those affections, believed those moments of genuine longing were something the American felt for him. No, Arthur knew better than to second-guess his worth, where Alfred was concerned. He would not make the same mistake twice.
But damn him, for looking like that, breathing like that, effortlessly pushing past every physical and emotional defence Arthur had been constructing for the past century, all while reminiscing about sharing a drink with someone else. It wasn't fair. Aided by a lack of inhibition, Arthur's filter abated him.
"But, I get you, I do," he finally continued, voice airy as he felt his fingers curl into fists at his side. Alfred was somewhere behind him, swaying like tall grass in the darkness. The bottle clinked against a button, nearly hollow. "I get exactly what you mean. Sometimes it's better to lose yourself with someone else who won't ever fully understand you, who can enjoy the thrill of irresponsibility. It's fun to find that connection, I very much understand, even if it's with those who'd kill you tomorrow, given the chance. Much more fun than caution and kindness. So much fun, being pulled apart, down to your core." Arthur chuckled, tasting whisky still in the back of his throat. "Why not, you know? Talk about it, I mean. Not like we aren't planning to blow the world the fuck apart, right? Why not reminisce about all those unforgettable connections? I'm sure they'll forgive you anyway, after. You could charm the skin off a corpse, Alfred. Only natural."
It took a good moment, once Arthur started speaking again, for Alfred to register the angry shift in his voice. His smile, previously buoyant, turned tense as he worked to measure the growing heat in Arthur's words. He shook his head, a slight back and forth, and his smile slipped farther away in the dark.
"Hey... Hey, what are you—? Stop. Stop." Alfred slammed a palm into the brick wall, swearing as he searched blindly for the light switch on the other side of Arthur. He couldn't find it, so his action only served to bar Arthur's path to the stairwell. "What are you even—No one's gonna kill me, okay?" Anger surfaced where bewilderment had been just seconds before. "That's the whole point. God, I mean—Can't you have any faith in me? Even now? We came here to fuckin'...celebrate, hello?? Like, the fact that you and me and all of our allies are protected now and safe because of me and—" His eyes were beginning to adjust to the dark, just enough to make out the shape of Arthur's face, the light of the kitchen reflecting in his pupil. "Yeah, yeah, super fun you are. This is such a stellar fuckin' conversation. Hey, you know what, actually? Gimme that."
Alfred grabbed at the bottle in Arthur's hand, tugging it free to press against his own lips. He swallowed down as much as he could before wrenching it away to breathe. "Gonna need a whole damn bottle of this, if this is how you're gonna be." He took another half-swig, then pulled the bottle back, laughing. "Goddamn, what is it: you're mad you're not as charming and don't have as many friends as me, or you're jealous it's not you I'm ready to 'blow the world the fuck apart' with? Newsflash, Your Majesty, you lost your chance for this race! Try again next millennia!"
Alfred aimed for another swallow of wine, but the bottle's contents came up short. He snorted his disbelief and nonchalantly tossed the glass container somewhere into the dark corner of the cellar. It didn't shatter explosively like he'd hoped; rather, he heard it crack and fall apart. And Alfred was satisfied enough with that. He only wished the lights had been on, so he could have seen whether Arthur had startled.
Arthur couldn't help but smirk in the darkness, even as his body tensed. It was thrilling to watch the clouds roll in, to feel Alfred's emotional control splinter and crack. Arthur had always enjoyed it: the electric tingling underneath his skin that preceded a fight, the pleasant dangerous buzz that inebriated him just as gin and whisky did. Good. Now we're both miserable.
"Calm down," Arthur began, knowing full well such a command would likely encourage the opposite response. "Clearly you've had enough if you're taking things such the wrong way."
It was duller now, the ache in Arthur's chest as he was again reminded by his former colony just how insignificant he was. A century ago, he would have struck Alfred for his insolence, berated him for his assumptions, ran up the stairs and locked Alfred in the darkness. But a century ago, he might have won the race, had he simply been less distracted, more disarming, more...Alfred He sighed, feigning disappointment. Alfred was a silhouette framed by the landing light, imposing and otherworldly. Arthur reached out again, placating.
"Up you get, Alfred. I've got to put the dinner away." He pushed against the arm barring his way, happy to meet the resistance. "I'm not doing this here with you."
"No. No! You kidding me? You started this!" Alfred laughed and, with both hands free, repositioned himself so that both palms lay flat against the brick, one on either side of Arthur. "What, and now you're trying to run away? Went ahead and lit the fuse, but now you're too chicken-shit to stick around for the fireworks, huh?"
The room swam. Distantly, Alfred remembered their dinner, the pot roast and spuds Arthur had tenderly prepared. It all must have been to placate him: a bone thrown to an untamable beast. A slow grin felt its way across his lips in the dark.
"What, you're scared of me?" Alfred laughed again, breathless. Suddenly, he dropped his elbows against the wall instead of his palms, to lean in even closer to Arthur. As he did, Alfred yelled, a sudden ferocious shout intended to startle and intimidate, right in Arthur's face. This time, when the other's body responded, Alfred was close enough to feel him tense. It made him laugh again, more fully, as he pushed himself back onto his palms. "You are! You're totally scared of me. I wouldn't hurt you. You know that, dontcha?"
Amusement warred with Alfred's previous annoyance. Both emotions jumbled into a fluid consequence of chasing whisky with wine. Almost pleasantly, Alfred pressed one of his open palms to Arthur's chest, smoothing down the fabric there. "You don't need to lash out at me just 'cause you're afraid. I get it. It's a huge change, not just for now, but for the entire future—I mean, I was scared too! But let's be real, I'm the best person that could have gotten saddled with this responsibility, right? I mean, who else would we want to become superhero of the universe? Japan? Russia? God, no." He dropped one elbow against the wall again, this time to increase the pressure of his palm on Arthur's chest. It was meant to be reassuring. Partly. "We'll watch out for each other, 'kay? Things... Yeah, I know things haven't always been great between us.... But..."
Alfred's voice dropped, pausing to make way for uneven breaths. He tried to pick out more of Arthur's features—brows, chin, throat—as he said, "They could be?"
Arthur wanted to laugh, if only to force the air caught in his lungs to flee. His vision blurred, relying too heavily on his brain to find Alfred's geometry in the low light, to fill in the optical gaps so it could define him in familiar terms. Arthur fought the urge to look away, even as he felt a firm hand press against his chest, pinning him. Aversion would be weakness, and Alfred was already practically relishing in Arthur's supposed fear. So he stared at the space he imagined Alfred's eyes occupied, tilting his chin defiantly, facing the black.
"Don't be ridiculous." He had meant to say something else entirely, but his voice had risen from his chest, overriding the intentions of the thoughts that still struggled to assert themselves. Alfred was close enough that Arthur could hear his breathing, could practically taste the last dregs of wine on his exhale. It would be easy to kiss him. It would be easier to knee him in the gut. He chose neither, focusing instead on how it felt for those fingers to press against his heartbeat, keeping the rhythm in check. "If you've finished insulting me, I'd ask that you kindly allow me to leave this cellar. I've had enough." Surely, Alfred could feel the weight of Arthur's lie beneath his palm.
Indeed, Alfred was snickering before Arthur had even finished speaking. And, when he was done, Alfred laughed freely, as though over a carefree joke at the pub. He fisted his hand, crumpling the front of Arthur's shirt and dragging him in, even as Alfred leaned against him. "No, because see, I don't think you have. 'Cause you always do this shit. You instigate, and you piss people off—me off—and think you can get away with it just 'cause... What? You said pretty please? Got all polite and reasonable and now we're gonna go eat dinner and be good? Fuck you, man!"
Alfred laughed again, though the sound was strained and unsteady. The hand that wasn't currently buried in Arthur's collar came around to the back of Arthur's head, so he couldn't look away if he'd wanted to. "I know what you are. Think I don't? I was the last motherfucker in the world you still had fooled but, man, get a few drinks in you, and you show your hand like the rest of 'em." His voice dropped, words laced with a dark humour among his ragged breaths. "You know this is a fight you can't win. And that's exactly why you're picking it, right? It's sooo much less embarrassing to lose to number one. 'Least then, you never stood a chance in the first place. So, how do you want this to go? I've got a few ideas." His grip, with both hands, tightened. A flush of excitement fueled him in the dark. "Either way, you lose."
Arthur felt the weight of his own expression settle across his face: furrowed brows and wrinkled nose, the heaviness of his jaw as a centuries-old sneer sharpened his lips. Something molecular was occurring within him, transforming the alcohol in his gut into liquid anger.
"Do I?" Arthur challenged. "Have I ever really lost, as far as you're concerned? Look at you, flattering yourself at my expense. Aren't you a little old for boasting, Alfie?"
The rage bubbling up Arthur's throat grated his vowels against his teeth, roughing his tone. His voice sounded both familiar and foreign in his ears, a strange imitation of a long-lost version of himself. He scoffed as he felt his skin stretch under Alfred's fingers, the grip on his neck firm to the point of discomfort. His own hands flew up to catch hold of Alfred's collar, fisting both lapels. "Don't make me ask again—get the fuck off me. I don't care who the hell you think you are, I don't care what the fuck you think you're capable of. You want to prove to the world that you deserve to own it? That starts and ends with me."
Alfred's smile crooked sideways, still on his face, but his brow furrowed at the insult. Were the lights on, some resemblance might have been noted between Alfred's glower and Arthur's own: nose scrunched, jaw set. Here in the dark, however, Alfred could convince himself he had nothing in common with this once-great nation.
"No, see, there's something you're not fucking getting here." Alfred fisted both hands into Arthur's shirt in kind. All at once, he hauled the other man forward, before bodily slamming him back against the brick. His voice dropped, confidential, against the shorter man's cheek. "I don't have shit to prove to you anymore. You know—" he hiccupped a laugh, "I used to scramble for your approval. Oh, yeah. I think... I guess I still do, a little bit, right? 'Cause I came here, immediately after the biggest goddamn accomplishment of my life—of anyone's life—like I really expected...."
Alfred laughed bitterly and shook Arthur again, rattling some of the nearby glasses, as his vision unfocused and refocused once more. "You want me off... Fine. I really don't think you do, but, fine!" He released Arthur with a full body shove, driving himself backwards at the same time he did Arthur. The gap was wide between them—as wide as it could get, in the cramped black of the cellar. "You—You wouldn't get what I'm capable of if it blew your stupid island nation off the map. Hey, but that's big and dramatic and scary, right? Let's start small!"
Alfred careened sideways, catching himself against the nearest shelf of vintage. He unsheathed a bottle as he straightened up and squinted at the label, holding it up to attempt to read in the low light. "Mmm, mmm... I can't see that. Even if I could, prob'ly can't pronounce it." With an overhand pitch, he hurled this bottle into the darkness alongside the other. The shattering, this time, was accompanied by the sound and scent of spilled wine. "How much of a fucking wreck can Alfred Jones make, huh?!" Alfred groped for another bottle, accidentally rocking the shelf in the process. He managed to pluck one up around the neck, while managing not to topple the entire storage structure. "Take your bets, ladies and gents, then strike the match and run for cover! First: this shitty London cellar.. Next up: the world!" He wound up for another throw.
Arthur’s breath escaped him; the part of his mind that bothered to consider self-preservation pleaded with him to placate, to surrender. But some stronger, irrational power—perhaps wine, perhaps fear, perhaps love—overtook his sensibilities, split his conscience in two. Alfred was a pulled pin, and Arthur the ensuing explosion. He reacted without thinking, lurching off the wall to catch Alfred's wrist in iron fingers. He bullied the taller man back with the force of his advance, adrenaline hot on his heels.
"Stop!" Arthur commanded, matching Alfred's volume. He was shorter, but by no means weaker, and the force of his offensive pushed Alfred into the wall behind, trapping him with his hand above his head. "I will NOT permit you to throw a tantrum like a child. You want to test me? Want to ruin what little peace exists right here, right now? You ungrateful, pompous, egotistical brat—you're always biting off more than you can chew, and look at you—look at us! You call yourself 'hero'?!"
Arthur laughed coldly, his free hand gripping Alfred's chin to force his gaze forward. They were both caught in the light now, dim as it was, and Arthur could make out the curl of Alfred's lips, grinning just beyond his fingertips. He tightened his grip. "You're still barely a man, aching to make your mark on the world. You know nothing, and you've seen nothing, and your 'capabilities' are nothing but one successful bloody test. You've proven nothing except that you're a bloody fucking glutton for punishment, Alfred Jones, and much as it would delight me in this moment to indulge you, I will not let you bully me like every other Jack and fucking Nancy who's after your inheritance. So you will not threaten me in my own house. Get a fucking hold of yourself, am I clear?!"
Alfred was torn between an ancient impulse to obey his former Empire and a deeper, sharper drive to defy and conquer any who would challenge him. Especially Arthur. He stared at the other man from the wall, grin frozen.
"Crystal," Alfred uttered calmly, and dropped the bottle pinned above his head. It smashed at their feet, painting their pantlegs with dark liquid. "Now let's see if I can make myself clear, yeah?" His free hand, the one not forced against brick, came up to cup the back of Arthur's head. His fingers buried in choppy blonde hair, for added leverage more than anything. "You don't give me orders anymore. Do you?" Using his grip on Arthur's hair, Alfred pulled the other nation's head back and forth, side to side. "Nooo, you don't," he said, and snickered at his own puppeteering of the man. "Also, you're wrong. You're so wrong that you sound stupid. And I know you're not stupid, Art, so it's just—come on."
This time, when Alfred used the fingers in Arthur's hair to move him, it was to drag his face in close enough that Alfred could speak over his shoulder, just beside his ear. "You didn't see what I saw today. Okay? You know what it was?" Besides colours yet to be invented, besides the fragility of the Earth's burdened seams, besides the very throne of Death itself. "This morning, in a rainy desert in New Mexico, I stood among the greatest scientific minds recorded to date, and I saw...one hell of a reason to get on my fucking good side. And quick."
Alfred allowed Arthur to back up if he so chose, though his palm remained splayed across the back of the other's skull. His chest did something a little funny as he fully registered his hand in Arthur's hair and Arthur's corresponding hold on his jaw. He snorted another laugh and tugged his wrist to free it. "And let go o' me."
At Alfred's final command, Arthur obeyed, jerking fully away as if Alfred's skin had become a brand. He pushed himself back against the opposite wall, feeling something other than anger welling up in his chest. Stupid, stupid wine. A slight tremor struck his leg and he worried for a moment if his knees would buckle. His grip on the brick kept him upright, for the time being. He worked his emotions back down, wringing them out like a damp cloth. His smile was sick, twisted like a dislocated limb.
"Happy?" Arthur asked with a choked set of syllables. "Now that you've made a mess in two places today? Feeling powerful?" He crossed his arms, ignoring how his fingers ached to close again around flesh, to force an apology from that cocky, perfect mouth. "Listen to yourself, talking about choosing sides. I have fought by yours the last four years, as I did in Belgium, as I did in China...and if anyone is at liberty to speak about your efforts, it is most certainly me. Why are you trying to go it alone—I mean, hell, is it so important to you to be first at fucking everything, that you make threats against me? Treat me with the same level of suspicion as everyone else? Think I'm trying to undermine you because—what, I'm asking you to assume a modicum of responsibility? To grow up?!" He inhaled, finally looking away from the blue that pierced the darkness. "I can't have you in my home if you're going to destroy my things. Leave."
Alfred’s grin wavered, his actions paused by the sincerity in Arthur’s request. "—Wait... Wait, hey, I—no. C'mon. I'm just feeling hyper today. I'm s— I'm done. Look. Hey. I'm done." He raised his hands in surrender as he fought to make out Arthur's expression in the dim lighting. The electricity captured in the cellar dulled to a droning buzz. "Let's just go and, uhm, finish dinner." Alfred's vision swam as he surveyed the surrounding mess. The mess he made. Why was he doing that here? "I can...get you more," he mumbled, appeasing, and knelt to sift through the biggest shards remaining at his feet. "Here. What... What was it?" He lifted one large fragment between two fingers, attempting to find a label. The room reeked. Alfred knew Arthur couldn't like that. His space was always so orderly, even in times of war.
At last, Alfred looked up from where he crouched among the wreckage of his own doing. His eyes were big overtop of their frames. "You're not actually gonna kick me out. Right?" He tried a smile, softening it from his previous ones. "I'll make it up to ya."
"You're going to cut yourself," Arthur replied shortly, nodding to the glass. "Get up." He wasn't sure what he had been expecting. Another bout of showmanship? A blow to the side of the head? Not deference, not pleading. The abruptness of Alfred's change in demeanour had him reeling, uprooting his focus. Were he less unsober, Arthur might have regarded it with suspicion, might have thought twice before returning that soft smile with a gentle sigh and a dismissive wave. "I won't kick you out. I'm just...tired. I don't want to keep going 'round in circles."
Arthur wanted to be firm, steadfast in his resolve, to deliver good on his threat to force Alfred back across the ocean. But the years had put cracks in his carefully constructed walls and the incoming chill of an evening spent alone seeped in, haunting his future. Was he meant to end this momentous day with two cold portions of food for company and undrunk wine soaked into his skin? It was a pitiful image. At least with Alfred for company, there was something other than the silence of solitude to occupy his attention. There were worse things than forgiveness.
Arthur ran a hand through his hair, desperately wishing to resume the pleasant buzz he'd entertained some moments before. His voice was quiet when he ordered, "Go on and get one from the end. A white. We'll take it up."
Alfred beamed at Arthur's acquiescence. That was easy. He loved when it was easy. He dropped the glass and straightened fully, his face bright with triumph.
"On it!" Alfred stumbled, laughed at himself, then more carefully maneuvered to the proper shelving. He retrieved the requested white and held it up for Arthur to see. Then, he strode back to the stairwell, splashing through a puddle he didn't notice on the way. He was just about to head up when he popped his head back into the cellar, his voice warm.
"It's good you changed your mind! It's not like I was gonna just leave." With a final snort of laughter, as though ridiculing the very notion, Alfred disappeared upstairs. Arthur, on the other hand, contemplated staying behind—locking himself in the cellar and dissolving into the weighty blackness that threatened to consume him.
In the end, Arthur followed his old protégé. The ghosts of their past, along with the countless threats shrouding their future, tailed him every step of the way.