Zetsubou no Ame

Camera Shy - Oneshot

Sun, 04 Sep 2011 20:07:00 -0400

Camera Shy

Spain’s photo album was a disgrace. He frowned as he turned a page only to find another void of any pictures featuring Romano. He hadn’t realized how few pictures of Romano he actually had. And it was nearly impossible to find pictures where Romano wasn’t scowling or trying to hide his face from the camera. It couldn’t be from lack of trying—Spain was sure he wouldn’t neglect to capture as much of his precious Romano on film as possible. But as long as he could remember, Romano avoided the camera like he did the plague. As soon as one was pulled out, Romano disappeared. When he couldn’t run away he turned his back to the camera, held out a hand to block his face, or just found somebody taller to hide behind. He refused to sit still for paintings as a child, and the one time he did it was because Spain was holding him firmly in place upon his lap. He was disappointed to see how sullen Romano looked in the finished piece, but the artist said that was exactly the expression he had worn the entire time.

Spain had one good photo of Romano that he guarded with his life. It was taken on a picnic the two had gone on, and Spain managed to snap a picture just as Romano turned towards him laughing. Romano had immediately attacked him and demanded he destroy the camera, but Spain had ultimately come out the victor. He later had the picture developed, and it was kept safe in his wallet, Romano unaware of its existence.

Other nations had an array of pictures featuring themselves and their significant others. It wasn’t fair. Spain turned another page and found Romano glaring straight into the camera, his hand moving to shield his face. Why did he do that? Spain traced Romano’s scowl with his finger. Why did pictures make him so upset?

“What are you doing, loser?” Spain jumped in surprise and glanced up to see Romano strolling into the living room, still in his dark green pajamas. He had to resist the urge to coo over how adorable he looked and instead hide the photo album before Romano saw it. It was too late, though.

“What’s this?” Romano asked, sitting beside Spain on the couch and plucking the album from his hands. He flipped it open to the first page and stared. The picture was a photo taken of the painting featuring Spain and Romano. After a moment Romano pursed his lips and flipped to the next page. That page and the next few were more photos taken of paintings—little Veneziano, a young Austria, several of a young Spain, a younger France… Romano froze when he came upon a sketch of himself, no longer young enough to be in dresses, but still much younger than he was now. He wasn’t smiling, but he didn’t have that fierce glare he seemed to possess in every other picture.

“Where did you get this?” Romano demanded, his voice on edge.

Spain looked at the picture lovingly. “I had Veneziano draw it,” he explained. “I wanted one where you didn’t look so angry.”

Romano scowled. “It looks terrible.”

“But it looks just like you—“

Romano quickly flipped to the next page. He seemed to relax then. There were more sketches, mostly of France. But Spain began to study Romano’s reactions to every picture as he made his way through the album. He was indifferent towards most of them, but there were several of Spain he lingered on. His own, though… every time Romano came across a picture featuring himself, he appeared to become distressed. He frowned, and his face flushed, and he tried to move on as quickly as possible. It was strange.

It took Romano nearly a half hour to finish examining the album. When he finished, he closed it and was quiet for a long moment. Then he turned to Spain and said with complete seriousness, “I want you to get rid of all the pictures with me in them.”

Spain gasped. “No way!” He cried, and he ripped the album from Romano’s hands before he could do the deed himself. Romano looked furious and immediately tried to steal back the album, but there was no way in hell all of Spain’s precious pictures were going to be destroyed!

“Give it to me!” Romano yelled. “Those pictures are of me, and I should get to say whether or not you can have them!”

“They’re mine, and you absolutely do not have any say in whether or not I can have them!” Spain yelled back, lifting his leg to plant a foot in Romano’s chest and push him away.

Romano struggled to get closer, his face wild with anger. “Give them to me, damn it!”

“No!”

“Give it!”

“Like hell!”

“Damn it, get rid of those ugly fucking pictures before I set the entire album on fire!”

“No!” Spain matched Romano’s glare. “What makes you say these pictures are ugly? They’re the best I own!”

“Yeah, well even the fucking best—“ Romano cut himself off and clenched his fists. “I hate when there are pictures of me!”

Spain pouted. “But you’re so cute!”

“No, I’m not!” Romano jumped up from the couch. “Spain, you asshole, you’d better fucking destroy those pictures! They’re embarrassing, and I hate them, and I’ll hate you if you don’t!” Then Romano stormed from the room, leaving a gaping Spain behind.

Why? Why did Romano hate seeing pictures of himself? They weren’t embarrassing at all! Spain sighed and slumped down into the cushions of the couch, clutching his picture album to his chest. Well, maybe he wasn’t totally oblivious as to the reason why. Romano tended to have a low opinion of himself, even though Spain couldn’t fathom how that was possible.

But maybe it was because Romano had never seen himself in his best light. His best light being, of course…

Spain grinned as he was struck with an incredibly brilliant and sexy idea.

*~*~*

Everything was set up. The camera was in place and well-hidden, and all Spain needed to do was walk over to his dresser and casually brush his hand against the record button. The hardest part would be convincing Romano to have sex with him. If he was lucky, he’d be met with little resistance. It was always hard to predict Romano’s moods, though. Spain had been trying to improve his chances by doing little things all day to get Romano worked up—lingering kisses, playful tugs on his curl, endless compliments… It was always the compliments that ultimately got Romano into bed with him. Spain could touch Romano in all the right places and have him pressed up against the wall, engaged in a fiery kiss, and Romano might still pull away and go to his own room to sleep. But the moment Spain told him that he was even cuter than Veneziano, Romano was on his knees, eagerly sucking Spain off and willing to do nearly anything for him.

It felt like a dirty trick to use sometimes, but Spain figured with a lover as difficult as Romano he needed to have some kind of upper hand. Spain began to unbutton his shirt and glanced into a mirror to see Romano lying on the bed, intent on watching Spain’s back. His face was pink, and his eyes were half lidded, and he was running his fingers along the edge of a pillow. Spain tried not to smile. Romano was most definitely in the mood for sex. He reached up and pressed ‘Record’, and the little light on the camera turned green. He glanced into the mirror to see if Romano had noticed, but Romano was more interested in studying Spain’s backside. Spain decided to abandon his shirt and work on his jeans instead. He slipped his belt off and then shimmied out of them, hoping to give Romano a bit of a show. He knew he had a great ass, though personally, he was rather partial to Romano’s.

“You know,” Spain commented, bending over to take off his left sock. “The tomatoes are doing really well this year.”

“Mmm,” came Romano’s reply.

Spain took off his other sock, staying bent over a little longer than necessary before straightening himself out again. “I think it’s because of all the time and love you put into them. Your crops turn out better and better with each year that passes.” Spain glanced up just in time to see a tiny quirk of lips reflected in the mirror.

“I’m not at your house enough to put that much time into them,” Romano tried to counter.

“Aren’t you?” Spain teased. Instead of getting angry, Romano just buried half of his face into the pillow to hide his blush. Spain could have cried from his good fortune. Romano was in such a good mood that night.

Spain turned around and walked towards the bed, stripping his shirt the rest of the way off as he went. “I think you have a magic touch with those plants, Romano,” he continued. “You’ve worked on them ever since you were little, and they absolutely adore you.” Romano’s ears were bright red. Spain’s compliment was genuine, but he knew that he was getting Romano’s blood hot. He wasn’t complimented often, and so it always made him so flustered and happy when he was. It was a little sad to Spain, but then again, Romano tended to be a bit of a sex kitten when he was put into this kind of mood, and Spain rather wanted to keep that side of Romano to himself.

Spain couldn’t help but feel excited when he climbed onto the bed next to Romano and ran his fingers through his soft hair. “Romano, do you think we could have sex tonight?” he asked.

Romano tilted his flushed face up, and after a moment, murmured, “Sí.”

Spain had to remind himself that this was to show Romano how beautiful he was and not how Spain could ravish him within an inch of his life in less than seven minutes.

*~*~*

The DVD Spain held in his hand was his newest most prized possession. He had only watched the first ten minutes, but they had been spectacular. He wondered why he had never thought to record Romano and him having sex before. Having the opportunity to watch Romano in his entirety, climaxing, and then rewinding and watching him climax again, and again— Spain swallowed and rested his flushed face against the cool window of his hotel room. Romano had left him the next morning and returned to Italy to collect his brother for an international conference. Spain had been dying ever since to watch the movie he had made with Romano. Now his little henchman was running late, and Spain was about to burst with impatience.

A quick rap on the door drew his attention away from the streets below, and Spain ventured to the door where France was waiting on the other side.

“I thought you’d like to know that the two little Italies have arrived,” he informed Spain with a grin. Heart pounding, Spain tossed the DVD onto the nearest bed and rushed out the door to greet his beloved.

*~*~*

“What’s with you?” Romano demanded as Spain burst into their room with unusual energy. “We just got here, and now we’re checking in for the night? And who said we’re even sharing a room?!”

Spain gave Romano an incredulous look. “When have we ever not shared a room?” he asked. Now where was that DVD? He hadn’t thrown it very—ah! There it was, right next to the pillow! “Romano, I have something I want to show you!”

Romano blinked in surprise at Spain’s excitement, then noticed the obscure disk in his hand. “What’s that?” he asked to humor Spain rather than out of any genuine curiosity. Romano kicked off his shoes and made for the bed, sighing as he hit the soft mattress.

“A movie we’re going to watch,” Spain explained.

“That’s why you were so eager to get back here? A stupid movie?” Romano picked at the covers a moment before saying, “Well if it’s that good, maybe we should invite Venezia—“

“No!” Spain cut in. “This is something only we can watch!” The tone of his voice held no room for argument, and his eyes burned with some emotion Romano couldn’t decipher. Well that was stupid, getting a movie that only they… could…

Romano’s cheeks warmed as understanding finally struck him. If it was a movie only they could watch together, then it must be something… naughty. Despite his frustration with being whisked away as soon as he arrived, Romano suddenly found himself very much interested in the reason behind it.

“So it’s… porn?” Romano inquired, blushing hard at the word ‘porn’. Spain’s face took on a peculiar look, and Romano realized with a sinking heart that he had struck way off the mark. Shit, shit, shit! “Ah, no! I was just—of course it isn’t! I wouldn’t even be interested in that kind of—“ Shit, this was so embarrassing! “—that kind of thing, um.” Damn it, why was he so perverted?

“Well, no, it is. Kind of,” Spain explained in reassurance, and Romano’s embarrassment ebbed somewhat. Then it came back full force as he realized that he would be watching porn with Spain! Fuck, he hadn’t prepared for this! He wondered if Spain had seen it, what kind of men were in it, what they did. Did they have dark hair and big muscles? N-not that Romano liked that kind of guy or anything, but… Anyways, what did they do during the movie? Did they just sit there and watch it? Did they touch each other? What if it wasn’t exciting at all but actually really embarrassing and awkward? “Romano!” Romano jumped at his name. “Are you listening to me?” Spain looked the slightest bit nervous. Good, so Romano wasn’t the only one. “It’s not exactly what you think it is.” What? “But you have to make me a promise, ok? You have to watch it all the way through. And not get mad. Or hurt me. Especially not hurt me.”

Dread replaced Romano’s excitement. “You do realize how awful that sounds?”

“I know. But it’s not awful, I promise.” Spain leaned over to kiss Romano. “Do you promise to watch it with me and not get mad?” Romano pursed his lips together but nodded. Spain gave him a brilliant smiled and another peck on the lips. “I’m going to show you,” Spain murmured as he slipped the DVD out of its case and into a nearby player. “How beautiful you really are.”

“What?”

You know, the tomatoes are doing really well this year.

Mmm.

Romano froze, eyes going wide. No way. No way! On the screen of the television, Spain was undressing and Romano… Romano was laying on the bed, so obviously checking out Spain’s ass as he carried on the conversation. Romano’s heartbeat filled his ears so that he couldn’t even hear what was being said. He watched as the Romano being recorded blushed and bit back a grin, and melted more and more with every word Spain sent his way. He looked smitten to the point where it was pathetic, and the camera wasn’t flattering to him at all. He was strewn on the bed in an awkward position, face blotched with red and hair tousled in an unattractive manner.

Ugly.

Romano felt a lump form in his throat as he watched himself interact with Spain. Spain, who was gorgeous and collected and fucking perfect, leaned down and pressed a kiss to Romano’s lips, who—fucking hell—didn’t even close his eyes! He was such a mess, and the difference between the two was so vast Romano felt like crying.

“Why did you do this?” Romano choked. As long as he wasn’t forced to see himself in reality, he could at least believe in a fantasy where he was as attractive to Spain as Spain was to him. But this destroyed that fantasy, and Romano knew that if he were to watch it get dirty and raw and real, it would only make him lose it. “Turn it off,” he whispered. “I hate this. I don’t want to see this happen!” The Romano on the television gave a surprised cry as Spain bit at his neck, and his arms hovered uselessly, unsure of what to do. “Turn it off!” Romano cried again.

“Romano, please,” Spain murmured. “Just watch. It’s brilliant, I promise.” He reached out a comforting hand, but Romano flinched away as if it would burn.

“It can’t be! I look so stupid!” Romano’s words were further confirmed in his mind as he watched his double try to eat half of Spain’s face. He had no technique whatsoever, just licked and sucked around Spain’s mouth as he pleased. “I can’t believe you recorded this, you fucking bastard. I’m not staying and watching!” Romano jumped up to flee, but a firm hand grasped his wrist and yanked him onto Spain’s lap.

“I want you to watch this with me,” Spain said beside Romano’s ear. One of his hands rubbed gentle circles onto his abdomen. “I want you to see yourself how I see you.”

“Fucking hell.” Romano’s vision began to go blurry. “I fucking hate you, Spain. How could you record this without telling me? I…” Romano lifted a fist to scrub at his eyes before any tears could fall. “I hate you, damn it.” He couldn’t watch. He wanted to pretend Spain couldn’t even see him during sex. Now Spain couldn’t just see him, but he could scrutinize every part of him. Romano didn’t want to see the folds of his flesh and how sweaty Spain made him. He didn’t want to see the expressions he made or hear the little squeaks and moans and nonsense that spewed from his mouth because of Spain’s touch.

Spain was silent for a moment as Romano buried his face in his hands and quiet noises came from the television. “If you want,” Spain began, hesitant. “I’ll turn it off—but!” he burst in before Romano could respond. “But just let me watch a few minutes?” Romano said nothing, so Spain turned his attention to the Romano giving hushed whimpers on the television. He thought about what he wanted to say. “Romano is so pretty,” Spain murmured. “So gorgeous on camera.” He began to pet Romano’s hair. “Look at how pink your cheeks grow as I touch you. Look at how stiff those cute little nipples get when I pinch and lick them.” Romano made a quiet noise of disapproval, but Spain continued. “Your face is so erotic right now. I love watching you struggle to remain composed. It makes it all the more sexy when you lose control.” Spain leaned down to whisper into Romano’s ear. “Listen to those noises you make. That kind of voice could make a person come from it alone.”

“Shut up,” Romano muttered. He spread his fingers just a bit to peek at the screen, then blushed as he saw himself kissing up and down Spain’s neck. Spain swallowed hard and shivered just a bit when Romano bit his collar bone.

“You know all of my sensitive spots,” the Spain behind him observed. “And you’re an amazing kisser.”

“It looks messy.”

“Kissing wouldn’t be half as fun if it were clean.”

Romano’s lips twitched, but he fought away the smile that wanted to surface. Two warm hands covered his own and slid them away from his face. They came to rest on Romano’s lap, not at all far away from his… critical lap area.

“At this point,” Spain narrated beside Romano’s ear. “I’m getting rather turned on. It’s dangerous for you to start getting aggressive.” On screen Romano gave Spain’s mouth a playful nip, then shrieked as Spain tackled him to the bed. “It’s especially dangerous when you know that I can take you down in an instant.”

Romano frowned, but knew he couldn’t argue. Somehow that bastard was ten times stronger than him.

AAA-Aaaahhnn!

Yet… surprisingly gentle. Spain chuckled at the noise Romano had just made on screen, and Romano’s face went crimson. Fucking hell. Was he always this vocal? He watched as Spain slid down his body with catlike grace until his teasing smile rested mere centimeters away from Romano’s erection. Romano had yet to remove his boxers, and he squirmed a bit, unsure of whether or not he should take the initiative to do so. Spain pressed his tongue flat against the clothed bulge and Romano shivered.

The Spain sitting behind Romano mimicked his double and pressed his tongue to the back of Romano’s neck, making him jump and gasp. “Ah, bastard!” Romano cried. “Don’t do that!” He wiped at the back of his neck until it was dry, then returned his focus to the screen where Spain had grasped the waistband of Romano’s boxers and yanked them down. Romano’s cock jerked upward, and Spain fit his mouth around it as he snapped the boxers the rest of the way off and tossed them to the side of the bed.

Romano bit his lip and shifted a bit as he watched himself pant on screen and thrust his hips upward. This was just obscene. He could feel himself getting hard, but he couldn’t do anything while in Spain’s lap, or Spain would find out. Not that, he realized with a thump in his chest, Spain wasn’t in a similar condition beneath him.

“Is it strange to be jealous?” Spain asked from behind him. He squeezed Romano’s thighs, and Romano’s eyes fluttered shut, heart pounding as he prayed those hands wouldn’t wander towards his crotch.

“O-of course it’s strange, idiot,” Romano stuttered. “Who are you jealous of?”

“The one who’s getting to suck Roma off right now,” Spain replied. He leaned forward to take Romano’s earlobe into his mouth and suck on it. Romano whined just as the Romano on the video cried out and cursed.

“Mother fucker,” Romano muttered. Why did he make so much noise?!

“Romano, look,” Spain whispered. Romano glanced up in time to see Spain release his cock with a slurp, and he felt like squirming again when he saw how hard and flushed and wet it was. “God, you look so hot,” Spain murmured, almost to himself. “I wish I could devour you whole.” He rocked against Romano a bit, grinding his erection into Romano’s ass. Th-that wasn’t fair. The temperature in the room rose, and Romano had to swallow the tiny moan that wanted to escape his throat.

On screen, Romano shivered and pulled Spain down into a kiss. This time the kiss was much more heated, and Romano was struck by how serious he looked. Spain drew their bodies together, and they seemed to mesh perfectly, grinding their hips against one another and providing the kind of friction that Romano wished he had against his cock now. He couldn’t believe he had actually become turned on by this. Then Spain whispered something into Romano’s ear that the camera didn’t catch, but both members of the audience drew in a breath when they remembered what it was.

Romano crawled to the other side of the bed, and Spain leaned back and watched in appreciation as he bent over to root around in the drawer of the bedside table.

“You pervert,” Romano accused, stomach fluttering as he observed the hungry look in Spain’s eyes. He supposed… maybe… it was something Spain might want to watch. He had never really studied his ass before, but it was round and smooth and jiggled in a way that made Romano blush. Then he found what he was looking for on screen and turned back towards a smirking Spain. Romano blinked in shock as he watched his own face take on a sexy, confident leer that he didn’t know he possessed.

Learn a thing or two, Romano instructed Spain as he popped the cap off the lube. Romano gaped off-screen, not realizing how cheeky and flirty that had sounded, instead of the disgruntled complaint he’d thought he had given at the time.

He watched as he poured a generous amount onto his fingers and then leaned back into the pillow. But when he spread his legs wide open, Romano didn’t think he could watch any more. “Let’s turn this off!” he suggested. He went to jump off of Spain’s lap, but Spain held fast, forcing him back into position.

“We’ll miss the best part,” Spain argued. A hand found its way into Romano’s lap again and squeezed his hard cock. “And it feels like you’re enjoying yourself.” Romano gasped and tried not to make more embarrassing noises than necessary when Spain unzipped his pants and slipped his hand inside to grab hold of his cock and begin stroking.

“Fuck you,” Romano choked. He forced his eyes back to the television and watched himself circling his hole with his finger, fucking teasing the area right in front of Spain. He drew in an almost silent breath and then exhaled as he slipped the first finger inside. It went in all the way with little resistance, and Romano rubbed it around inside until he found the small spot he was looking for. His face contorted in pleasure as he gave a quiet whine, and Romano writhed in Spain’s lap off-screen, feeling like a slut.

“Isn’t this amazing?” Spain asked, quickening the pace of his jerks. “You’re so sexy. I was so turned on, I was about to rip your hands away and fuck you right there.” Romano bit his lip and felt his ass clench. Damn it, he wanted Spain to fuck him right now. “And watch. You completely skip two fingers and jam three right up there.” Spain ground his cock upwards. “Watching you prepare yourself… is so…”

Romano watched himself thrusting his fingers in and out of his ass, flushed and shaking. And when he pulled them out and sent Spain a pleading, needy look, his heart nearly beat out of his chest. He wanted to watch Spain enter him, wanted to watch how his body stretched to accommodate his huge cock and see what kind of face he made as he did so. Spain rubbed some lube over his own cock and then grabbed both of Romano’s legs and wrapped them around his waist. Then in one quick thrust he entered Romano, and off screen, both Spain and Romano moaned.

It was sexy, gorgeous, and fucking amazing.

Romano couldn’t take it anymore. He spun around and pressed a hard kiss to Spain’s lips before saying, “Damn it, you need to fuck me!”

Spain gave a breathless laugh. “I’m not going to argue with that.” He tore off Romano’s shirt and went to attack his chest, but Romano shoved him away.

“No foreplay,” he commanded. “Just fucking.” And Spain watched with delight as Romano tore off the rest of his clothes before realizing with a flustered expression that he had no idea what he could use for lube. “Fucking—“ Romano muttered, rolling off the bed and stumbling towards his suitcase. Spain laughed and removed his own clothes as Romano tore apart his luggage, trying to find the small bottle he’d brought along.

It was as Romano succeeded in finding the lube and Spain finished arranging the pillows that they heard the increasing volume and frequency of cries coming from the TV. They both turned to watch as Spain rammed into Romano over and over, and Romano clawed at his back, gasping and crying out on every thrust. Fuck, fuck, fuck. While Spain’s attention was held captive, Romano used the opportunity to slick two fingers with lube and slide them inside his hole. Feeling dirty, he began to thrust them in and out, faster and faster until he was matching Spain’s pace in the video. It wasn’t nearly as good as the real thing, but it had Romano shuddering and his cock twitching.

That was when Spain realized what he was doing. “God-damnit, Romano!” he shouted. And the next thing Romano knew, he was being hauled up and thrown back onto the bed. He braced himself for a rough entrance, but Spain paused right after hoisting Romano’s legs onto his shoulders. “Are you—?” he questioned in a shaky voice. A loud moan sounded in the background, and Romano nodded a bit too fast.

Then Spain thrust in, and Romano’s voice cracked from the effort of holding back a pleasured cry. They found a rhythm instantly, and Romano regretted only the slightest bit that they couldn’t time themselves to come at the same time they did on camera. That would have been ridiculous anyways.

“I feel like,” Spain gasped. “I’m competing with myself!” Romano gritted his teeth and curled his toes as Spain rammed into his prostate. “Seeing who can make Roma come—ah!—first.”

Romano thrust his hips up to meet Spain, eager to take in as much of him as possible. He decided he didn’t really care one way or the other, as long as he got to come soon. Spain felt so good inside of him, and every thrust that hit his prostate sent jolts of electricity flying through his body. He tried not to be as vocal as usual, but he soon found it to be a lost cause.

“Ah! Ah! Spaaain!” Damn it, fucking hell! Why did he have to draw out the bastard’s— “AAH!”

Spain caught Romano’s eye and grinned, slowing his pace for a moment.

“No, damn it! Keep going!” Romano cried, bucking his hips up to push Spain’s cock back inside of him. “Come on, Spain, you motherfucking bastard! Move!”

“Patience Romano~” Was that a fucking song in his voice?! “I’ll give you what you want, but first you have to admit something.”

“Fucking hell! What!” Romano writhed underneath Spain, desperate for the stimulation that would bring him release. He reached out a hand to grab hold of his cock, but Spain slapped it away.

“Tell me how amazing you looked in that video.” Romano gave a frustrated cry and glared at the bastard above him. Fucking son of a bitch! What? Did he want Romano to admit that maybe he was wrong, and maybe he wasn’t always so bad when caught on film? No way! “Come on, Romano,” Spain coaxed in a sweet voice, beginning to move again at an agonizingly slow pace. “Tell me.” He grasped Romano’s cock and ghosted his fingers along the length.

“Fuck, fine! Fine, you jerk, I didn’t look so ba-AHD!” Romano threw his hands over his mouth and stifled his cries as Spain started fucking him even harder and faster than before. The hand on his cock stayed, but the fingers tightened and soon provided delicious movement and friction.

Romano threw his head back and moaned from behind his hands, hips moving in a frenzy as a burning pressure built in his lower abdomen. He could just barely hear the echoing sounds of their fucking caught on camera. His ears were filled with the sound of his racing heartbeat, and his body throbbed, as he was pushed closer and closer—

“Spain,” Romano gasped, body trembling with his orgasm. A few moments later Spain came as well, with what sounded like Romano’s name on his lips.

They fell into a more comfortable position on the bed, and lay panting while trying to regain control of their breathing. Spain sent an exhausted smile Romano’s way, and Romano shied away into his chest.

You’re so amazing, Romano. I love you.

S-stop saying embarrassing things, bastard. Um. But, but I… love you, too.

*~*~*

“I’m off to get the idiot,” Romano informed Spain. Spain watched him go with a smile and wondered what he should do before the first meeting he was meant to attend began in three hours. He could sleep, but sleeping was no fun without Romano. Ah! He could call up France and Prussia! Technically, Prussia wasn’t supposed to be there, but technically, he was never supposed to be at any of the meetings he attended. As Spain dialed France’s number first, his eyes landed on the DVD player. He wondered… no. No, that wouldn’t be appropriate.

After several rings, France answered.

“Please tell me you have something in mind. I’m so bored I could cry.”

Spain laughed. “Nothing in particular… unless…” he grinned and checked over his shoulder for Romano—just in case. “Unless you want to hear about really great sex.”

France made a noise of pure joy on the other end of the line. “I always want to hear about sex, really great or otherwise. Come to my room immediately. I’m due to attend one of the earlier meetings today, and I need as much detail as possible!”

Spain laughed again, and didn’t bother to reflect over how he and France sounded like teenage girls. “Right away, then!” He hung up and headed for the door, then paused. Once again the DVD player beckoned him. “No, Spain,” he coached himself. “Romano would kill you.” He placed a hand on the doorknob. Then looked over his shoulder. That damn DVD player… “Just because you take it with you doesn’t mean you’re going to watch it,” he muttered. Of course, if France happened to force him into showing it, and envied Spain for his amazing, sexy little Roma, there was nothing Spain could do about it.

But that probably wouldn’t happen. That was what Spain told himself as he put the DVD in a slim jewel case and tucked it into his pocket. And unfortunately for Spain (or fortunately, depending on how one looked at it), he never did get to show France his movie. The only one that got to view the DVD was the floor after Spain bumped into England and they both went sprawling to the ground, papers flying everywhere (Stupid git!).

*~*~*

There was something very wrong. Romano realized this as soon as he stepped into the conference room with his brother and Spain. Unlike the usual conversation and bickering, the room was dead silent. And unnervingly, all eyes turned toward Romano and the others when they entered the room. It was hard to place the expressions on everybody’s faces. They didn’t look angry, really. Just perturbed, and maybe the slightest bit embarrassed.

What were they staring at? Veneziano? “What?” Romano demanded, stepping in front of his brother as his mind flew through different possibilities. “What the hell is with this reception, huh?” The others’ stares seemed to intensify, almost as if they were scrutinizing them, and Romano felt himself flush under the attention. Their gazes were burning right through him. What the fuck? “What is it?”

America spoke up first, cheeks red. “Do you always do that?” When he got nothing but a confused look in response, he cleared his throat. “Not that it was bad or anything. In fact, you were pretty…“

“Hey!” England shouted as America’s eyes went hazy. “I told you, I don’t want to hear any more about fucking perfect bodies or intense looks or any of that shit!”

“You should smile more often,” Canada spoke up, sounding shy. “You’re really pretty when you do.”

“You should go without clothes more often,” France advised. “Really, I can’t believe how much you’ve been hiding from us all this time!”

Romano’s head was spinning. What were they going on about? Were they talking to him?

“And you should use your hands more often.” America’s eyes drifted down to where Romano’s fists were clenched at his sides. “Your fingers are really long and slender. Actually, you’re really long and slender.” Romano gaped, and America’s face flushed even more. “Do you think I could have a copy?”

Something in the back of Romano’s mind screamed, but he could only stand frozen, stomach turning.

“The meeting is due to begin in three minutes,” Germany’s voice sounded from behind his hands. He refused to look at anybody, as if he had been traumatized by something.

England glared at America. “That’s right, so stop going on about—“

“Oh, shut up already!” America glared back. “Like you weren’t about to jerk off the moment he took his pants off! Don’t think we all missed that little noise you made when he spread his legs!”

No!

“I did not—!”

“It’s not as if we blame you, England,” France consoled him. “We were all turned on.” He flicked his eyes towards Germany for a moment, but Germany did nothing but groan into his hands. “Nobody expected our little Romano to be so sexy. Well, I did because Spain told me all about it, but—“

Spain. Spain.

Romano turned to glare with hatred at the bastard behind him. Spain had paled, and was searching through his pockets for something. When he looked up, he startled at meeting Romano’s gaze. After appearing lost for words for a good five seconds he gave Romano a weak smile and said, “Look, Romano. Everyone else thinks you’re sexy, too.”

He was dead.

Spain pulled his hands from his pockets and drew in a shaky breath. He couldn’t hold Romano’s gaze for long, and so he acted in the only way he found logical at the time. He turned and ran.

Romano gave him a head start. He was going to need it.

Sausages without Buns - Oneshot

Fri, 26 Aug 2011 13:39:00 -0400

Sausages without Buns

“Hey, hey you!” Lovino was offended. So deeply, horrifically offended. He cursed at the man with his middle finger, who stood smiling exactly two-hundred-and-fifty-two meters away from him on the other street corner.

Light gusts blew across the street, causing an empty pop can to skitter and stop before meeting its demise at the tire of an unsuspecting driver. The faded red, green, and white parasol labeled “Roma’s Italian Dogs” rustled in the wind, colliding with thousands of dirty particles of dirt, sand, and cigarette ash.

“Hey bastard! You think you could up your price a little and stick to the rules around here?” Lovino yelled across the street. He could barely hear himself across the roar of downtown traffic, but fuck that. He was Lovino, and Lovinos were people to be heard.

“Even ‘Authentic Wursts’ obeys the rules! If that bastard can obey the rules, you can fucking obey the rules!” By rules, of course, Lovino meant the unwritten code of hotdog vendors. Prices must stay equal among them, because as soon as one vendor lowers the price, the rest will have to lower them too if they want to keep themselves in the green. “What you’re doing is just damn selfish! It’ll never last!”

But the man just grinned at him. He just grinned with his set of slightly yellow teeth and his dull green eyes. When he grinned, he had laugh lines at the corner of his eyes - but to Lovino, they were wrinkles - which meant he was old and stupid. Because if he spent his whole life as a hotdog vendor, there was no goddamn way he had a half-way decent brain.

“Stupid! Lower your fucking price!” He attempted again, as he did every time he got bored for the last three days; ever since “Wieners, Churros & Other Phallic Foods” opened that one fateful Monday morning. And as per his last few attempts, he failed. Miserably. Fuck, didn’t that bastard get tired of smiling?

He sighed, defeated, and picked up the roasting fork. Poking his thick sausages, he drilled little holes into the sides of them, as if the sausage was his rival’s dense head. He straightened his white collared shirt. He jingled his keys in his pants. He glanced at his watch – lunch time, and looked over the street.

There he was, that bastard, with his long line of frugal, fat New Yorkers. All they wanted was a quick fix of fast food at the nearest street corner, and - perhaps it was the bad economy – they seemed magically drawn to the five cent discount Mr. Phallic Foods offered. It was only five-fucking-cents! Geez, couldn’t those chubby office ladies see the dark, handsome sexiness that was Lovino and his wieners? He (they?) were worth at least a whole ten cents more!

Just ignore the fact that Mr. Old Bastard gave out free smiles and candy for school children, Lovino was a proud Italian! He was a flirt and a goddamn good flirt. And-and, hey, is that Lizzy - ?

“Lizzy!” Lovino called for the woman, staring at her partially see-through blouse appreciatively. “Baby! You’re here for my wieners!”

Lizzy gave him ‘the look,’ the one that girls used before turning down prospective bed partners for the night, and rolled her eyes. It was the kind his stupid brother Feliciano got at least three times daily. She pulled her purse close to her chest, obstructing Lovino’s view of her goods before the streetlight changed and she started to slink across the crosswalk.

“Go away, perv. Antonio’s so much nicer than you anyways, you douche,” she swung her hips, French nails pressed against her curves as she made her way towards red and yellow stand across the street.

“L-lizzy!” Lovino choked. “How could you do this to me? How could you cheat on me with that old fart?” But Lizzy ignored him, swinging her ass even more furiously in his face.

He wiped away a few stray tears of betrayal, turned back to count his till for the fifth time that hour (nope, still the same amount), and pouted, bottom lip stuck out as far as it would go without orthodontics.

Brooding, he sat on his stool and watched Lizzy chat up his rival. What was his name? Antonio? Lovino huffed. What a stupid name! Makes him sound like a donkey or a pack mule or a singer or somebody. Seriously, Antonio? Next they’ll be naming their kids Fred or something.

Lovino closed his eyes, dreaming of better days when he was the sole hotdog vendor on the block – back when women enjoyed his flirting and didn’t realise he did it with every women he saw. Back when saying “I’m Italian” was synonymous with “I’m fucking sexy, buy my wieners.” Now everything was ruined – all because Antonio had to charge five cents less than he did.

“Hey,” someone said and Lovino jumped up suddenly, hand already reaching for his tongs when he looked up and found Ludwig, staring blankly at him.

“Oh, it’s just you. What do you want?” Lovino glared at the other man, a university student who ran the German sausage stand “Authentic Wursts” at the next corner of Broadway.

“Your brother wanted me to deliver you a message,” the man said and broadened his imposing chest of masculinity. Lovino inwardly whimpered.

“What does he want?”

“He wants to ask how you are doing.”

“What? That’s it? I’m fucking fine. I’d be fucking delirious with joy if that asshole across the street ups his prices!”

Ludwig raised an eyebrow, took at glance at Lovino’s rival, and looked back at him, obviously trying to supress a rude comment. “Perhaps you should lower your prices too.”

“Pfffftt!”

“Anyways, I have classes in an hour. I know you don’t take summer classes, but you should try using your brain in summer as well,” Ludwig said in his monotone voice. Lovino snorted. What did his stupid brother see in him anyways? He considered calling him a nerd but stopped at the sight of his broad shoulders. Ludwig left, shuffling in a way that reminded Lovino of those lowland gorillas he saw on discovery channel. Not that he watches the discovery channel or anything-!

Lovino closed his eyes, rocking his body slightly as he sat back down on his stool. He stayed that way for the rest of the lunch hour, cursing the working class and the white collars for their love of freedom of choice and other vendors’ wieners.

Fuck that German bastard. Fuck his brother. Fuck Lizzy. Fuck that asshole, Antonio!

“Eh?” Someone said.

Lovino jumped off his stool, scrambling to get his roasting fork to slam a few wieners down onto buns when he looked up and found a set of green eyes staring at him. “Damn it! I thought you were a customer! Fuck you! Because of you, I’m fucking poor and grandpa is going to chide me for not selling enough wieners!”

Antonio, at least Lovino thought that was his name, stared blankly at him. He blinked, glanced down at the dirty concrete streets underneath and blinked some more. Finally, he looked back up and smiled so brightly, that it almost wiped the frown right off Lovino’s face.

“F-fuck me?” Antonio questioned, his English only a collection of stutters.

Lovino clamped his hand on his mouth. Fuck. Did he think out loud again? He really needed to stop doing that. It got him into trouble. It was probably the reason Lizzy and Martha and Becky and Sasha stopped buying his wieners. He should have shut his trap when he starting mentioning all the girls he had done. Or attempted to do.

“Fuck m-me?” Antonio stammered again. At least twenty different excuses flew through Lovino’s head as to how he could get himself out of this strange conversation with his archrival, but the easiest was anger and damn, Lovino was good with anger.

“Fuck you! You’re the reason I’m fucking going out of business! You and your stupid churros and stupid smiles and stupid five-cent discount on hotdogs. Fuck you and go to hell!” Slamming his hands as dramatically as he could against the metal cart, Lovino stood up straight and cracked his knuckles, ignoring the fact that he didn’t know how to crack his knuckles.

But the bastard just smiled. He smiled with those actually-quite-white-teeth and those not-actually-dull-green-eyes and Lovino’s heart skittered in his chest cavity. Antonio leaned closer, and Lovino looked down (it was a bad habit!) at his half-way opened dress shirt and his hairy chest. God, if only he had chest hair like that! And that tan – so even, and those toned muscles and his hot -

“¿Habla usted español?” The man asked. Lovino stared at his chest hair. The man asked again. “Err…¿Habla usted español?”

Lovino glanced up. “W-what?”

“S-speak Spanish? No good English,” the man said with a thick accent and looked away, sheepishly rubbing the back of his head with his left arm. His tan, hairy, toned arm. Lovino saw the light. His rival, that bastard Antonio, didn’t even know English. Fuck, he was a new immigrant and he didn’t know fucking English!

“Mexican?” Lovino asked and tilted his head to the side, his hair flopping to the side. The other man suddenly gasped, releasing a high-pitched squeal of delight. Lovino sighed and repeated. “Are you Mexican?”

Antonio seemed to calm down a bit – at least his focus was back to talking instead of gushing for no apparently reason. “No.”

“From Colombia? Peru?”

“No, Spain.”

“Spain? In Europe? What are you doing here?”

Antonio narrowed his eyes. His eyebrows knitted in concentration as he tried to decipher Lovino’s words and seemed to be having a great amount of difficulty in doing so. Lovino grinned and took a swig from his bottle of water. If this guy was like all those other new immigrants who didn’t know shit about America, it meant it was going to be as easy as hell to trick him into upping his prices.

An uneasy grin was plastered onto the man’s face. “F-fuck me?”

Lovino spat out his water. “No, bastard! Do you even know what that means? Don’t throw that phrase everywhere, stupid!”

“No comprendo.”

Grasping his head, Lovino groaned. He knew enough Spanish from hanging around Mexican pizza boys that he understood what he was saying.

Antonio poked his chin. “¿Puede-usted explicarlo, por favour?”

Lovino crossed his arms and squinted at the intruder. “Uh…seriously?”

“Yes? Teach me?”

“Uh, I guess I will. You see -“

Suddenly, his right arm was grabbed tightly. Lovino’s other arm flew to rescue its captured brother, but he soon found both arms pinned to his back. He cursed at the hotdog vendor, who continued to smile while slowly dragging his squirming body into the nearest alleyway. His eyes flew furiously across the street, only to find the lunch crowd gone and the streets abandoned.

Lovino couldn’t believe it. He was going to get mugged in broad daylight? Why didn’t those white-collar urchins up in their cubicles come and help him? And this was fucking New York City! Where the hell was everybody?

“Fuck!” He screamed and thrashed against the hold, only stopping to wince when his arm bent in a way that it shouldn’t have. His face lurched towards the wall, his skin against the grainy red bricks. Antonio’s body pressed against his back from behind. Warm puffs of breath fell in rhythm against his neck, making his shoulders scrunch up.

“W-what are you doing?” Lovino groaned against the brick.

Antonio licked the nape of his neck. “Fuck me? Yes?”

Lovino’s eyes widened. He stopped squirming just long enough for Antonio to sneak his ketchup stained fingers up the front of his shirt and onto one nipple. The sticky fingers were rough and cold against his sensitive skin. The hair on the back of Lovino’s neck stood on end. He shuttered away from the coldness as shivers ran down his spine.

Panting, he gasped. “That’s not what I meant when I said yes!”

He could almost feel the smile against his neck. The man was being almost unnecessarily gentle with him, but his hold was strategic. As soon as Lovino started wiggling, his arms would sting in their sockets, and he stayed still to avoid the pain. Without notice, his body was spun around and he found himself face-to-face with his rival. Lashes fluttered on his cheek, tickling him as Antonio nibbled his chin.

“No comprendo,” he whispered before his hands wandered around to the small of Lovino’s back. His fists clenched his shirt tightly as his hips ground down on his groin. Moaning, he thrust towards him, lips now invading his mouth in earnest intent. Lovino’s arms looped around the man’s shoulders, appreciatively tracing those tanned muscles with his fingertips. Rubbing his heated groin against the Spaniard’s leg, he hugged him closer before he froze. Wait – he wasn’t supposed to be enjoying this! Antonio was his rival - his enemy - the breaker of hotdog vendor rules! This was heresy to the wiener gods of N. Y. C!

Lovino broke away, heaving for air. “Hey bastard, I can’t do this with you! I’m supposed to hate you so – mmpph!”

Another kiss interrupted him, even more ravaging and desperate than the last. Antonio’s grasp on his shirt was so forceful that he could almost feel the fabric ripping. A button popped off with a snap!

Hey! That was a new shirt! His mind screamed. A trail of drool dribbled down his chin. Lovino almost choked on his spit, as Antonio didn’t give him the chance to goddamn shallow-

“Hey you!” A voice shouted.

Antonio pulled away rapidly. Air rushed into Lovino’s lungs and he gasped for air, huffing as though he had just run ten miles. His legs shook like jelly without the other’s supporting thrusts and he slid down the wall, crumpling into a massive pile of ripped fabric, drool and flesh.

Shadows lurched over the two of them as a blond man with glasses and a curious stray hair blocked their exit. An ugly police hat was perched upon his head. “Hey! No CPR in the alley ways! Move along now!”

Antonio turned back to Lovino and, as Lovino happily noticed, was breathing as vigorously as he was. His hands were on his knees as he tried to support himself.

“Did you hear me?” The police man yelled louder, and Antonio absentmindedly nodded. He regained his posture and took out a card from his back pant pocket, flinging it at Lovino.

“I’ll be going now, officer. See you later, Lovino. I won’t bother your business tomorrow, I swear,” Antonio smiled, speaking in perfect English. Lovino gawked with his mouth wide open. More drool ran down his chin. His shirt, now with two buttons less, slipped off one shoulder. That bastard knew English? He was just playing with him all this time?

His foot ached to give the guy a kick in the balls, but his legs were still shaking from their passionate embrace. Antonio continued. “I gotta get back to work tomorrow since I only get a few days off, so I’ll leave the stand to you. I don’t need it anymore, I think. Francis came up with the name, so it’s kind of lame,” he gave Lovino a wink. “Come up to my office sometime. You can ride my churros.”

Then, under the scrutinizing glaze of the enthusiastic policeman, he left Lovino alone in the alleyway. The policeman muttered obscenities about unlicensed first-aid, oh the deprivation of society! and wandered back to whatever hole he crawled out of.

The vendor of “Roma’s Italian Dogs” sat there, mouth unable to spit out a single coherent sentence. The bastard knew English – he knew English! And what did he mean by ‘get back to work?’ wasn’t he just at work?

Defeated, Lovino glanced down at the smelly and damp street beneath him, and his eyes were immediately drawn to the white card that Antonio had given him. Gold and black letters were embedded on it.

Antonio C. Fernandez

Chief Financial Officer

Francis & Co. Financial Solutions

His heart skipped and his mind became even more of a jumbled mess. The old fart was a CFO? Wait – does that mean he opened that stupid hotdog stand just to fuck with him?

Lovino turned the card over. A map of the downtown area was pictured with a sign indicating the location of the finance office, which was right – Lovino looked up – beside his hotdog stand. In red handwriting, the street corner was circled and labelled.

{- Cute boy with a hotdog stand. Has nice sausages ;)

Lovino groaned and pushed himself up. Why was his life like this?

Elves - Oneshot

Fri, 26 Aug 2011 13:32:00 -0400

Elves

Elves, it has been established, are little fucking bitches. And once a year (Norway’s still not sure why) they take out their little fucking bitchiness on the people of Norway. They get all organized, and instead of the little bouts of misfortune they normally caused, they caused huge events of misfortune.

Last year, they removed the pants of over 400 tourists. Then they had purposely caused the misspelling of over 70 tattoos. They had left mortal enemies in seductive situations. They shaved people’s heads. They had tripped people with their feet. It was just a generally uncomfortable situation.

Norway normally just hid for a week, while Henrick laughed. Normally, as his people were punished, so was he. Last year Norway suffered a de-pansting, (Which, by the way, occurred in front of Iceland. Iceland didn’t laugh, or smile, just nodded his head in Norway’s direction and said “Elves, man.”), a bad fall, and a really bad haircut. The year before that, he woke up with a tattoo on his ass that said “Danny.” (Which, he assured Denmark, was not an abbreviation of Danmark. Even though it was.)

This year, though. This year sucked balls.

Which Norway expressed at the dinner table in front of Sealand.

While Finland tried to explain that, “No, no. He means BOUNCY balls. You know, balls you play with-I-I mean, Balls you BOUNCE!” Denmark giggled. Sweden let out one chuckle. Finland glared. “What I mean is, that Norway shouldn’t have said that. You shouldn’t put toys in your mouth. You might choke.”

“You might choke on BALLS?” Denmark asked, leaning in, smirking. Finland rolled his eyes. “Yes, sure, Denmark, “and then turned back to Sealand and finished, “Anyway, your uncle Norway shouldn’t say things like that at the dinner table.

Norway sighed, and blinked.”I’m not sorry. I just said balls. Its not like I said penis, or ass, or buttsexs or anything.”

Everyone stared at Norway with their mouth opens, partly surprised that he had said more than one sentence at all.

“I still am not sorry. It’s the elves. I can’t lie. Or shut up. Sorry. I’m not sorry.”

Everybody took a moment to respond, laying they forks on the table.

Iceland was the first person to speak. He quietly put down his fork and asked, “What really happened to my goldfish?”

And Norway, without missing a beat, answered “Denmark knocked his bowl off the table trying to fuck me on it.” Sealand’s mouth fell open. Even he knew that was a bad word. Finland glared at Norway, and then quickly told Sealand it was his bed time and ushered the young Nordic to bed.

Norway blinked, and turned back to what was left with his dinner. Sweden went next. “Ar’ y’u still m’d abo’t me capturing ya?” And Norway raised his eyebrows. “Please, I wasn’t mad about it when it happened. It’s not like you did anything. You were just like, ‘Sit over there and belong to me.’ It was boring.”

Sweden just went back to eating. And then Norway saw Denmark’s face. It was like a friggn’ horror movie, the camera slowly zooming in on Denmark’s grin. It was so big it looked like it would split his face. And in slow motion, Norway saw all the questions he could ask, and all the answers he would have to give. Norway laid his head down on the table.

“Oh, Fuck,” was Norway’s only response.

Denmark made a big show of standing up, walking behind Norway and laying his hand on his shoulder. “You’re coming with me.” The Dane said. Norway groaned. “No!”

Denmark smiled bigger. “How about this, Do you want to come with me, Norge?”

Norway groaned, letting Denmark pull him out of his chair. “Yeah,” Norge began, “But only if there’s sex.” Denmark laughed heartily, and Norway buried his head in his hands.

Iceland gave Norway a look as he was walking away that said, “Elves, man. Elves.”

Denmark had Norway pinned against a wall. Denmark had his knee pressed between Norway’s thigh. Denmark was holding Norway’s hands above his head, and had his lips pressed against Norway’s thoat, and with his remaning hand, he was undoing Norway’s buttons.

“Do you think I’m… sexy?

Norway rolled his eyes, “Unfortunately.”

“Do you like this?” Denmark whispered in his ear, running his hand down Norway’s side.

Norway sighed, “Yeah, this is-OH, this is fucking ok, alright?”

Denmark smiled into Norway’s neck, let Norway lower his arms, and then pulled Norway closer. “I love you, did you know that, oh truth-telling Norge?”

Norway rolled his eyes as Denmark pushed him down onto the bed. “I’m perfectly clear on that.”

Denmark crawled on top of him. “Well, do you love me?” There was the slightest hesitation in his voice. The answer to this question was always ‘I hate you.’

Norway quickly covered his mouth with his arm, and then muttered his answer into it. “Ah ah ah,” Denmark teased, straddling Norway, “No cheating.” He pinned Norway’s arms to the side.

“Of course I love you, you giant fucking asshole.”

Denmark laughed, and then tickled Norway. He kept chanting, over and over, “You love me you loooooovvvvveee me, you want to fuck me, you think I’m seeeeexxxyyyy.”

Elves man, Elves.

Ask Me Anything - Oneshot

Fri, 29 Jul 2011 21:58:00 -0400

Ask Me Anything

burgerblogger started following you.

You posted: Thank you for the follow burgerblogger.

burgerblogger liked your post: Thank you for the follow burgerblogger.

burgerblogger replied to your post: Thank you for the follow burgerblogger.

| Sure dude, no problem! You post a ton of HP stuff, and I found you on ff. Your stories are beast man!

You started following burgerblogger.

burgerblogger asked: OMGOMGOMG FOLLOW BACK!

Answer: Ah, well yes. You seem to post a lot of… interesting pictures. Some nice art as well, I might add. And thank you for the compliment earlier, it means a lot to know you enjoy my writing.

burgerblogger asked: That’s cool! Thank you! I do some of the art myself. I like to draw superheroes and stuff ya know? But more importantly; you have no idea how awesome this is for me! You’re like my favorite author ever man! That one story where Ron keeps trying to ask Hermione to the Yule ball, but she’s so distracted with studying she just ignores him until he tries to cast a lumos spell to get her attention, but then it goes wrong and he accidentally shines it Snape’s eyes, and they lose like 50 points for Gryffindor and then everyone’s pissed, including Hermione, but Ron won’t give up, and he totally like, keeps trying until she says yes. Really, really inspiring man.

Answer: Oh, so much praise, thank you. I don’t know what to say… just, I hope you continue reading and enjoy my other writings as much as this one.

burgerblogger asked: Dude, yes. I’ve read everything you’ve ever written. Is it true that your name’s Arthur? Because I read that Harry/Draco story too… Not quite sure what was going on there.

Answer: Yes my name is Arthur. And yes, I’m male. If you have a problem with my non-heterosexual stories, you’re welcome to un-follow me right now.

burgerblogger asked: No, no, no! I never said that I have a problem with it, just that that was your only not-straight piece, so it was kinda weird ya know? Believe me, I totally didn’t mean to offend you, and I’m definitely not a homophobe or anything. My name’s Alfred, and actually, I’m bi :)

Answer: Hmph. Well, so long as you’re not out to reprimand me for my story or views, you’re welcome to stay. It’s nice to meet you Alfred.

burgerblogger asked: You too Arthur! I bet we’ll be friends in no time!

Answer: Your overuse of the exclamation point is annoying whilst still managing to be entertaining. And, we’ll see about that, Alfred.

burgerblogger asked: Sooooooooooooo you live in the UK? That’s cool.

Answer: I see you’re stalking my profile again. Yes, I live in the UK. England, to be precise.

burgerblogger asked: That’s awesome! I’ve always wanted to visit England, see Big Ben and stuff. I live in America though (but I love it!).

Answer: I figured as much. With your misspelling of ‘favourite’ and your high abundance of energy.

burgerblogger asked: Hey, I spelled ‘favorite’ right. You’re the one that has spelling issues… And a high abundance of energy? What’s that supposed to mean ? ! ? !

Answer: Thank you for proving my point.

burgerblogger asked: What? You Brit’s are so confusing… You’re probably drinking tea right now while on one of those buses with like two floors, on your way to your favorite fish and chips place.

Answer: Ah, you’re right. Do you think that’s too much at once? Perhaps I should reschedule my meeting with the Queen…

burgerblogger asked: OMG YOU KNOW THE QUEEN? DUDE THAT IS SO AWESOME!

Answer: I was kidding, Alfred.

burgerblogger asked: Oh… not cool man. Pft if I bet if I said I knew the President you would have had the same reaction.

Answer: I somehow doubt that.

burgerblogger asked: …For a really creative author, you’re no fun :(

Answer: I’m sorry I don’t meet your expectations. I apologise.

burgerblogger asked: THERE IT IS AGAIN. YOU’RE SPELLING WORDS WRONG!

Answer: I’m not doing this with you.

burgerblogger asked: HAH! That means I win!

burgerblogger asked: Arthur?

burgerblogger asked: Arthur don’t leave, I didn’t mean it! D:

burgerblogger asked: Hey, Arthur? I’m really sorry about the other day. I’m kinda surprised you didn’t un-follow me, but I’m glad. I’d still like to talk and try and be friends though! I like meeting new people (especially people from different countries!) and I was hoping maybe we could start over? Please, I really do feel bad…

Answer: Well that was quite grown up of you. The other day, I wasn’t ignoring you, I simply had to leave.

burgerblogger asked: Oh… ummm so does that mean we can still be friends?

Answer: I suppose.

You posted: Message me a number!

1. The story of my last kiss

2. What was going on in my life one year ago

3. My current relationship status

4. Where I see myself in five years time

5. My current goals

6. Something I’m not proud of

7. Best day of my life so far

8. Worst day of my life so far

9. How many close friends I have

10. One thing about myself I’d like to change

11. What I’m doing with my life right now

12. Hardest thing I’ve had to go through

13. Something that I’m proud of

14. An object I own that has sentimental value

15. Something that I’ve paid a lot of money for

16. How old is the person I like

17. My favourite childhood toy

18. School subject I am/was good at

19. My favourite outfit/ item of clothing

20. Ask me a question of your choice

burgerblogger asked: 1-19 :)

Answer: Oh you are an arse…

burgerblogger asked: Are ya gonna do it Artie?

Answer: 1 .It’s ‘going to’ not ‘gonna.’ Please use proper grammar.

2. Do not call me ‘Artie’ or anything of the sort. My name is Arthur.

burgerblogger asked: Awwwwwwwwwwww come on! Is that it? You’re not even ‘going to’ answer any of them?

Answer: Belt up. I’ll answer one for you.

burgerblogger asked: Awesome! I was gonna ask for number one anyway ;)

Answer: You… well fine I’ll answer it. I’ve… never actually been kissed before, so I don’t have a lovely tale to write out for you, sorry.

burgerblogger asked: Woah, really? You’ve never been kissed? But you’re stories are so amazing and romantic… How’s that possible?

Answer: I said I’d answer one question for you, and I did. An additional three will cost you ten quid.

burgerblogger asked: Come on! Just one more, Arthur! Pretty please? :’(

Answer: Fine. One more, but that’s all.

burgerblogger asked: YES! Okay lets seeeeeee… How about… 3?

Answer: What is with you and the romance questions? …I’m currently single. My last relationship did not work out. He was a complete git who did not respect me, or my ideas and input. I don’t even know why I went out with him…

burgerblogger asked: I’m sorry to hear that. Some guys are douchebags… WAIT. You’re gay?

Answer: Is that a problem?

burgerblogger asked: NO, NO, NO! Gosh déjà vu Arthur. Don’t you remember me saying I was bi when we first met?

Answer: I’d like to point out that we’ve never actually met. And, yes, I vaguely remember a mention of that.

burgerblogger asked: Soooo what type of guys do you like? B)

Answer: I’m not doing this. No more questions.

burgerblogger asked: Alright, alright. Gotta run Arthur, football practice!

Answer: You mean rugby for girls?

burgerblogger asked: Oh you will pay for that comment…

Answer: As you Americans would say: Come at me bro!

You reblogged everyonesacritic: The person I reblogged this from has a blog worth following.

everyonesacritic asked: Thank you, Alfred. Even though you’ve only been following me, what? Two months now?

Answer: DUDE, HELLO! Two months of tumblr time is like a decade in real life!

everyonesacritic asked: Right, right. How could I forget?

Answer: It happens. I forgot stuff all the time.

everyonesacritic asked: …why does that not surprise me?

Answer: HEY!

everyonesacritic asked: Pardon?

Answer: …you can’t pretend you didn’t hear me when we’re freaking TYPING Arthur T_T

everyonesacritic asked: Don’t type at me in that tone, young man!

Answer: I bet I’m older than you!

everyonesacritic asked: Oh, really?

Answer: Yeah! Hey brb.

burgerblogger asked: Back! So what were we talking about?

burgerblogger asked: Arthur? Where’d ya go?

burgerblogger asked: ARTHUR?

Answer: Ah, sorry. I left the computer for a moment as well. I didn’t realise it would worry you so… I suppose I’ll alert you next time I’m leaving.

burgerblogger asked: Right! Great! What were we talking about?

Answer: You truly are forgetful…

burgerblogger asked: Ah, whatever! These trick-or-treaters are piling up man! Gtg!

Answer: Alright, but save me a dairy milk and maybe a flake.

everyonesacritic asked: Are all the memes really necessary, Alfred? They’re clogging up my dashboard.

Answer: DUDE YES! They’re freaking amazing! Aren’t you laughing?

everyonesacritic asked: No.

Answer: Cranky pants. You don’t laugh at anything.

everyonesacritic asked: That’s not true. I just don’t laugh at you. (Or any of your ridiculous memes)

Answer: Oh, really? What makes you laugh? I’m gonna assume it’s not ‘That’s what she said’ jokes. (Or any of my awesome memes)

everyonesacritic asked: You’d be correct in assuming that. Let’s see… what would make me laugh? Possibly something or someone funny, unlike you.

Answer: Ouch man! Serious burn…

everyonesacritic asked: Would you like some ice for that burn?

Answer: Cut it out! You’re supposed to be stuck up and reserved! Not dissing me!…

everyonesacritic asked: So now I’m stuck up? What happened to being the admirable author that could do no wrong?

Answer: I got to know you ;D

You posted: Leave a word, any word, in my ask box, and I will tell you a fact about myself relating to that word.

everyonesacritic liked your post: Leave a word, any word, in my ask box-

everyonesacritic asked: Grandiloquence.

Answer: Dude wth. T_T

everyonesacritic asked: You said any word, did you not?

Answer: Yeah but… ugh okay.

Grandiloquence (noun): a pompous or lofty manner of speaking or writing.

Let’s see… I have this friend Arthur who I met on tumblr. He writes with grandiloquence ;)

everyonesacritic asked: Git.

Answer: I try.

everyonesacritic reblogged burgerblogger: Leave a word, any word, in my ask box, and I will tell you a fact about myself relating to that word.

burgerblogger asked: SCORE! Now I get to ask you. I’m gonna be nice and post an easy word (unlike you). Hmmmm… how about… city?

Answer: City? Well I used to live in London. It’s a beautiful town, really, but I’d love to visit New York. I’ve heard it’s amazing.

burgerblogger asked: OMG! I LIVE IN NEW YORK MAN!

Answer: I assume that requires the use of all capital letters?

burgerblogger asked: AS A MATTER OF FACT, YEAH, IT DOES. London though? That’s really cool. And don’t worry, you’ll visit New York one day, I’m sure of it.

Answer: Is that so?

burgerblogger asked: Yes, yes it is so. I’ll see to it that you visit me and I can show you around NYC!

Answer: I’ll hold you to that, Alfred.

burgerblogger asked: Hey Artie. Do you actually have bad teeth? Or is that just a stereotype?

Answer: Yes, my teeth are absolutely horrible, and I suppose you weigh about 22 stones.

burgerblogger asked: Stones? What?…

Answer: I was kidding. No, my teeth are perfectly fine, thank you. It’s just a stereotype, just as all Americans are overweight.

burgerblogger asked: Oh… I knew that :D

Answer: Of course you did. Alfred, I really can’t speak now, I’m quite busy.

burgerblogger asked: Really? Watcha doin? B)

Answer: If you must know, I’m writing an analytical essay on whether the discovery of Churchill’s secret War Rooms would have possibly compromised the welfare of the British government or the outcome of the war during the late 1940’s.

burgerblogger asked: Woah, you sound really smart. Are you in college? Because I’ve certainly never had any assignment like that.

Answer: Yes, I’m currently in my first year at Cambridge.

burgerblogger asked: DUDE! CAMBRIDGE? THAT’S LIKE THE HARDVARD OF THE UK!

Answer: I suppose you could say that, yes.

burgerblogger asked: What’s your major? Is it something in the social studies realm?

Answer: Yes, I read history. World War Two being one of my favourite topics.

burgerblogger asked: That’s so cool… when I get outta here I wanna study science. Probably biology.

Answer: You’re still in school then? Not that I mean to pry…

burgerblogger asked: Nah, it’s cool. I’m a senior, which uh… I think is like the equivalent to Year 13 in England.

Answer: Ah, you’re almost done then. Any idea where you want to study?

burgerblogger asked: No, actually… nothing’s really wowed me yet ya know? I got some time though since the school year just started.

Answer: Well, the best of luck to you. And Alfred, I really have to work on this, so farewell.

burgerblogger asked: Hey Artie, random question, I was doing some research and I saw that you have prawn flavored potato chips over there (that’s sooo weird man!) I was wondering, have you had them? Are they any good? I love chips dude.

Answer: Ah, yes we do have prawn cocktail flavoured crisps if that’s what you’re asking. Yes, I’ve had them, but I’m not a big fan. I think I’m partial to my cheese and onion.

burgerblogger asked: Mmmmmmm cheese and onion. That sounds a lot like sour cream and onion. Do you have any other cool flavors?

Answer: Hmm well off the top of my head, the only ones I can really think of are roasted chicken, steak, and bacon. There’s more though…

burgerblogger asked: YOU HAVE BACON FLAVORED POTATO CHIPS? OMGOMGOMG! I’M GETTING ON THE NEXT PLANE TO HEATHROW!

Answer: Lol. Don’t count on me picking you up.

burgerblogger asked: Woah, woah, Arthur did you just type ‘lol’?… Is this the start of the apocalypse?…

Answer: Very clever. No, I just believe I’m getting used to you. Perhaps you’re a bit more humorous than originally thought.

burgerblogger asked: Are you saying I’m funny? How about calling me the freaking hero that rescued you from your severe case of stick-up-your-ass :D

Answer: Don’t push your luck, Alfred.

burgerblogger asked: I’ll get you to call me your hero, you’ll see. I’m everyone’s hero!

Answer: Really? I didn’t know everyone needed saving.

burgerblogger asked: Course they do! The world needs saving, Arthur. We have so many problems from discrimination and hunger to war and the fight against aids. I feel like if I can do something, even if it’s as small as getting one guy in England to smile, I’m on my way to helping. We can save the world, Artie, we just need to try!

Answer: That was… remarkably deep for you. And… for the record, I may or may not have smiled.

burgerblogger asked: You did! You did smile, didn’t you :D

Answer: Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.

burgerblogger asked: Hey Arthur, when I get to England I wanna see that smile for real, alright? :)

Answer: We’ll see Alfred, we’ll see.

burgerblogger asked: Hey Arthur, does it rain a lot there? I mean we get the occasional shower in the Big Apple, but it’s not a constant downpour. Is that what it’s like in England? Or is it just a lot of thunderstorms?

burgerblogger asked: Arthur? I hope that last question wasn’t too lame or anything. I was just curious, but if you think it’s stupid you don’t have to answer it.

burgerblogger asked: Arthur I’m kinda worried now. You haven’t been on in two weeks. I hope everything’s alright. I miss talking to you. Please come back.

burgerblogger asked: Arthur?…

everyonesacritic asked: Alfred, I’m sorry I’ve been absent for a fortnight. I simply wasn’t feeling too well. I’ve returned though.

Answer: YOU’RE BACK! You weren’t feeling well? Were you sick or something Artie?

everyonesacritic asked: Ah… no. It was all in my mind. I just… wasn’t up to doing much of anything.

Answer: All in your mind? Did something happen? Are you sure you’re alright? :(

everyonesacritic asked: It’s nothing really, I don’t want to bother you with incessant pouting over absolutely nothing.

Answer: Clearly it’s not “nothing” if you were offline for two whole weeks. And it won’t bore me, I’m here to listen Arthur :)

everyonesacritic asked: …I’m surprised you’re showing so much compassion…no one does that to me.

Answer: Arthur…what’s wrong? Please tell me.

everyonesacritic asked: Nothing… it’s just that stupid frog of an ex-boyfriend. He picked up a new stick with a rather large chest and had to flaunt it around campus…

Answer: What do you care, Artie? You told me he was a dick anyway.

everyonesacritic asked: Yes well… that’s true, but… he’s just had the pleasure of reminding me that I’ll never find someone. And in his own words “Vous allez mourir seul avec votre chat.”

Answer: Well I don’t know French, so I have no idea what that means, but that’s a lie Arthur. There’s someone out there for everyone. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.

everyonesacritic asked: But you said so yourself I was “cranky” and “never laugh” and that I suffer from a severe case of “stick-up-my-arse.”

Answer: Arthur I was kidding, and don’t you remember? I said I cured you from that horrible illness :) Look, I don’t know what this guy said or did to make you this way, but you are perfect the way you are. Don’t ever change for anyone, because someone, somewhere in this world loves you just the way you are. You just have to give them a bit more time to find you.

everyonesacritic asked: Your comments are becoming more and more profound (what happened to the boy that liked those ridiculous memes?) But… thank you. That means a lot to me, Alfred.

Answer: Sure thing! And the guy that loves memes is still here, you’re just getting to see another side of him ^^

everyonesacritic asked: Well I’m glad I did… I have to go now Alfred, but I’ll talk to you soon. (And for the record, yes we get a lot of rain, but it’s not a relentless. Every once in a while we do get to see the sun.)

Answer: See ya! And really? It sounds so different from here… I really hope I get to visit one day!

You posted: Put a Disney princess in my ask :)

Cinderella - A dream or wish of mine.

Pocahontas - A time when I chose to be rebellious.

Mulan - A time when I had to be brave.

Jasmine - If I could escape somewhere, where would I go and who would I bring.

Belle - One of my favorite books.

Snow White - One of my favorite foods.

Ariel - One of my favorite songs.

Aurora - Something I did on one of my birthdays.

Rapunzel - Something I’ve always wanted to see.

Tiana - Something I’ve worked hard on to achieve.

burgerblogger liked your post: Put a Disney princess in my ask :)

burgerblogger replied to your post: Put a Disney princess in my ask :)

| Really Arthur? Really?

burgerblogger asked: Rapunzel ;)

Answer: Excellent choice, lad. Hmmm something I’ve always wanted to see? We’ll I’ve had this dream to be able to watch the ball drop in Times Square on New Year’s Eve. I’m not quite sure why… but I think it seems to me it would be a lovely moment to share with someone…

burgerblogger asked: That was more of an answer to Cinderella than Rapunzel, but alright ;) And I agree. I think that would be a pretty cool experience, but I think I’ll wait till I have someone to share it with as well.

Answer: You’ve never seen it even though you live there? I’ve seen youtube videos, but I’m sure it’s not the same…

burgerblogger asked: New York’s a big place, man! It’s not like I live in Times Square xD Nope, I’ve never actually seen it in person, but you said so yourself, it’d be more fun with someone else.

Answer: I take it you’re single?

burgerblogger asked: I take it you’re interested?

Answer: Hardly.

burgerblogger asked: Awww why’s that? I’m totally for older men!

Answer: Ignoring the fact that I’ve never actually met you, and that there’s a rather large ocean separating us…

burgerblogger asked: Long distance relationship?

Answer: Your persistence is charming.

burgerblogger asked: I try ;)

Answer: I can see that.

burgerblogger reblogged everyonesacritic: Put a Disney princess in my ask :)

Cinderella - A dream or wish of mine.

Pocahontas - A time when I chose to be rebellious.

Mulan - A time when I had to be brave.

Jasmine - If I could escape somewhere, where would I go and who would I bring.

Belle - One of my favorite books.

Snow White - One of my favorite foods.

Ariel - One of my favorite songs.

Aurora - Something I did on one of my birthdays.

Rapunzel - Something I’ve always wanted to see.

Tiana - Something I’ve worked hard on to achieve.

everyonesacritic asked: Now I’m curious: Rapunzel.

Answer: Oh that one’s easy, but you’re gonna call me and idiot for it: You.

everyonesacritic asked: What? That’s not a suitable answer, git!

Answer: Called it. And sure it is! You’re so interesting and fun to talk to, of course I’d want to see you.

everyonesacritic asked: No… no you don’t. I’m sure my real life self would be a disappointment.

Answer: Don’t say that! I bet you’re a great guy! And I bet you’re great looking too ;D

everyonesacritic asked: No… I’m not exactly easy on the eyes… or the brows…

Answer: What? Well whatever Arthur, you’re a great guy because it’s what’s on the outside that counts!

everyonesacritic asked: Lovely… and considering I’m nothing special in that department…

Answer: SHIT! Did I write outside? I totally meant inside! It’s what’s on the INSIDE that counts. Crap, I must look like a total d-bag. Stupid computer typos… But I’m serious! At the end of the day, you want someone that loves you for you, not for your great ass. And please stop saying you’re “nothing special” because it’s not true… *Sigh* I hope that makes sense…

everyonesacritic asked: You seem to like correcting my lack of self esteem.

Answer: Well I think you should look at yourself in a positive way! Look at you (well…figuratively since I can’t really see you…) you’re this great guy, who’s a terrific writer, clearly freakin smart if you got into Cambridge, and you’re really a nice person once someone takes the time to get to know you. And I know you’ll shoot this down again, but I bet you are handsome, even if you don’t think so.

everyonesacritic asked: …thank you. If it’s any consolidation, I’d like to meet you too one day. Perhaps I really will visit New York and get to see you (though it’s unlikely since I am still in university…).

Answer: That’s alright! I’ve waited this long, I can wait a bit longer! Hey gtg Artie, basketball practice!

everyonesacritic asked: Well… have fun then.

Answer: Thanks! See ya!

burgerblogger asked: MERRY CHRISTMAS ARTHUR!

Answer: Yes, happy Christmas to you as well.

burgerblogger asked: So how’s your holiday going?

Answer: It’s alright. I’ve gone back to London to spend it with my family. My brothers are a pain in the arse though…

burgerblogger asked: You have brothers? Me too! He’s really quiet though, he’d probably say I’m the annoying one.

Answer: I wouldn’t argue the point.

burgerblogger asked: HEY! Eh, but yeah. So… did you get any good gifts?

Answer: Yes, as a matter of fact. My mum bought me the complete series of Sherlock Holmes in original binding. I’ve wanted these for so long… you have no idea.

burgerblogger asked: Cool, anything else?

Answer: Hmmm… ah well my brothers gave me a new portable gaming device to take to back to university. I believe it was PSP or something like that. But I gave it to my younger brother Peter since I’m not really interested in that type of thing.

burgerblogger asked: YOU GAVE AWAY A BRAND NEW PSP? *HEADDESK*

Answer: You should have told me you were interested. I would have sent it to you.

burgerblogger asked: Stop, Arthur, just stop… you’re making it worse…

Answer: Alright. Alfred I’ll be back in a second, my mum’s called me for something.

burgerblogger asked: Gotcha! Gotta take care of the moms ;)

Answer: Hey how do we answer these things? Ah I think this is it!

burgerblogger asked: Artie?

Answer: Oh Artie now is it? The bastard must have finally found himself a boy toy!

burgerblogger asked: Arthur are you okay? I’m kinda worried…

Answer: Oh don’t worry about me, love! I’ll just sit here, and whine to you about how hideous I am, and how I have no friends, and how I wish I hadn’t tattooed that electric guitar on my left arse cheek after getting pissed at last year’s New Year’s Eve party!

burgerblogger asked: Arthur?…

Answer: Oh yes, sweetness? I hope you know that I want you so bad. Come to me, come and- akgfkdsb,f GET OFF THE COMPUTER ARSEHOLES a;sjfhanwerjigfj Oh, love don’t leave ;LJSDFN;AJSNG;AM,ABHDSGKF

burgerblogger asked: Okay Arthur, now I’m seriously concerned…

Answer: Ah, I am so, so sorry about that. I left the screen up, and when I went to help mum, my idiot brothers invaded my tumblr. I hope they didn’t cause you too much trouble.

burgerblogger asked: Oh, no. They just seemed to think I was your boyfriend or something…

Answer: …I…I do apologise for that… quite the laughing matter, eh?…

burgerblogger asked: Yeah! Ha! Haha… Hahaha … … …

Answer: Look, Alfred I’m really sorry, please don’t take it personally.

burgerblogger asked: Nah, it’s fine really. I know how brothers can be.

Answer: Oh good. Well, my apologies once more.

burgerblogger asked: S’kay. Sooo… you have a guitar tattooed on your butt? B)

Answer: Alfred, I have to go. I’ll talk to you once I’ve killed my brothers.

everyonesacritic asked: You wished me a merry Christmas, so I thought I’d wish you a happy New Year.

Answer: Thanks, man. Is it next year in the UK already?

everyonesacritic asked: Indeed it is. I just got back from watching the fireworks on the Thames.

Answer: That musta been nice. I’d love to see those in person one day too.

everyonesacritic asked: If you ever visit on New Year’s Eve, I know the perfect spot.

Answer: Awesome. I’m sure it’s better than sitting here on my couch waiting for the balls to drop.

burgerblogger asked: GAH, BALL. AS IN SINGULAR. NOT PLURAL. *haswaytomanytypos*

Answer: Is it bad I actually snickered at that? I’m turning into you.

burgerblogger asked: Hey what can I say? My awesomness rubs off on people ;D

Answer: Of course it does.

You posted: Do this anonymously or not, I want to know

A - I love you.

B - I hate you.

C - I love your blog.

D - You’re cute.

E - You’re nice.

F - You don’t belong here.

G - I don’t like you.

H - Deactivate your tumblr account.

I - I’m your secret admirer.

J - I love the way you express yourself.

K - You’re too beautiful.

L - I miss you.

M - Stay humble.

N - You’re too popular.

O - You’re tumblr famous.

P - Awesome blog.

Q - I’m in love with you.

R - You annoy me.

burgerblogger asked: A, C, D, E, I, J, K, L, M, O, P and Q :)

Answer: Alfred, that’s basically the whole alphabet. I’m even going to bother checking them.

burgerblogger asked: Aww come on Arthur! There are some really good ones in there!

Answer: Goodnight, Alfred.

burgerblogger asked: BUT ARTHUR!

burgerblogger asked: Arthur…

burgerblogger asked: Good day fine chap! Pip pip, cheerio and all that nonsense!

Answer: Are you feeling alright, Alfred?

burgerblogger asked: Course I am! Why d’you ask?

Answer: No reason…

burgerblogger asked: How are you this fine day?

Answer: I’m well. And I was making quite a bit of progress on my next story until you showed up.

burgerblogger asked: YOUR NEXT STORY? OMGOMGOMG WHAT’S IT ABOUT?

Answer: No spoilers I’m afraid, Alfred. You’ll just have to wait.

burgerblogger asked: But Artieeeeeee!

Answer: That really has no effect when I can’t actually hear you whining.

burgerblogger asked: *pouts*

Answer: Suit yourself.

You posted: Who do you ship me with? Celebrity, tumblr person, fictional, band member, anything. Put it in my ask box!

burgerblogger asked: Can I answer your post?

Answer: Idiot, why else would I have put it up?

burgerblogger asked: Me.

Answer: What about you?

burgerblogger asked: No, no… me… as in the answer to your post.

Answer: …what?

burgerblogger asked: I’ve had a cyber crush on you for awhile now… And since we started talking… idk you just seem like a really great guy and I feel like if you actually met me, you’d really like me too. I think we’d be really good together, Arthur.

Answer: But… you don’t even know me. I don’t know you. We’ve never met, hell, we’ve never even seen each other! And all that put aside, you live in America. I live in England. It would never work…

burgerblogger asked: Does it matter? I’ll send you a photo if you want! You don’t even have to send me one, because looks aren’t that important to me! We could try a long distance thing!

Answer: No… Alfred… I think you’re missing the point. It’s not that I’d turn you down because you’re not attractive, it’s just… We have our own lives. I live here and you live there. I’m just that friend you’re never going to really meet.

burgerblogger asked: Then why did you talk about coming to New York and visiting me?…

Answer: I don’t know Alfred… dreams… silly talk. I didn’t think you were taking any of this seriously. I thought you’d know just as well as me that we were just online friends.

burgerblogger asked: So you have no interest in even seeing me then? If I flew to London right now, would you pick me up?

Answer: Yes… I would. Because I do care about you, as much as I hate to admit it. And I am interested in seeing you its just…ugh…

burgerblogger asked: Wait, you WOULD? And you care? Then why can’t we try a long distance relationship?

Answer: Alfred, I’m not dating anyone outside of a 100 mile radius. I hope you understand…

burgerblogger asked: …alright, fine… I guess I can see where you’re coming from… But we can still be good friends, right?

Answer: Of course…

burgerblogger asked: And if I ever do show up in London, you owe me a personal tour, got it?

Answer: Yes, yes. The same goes for New York!

burgerblogger asked: Sure thing :)

Answer: It’s late here, I’m going to bed.

burgerblogger asked: What? It’s only 6 here. Night’s young man!

Answer: Yes, but it’s 11 here.

burgerblogger asked: Sweet dreams!

Answer: Goodnight.

You reblogged maplemyworld: Reblog if you want messages about ANYTHING!

everyonesacritic asked: Getting a bit desperate now aren’t we?

Answer: ARHTUR! Gosh you’re back. You haven’t talked to me in awhile and I was afraid to say anything since our last conversation was… yeah. I really don’t want it to be awkward between us!

everyonesacritic asked: Sorry about that. I’ve just been thinking about things.

Answer: Uh-oh. What did that asshole of an ex-boyfriend do this time?

everyonesacritic asked: No, no, nothing like that. I’ve been thinking about other things. Nothing important, really.

Answer: Oh, well alright. But if you ever wanna talk, I’m here kay?

everyonesacritic asked: Yes, I know Alfred, thank you.

Answer: No problem! And oh… um… happy Valentine’s Day, Arthur.

everyonesacritic asked: Ah, you mean Single Awareness Day?

Answer: LOL! That too xD

everyonesacritic asked: Go watch some silly romantic comedy.

Answer: Will do! But before I go… Artie, will you be my valentine? Just for today of course, I know what you said about the long-distance relationships and shit.

everyonesacritic asked: …I suppose… one day wouldn’t hurt.

Answer: YES! I didn’t even have to use my epic pick up lines :D

everyonesacritic asked: Do I even want to know?

Answer: Sure you do! Ready?

burgerblogger asked: Excuse me, do you have any raisins? How about a date?

Answer: Wow…

burgerblogger asked: You must be a magnet, because it looks like you’re attracted to my buns of steel.

Answer: Alfred.

burgerblogger asked: Can you pull this heart-shaped arrow out of my ass? Some little kid with wings shot me.

Answer: Alfred…

burgerblogger asked: Do you have any American in you? No? Would you like some?

Answer: ALFRED!

burgerblogger asked: Alright, alright I’m done. xD

Answer: Finally.

burgerblogger asked: Oh hey, Artie, one last thing before I go: Can I have directions?

Answer: What? Where do you need directions to?

burgerblogger asked: Your heart.

Answer: …

everyonesacritic asked: Would you mind if I asked a few questions about America?

Answer: Shoot.

everyonesacritic asked: Do you get a lot of snow? If so, what’s that like?

Answer: Well, NYC does get its fair share of snow, but it’s nothing like Boston or Chicago. Up there the snow just keeps piling up, and kids still have to go to school cause those cities are prepared for the weather. Down here though, we get some snow. Occasionally it’ll top a foot and the schools will close. I love snow days ^^

everyonesacritic asked: That sounds nice. We seldom get snow here. And if we do, it’s never enough to make a snowman or snow angel as they do in all the Hollywood movies.

Answer: Another reason for you to come and visit :)

everyonesacritic asked: Yes, yes. What’s it like living in such a vast country? I know that’s a strange question, but I’m curious.

Answer: Hmm… no one’s ever asked that before. It’s… interesting I guess. Our country’s so big and diverse that we get flooded with so many different cultures and viewpoints. Plus each area has its own way of speaking and doing things (though you guys have different accents, don’t you?) and it’s just nice to have variety. Oh! And it’s also great being so big cause there are so many places to visit, you’ll never run out of vacation spots!

everyonesacritic asked: Mhm. I heard California’s nice. I’d love to go there one day as well.

Answer: Cali is EPIC. Sunshine, sand, and Hollywood. What more could you want?

everyonesacritic asked: My afternoon tea, and a slight drizzle :)

Answer: Well I guess everyone’s partial to their own country and culture ;)

everyonesacritic asked: True. No matter how many places I visit, England will always be home.

Answer: Yup! Well… I mean not for me, but I getcha! Hey, gtg Artie, baseball tryouts.

everyonesacritic asked: Baseball tryouts? How many sports do you play?

Answer: A LOT. Bye!

burgerblogger asked: KLASJDBFLAKSJBFH!

Answer: I’m sorry, I don’t speak troll.

burgerblogger asked: Oh HAHA. Weird how we never really talk about HP even though that’s why I followed you in the first place… But more importantly: LJKDFNLHKJHILVBAKBL!

Answer: Spit it out.

burgerblogger asked: I GOT IN!

Answer: In? Into what?

burgerblogger asked: INTO THE COLLEGE I WANTED TO GET INTO!

Answer: Oh, congratulations! Where is it you’ll be studying?

burgerblogger asked: Imperial College!

Answer: Imperial College?… wait a minute… that’s in London.

burgerblogger asked: Exactly! And according to google maps it’s 60.5 miles from Cambridge which means it falls within a hundred mile radius… :D

Answer: …what? Alfred, no. You are not moving halfway around the world just so you can date me, realise I’m a complete bore, and then regret having left America.

burgerblogger asked: You’re right. I’m moving halfway around the world so I can experience a new culture, attend the 3rd best life sciences and biomedicines school in the Europe and 9th in the world, and as an added bonus, I’ll get to date a great guy I’m dying to meet.

Answer: …you’re persistence is charming.

burgerblogger asked: I’ve heard that before. So… what do you say Arthur? If I’m really that ugly, you can leave after the first date. PLEASE! Please just give me a shot!

Answer: …I’ll pick you up at the airport. I owe you a personal tour, do I not?

burgerblogger asked: You’re the best, Arthur! See, I told you we’d be great friends! Maybe we’ll be more! :D

Answer: Don’t push your luck, Alfred.

To: arthurkirkland. co .uk

From: absolutezahero. gmail

Subject: Hi

Sooooooooo… are you enjoying your trip to New York?

To: absolutezahero. gmail

From: arthurkirkland. co .uk

Subject: RE: Hi

Very much, love. Thank you for taking me here.

To: arthurkirkland. co .uk

From: absolutezahero. gmail

Subject: RE: Hi

You’re welcome. Anything for my love muffin :) Hey, by the way Arthur, whatever happened to your blog on tumblr? Maybe you should check it.

To: absolutezahero. gmail

From: arthurkirkland. co .uk

Subject: RE: Hi

That’s quite the random question, but don’t be absurd. I haven’t been on tumblr in what? Three years? There’s no point anymore since you’re here. Speaking of that… why are you emailing me whilst being in the same room? Get up off your lazy arse and come talk to me.

To: arthurkirkland. co .uk

From: absolutezahero. gmail

Subject: RE: Hi

Aww come on! I think you should go back on, just to check. You should be more sympathetic to your blog! That is how we met after all~ *kisses*

To: absolutezahero. gmail

From: arthurkirkland. co .uk

Subject: RE: Hi

I’d appreciate it if you came over here and gave me a real kiss, as opposed to this typed out nonsense. And yes, that may have been where we met, but that was five years ago. I’m sure all my followers have left me, or grown up and gotten lives. Besides, my most important follower is now sitting in my hotel room.

To: arthurkirkland. co .uk

From: absolutezahero. gmail

Subject: RE: Hi

Come on Artieeee! Just go on and check for me? Please? If you do, I will come over there and give you the bestest kiss I could ever give my boyfriend. Oh, and for the record, I’m sure you still have one follower ;)

To: absolutezahero. gmail

From: arthurkirkland. co .uk

Subject: RE: Hi

You and your persistence… alright, but I’d better get that kiss… and I want to top tonight.

To: arthurkirkland. co .uk

From: absolutezahero. gmail

Subject: RE: Hi

Sure thing, babe ;) xoxoxo

You posted: My idiot boyfriend is making me log back in here after three years of absence.

burgerblogger liked your post: My idiot boyfriend is making me-

burgerblogger replied to your post: My idiot boyfriend is making me-

| Do you have any messages? Maybe someone still has a question!

You posted: Yes, I have one unopened message. Alfred, honestly, why are you making me do this?

burgerblogger replied to your post: Yes, I have one unopened message-

| Open it! Open it! You’ll see :)

You posted: Alright, alright. I’ll answer one more question for my stupid love.

burgerblogger asked: Arthur Kirkland, will you marry me?

Answer: Yes.

We'll Meet Again - Capítulo 13 (epílogo)

Sun, 10 Jul 2011 13:56:57 -0400

50 Years Later…

Arthur’s back creaked in protest as he dragged himself up the stairs of the pub. It seemed like every day it got harder. One of these days, he told himself. One of these days he was going to install an elevator. He grumbled to himself as he finally reached the top and walked slowly into the living room. He fell heavily into his favourite armchair and looked across at Alfred who sat watching the small television set absently. “One of these days I am going to install an elevator.”

Alfred’s lips twitched in a tiny smile. “You say that every day, Arthur.”

“I mean it, too. Mail’s here.”

Alfred looked over, his eyes lighting up. “Ooh, what’d we get?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. He didn’t know how Alfred managed to get so excited every day about something as simple as the mail arriving. He leafed through the pages and envelopes. “Just the newspaper and some catalogues. Oh, and a postcard from Matthew and Francis.”

“Where are they now?”

“Cruising around the Spanish coast, can you believe it?” said Arthur, examining the postcard with a picture of a pristine beach on the front and Matthew’s handwriting on the back. “When will they learn they’re too old like the rest of us?”

“Hey, speak for yourself, old man.”

Arthur ignored him with the practised ease that only came after fifty years of living with a bloody irritating American. He leaned back against the soft cushions and opened the newspaper. It was a special issue to celebrate the 50th VE Day, the 50th anniversary of the end of the war in Europe. Alfred had been invited to numerous ceremonies of course, but he never was one to make a big deal of these sorts of things. He had barely mentioned anything about the day and seemed quite content to simply watch the proceedings on television. Arthur focused on the newspaper and after flicking past a few articles on the end of the war and the current celebrations, he came to a page that made him pause in shock. “Well, blow me down.”

“Hm?” asked Alfred vaguely, his eyes glued to the television set.

“You’re in the paper!”

Alfred looked over, surprised. “What? Is it about the UFO sighting I reported last month?”

“No…”

“Is it about that cat I rescued from the tree out front last week?”

“No, Alfred…”

“It’s not about that can of tomatoes I forgot to pay for at the supermarket is it, because I took them back and the girl was real nice and she swore she wouldn’t get the police involved…”

“Alfred, shut up.” Arthur held up the liftout from the paper. Alfred leaned forward and squinted.

“What’s it say? Hold on, I need my stronger glasses…” Alfred started to rummage around on the coffee table.

Arthur smiled slightly and shook his head. “It says, ‘Fighter Aces of World War Two’.”

Alfred raised his eyebrows. “You don’t say?”

“And look, there you are.” Arthur gazed at the black and white photo of nineteen year old Alfred in the paper, grinning widely at the camera with his military cap at a skewed angle. He looked exactly the way Arthur remembered. Arthur sighed quietly. “You were so handsome…”

“What’s with this ‘were’ business?”

“Shush.” Arthur read the article out loud. “Lieutenant Alfred F. Jones of the American Air Force only flew in combat for a few short months in 1944 but quickly distinguished himself as one of the best fighter pilots of the war. Known by the enemy as ‘The Magician’ for his unparalleled skills in evasion, his record of seven kills in a single flight has never been equalled by an American pilot, before or since. Lieutenant Jones’ last flight, during which he was isolated by a squadron of German Messerschmitts in allied airspace, is still considered to be one of the most courageous moments in aviation history. Greatly outnumbered, Jones took down seven enemy planes while defending strategic airspace and drawing fire away from his squad into enemy territory where he was shot down, captured and…” Arthur faltered over the next few words. It was amazing how, even fifty years later, any mention of that incident still affected him so strongly. He looked up at Alfred, who was smiling gently back at him.

“Skip that bit.”

Arthur took a deep breath, skipped ahead, and continued reading. “For this act of bravery Jones was awarded the prestigious Medal of Honor. He went on to become a greatly respected military flight instructor. He travelled extensively between England and the United States and has been formally recognised by the British government on several occasions for services to the Commonwealth. Alfred Jones currently resides in London with his…” Arthur trailed off once again.

“With his what?”

Arthur’s mind spun in disbelief. His mouth went dry and he could barely manage to choke out the words. “With his long time partner Arthur Kirkland.” Arthur looked up in astonishment. “They put that in the paper… can you believe they actually wrote that in the bloody national newspaper!”

Alfred giggled cheerfully. “Ah, the times they are a-changing. Wait and see, we’ll be walking down the aisle one of these days!”

Arthur just stared unbelieving at the words in print before him. After all these years of being the partner of a war hero, it was the first time he had been publicly acknowledged as such. He couldn’t help the wave of pride he felt, knowing that the entire country would read that paper and those words. He also couldn’t help the wide smile that spread across his face. Then he looked up, saw Alfred grinning over at him, and felt slightly embarrassed. He folded the paper and tossed it down beside him. “Huh, well, there you are then. What is this rubbish you’re watching anyway?”

Alfred turned the volume up. “Some concert celebration for the 50th anniversary.”

Arthur shook his head in disgust. “I never did like these depressing wartime songs.” Alfred just laughed. When the next song started, Arthur recognised the tune immediately. His stomach turned cold. “Oh no.” Alfred’s face lit up and he looked over at Arthur excitedly.

“Arthur! It’s our song!”

“Oh no.”

But it was too late. Alfred had already pulled himself out of his chair and was attempting to drag Arthur to his feet. Arthur attempted a protest but he already knew it was in vain. He finally let himself be dragged out of the chair and into Alfred’s arms. Alfred held him in the familiar dance position and began waltzing across the floor. And, of course, he started singing. “We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when…”

The sun flooded through the curtains as memories of this song flooded Arthur’s mind. Fifty years. Fifty years that had passed in a heartbeat. Fifty years of dancing and laughing and terrible singing and everything else that came with it. In decades past they had danced to this tune playing from a wireless radio, a gramophone, a record player, a black and white television, a tiny cassette player, a CD player Alfred had excitedly brought home one morning in 1983, and on one memorable occasion from a military band at a highly select function as several amused and confused international delegates looked on. And on this particular afternoon they danced to the tune playing from their small colour television set. Of course they danced a little slower, and Alfred didn’t swing him around and dip him like he used to. But some things, just like the song itself, never changed.

“Keep smiling through, just like you, always do…” Alfred’s hair was thinner and grey. His handsome face was lined with the years. But that grin still had the exact same effect as ever. “Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away!”

“Well, one thing certainly hasn’t changed,” said Arthur, smiling up into Alfred’s blazing blue eyes.

“What’s that?” asked Alfred, grinning down as he held Arthur tightly by the waist and ran his thumb over Arthur’s palm.

“After all these years, my dear, you are still the most bloody awful singer I have ever heard.”

Alfred just laughed as they danced slowly to the swelling music while the afternoon sunshine flooded the room. “I love you too,” he replied, before bursting back into song. “But I know we’ll meet again, some sunny day!”

THE END.

We'll Meet Again - Capítulo 12

Sun, 10 Jul 2011 13:56:26 -0400

The months passed like minutes, and life was fantastic, frustrating, different, beautiful, everything.

December.

Christmas 1944 was one of the most interesting of Arthur’s life. Everything tended to be interesting when Alfred was involved. A gigantic Christmas tree loomed in the corner of the pub, the biggest tree Alfred could find in the entire city of London, which was so large it was squashed against the ceiling and had required the assistance of several servicemen to get through the front door. The rest of the room was covered with makeshift decorations Alfred had strewn around the place - snowflakes made of paper, brightly coloured tinsel, empty bottles with tiny lights inside. Arthur thought it was all hideously tacky. Alfred thought it was festive. The regular customers found it all rather strange, but not as strange as the loud American who insisted on trying to help out behind the bar. He was hopeless, but somehow no one ever complained when he forgot to get them their drink or served them the wrong one or somehow managed to spill it all over them. Today Alfred was trying particularly hard, and being particularly irritatingly cheerful. It was Christmas Eve and the pub was full of Christmas revellers, including Francis, who had been more than happy to spend one of his last evenings in England with Alfred and Arthur.

Alfred grinned widely as he carried a tray of drinks to the bar and set a glass down before Francis with a flourish. “Your brandy, sir,”

“Alfred, that’s bourbon,” said Arthur, watching him from behind the bar and hoping desperately he wouldn’t drop the tray for the third time that week. His already limited patience was being stretched to the limit.

“I asked for wine,” said Francis, staring disdainfully at the glass.

“Oh,” said Alfred. He shrugged. “Try the bourbon, it’s good.”

“Alfred,” said Arthur, a low exclamation of warning and exasperation.

“Or, ah, I could just get you that wine, shall I?”

Francis sighed. “Don’t bother, I would not wish you to hurt yourself.” He took a sip, made a face, and pushed the glass away. “Urgh, that is terrible. How do you drink this poison?”

“Here,” said Arthur, glaring at Alfred and picking up a tray of rum balls from behind the bar. He offered them to Francis. They were Arthur’s specialty dessert that he made every Christmas, and he was quite proud of them, even though they seemed to make even the most hardened drinker rather ill by the second one. Francis eyed them suspiciously. “To remove the taste,” Arthur explained.

“What are they?” asked Francis, picking one up and turning it over in his hand.

“Rum balls,” said Alfred cheerfully. He placed the tray down and leaned on the bar. “Delicious. Really. Arthur is the best cook in England.” Arthur’s frustration lessened and he beamed happily at the praise. Sometimes Alfred could be so sweet.

“Somehow, that does not fill me with confidence,” said Francis slowly, but he raised the sweet to his mouth regardless.

Alfred nudged Arthur with his elbow and whispered with suppressed laughter, “Look, he believed me!” Arthur’s eyes narrowed. Sometimes Alfred could be such a git. Francis chewed thoughtfully for a few moments. Then his eyes went wide, his cheeks turned red, and after swallowing he suffered a quite violent coughing fit.

“Well?” asked Arthur and Alfred in unison. Francis blinked rapidly then turned to Alfred, his eyes bleary and red.

“Alfred! Mon ami!” cried Francis, his words slurred. “Do you know, you really are the most… such a great… you mean so much to me, do you know? After everything we’ve been through… and only you can understand that…” Francis threw an arm around Alfred’s shoulder and leaned into him heavily. Alfred had to struggle to hold him up.

“Whoa there buddy, maybe you should…”

“What are you looking at?” shouted Francis suddenly, pulling back and glaring blearily at Alfred whose eyes went wide.

“Nothing.”

“Imbecile! You want to fight me?” Francis swung an ineffectual punch which Alfred easily dodged. “Come on, flyboy, show me that American esprit you always speak of!” Another failed punch and Francis fell onto the bar stool, despondently throwing his arms across the bar. “It’s not worth it! None of it! In the end, what is the point? I was in love once. He wore a polar bear on his lapel. Alors, that would make a great song!” Francis sobbed twice then fell off the bar. By the time he reached the floor he was out cold.

Alfred whistled. “How much rum did you put in those things, Arthur?”

“Actually,” said Arthur, shaking his head in confusion, “That was one of the non alcoholic ones.”

Later in the evening after the pub had emptied, after Francis had been carried unconscious to the guest room, after Alfred had tried and failed to sing Christmas carols, after the local constabulary had issued a noise violation warning, and after the entire mad and glorious evening had come to an end, Arthur fell into bed with Alfred at his side. And he spent the first Christmas night of his life falling asleep full, happy and loved instead of cold, empty and sensing that something was missing. He could definitely get used to the feeling.

January.

Arthur had never been so ready to say goodbye to a year as he had to 1944. Awful memories of the dark months of the year often arose unbidden and he would be left breathless and terrified of being left alone again. And it was not just Arthur. He knew the toll the year had taken on Alfred. He could see it in the pain and guilt in Alfred’s eyes when he spoke to soldiers in the pub, could hear it in Alfred’s voice on the terrible nights when he woke up screaming and it took several minutes to convince him of where he was as he lay shaking in Arthur’s arms, crying tears only Arthur would ever see. Yes, 1944 was a year Arthur would not be sad to see go.

It was New Year’s Eve, and Alfred was singing. That wasn’t new. Alfred often sang, or rather a vague variation of the activity. It usually wasn’t apparent what he was actually singing until asked. This afternoon, for some reason, Alfred was singing, and doing it the way he always did; loudly, obnoxiously, and with no attention to tune or rhythm.

“Just what are you on about this time?” asked Arthur, peering at Alfred as the American leaned over the bar and watched Arthur put away the last of the glasses for the afternoon. He had closed the bar early for New Year’s Eve, the customers all headed home to spend the evening with their families.

“It’s this song they were singing in the bar earlier. It’s called ‘Old Lang’s Eye’. I don’t know why you Brits sing about an old guy’s eye to celebrate the new year, but hey, it ain’t my place to judge.” And Alfred burst into song again. “Let Old Aunt Quaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind…”

Arthur blinked a few times, pausing midway in replacing a bottle of whiskey. Just when he thought he’d heard the stupidest thing the Yank could possibly come out with… “You do realise it’s called ‘Auld Lang Syne’. It has nothing to do with anyone’s eye. And the word is ‘acquaintance’, where on earth did you get ‘Aunt Quaintance’ from?”

Alfred shrugged. “I had an Aunt Quaintance once. I didn’t really understand the words, I think they were in Chinese or something, so I just sort of made my own.”

Arthur just shook his head. “You’re hopeless.” He replaced the whiskey then turned back to find Alfred gazing at him with a familiar glint in his eye. “What?” Alfred just gazed at Arthur for a moment more before he all of a sudden jumped the bar, took Arthur by the waist and spun him around until his back hit the bar. It all happened so fast Arthur’s brain barely registered it. “Blimey, what the…”

“Do you know how many times I’ve stood behind that bar, watching you, and wanted to do that?” Alfred whispered against Arthur’s ear.

Arthur gulped. “Is…is that so?” He was slowly getting used to these unexpected and impulsive displays of affection the Yank often gave. They were rather irritating, somewhat embarrassing, and yet strangely thrilling all at the same time.

“Mm hmm,” said Alfred, pressing his lips to Arthur’s neck.

“And, er… what else did you want to do?” asked Arthur, heart thumping. They were usually worth going along with, as well.

Alfred grinned. “This.” In minutes they lay spread across the bar, tangled in each other, Arthur’s pants already unbuttoned and his mind spinning. Alfred’s lips and hands were hot and frantic against him. He was just reaching that point where he always lost control when suddenly the front door slammed opened. Alfred shrieked and fell off the bar as Arthur shot up in surprise.

“Still not locking your door I see, Arthur.”

Arthur and Alfred both sat stunned for a few seconds. Finally Alfred reacted, jumping up and breaking into laughter. “Matthew! What… how…” Alfred strode over and pulled Matthew into a hug. “What are you doing here? I thought you were stuck in France!”

“I had to fly back to wish you a happy new year, didn’t I?” asked Matthew, patting Alfred’s back. He was still dressed in his combat uniform and looked as though he hadn’t had proper sleep in weeks. But he also looked happier than Arthur had ever seen him. “It’s so good to see you, old friend. Alive.”

Alfred pulled back and stared at Matthew, shaking his head in disbelief. “You rat, you could have let me known you were getting some leave!”

“Where would the fun be in that?” Matthew looked even more like Alfred when he grinned like that. “Hi, Arthur.”

Arthur had stood and walked over to Matthew. It was a relief to see him. Arthur genuinely worried about Matthew over in France, almost as much as he knew Alfred did. He held out his hand and Matthew shook it firmly. “Jolly good to see you safe, old chap.”

“You too, Arthur,” said Matthew, his eyes almost piercing Arthur’s. Arthur coughed and glanced sideways nervously at Alfred. He hadn’t yet told him of the awful state Matthew had found him in not long before they had been reunited. He rather hoped he would never have to. Matthew suddenly coughed and turned away. “I’m sorry, I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“Not at all, whatever makes you think that?”

“Well, um… your pants are unbuttoned.”

“Oh bloody hell,” Arthur muttered, burning in embarrassment as he hurried off to fix himself up behind the bar. Alfred just laughed.

As the afternoon progressed, the three of them found themselves by the pubs fireplace, seated on the comfortable couches and drinking glasses of Arthur’s finest brandy. Matthew told them all he knew of the war in France, about the awful landings of June, the glorious liberation of Paris, and his experiences in the south of the country. Alfred did not speak of his own experience, and Matthew did not ask. Eventually, the light outside long since faded, the conversation turned away from the war. Arthur knew they had all had quite enough of that topic. As Arthur leaned over to refill his glass, the front door flew open once more. “That’s it, I am going to install a padlock…”

“Mon Dieu it is freezing out there. Arthur, have you closed the bar? I came by to say…” Francis fell silent when he reached the fireplace and his eyes fell on Matthew. “My Canadian!” he whispered. Matthew froze, wide eyed, his hand clutching his brandy glass in midair.

“Excuse me?”

To Arthur’s surprise, Alfred’s amusement, and Matthew’s utter horror, Francis dropped to his knees before the stunned Canadian. “My love! I thought I had lost you forever and here I find you in the very place of our romance’s beginning! It is fate! It is destiny! It is… l’amour, non?”

“I… I… I’m sorry, monsieur, but I think you may have me confused with someone else.” Matthew looked up at Alfred, silently pleading for help. Alfred just laughed helplessly, his face hidden in a cushion.

Francis shook his head insistently. “Never! I would know you anywhere, Lieutenant Matthew Williams.”

“I’m sorry? How do you know my name?” Now Matthew looked at Arthur who dropped his gaze into his brandy glass. He jolly well wasn’t about to admit that he was the one who had given Francis Matthew’s name.

The French captain sighed dramatically. “My heart breaks that you do not remember me. Did I not say that one day, if we were lucky, we should meet again?”

Matthew’s eyes brightened in understanding. “Ohhh. Yes. The strange Frenchman who accosted me at the door a few months ago.”

“Matthew, this is Captain Francis Bonnefoy,” Alfred managed to choke out through his laughter.

Matthew nodded hesitantly and held out his hand. He still looked bewildered. “Pleasure to meet you, er, again, Captain Bonnefoy.”

Francis took Matthew’s hand and kissed it. “Enchante.”

“Francis, stop assaulting Matthew and have a brandy,” said Arthur as Alfred threw the cushion at Francis’ back.

Francis finally stood from the floor and fell onto the couch. “Please. Anything but one of those hideous rum balls.”

When eventually the clock read one minute to twelve Matthew raised his glass and the others quickly followed. “To friends, old and new,” said Matthew, smiling at Arthur. “And to friends lost.”

Alfred nodded, gazing unseeing at the ground before lifting his eyes to meet Arthur’s and smiling slightly. “To lives remade.”

“To l’amour,” said Francis, wagging his eyebrows at Matthew, who turned three shades of red and darted his eyes away from the overbearing Frenchmen.

“To England,” said Arthur firmly before adding softly, “And to the end of this bloody war.”

The war was not over. Both Matthew and Francis would be heading back to France. Alfred would continue to train British pilots to carry on the conflict. London was not yet safe and they knew there were many lives still to be lost. But when the clock struck twelve, they toasted goodbye to 1944 with hope and careful confidence that 1945 would be better. After all, it had to be. How could it possibly be any worse.

When Arthur awoke the next day and descended the stairs into the pub, he found Matthew and Francis lying asleep on the couch by the fireplace, their arms around each other. He smirked to himself. The new year was off to a promising start.

February.

Saint Valentine’s Day had never meant anything to Arthur. In Februaries gone by he had passed the displays of chocolate and hearts in shop windows and rolled his eyes at the idea of something so absurd. It all seemed so meaningless, so trivial. So overblown and trumped up. It seemed somehow so… American.

So he was a little shocked when, on February the 14th, he walked down into the pub to find it covered in wildflowers. They lay across the bar, engulfed the tables, coated the floor. The bar practically shone in a bright burst of colourful flora. Arthur’s mouth dropped open as he walked into the room in trepidation. “What the bloody hell?”

“I told you last year, remember…” Arthur turned to find Alfred almost struggling under the load of a huge bunch of red roses, a red box tied up with a ribbon, and most absurdly of all, an enormous pink card in the shape of a heart. Arthur’s eyes widened. He didn’t know whether to burst out laughing or cringe in embarrassment. “Remember,” continued Alfred, “In my letter. I told you that I would give you a proper Valentine this year!”

Arthur finally settled on laughing as an appropriate response, and did so hysterically, unable to stop. Alfred looked so ridiculous standing there surrounded by wildflowers, his arms full of Valentine’s Day mementos, peering through his glasses over a bouquet of roses. “Alfred,” said Arthur as he laughed, “You look absolutely…” he slowly trailed off when Alfred’s face fell. He fought to control his laughter. “…charming,” he finally finished. Alfred’s eyes lit back up and he grinned. Arthur walked over, kissed Alfred lightly on the cheek, and took the roses from his hand. “Stupid Yank,” he muttered quietly.

“Here, open the box! It’s chocolate, I had it sent from America because the British stuff is awful. Oh, and read the card I wrote you, I filled up the entire thing!”

Arthur let Alfred chatter on, thrusting the gifts into his hands and looking as eager as a puppy. Sometimes things were so difficult. Alfred’s hours were long, he often travelled, and there never seemed to be enough time to spend with each other. And always that thought sat there… the knowledge that this was temporary, it would end, the war would be over soon and Alfred would have to leave for America. And Arthur would be left alone. The thought was never far away, even in the happiest moments. But it was moments like this, when Alfred was foolish and wonderful and Arthur could see so easily how he had fallen in love, that Arthur almost forgot that. That he realised he had never been so happy in his entire life. And that maybe Saint Valentine’s Day wasn’t so bad after all.

March.

Arthur was woken by a blinding flash and a deafening crash. His heart jumped a little, then he took a deep breath, sighed, and rolled over. A bombing raid was nothing new. Sure it had been a few months since the last one, but Arthur was quite used to being awoken by a sudden German air strike. He was almost asleep when the sound of another loud crash filled the room and, quite unexpectedly, his hand was grasped and he was wrenched upright. Almost senseless in the dark, all he was aware of was Alfred’s hand in his, dragging him insistently from the bed and out of the bedroom. His sleep addled brain fought to keep up with what was happening. When his sight came back he realised he was in the living room, pressed against the wall with Alfred’s body covering his as the building shook with the force of an earthquake. “What the bloody blazing hell are you doing?” he yelled, trying to be heard over the thunderous blasts and the wailing of the air raid sirens.

“It’s a rocket strike. V2’s,” Alfred shouted back. “We have to get to the cellar.”

“Excuse me? This is nothing, I’ve slept through far worse than this. I’m going back to bed.” Arthur tried to push his way past but Alfred just pressed him back against the wall, trying to cover his head with his hand. Arthur batted it away in irritation. “Let me past, Alfred.”

“No! The Germans are attacking! We must take cover!”

Arthur groaned and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Stupid American. “Can I at least make a cup of tea first?” Alfred didn’t answer, but when the shaking of the floor stilled for a moment he took off immediately, pulling Arthur along by the hand. Arthur had no chance of pulling away. They stumbled down two flights of stairs and finally made it to the cellar where Alfred pulled him into a corner, down to the floor, then encircled him with his arms. Arthur yawned as the noise and tremors surrounded them. “This is quite unnecessary,” he said, his voice muffled by Alfred’s shoulder.

“Ssh,” said Alfred, his lips pressed close to Arthur’s ear as he stroked Arthur’s back. “Don’t be scared.”

Arthur clenched his fists in exasperation. “I’m not scared, I just want to go back to bed. I lived through the blitz, you know.”

Alfred either could not hear or was willfully ignoring him. “Ssh,” he said again. “This is a last desperate attack, the Germans know they’re finished. The blitz is not going to happen again, I promise.”

“Oh, you promise. Jolly good,” said Arthur, willing the air strike to end so he could get up off the cold stone ground and Alfred could stop playing his little game of hero. “And just how can you promise that?”

“You’re right, I can’t. So I promise this… if another blitz like attack happens, I’ll go up myself and stop them.” Alfred pulled back slightly to grin at Arthur who just shook his head incredulously.

“You’ll stop them?”

“Single-handedly, baby.” Alfred winked and Arthur gave in and laughed. Then Alfred whispered breathily, “I’ll protect you.” Which made Arthur quite bloody irritated.

“What the bloody hell makes you think I need pro…” Arthur was cut off as a particularly loud and shattering blast tore through the building. He screamed and clutched onto Alfred’s shoulders as Alfred’s arms pressed him into the wall and covered his head. The room shook around them and bottles fell from the racks to smash and shatter on the stone floor. The dark room turned light with a glow brighter than daylight. Finally the panic started to rise. Arthur told himself to breathe. Keep breathing. As long as you’re breathing, you know you’re alive. The terror of those days of the blitz took hold once again. That sickening fear, that dreamlike horror. That terrible solitude. Then he breathed in Alfred’s scent, leaned into his embrace, felt the thrill of those strong arms around him and those warm hands trying to protect him. This wasn’t like the blitz after all. He wasn’t alone this time.

Finally the room grew dark again. It stopped shaking. They waited, balanced on a knife edge, expecting at any moment another crashing strike. It didn’t come. Eventually Arthur sighed in relief, then could have growled when he noticed Alfred was giggling. He immediately regretted the scream. He would never live this one down.

April.

Arthur stood at the base of the stairs, tapping his foot and checking his watch repeatedly. “Will you hurry up?” he called for the fifth time.

“I’m hurrying, I’m hurrying, hold your horses.” Alfred’s voice drifted down the stairs.

“Hold my what?” Arthur called back. Alfred’s American sayings often threw him off guard.

“Horses.”

“My… why would I… what the bleeding hell are you on about?” And they never made any sense.

“Calm down, darling.” Alfred sounded like he was laughing.

“Me? You are the one talking some nonsense about horses. And don’t call me darling.”

“Sweetheart? Baby? Doll? What can I call you?” Arthur shuddered in disgust.

“You can call me Arthur. Now get down here and let’s get going, Mr Churchill is not going to wait all afternoon for you, Alfred Jones.”

When Alfred had been told he was receiving a medal, they hadn’t mentioned he would also be receiving recognition from the British Government for services to the Commonwealth. So it had come as a complete surprise when Alfred had been invited to a special ceremony to accept the decoration. Alfred had once been so eager for praise, for recognition, to be called a hero. But that was a lifetime ago, and he had had to be persuaded into accepting the invitation for the ceremony. Though at this rate it looked like he was going to miss out on the honour regardless. Arthur was learning one thing about Alfred… it took him an inordinate amount of time to get ready for anything.

Arthur looked at the ceiling in exasperation as he turned to the stairs. “Some time this month would be…” he trailed off when he looked over to see Alfred walking down the stairs, his Air Force dress uniform pressed pristinely, wearing his military blazer instead of his bomber jacket, a grin on his face, and of course, his cap at an angle on his head… Arthur didn’t think he had ever seen it straight. All in all, Alfred was almost unbearably handsome.

“How do I look?” Alfred asked cockily.

Perfect. “Tolerable, I suppose,” said Arthur gruffly. “Now come on, we’re going to be dreadfully late.”

The ceremony was one of many held that year, the purpose of which was to honour the contribution of various servicemen to Britain. Upon arrival Alfred had been immediately ferried away by high ranking military officials whose eyes had glanced unseeing over Arthur. He shrugged, quite used to the treatment, and not expecting anything else. Military personnel occupied the first few rows of the auditorium, family members in the rows behind, while members of the press milled around further back. Arthur stood in the back row amongst various civilians who stretched to see the stage. His eyes drifted over to where the wives and girlfriends of the English servicemen sat in a special designated area to the side of the stage. He wondered if they had a better view.

Arthur watched as the British servicemen’s names were read out, their citations given, their medals awarded. He watched as they walked off the stage to be embraced by their waiting wives. He watched as the press took their photographs, their partners smiling proudly and prettily at their sides. And he wondered briefly what it felt like to stand proudly like that beside the one you loved, the world acknowledging you, with nothing and no reason to hide.

Arthur was shaken from his reverie by the announcers words as he began to speak of an American pilot who was injured, captured, and now using his considerable expertise to train young British pilots. Arthur’s heart leapt. And when he saw Alfred stride onto the stage to receive his medal, his cap crooked and his customary swagger in place, Arthur realised he wanted everyone in that audience to know that the handsome American on the stage was his and his alone. But he just applauded politely along with everyone else. Then Alfred turned to the audience, nodded, and tipped his hat. It would be nice for it to be recognised that he was with Alfred. But it was enough for Arthur to know that to Alfred, he was the only person in that audience.

Later at the Emerald Lion, amidst the loud talking and laughing and cheering of congratulating American servicemen, Alfred leaned over the bar, brushed his hand across Arthur’s, and asked, “So, how did I go up there? I was looking for you in the audience, you know.”

Arthur sighed and decided to let Alfred have his moment. “You looked so brave and handsome, I almost died of pride,” he said in a monotone. He felt ridiculous saying it, but the blinding grin Alfred flashed him was worth it. Arthur would never admit to himself that he meant it.

May.

And then one fine afternoon it happened. The moment Arthur had hoped for but barely dared to dream of for the last six years. Arthur sat down to the kitchen table the same as he did every day. Alfred sat listening to the crackling wireless radio the same as he did every day. But today was different. They waited for the expected radio broadcast to begin then sat on edge when it did. The bells struck three outside.

“The prime minister, the right honourable Winston Churchill…” came the voice of the announcer over the wireless.

“Shush, shush,” said Arthur, waving his hand at Alfred.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“Stop, be quiet.”

“But I’m not…”

“Shut up Alfred!”

The speech that filtered through the speakers into the quiet still living room held Arthur riveted to the radio. This was the moment they had waited for for days… the day they had waited for for years. Arthur held his breath, staring at his hands as they lay on the table, letting the words change the world around him. “…Hostilities will end at one minute past midnight tonight…” He would never remember all the words that were said before, or all the ones that came after. But those nine words would be forever etched into Arthur’s memory. He looked up and Alfred’s eyes bored into his as the speech continued. “…we will allow ourselves a brief period of rejoicing…” Arthur tried to focus but it seemed a massive roaring flooded his ears. As though he could not have heard right. As though this couldn’t be real. “…this is your victory…” The roar of the people from the streets outside blasted in through the windows. “Advance Britannia. God bless you all.” Then it was over.

Arthur just looked at Alfred, completely shocked. Alfred’s face mirrored everything Arthur was thinking and feeling. They sat in silence for a few moments, the noise from outside still invading the room, until eventually Alfred’s eyes lit up and he let out a deafening whoop. Arthur just shook his head, slightly stunned. It was not that he had not expected it. But to hear it was something completely different. “Did you hear…”

“Yes!” cried Alfred.

Arthur shook his head again. “I can’t believe it!”

“Arthur… it’s over!”

As the words finally sank in, Arthur’s chest felt it would almost burst and he broke into joyful laughter. He stood and threw himself into Alfred’s arms and Alfred spun him around until he started to feel dizzy. It was overwhelming… it was unbelievable… it was like the biggest sigh of relief he could ever imagine. The war was over.

“Come on!” Alfred cried, setting Arthur on his feet, grasping his hand and pulling him down the stairs and out the door. Arthur tried not to fall over, but he still couldn’t stop laughing.

Arthur had never imagined his city could look like this. People filled the streets, swarming onto them in a joyful tide, hugging strangers, dancing, marching arm in arm. Ecstatic chaos surrounded them and it all felt utterly surreal as the city came alive again after years of darkness. Arthur was struck by a wave of pride. They’d made it through. He pressed close to Alfred, hoping not to lose him in the surging crowd. Pretty young girls danced past them in bright colours and brighter smiles, eyeing the handsome young pilot in the American military uniform who laughed and tipped his hat as people stopped him in the street, shook his hand, thanked him.

A sea of Union Jacks filled Arthur’s sight, an ocean of red, white and blue. Alfred merrily grasped a British flag from a passer by which he pressed into Arthur’s hand before taking an American flag from a car and throwing it over his shoulders. He looked like he was having the time of his life and Arthur fought to keep up, nearly slipping on the pamphlets and papers that littered the streets and dodging a rain of streamers that revellers hung over balconies to throw down at the crowd. London had become a party, a fair, a country fête. The joy was palpable, the air heavy with emotion. Arthur looked around to see a soldier kissing a laughing girl on the cheek, an old man just shaking his head and smiling, a middle aged woman with tears flowing down her cheeks.

“I told you once your city was fantastic. I mean, this is incredible!” said Alfred cheerfully.

Arthur laughed loudly and waved his flag. “Advance Brittania!” Then the noise around them was almost drowned out by the roar of a group of planes that flew overhead. “Are they some of yours?” asked Arthur, watching the aircraft fly in formation.

“No, those are spitfires. They’re British. Tough, feisty and elegant. And very beautiful.” Arthur lowered his eyes to find Alfred grinning back at him. He rolled his eyes and looked away, though as always was unable to stop his own grin stretching across his face.

They headed further down the street, taking in the atmosphere, staring wide eyed around them. Everywhere they looked, among the throng of civilians, servicemen in uniform strolled the street, laughing and joking and accepting kisses and handshakes from the crowd. Arthur nearly ran into a group of them and tried to back up, then he realised that Alfred seemed to recognise them. They all embraced Alfred, clapping him on the shoulder, talking and grinning and laughing loudly. “It’s home for us now, Jones! Or down to the Pacific, depending. But we’re finally finished in Europe!”

Alfred laughed, but Arthur’s heart suddenly sunk. The war was finished in Europe. Amongst everything he hadn’t even thought about what it meant. What use was there for Alfred to stay here now?

“Come have a drink with us, Jones!” That reminded Arthur… he really shouldn’t be out here. He should get back and open the pub for the people who wanted to celebrate. Back to work, back to trying to forget.

“Meet me in an hour at The Emerald Lion,” smiled Alfred. The Americans all agreed and headed off as Alfred turned back to Arthur and grinned happily. “You’ll make a killing this afternoon, Arthur!”

“I guess this means you’re going home,” said Arthur, looking away from that blinding grin. Right now it hurt too much.

“Well yes.”

“Of course. I understand.” Arthur felt like his chest was being crushed. This was the moment he’d been dreading, the one he knew was coming, the one he had so far managed to avoid but could ignore no longer. Alfred was finally leaving him, for good this time.

“And you’re coming with me.”

Arthur’s breath stopped in his throat. He must have heard that wrong. “What?”

Alfred laughed. “I told you before that I’d show you my home! I want to show you the streets of New York, and take you home to my farm, and go up and show you the whole country from the air. I want to show you everything. You will come with me, won’t you?” Alfred’s face was eager and pleading.

The pain in Arthur’s chest was replaced by an unfamiliar soaring feeling of hope. But just as quickly it fell again. As he looked around at everyone celebrating on the streets that he loved, he realised… “Alfred, I can’t live in America. I could never leave London.”

Alfred shrugged. “Then we’ll come back here. The military will always need flight instructors. And I practically saved England, they can’t kick me out. I’m a goddamn war hero.” Alfred grinned cockily. Arthur suppressed the urge to either scoff at or kick Alfred, even as his wildly oscillating emotions threatened to overwhelm him.

“But… what about your home?”

“Of course I can’t abandon America entirely. But we’ll work it out.” Alfred looked down at Arthur, pressed close against him in the swelling crowd. His grin faded slightly and his eyes grew intense. A tingling shudder ran through Arthur’s spine. “Besides, Arthur, home is wherever you are. So, will you come with me? And take me with you? ‘Coz I never want to leave home again.”

Arthur’s heart thumped wildly and he was suddenly overcome with delirious happiness. “Alfred, what… what are you asking?”

“Well I’d give you a ring, but I don’t think you’d wear it. And I’d get down on one knee, but I’m pretty sure I’d be trampled in this crowd. But Arthur…” Alfred winked. “That’s pretty much what I’m asking.”

Arthur’s pulse quickened and his neck flushed with heat. He wondered if that grin, that wink, would ever stop affecting him. And he knew, somehow, that it never would. And in the middle of the street, with the streamers flying and the crowd cheering and the sun shining brightly in the blue sky, Alfred took Arthur’s hand and kissed it, looking down with eyes full of love and promise. And Arthur didn’t care that they were outside, that people could see them, that a loud and pushing crowd surrounded them. Arthur had always thought, somewhere deep inside, that Alfred would leave one day, like everyone always had before. But now he suddenly realised what had been right before him the entire time. That wherever Alfred went, he would always come back. They would always meet again. The noise and the colour faded into the distance and it was just Alfred and him standing together, smiling and laughing and unable to believe that this war had led them to this conclusion. It was incredible. It was beautiful. It was magic.

And it was only the beginning.

We'll Meet Again - Capítulo 11

Sun, 10 Jul 2011 13:55:47 -0400

It took far longer than it should have to reach the bedroom. First they tumbled over on the stairs and Arthur absolutely could not move until Alfred finally stopped kissing the base of his throat. When they did manage to reach the top, Arthur was again delayed by Alfred pressing him against the wall and kissing him with such a burning hunger that he would have fallen to the floor were it not for Alfred’s strong hands on his hips. And they almost made it through the living room, but Arthur’s knees gave way when they knocked into the couch. They both fell onto it, Alfred’s glasses falling to the floor on the way, and they didn’t manage to stand again until Arthur was practically panting with lust. By the time they finally reached the bedroom Arthur was missing a shirt, his shoes, and any sense of self control whatsoever. He was also quite aware that there was no way he would be opening the pub today.

They fell onto the bed and Alfred pulled Arthur to his chest, his arms surrounding him and roaming over his back. Arthur shuddered as their bodies met and he pushed his groin against Alfred’s, too far gone for hesitation. Alfred responded with a moan and his thigh came up to part Arthur’s legs and press between them. Arthur’s mind spun, feeling this was happening too fast, feeling it was not happening fast enough. He couldn’t think. He just needed to feel Alfred’s skin against his. He pulled frantically on Alfred’s shirt but suddenly Alfred caught his wrist and shook his head. “Wait, no.” His startling look of panic made Arthur still immediately.

“What is it?” asked Arthur, confused, his fingers still clutching the buttons of Alfred’s shirt. He slid his hand into Alfred’s as his mind raced to calm down and catch up. Had he pressed too much, pushed too far?

“I should tell you…” Alfred looked down and paused for a few moments, looking utterly insecure. “I… my plane, when she crashed… everything was burning…” he trailed into silence. Arthur waited, trying to breathe evenly, but Alfred didn’t continue.

“The plane was burning…” prompted Arthur, unsure where this was going. Alfred nodded then looked up into Arthur’s eyes. Alfred’s were wide and full of uncertainty.

“I was burned.”

“Ohh,” breathed Arthur, concern flooding him as he slowly sat up, his hand still caught in Alfred’s. How could he be so careless… “I’m sorry, did I hurt you? I wasn’t thinking, I keep forgetting you’re still injured…”

“No, the wound has healed, as much as it can, I’m just…” Alfred looked down again. “…scarred. Badly,” he finished in a whisper.

Arthur felt a tingling shock then a stab of pain in his chest. He recalled how Alfred had kept his upper body completely hidden since Arthur had first found him in the hospital. This was obviously something that had been worrying him for a while. Arthur swallowed, nodded, then gently removed his hand from Alfred’s before reaching again for the shirt. Something gnawed sickeningly at his stomach but he ignored it. It was time for him to see what Alfred was hiding, and if he could handle it.

“Arthur…” Alfred’s voice was low with apprehension.

“Shush.” Arthur unbuttoned the shirt, slid it over Alfred’s shoulders, then pushed it off altogether. Then he stilled. His heart raced swiftly but he just sat, immobile, gazing across at Alfred silently. Red and white scar tissue covered the entire right side of Alfred’s chest, raised and carved, a mass of scarred wounds which spread from his upper arm across his shoulder and chest to just below his stomach. Arthur blinked rapidly, his heart physically aching. He could not comprehend the agony something like that must have caused. Some part of him held the smallest suspicion that he should be revolted and yet he wasn’t at all. It was shocking, but it was a part of Alfred. Arthur could not possibly be revolted by any part of Alfred. As Arthur tried to think of something to say, Alfred reached up and tried to cover his chest with his hand.

“I’m sorry,” said Alfred quietly. “I didn’t want you to see. And I know if… I mean, I understand if…”

Arthur’s aching heart felt like it could split in two. He took Alfred’s hand again and shook his head. He tried to blink back the tears that pricked his eyes. This uncertainty was a side of Alfred he had never seen. “Alfred, you’re perfect.” And he was. He was human, and vulnerable, and he was perfect. Then Arthur pulled Alfred down with him as he lay back against the soft pillows. He slowly understood, there was no need to be fast and frantic. They had all the time in the world. As their bodies met, as their lips touched, Arthur tried to show Alfred that a scar didn’t mean anything, that Arthur wanted him just as much. That he really was, always had been, and always would be perfect. It didn’t take long for Alfred to seem to understand, to lose himself in the intensity and the passion once again.

Alfred finally divested Arthur of his last remaining item of clothing and paused, looking down at him while Arthur felt his spine flush with heat. “My god,” Alfred breathed, almost devouring Arthur with his eyes. “But you’re the most goddamn beautiful thing in the entire world.”

Arthur felt his face turn red. “Don’t be absurd,” he muttered as he drew Alfred back into his arms. Alfred laughed and Arthur felt almost weak at the relief of hearing it.

“But I mean it…”

“Shut up.”

It was hard to say how he had fallen in love like this. How that annoying, irritating, frustrating American had drawn him in, how Arthur had been somehow enchanted by him, how all common sense just flew out the window whenever Alfred was in the room. He didn’t know. He didn’t care.

Where earlier had been fast and frenzied and desperate, this was slow and gentle and soft and wonderful… and where the last time they had been in this bed was sad and bitter and heartbreaking this time was fast becoming warm and happy and hopeful. And though he grasped at Alfred’s back with impatient hands, Alfred remained unhurried and thorough and gentle. It was all too breathtaking… to finally be back here, to finally be able to touch Alfred without fear and dread of the coming morning, just to feel and taste and take his time and lose himself in everything he had wanted for so long. Arthur still could not get used to this, to Alfred here in his arms, to this comforting feeling and that scent he loved and remembered and that grin that Alfred would occasionally break the kiss to flash at him, making his already pounding heart jump.

Alfred’s hands were soft but steady as they lightly traced over Arthur’s heated skin. Arthur could not tear his lips from Alfred’s. And with their chests touching, the melding of their hips, Alfred’s heated and rapid breath against him, things quickly escalated once again. The heat in Arthur’s spine centered and shot to a single point, and he started pulling and grasping at Alfred’s back and shoulders. He tried to be gentle and careful of Alfred’s injuries but Alfred was also becoming faster and eager, pressing urgently against Arthur as his hands grew hot and shaky. Before Arthur even though of it, Alfred reached over and grabbed the jar of cold cream from the bedside table. Arthur’s eyes went wide and he waited in anticipation but Alfred just looked at it for a moment.

“Why do you keep this here?”

Arthur furrowed his brows. “It’s good for the skin. Keeps it soft.” Then he coughed, slightly embarrassed that he sounded like a ‘Good Housekeeping’ article.

“Oh, really?” Alfred did not sound convinced as he dipped his fingers into the jar.

“What the bleeding hell do you think I keep it here for?” asked Arthur, slightly annoyed at Alfred questioning him about his skincare routine at a time like this.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe this?” Alfred reached between Arthur’s legs and Arthur let out a shuddering gasp at the incredible feeling of Alfred’s cold slick fingers grasping him. He feebly attempted to push Alfred indignantly on the shoulder, though it was a half hearted attempt. “Hey, I was gone for months, I don’t blame you,” said Alfred, grinning wickedly as he stroked Arthur slowly. “But I’m back now, so I know a better use for this…”

“You are completely crass do you know that Alfred Jones, you really ahhh!” Arthur threw his head back and cried out when he felt Alfred’s hand move further down and press against his most intimate area. Alfred leant down to kissed Arthur’s cheek then trailed his lips up to his ear where he whispered, low and urgently.

“I want to be inside you, Arthur.”

Arthur’s heart pounded and his stomach twisted as his indignation melted. He turned his head and whispered back, “Yes.” Their lips touched and their breath mingled, hot and rapid, as Arthur felt Alfred’s fingers press inside him. Arthur felt nothing but bliss, his body throbbing with it, and all he wanted was to feel Alfred even closer.

Actually, it was easy to say how he had fallen in love like this. Because Alfred was cheerful and drew him out of his melancholy. Because he was dazzling and had brought the sun into Arthur’s grey world. Because he really was Arthur’s hero. He’d saved him. They’d saved each other.

Alfred took his time and everything was breathtaking and intense. It was magic. Waves of pleasure almost overwhelmed Arthur. His body burned in the icy fire of his sweat, thrumming with desire and fulfillment. Arthur became lost in the look of need and ecstasy on Alfred’s face as he thrust into him both forcefully and gently and their bodies melded into one. And their breath mingled, their skin slid perfectly together, their hearts beat rapidly in a similar rhythm as Alfred’s warm hands and lips and skin drove Arthur to greater heights of pleasure than he thought possible. It felt like he remembered, and like nothing he had ever felt, comforting and new and everything all at once. Arthur pressed against Alfred’s neck, breathing him in, feeling his pulse thrumming against his lips. He’d almost forgotten how it felt to be this close to Alfred, to feel his heart and body moving with his. But when he locked eyes with Alfred, he knew that he would never forget again.

The months of being without him, the pain he had felt, now made him realise just how much he really felt, how deep this really was. And yet that tiny fear remained, that small terror that it might happen again, and he suppressed it by whispering, barely conscious of what he was saying, things like “My Alfred” and “Finally here” and “I love you” and all that nonsense until he was simply saying Alfred’s name over and over in a breathless litany. Alfred. Alfred, who was so beautiful and alluring and so perfect, and, as arrogant as he was, seemed somehow not to know it.

A sharp awareness cut through Arthur’s mind. The midday sunlight that filtered through the curtains… the sound of the bed creaking so loud it might break… the eerie stillness of the world outside of themselves. But when it came to a crisis Arthur was looking in Alfred’s eyes and he was the only thing in the entire world. And Arthur clutched onto his shoulders and hoped he wasn’t hurting him but Alfred’s grip on him was just as strong. As the tension built in his stomach he dropped his hands, grasped Alfred’s hips and pulled him deeper. It was Alfred’s face, contorted with pleasure, that did it. The sight tipped Arthur over the edge and he shuddered and cried Alfred’s name in ecstasy, releasing over them both. Alfred suddenly went rigid, let forth a shout and Arthur felt the warmth surround him as Alfred clutched him tightly. Arthur’s climax was pulled even further from him and with the blissful pleasure he almost fell back into darkness but was pulled back by Alfred’s lips caressing his cheek.

Arthur panted and tangled his hand through Alfred’s sweat soaked hair as he lay breathing rapidly on Arthur’s shoulder. “Heavy,” Arthur finally managed to choke out and Alfred quickly muttered an apology and rolled over to his side, pulling Arthur with him and sighing happily. Arthur contentedly curled into Alfred’s side and threw an arm over him as carefully as he could manage. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Arthur smiled. “No.” He closed his eyes. He was not alone anymore. He’d never felt so content. It was all so natural, so comfortable. Here in Alfred’s arms was the only place Arthur had ever felt like he really belonged. It was as though nothing had ever occured to tear them apart, as though the awful months of the last year had never happened, and all the empty lonely years before that no longer mattered. They had all led up to this. When Arthur opened his eyes they fell on a piece of red and white cloth lying on the bedside table. His stomach leapt and he pushed himself up to reach for it.

“What’s that?” asked Alfred.

Arthur looked down at the handkerchief and found that, even now, his chest felt tight. He had thought this was all he had left of Alfred. “I believe this is yours,” he said, holding it out.

Alfred looked down at the cloth in Arthur’s hand, his expression unreadable.

“Matthew gave it to me. He said they found it in the wreckage.”

Alfred took the handkerchief slowly, his eyes slightly unfocused. “I remember.” He stopped and did not speak for a few moments. When he did his voice was soft. “I was holding this. When Lady Beth went down.” He ran his fingers over it gingerly, still staring at it intently. “The flames were everywhere and I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t escape. I remember, I looked down and this was the last thing I saw. And I thought…”Alfred looked up into Arthur’s eyes. “I thought I was the luckiest guy in the entire world.”

The stillness of the day settled around them and Arthur felt like he would never be able to move again. Like he never wanted to.

“And you know, I really reckon I am.”

Arthur smiled happily, sadly, and his gaze drifted down to Alfred’s scars. “Alfred, I’m so terribly sorry about Lady Beth.”

Alfred’s eyes widened as they shot up. He stared at Arthur for a moment, shook his head, then broke the silence by bursting into laughter. “I love you, Arthur.” Arthur blinked quizzically. “Do you know, not one other person has said that to me. You really do know me.”

“And I’m going to find out a whole lot more.” Arthur smiled at that, remembering a conversation they had once had, so similar to this, when Alfred had spoken those very words. This time however Arthur knew that the next time he awoke, Alfred would be beside him.

We'll Meet Again - Capítulo 10

Sun, 10 Jul 2011 13:55:10 -0400

Arthur could not bring himself to visit Alfred the next day. He quickly reverted to old habits and spent the day losing himself in work; upset, distraught, and wondering what he was doing deliberately staying away from Alfred. Arthur always hoped that the noise and commotion of the pub would take his mind off everything. It never did. While some part of him recognised that he was trying to avoid the same soul crushing hurt he had just gone through, he knew at the same time that all he was doing was hurting himself more. Arthur barely slept that night, stunned at how much he missed Alfred after one day, and feeling desperately guilty for breaking his promise to visit.

Arthur woke up early the next day, determined to visit Alfred before he had to open the pub. He stood just before the front door, glaring at it, trying to work up the courage to walk out of it, when it suddenly slammed open and he jumped in surprise. Then he choked back a gasp when Alfred walked through it and stood right in front of him. Dressed once again in his uniform and bomber jacket, his cap at an angle on his head, Alfred was like a vision out of one of Arthur’s all too frequent dreams. Only he was wearing glasses. Arthur stared at him, stunned. “What are you… but…I…” He had no idea what to say. “I thought I locked that door!”

“Why didn’t you come back?” Arthur almost took a step back from the fiery look in Alfred’s eyes.

“Alfred, it was only one day, I…I was just upset when that officer said they were…” Arthur blinked a few times. “…sending you home.”

“Arthur, I was always going to go back to America one day. You must have known that.”

The sudden pain in Arthur’s chest was almost overwhelming. But of course. It never meant anything to Alfred. He was always planning to go home and leave him. Arthur could almost feel his heart breaking. But he just narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to respond angrily, to shout and scream and yell at Alfred to leave then, go back to America and never come back. But Alfred continued before he had the chance.

“But didn’t I promise that I would always come back to you?”

All the hurt and anger suddenly deflated and Arthur was left just feeling confused. “Pardon?”

“You’re a damn sensitive guy at times, Arthur, for all you try to act so tough.” Alfred sighed and his eyes softened. “Not that I don’t understand it. Yesterday, I waited and waited and when you didn’t turn up, I… I thought…” Alfred broke off and looked down at the floor, blinking rapidly. “I thought you must be done with me.”

Arthur gasped. He’d never heard a more preposterous notion. “Done with you? How could you even…”

“You were always trying to leave. And you never wanted to touch me. And…”

“There were guards outside your room twenty four hours a day, if I didn’t touch you it was because I was afraid of arousing suspicion. Of course I wanted to touch you, I thought I made that perfectly clear in that bloody closet the other day! I’ve been positively aching to touch you…”

And then it suddenly seemed to hit them both at the same time. What the hell were they talking about? Why did any of it matter? They were alone. No doctors, no nurses, no guards… after a seconds pause that seemed to last an hour, Arthur fell desperately against Alfred, who grasped him so frantically he nearly lifted him off the ground. Their lips met almost violently, teeth clashing, and Arthur choked back a moan at the feeling of completion and relief. This wasn’t a stolen kiss in a hallway closet. This was every ounce of longing and desire Arthur had held for so long pouring out at once. This was the culmination of all those months of waiting and fear and loneliness. This was what he had longed for for so long and so much that it felt like the only thing in the world he had ever wanted. Alfred in his arms, and kissing him, and wanting Arthur like Arthur wanted him. And there was no one to stop them and nothing between them. This almost couldn’t be real.

Alfred broke away just long enough to say, “I was so worried you wouldn’t come back.”

Arthur shook his head in disbelief and pulled Alfred back down into the kiss. After a few moments Alfred broke it again.

“Now that I’m not a fighter pilot…”

That got Arthur to pause. He just stared up at Alfred incredulously. “You think I fell in love with you because you were a pilot?”

“Well, no, it’s just… I was somebody important… and now I’m useless and … and…” Alfred seemed to search for something else to say. “…and I have to wear these stupid glasses,” he finished. Arthur almost laughed, but Alfred just looked so lost. Arthur had forgotten how young he could seem at times.

“Alfred, you are quite the biggest fool I have ever meet. I don’t care about something so absurdly trivial as what you do for a living. And how could you ever think that you’re not important?”

Alfred shrugged and sighed. “I don’t know, I think I just worked myself up walking here from the hospital…”

Arthur’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. How the hell had he not realised it! “Wait, wait…” he said frantically, “The hospital! They’ve let you out of the hospital!” Arthur paused and his stomach fell. Of course. This must be goodbye. He let his hands drop from Alfred’s arms and closed his eyes. When Alfred had said he had to go home one day Arthur hadn’t realised he meant so soon. “They’re sending you home already.”

“No.” Alfred shook his head firmly. “I’m not going anywhere just yet.”

Arthur was sure he had misheard. His eyes flew open. “I beg your pardon?”

“You think I’d let them send me away from you, now, when I only just got you back? I’d never let them. I’d never let anyone.” Arthur felt a thrill of joy run through him at the words. Alfred laughed breathlessly. “They finally agreed to let me stay in England… not that I gave them much of a choice.”

“But… what will you be doing?” asked Arthur, finally looking up into Alfred’s eyes, his chest swelling with hope.

“Training. Apparently they’re low on flight instructors. Can you believe it? The military is actually letting me train British pilots!”

Arthur shook his head, wide eyed. “God help the English nation.”

Alfred’s eyes narrowed. “Huh, what do you mean by…”

“Shut up Alfred.” Arthur grasped the back of Alfred’s head and pulled him into a forceful kiss. Alfred responded by crushing Arthur’s chest to his and, slightly off balance, they fell back against the wall. Arthur didn’t pause. He couldn’t. Nothing could make him stop now. Hearing those words, knowing Alfred was staying with him, feeling him in his arms… Arthur had never imagined such happiness was possible. It was almost too much to take. Arthur pressed back and brought Alfred with him as they slid down the wall, entangled, their lips still joined. They landed heavily but Arthur barely noticed. Their lips finally parted when Arthur fell onto his back and Alfred fell over him, holding himself up with his arms.

“Wait,” said Alfred breathlessly, “are you…”

“Can’t wait… can’t stop…” Arthur reached up and brought Alfred’s lips back to his. It had been too long, for both of them. Arthur pulled desperately at their clothes but only just managed to unbutton his trousers before Alfred’s lips, his breath, his touch, this overwhelming reality overcame him. It had been too long, this was too close, it was too much. One brush of Alfred’s hand and it was over in one intense, overpowering moment. Alfred followed immediately, clutching onto Arthur’s hips with sweat soaked hands, before he shuddered and moaned into Arthur’s ear. He hadn’t even managed to unbutton his pants. After taking a minute to catch his breath, Arthur burst into laughter, closely followed by Alfred. But Arthur suddenly gasped and shot upright, concerned… Alfred had only just left hospital, what the hell was he doing dragging him onto the floor! “Oh bollocks, are you all right?”

Alfred just kept laughing. “I’ve never been more all right in my entire life.” He reached up, pulled Arthur back down, and kissed him again. Arthur decided to believe him. After all, he felt the same way.

Eventually they lay getting their breath back. It should have been uncomfortable lying on the floor, but it wasn’t. Arthur felt he could lay there forever.

“Do you know,” said Alfred breathlessly, “This is the table where we first met.”

Arthur looked up and realised that they had landed right beside the table by the second front window… the same table Alfred always chose to sit at. “It is?”

“Yeah, I remember it perfectly. And the first thing you ever said to me…” Alfred furrowed his brows and twisted his face into a furious expression before shouting, “‘Get the bloody hell down from that bloody table you stupid bloody Yank!’”

Arthur thought for a moment. “Oh yes, I did say that, didn’t I.”

“You always did say ‘bloody’ too much. Terrible language, really,” said Alfred, shaking his head, though he seemed to be trying not to laugh. Arthur just glared at him. Alfred didn’t appear to notice. “Do you remember that, Arthur? The first night we met?”

Arthur couldn’t hold back a snort of laughter. “Remember? How could I possibly forget. You barged through the door, introduced yourself as the man who was going to save England, then proceeded to drink an entire bottle of bourbon, attempt to start a fight with a chair, and then end the night by passing out on top of the bar.” How could Arthur ever forget the day that his life had turned upside down. “I can’t believe it’s been over a year since then.” It felt like yesterday… but at the same time it felt like a lifetime ago.

Alfred laughed and pulled himself into a sitting position against the wall. “I was in a good mood that night… I’d just fallen in love.”

Arthur peered up at Alfred and tried to ignore the fluttering feeling in his chest. “That is embarrassingly sentimental.”

“Why are you smiling like that then?”

“I’m laughing at you.”

“No you’re not.”

“Shut up Alfred.” But Arthur was still smiling when Alfred pulled him up against him and put his arm around him.

Arthur lost track of how long he just sat there, leaning against the wall with Alfred, their bodies pressed together and their breathing slowly returning to normal. The sun rose high in the sky through the window. The morning marched slowly on, time running past them, with nothing they could do to stop it. Arthur finally broke the tranquil silence with a question that had been bothering him for days. It came out more like a statement. “It wasn’t the resistance who freed you, was it.”

Alfred’s breath hitched. Arthur didn’t dare to look over at him. “Not really, no.” At that, Arthur glanced up quizzically. “It was Ludwig.”

“Ludwig?” Arthur’s eyebrows furrowed for a moment before he remembered where he had heard that name. Of course, Alfred’s letters, the ones he had read a hundred times. Ludwig was the German fighter pilot who had been captured, the one with the photo, the one who was loved by an Italian resistance fighter. “Ohh. Why? How?”

Alfred took a deep breath. His arm tightened around Arthur while his other hand grasped for Arthur’s. Arthur took it and squeezed reassuringly. Alfred just sat in silence for a moment before he finally started speaking. “When I was captured, after a certain point, I don’t remember a lot of it. I’m grateful for that. It all just sort of blurred into a haze of pain and nightmare.” Arthur clutched even tighter to Alfred’s hand. “I should have been sent to a POW camp, but they seemed to think I had collaborated with the Italian resistance movement. I don’t know what they thought I knew. I don’t know what they wanted me to tell them. But I told them nothing and they eventually moved me to a new base. I remember being brought in, and that’s when I saw the German pilot again. I will never forget that face.”

Alfred broke off, his eyes unfocused. After a few moments he continued. “One afternoon, I was handed over to the Gestapo, and… and…” Alfred’s voice was low and strained, like the words were painful for him to get out. They were painful for Arthur to hear. “..and I don’t want to talk about that afternoon,” Alfred finished in a whisper, his eyes almost blank as they gazed unseeing at the floor.

Again Alfred paused and Arthur waited patiently. He knew how difficult this must be for Alfred. He had barely spoken of his experience in captivity, and Arthur found he preferred it that way. The few allusions he had made to the matter just tore at Arthur’s heart. He couldn’t bare to hear about the hell that Alfred had gone through just because the SS wanted information that he didn’t even possess. But Arthur stayed silent, determined to listen to anything that Alfred had to say.

“But that night, when everyone had finally finished with me, Ludwig came into my room. I thought I was dreaming. But I wasn’t, he was really there, and he took me out of the base. I don’t know how long he walked with me on his back… I could barely move, you see. It turns out he spoke English, and he kept trying to keep me awake. He asked me about you. And I remember at one point we had a conversation about frogs.” Alfred suddenly looked up at Arthur and spoke brightly. “Did you know that there is a species of frog in South America that has enough poison to kill two thousand people?”

Arthur just shook his head, slightly startled by this random change in topic. “No. I did not know that.”

“Neither did I. Huh. Well, apart from the conversation about frogs, it is mostly all a blur. But eventually there were other people, and I recognised some of them too… Even though we couldn’t have been near their village, Rome was there, and Lovino. But I don’t remember seeing Feliciano. Then Ludwig disappeared and the next thing I know I woke up in an American base.” Alfred shrugged. “And there you have it. After that it was just months of recovery at the base before weeks of being stuck on a hospital ship.” Alfred sighed. “I can’t imagine what would happen to Ludwig if the German military found out what he did.”

Arthur sat in silence, trying to process what he had just heard. “I can’t believe it. A German rescued you! What on earth… why…”

“Arthur, I…” Alfred took a deep breath and looked down at his hands. Arthur waited silently. “The reason Ludwig was free in the first place was… Well, earlier, when Ludwig was our prisoner, I… I gave Feliciano classified information. Information about how and where Ludwig was being held. A few days later we heard he had been broken out. Feliciano must have done it. And as soon as I heard I knew it was my fault. If I hadn’t given Feliciano that information he would never have managed it. I helped an enemy escape. Heck, I may as well have busted him out of there myself.”

“Oh, Alfred.” Alfred truly was the most good, kind, stupid man Arthur had ever met.

“I betrayed my country,” said Alfred in a whisper, still staring at his hands, looking lost and frightened and devastated.

“No!” Arthur met Alfred’s eyes and shook his head. “You helped one man… a good man. A man who later helped you. You didn’t betray anyone.”

“I know it was wrong, he was our enemy, he was a prisoner. But Feliciano was so good and sweet and he loved Ludwig so much and… I let all these stupid feelings get in the way of that.” Alfred looked up, wide eyed, into Arthur’s eyes and whispered, “Arthur, if anyone ever knew…”

Arthur squeezed Alfred’s hand reassuringly. “They never will,” he said firmly. “It’s all right. They never will.” Arthur couldn’t tell him he hadn’t done anything wrong. But neither could he blame him or judge him. “And listen Alfred, if you had not done what you did, you would not have been rescued yourself. You’d have been…” Arthur didn’t need to finish that sentence. “Ludwig may be an enemy, but… I’m bloody grateful to him.” Arthur tried to think through it all. Alfred had helped Ludwig escape, and Ludwig had done the same thing for Alfred. It was all just so inconceivable. “What happened to Feliciano?”

Alfred shrugged. “I don’t know. But he’s a resistance fighter. Ludwig is a German officer. I really do hope that he and Ludwig can be happy somehow. I just don’t see how that could ever happen.”

Silence fell once again. Arthur held onto Alfred’s hand and thought how incredibly bloody lucky he really was. Against all the odds, Alfred had come back to him. And though he may be heading back to the states, and though they may never be able to be open about their feelings, and though they would always have to hide in their love in secrecy, it was still possible… it was really possible for them to love each other and in some way to be together. And somewhere miles away, stuck in the middle of a war and a situation they could never control, there were two good men who could never know that, even though they loved each other just as much. It was so unfair.

Arthur was not sure how long they simply sat quietly together. Though at first Arthur felt he could lie against the wall with Alfred forever, eventually he twisted awkwardly, and the hard wall behind him started to dig into his back. “Alfred, I’m afraid this is becoming rather uncomfortable.”

“You’re absolutely right. We need to move immediately.”

“I completely agree.” Arthur looked up into Alfred’s face grinning down at him. Alfred winked, and Arthur’s heart jumped.

“I think your bed would be a heck of a lot more comfortable than this floor.”

Arthur couldn’t agree more.

We'll Meet Again - Capítulo 9

Sun, 10 Jul 2011 13:54:31 -0400

Tuesday 28 November, 1944

Alfred!

You… you… you! I should have known a little thing like being shot down and captured would not be enough to kill you. I can’t tell you how damn happy I am to hear you’re all right, old friend!

We all nearly fell over when we heard the news… the whole squadron send their best for your quick recovery, although knowing you I am sure you will be up and about in no time… if you aren’t already. Don’t give the Doctor’s too hard a time, they’re just trying to help.

I’m looking forward to seeing you once I get out of this mess over here. I’d say more, but you know what the censors are like.

Your friend, Matthew.

P.S. All the best to Arthur.

Arthur finished reading the letter and handed it back to Alfred, who sighed deeply and placed it on the small table next to his bed. “I should be over there. I feel so useless.”

“You’ve done enough.” Arthur’s gaze fell involuntarily on Alfred’s mutilated hands. “More than enough.” Arthur quickly shook his head and looked back up. “Now, let us return to the rather pressing matter at hand.” He picked up the two pairs of glasses Alfred had tossed down on the bed. “Let me see you in these fetching red ones once again.” He leaned over the bed and put them on Alfred even as Alfred laughed helplessly and tried to pull away.

“Stop it! They’re all terrible. Glasses don’t suit me.”

“Oh I don’t know, I think these ones suit you quite well.”

Arthur had asked earlier exactly what had happened to Alfred’s eyes but quickly wished he hadn’t. Alfred got as far as mentioning something about chemicals and burning before Arthur felt like he would be sick and begged him to stop. Whatever the enemy had done to him, Alfred had lost a large percentage of his sight. And as Air Force pilots had to have perfect vision, Alfred would never fly for the military again. Alfred hadn’t spoken much of it… but it was obvious he was devastated.

Alfred peered up at Arthur over the top of the glasses. “I’ll never get used to these.”

Arthur couldn’t help laughing. They actually did suit him. “But of course you will. Stop complaining.”

Arthur’s pub had been running practically without him for the last week as he went back and forth to the hospital. The whole thing still felt like a dream… but a wonderful, beautiful dream that he never wanted to wake up from. He watched Alfred get better every day in the few hours he was allowed to spend with him in the hospital. It felt like minutes. In the short time they had they talked, remembering everything about each other and learning more. Arthur spoke to Alfred, silly things, things to cheer him and distract him, things that usually led to an argument because Alfred always was so bloody frustrating. Arthur listened to Alfred, on the very few occasions when he started to speak about his experience, usually just a few words muttered before his eyes clouded over and he trailed into silence. And sometimes Arthur just sat, watching Alfred sleep, trying to grasp the fact that the only thing he’d ever truly wanted was in his grasp, in his heart… and lying before him.

“Any word on when you’ll be out of here?” It was all Arthur thought about. He was desperate for Alfred to leave, to be alone with him, to be somewhere there weren’t doctors and nurses and bloody military guards keeping watch twenty four hours a day. But Alfred was a virtual prisoner until he gave the military the information they wanted to know about his escape. Every day someone was sent to try and convince Alfred to tell them how he’d gotten free of the Germans. Every day they left without an answer. An answer that Arthur didn’t know… and had no idea why it was so important not to disclose.

Alfred tossed the glasses back onto the bed. “Well hopefully they’ll let me out for Christmas. They won’t even let me have a tree in here, can you believe it?”

Arthur just shook his head incredulously. Christmas. How could it be nearly Christmas again already? Arthur could barely believe how much time had passed since Alfred had left for Italy. Somehow he had lost all sense of time since Alfred barrelled into his life. “Spend Christmas with me.” He said it without even thinking.

Alfred smiled up at him. “I’d love to spend Christmas with you.”

“So tell them what they want to hear and you can.”

Alfred groaned and looked away. “I told you, I can’t!”

“So lie!” said Arthur. “Make some nonsense up and be done with it!”

“Lie?” Alfred looked shocked by the notion. “I can’t do that either!”

“Why do you have to be so bloody…” Arthur stopped himself. So bloody frustrating, good, honest, stupid. Arthur fell back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling, exasperated. “I just… I just…” he trailed off and dropped his gaze to the ground. “I still just want to take you home. Out of here. Away from this damn inquisition.”

“You will. It’ll all work out, you’ll see.” Arthur raised his eyes and Alfred winked. Arthur’s heart flipped as he cursed inwardly. That bloody wink. “If I spend Christmas with you, can we put up a tree? And sing carols? And make those rum ball things you made last year that made everyone in the pub drunk? Those were fantastic.”

Arthur thought for a second. “Yes, we can make the rum balls. No singing. But I will put up a tree for you.”

“I’d like that,” said Alfred, smiling as he reached out his hand. Arthur smiled back, took Alfred’s hand, felt it’s comforting exhilarating touch. Then he quickly dropped it when the guard at the door gave them a backwards glance. Arthur looked away.

“I should be leaving.”

Alfred pushed himself further up in the bed. “No!”

Arthur sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “You know I’m not supposed to be here… the guards don’t like it.”

Alfred threw a filthy look at the two men outside the door. “Huh, like I give a damn about what they think.”

“Regardless… I don’t want to get you into more trouble.” And Arthur especially didn’t want to arouse more suspicion about their relationship. He already felt their emotional reunion had given away too much, so he’d tried to be careful during the last week with how he acted and what he said when he could be heard. He’d carefully kept his distance, while the whole time he ached to just throw himself into Alfred’s arms.

Alfred looked back over at Arthur pleadingly. “Stay another ten minutes.”

Arthur sighed. Every time Alfred asked him that he could never refuse. And he usually ended up staying until the staff asked him to leave.

Arthur knew Alfred was finally recovering when he walked into the hospital hallway the next morning to find Alfred rounding the far corner and speeding down the corridor in a wheelchair.

“Hi, Arthur!” Alfred cried cheerfully as he sped towards him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” asked Arthur, part exasperated, part overjoyed to see how well Alfred looked. “You are ill! Get back to bed this instant!”

“Geez, you sound like a nurse,” said Alfred as he came to a screeching halt in front of Arthur and grinned up at him. Arthur scowled. The damn yank had certainly figured out how to use that grin on him.

“Feeling better then, are we?” Arthur tried to glare. He was fairly sure it wasn’t working.

“I feel one hundred percent today,” grinned Alfred. They both looked up as a loud shout came from behind them. Alfred tried clumsily to turn his chair. “Damn, he’s catching up!”

Arthur turned to see another wheelchair turn and speed down the hall. He raised his eyebrows. “Francis? So they caught you, did they?”

“Arthur, mon ami!” Francis smiled and came to a stop a few feet from where Alfred was trying unsuccessfully to manoeuvre his chair. “Caught? Never. They promised to send me back to France, so I returned willingly. Do excuse me one moment.” Francis crashed his chair into the back of Alfred’s, who groaned loudly . “I believe that is now two to me, Lieutenant.”

“Best of five!” said Alfred, just as a stern looking nurse turned the corner into the corridor and strode towards them. Arthur backed up against the wall and tried to look inconspicuous.

“What is going on now?” asked the nurse, standing over Francis and Alfred with her hands on her hips. “Captain Bonnefoy, I’ve told you to stop encouraging him.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. Captain? Francis just shrugged. “Ah, you know what these kids are like.” Francis cocked his head and looked up at the nurse inquisitively. “I’m sorry, but have you done something new with your hair? It looks…” he paused and waved his hand inexpressively, “exquisite.”

“Don’t try that with me, Bonnefoy… I know you and it won’t work. Now, you.” The nurse glared down at Alfred who smiled charmingly.

“Me?”

“Any more of this and I will take away your visiting rights.” She looked pointedly at Arthur.

“Try it,” said Alfred, still smiling. “Because I know just how much you all enjoy dealing with me when I’m upset.”

The nurse looked like she did know, and did not want to deal with it again any time soon. She folded her arms and tapped her foot. “Jones, get back to your room. And get out of that chair.”

“I can’t. I’m sick.” Alfred coughed feebly, the smile not leaving his face. He looked over at Arthur and winked. Arthur couldn’t help laughing. Suddenly a loud voice shouted down the hall.

“Captain Bonnefoy! LIEUTENANT JONES!”

Francis and Alfred looked at each other, their eyes wide.

“Shit!”

“Merde!”

“Come, Arthur, we must make our escape!” Arthur choked back a shriek of surprise as Alfred took off in the wheelchair, grasped him by the waist, and pulled him down onto his lap.

“What the HELL do you THINK…”

“Hold on Arthur!” Alfred took off, narrowly avoiding the shocked nurse’s feet, as the guards shouted at the end of the hall. Arthur clutched onto Alfred’s shoulders to stop himself falling. Now this was ridiculous.

“Go, brave friends! I shall hold them off! Pour la France!” Arthur looked back to see Francis charging his wheelchair towards the military guards, but he didn’t see the result as Alfred swiftly turned a corner, narrowly avoiding crashing into the wall.

Arthur wasn’t sure whether to be terrified or just mildly irritated. Of course he was completely confused, and also strongly aware of how close his body was to Alfred’s. Perhaps that was why he wasn’t as angry as he maybe should have been. Alfred narrowly missed a wall again. “Why aren’t you wearing your glasses?” cried Arthur.

“Don’t need ‘em,” said Alfred. He finally slowed as he reached a door, stood up and hauled Arthur through it. Alfred slammed the door behind them and pulled Arthur into a bruising kiss. Arthur froze in shock, started to say something, then stopped thinking. In the dark room Arthur couldn’t see a thing, but he could taste Alfred’s lips strong and warm against his, could smell that scent which was so overwhelmingly Alfred, could feel the rapid rising of their chests pressed together, Alfred’s hand firm and gentle against the back of his neck, his arm tight around his waist. His head spun and he pulled Alfred tighter against him, as tight as he dared. Finally. Seconds before Arthur lost all control, he managed to pull back, breathing heavily.

“Alfred, stop, what if they…”

“Ssh,” said Alfred, pulling Arthur back and whispering against his lips. “Please, just… just let me kiss you…”

Arthur could not argue with that. After all, this was what he had been desperate for since the first moment he had laid eyes on Alfred in the hospital room and ran into his arms. But there were no nurses or doctors or guards here. The kiss was everything he remembered and everything he had dreamed of. It was warmth and love and promise. It was Alfred. And it was over too quickly. After only a few seconds, the shouting voices outside got closer and Arthur broke the kiss reluctantly and held his breath. Alfred giggled softly and Arthur thumped him lightly on the shoulder.

“Non, non monsieur, he went the other way, did you not see? Oh la la, these difficult Americans. Quickly, this way.” Arthur could hear Francis’ voice just outside the door. The sound of footsteps slowly receded down the hall and Arthur breathed out, relieved. He squinted up at Alfred but still couldn’t make him out.

“I think you should get back to your room, Lieutenant Jones,” said Arthur sternly, even as he clung to Alfred’s arms.

“Arthur,” whispered Alfred.

“Yes?”

“I think we’re in a closet.”

Arthur dissolved into laughter. Alfred managed to sneak another kiss before Arthur dragged him out of the closet, forced him back into the wheelchair, and wheeled him back down the hallway.

Arthur wheeled Alfred into the hospital room to find no guards at the door. Arthur slowed to a stop when they walked through the door and found a tall well dressed officer standing in the centre of the room. Bloody marvellous. Someone else sent to interrogate Alfred. Arthur narrowed his eyes at the officer, who just nodded at Alfred. “Good morning Lieutenant.” The officer glanced at Arthur, furrowed his brows, then looked back at Alfred who gave a half hearted, almost sarcastic salute.

“Hello.”

“So, the Magician, is it?” asked the officer in a loud American accent.

“That’s what they call me,” said Alfred, grinning cockily. Arthur suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.

“Well Lieutenant, you certainly live up to your nickname, because I really don’t know any other way to describe it. You’re free to go.” The officer looked down at Alfred in the chair. “Once you’re well enough to move around, of course.”

Arthur’s heart seemed to stop. He looked at Alfred who just gazed up at the officer, looking slightly dazed. “I am?”

“We just received a call from our contacts in Italy,” said the officer, occasionally glancing warily at Arthur as he spoke. “They’ve been given some information from the local partisan movement. Now all this damn time we’ve been holding you because you’ve refused to tell us how you got free, and its something as simple as this? Why the hell didn’t you just tell us you were rescued by the Italian resistance?”

“Oh.” Arthur blinked in surprise, but when he looked at Alfred he could tell that he was shocked but trying to hide it. “I must have… forgot.”

The officer looked down at Alfred suspiciously and shook his head. “You’re a stupid man, Jones. A stupid, lucky man. Congratulations. Once you’re fit and healthy, you’re out of here. They’re giving you a medal and shipping you home to the states.”

Arthur’s stomach sank and a sudden heavy wave seemed to crush his chest.

“Oh,” said Alfred flatly. “Hooray.”

The officer saluted. “Good day, Lieutenant.”

“Yeah, sure… and, thanks. I guess.” Alfred half heartedly saluted back.

The officer just nodded and strode from the room after throwing another suspicious glare at Arthur.

Alfred breathed out heavily, turned and gave Arthur a cheerless smile. “Well there you go. Didn’t I tell ya it would all sort out?”

Arthur could barely hear past the rushing in his ears. …shipping you home to the states… “They’re sending you home.” No. Not this. How could they make him leave… Arthur had only just got him back.

Alfred sighed deeply. “Apparently. But…”

Arthur shook his head, swallowed heavily, and slowly backed away. This was too much. He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want this again. Not again. “I have to leave.”

Alfred stood up, pushing the chair away, and grasped pleadingly onto Arthur’s hand. “Don’t go, Arthur.”

“It’s late. I’ve stayed far too long.” Arthur tried to pull away but Alfred held insistently onto his hand.

“You just got here! What… when will you come back?” asked Alfred anxiously.

“Soon.” Arthur tried to smile and looked away from Alfred’s distressed expression. He took a deep breath. “Very soon, I promise.”

“Tomorrow,” said Alfred firmly. He moved into Arthur’s line of sight, fixed Arthur’s eyes with his and repeated, almost frantically, “Tomorrow, yes?”

“Yes, Alfred. Tomorrow. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Arthur finally felt Alfred’s hand slip from his and he turned and walked towards the door. Turn around, turn around, turn around… Arthur screamed at himself. Why was he doing this? Why didn’t he turn around? But Arthur could not stop himself as he walked out the door, through the empty corridor, and out the front door of the hospital into the cold street.

We'll Meet Again - Capítulo 8

Sun, 10 Jul 2011 13:53:54 -0400

Arthur had never run so fast in his life. His feet pounded against the hard pavement and he wasn’t sure if his head was spinning from the exertion, the alcohol that buzzed through his veins, or the earlier revelation that still had him staggered. But even though sweat ran down his face and his lungs screamed at him for air, he didn’t slow until he reached the entrance of the war hospital several blocks away. His mind whirled with confusion and disbelief. His heart pounded so fast he felt it would burst. He couldn’t believe it… he wouldn’t believe it… it was too incredible, too wonderful. It couldn’t be true. But oh, what if it was?

Arthur raced through the hospital entrance and straight past the reception. The strong chemical smell hit him like a fist and his eyes struggled to adjust to the dim light after running through the sunlit streets. It took all his strength to slow down to a respectable speed as he rushed through the endless white hallways.

“Excuse me! Sir! You aren’t supposed to be here!” A man in an officer’s uniform tried to stop him in the hallway. Arthur simply stepped around him and kept walking.

“Important business, I’m… from the War Office.”

The officer turned and looked after him suspiciously. “What is your clearance code?”

“B 51 19,” said Arthur without thinking. He rushed past and, thankfully, the officer didn’t press the matter. Arthur didn’t know where he was going and had no idea whether to ask someone, or even what he would ask. Excuse me, is there an incredibly loud, annoying, handsome American around here somewhere? Arthur looked frantically in every room he passed, growing increasingly desperate. Why the hell hadn’t he asked Francis for more information instead of bolting immediately out the door and into the street?

An enormous crash from a room down the hall suddenly broke the relative silence of the place. A nurse immediately appeared in the doorway and called out, “Will someone bring me another shot for room 105?”

Arthur stopped still, felt the hall spin around him, then followed the commotion in a dreamlike daze. Another nurse dashed past him and disappeared into the room, leaving the door open. As he drew closer he started to make out the words of the voices that sounded loudly from the room.

“We simply cannot keep injecting him with this sedative,” came the voice of a young woman.

“We have no choice, it’s becoming more and more difficult to restrain him!” said the nurse who had called out in the doorway.

A male voice spoke next. “Lieutenant, calm down or we will have to inject you again!”

“As I have told you a hundred times!” Arthur was hit by a shock so intense his entire body froze. He couldn’t move and almost felt he would faint. He would know that voice anywhere. He’d heard it laughing… sighing… singing… “I will calm down if you would just let me out of here for one hour… One damn hour! You don’t understand, I need to see someone!”

“You can write this person a letter,” said the young woman soothingly.

“They keep confiscating my letters!”

“Please lie down. You are injured!”

“It’s just a few bruises…”

Arthur told himself to move, forced himself to follow the voices. Cautious joy swelled in his chest.

The male voice spoke again. “It’s internal bleeding and serious burn damage and you are jeopardising your chance of recovery…”

“You can’t keep me here against my will. Someone call the American Embassy!”

“Now listen here, Lieutenant Jones.” This second male voice was loud and aggressive. “You are going to lie down and you are going to shut up.”

“You are going to try and make me… if you can.”

Arthur reached the end of the hall, still feeling like he was walking in a dream. As he turned into the room his breath caught in his lungs. There he was. Alfred. Arthur shook his head, felt dizzy, tried to understand. He reached out and grasped the doorframe for support as he tried to take in the sight before him. Three nurses and a doctor stood watching as two guards in military dress tried desperately to restrain Alfred, who was wrapped in bandages and dressed in white hospital clothes with his bomber jacket thrown over his shoulders. He fought angrily to free himself from the grip of the guards… and looked like he was winning. No one seemed to notice Arthur as he stood, stunned, watching the mayhem.

“That’s it, I have to leave, and I am done with this!” Alfred turned and threw one of the men to the ground. The other tried desperately to keep a hold on him as the doctor quickly grabbed Alfred’s arm, jabbed him with a needle, and immediately jumped back out of the way. Alfred threw the other guard off him before he finally stopped, looked down at his arm, and groaned loudly. “Not again.”

Arthur stood immobilised in shock but finally managed to find his voice. “Alfred.” It came out in a whisper, but everyone in the room looked up. Arthur’s eyes were locked on Alfred.

Alfred stared at Arthur for a moment then looked back down at his arm where he had been injected. “Huh. That worked faster than usual.” Alfred paused, his eyes widened and he raised his gaze once again, slowly, to meet Arthur’s. “I’m not… dreaming, am I?”

Arthur just shook his head. “Alfred,” he said again, still in a whisper. He couldn’t think what to say. He couldn’t think at all. “You’re not dead…”

“I don’t think so…” A fleeting expression of panic crossed Alfred’s face and he stared wide eyed at the doctor. “I’m not dead, am I?”

The doctor rolled his eyes. “‘Course you’re not bloody dead Lieutenant, complete miracle though that is.”

The military guards had both drawn themselves to their feet but kept a wary distance from Alfred. One took a few steps toward Arthur. “Sir, I don’t know who you are, but you can’t be in here.”

“He’s not going anywhere,” growled Alfred fiercely.

The doctor held his hand out to stop the guard. “He’s keeping him calm. I suggest you let him stay unless you want to deal with the consequences.” He nodded towards Alfred. The guard looked like that was the last thing he wanted and stepped back again.

Arthur shook his head, the words going over his head, still unable to believe what was right before him. “But you… your plane… the radio said, it went down, and, and Matthew said you were… and I was certain…” Arthur couldn’t finish the sentence. He couldn’t finish a thought. Alfred was standing in front of him. It suddenly hit Arthur like a hammer. This was real. Without a thought to those around them, Arthur ran across the room and threw his arms around Alfred. He clutched at his shoulders, frantically trying to convince himself this was happening, still scared to accept it. “You’re real,” he said breathlessly. “You’re really real!” He finally allowed himself to believe it and couldn’t hold back a relieved, overjoyed laugh.

Arthur buried his face in the collar of Alfred’s jacket and inhaled that familiar comforting smell. The feel of Alfred, the smell of Alfred, the simply exhilarating presence… Arthur couldn’t stop tears rising, completely overwhelmed. Arthur smiled with joy as he felt Alfred’s arms wrap around him, his hand run up his back and tangle in his hair, and shivered as Alfred sighed softly against his ear. Arthur heard someone approach behind him but they stopped when Alfred lifted his head and growled in a threatening voice, “Don’t you even think about it.”

Arthur barely noticed anyone else in the room. He couldn’t care less. All he could see, all he could think, was Alfred. He held him, touched him, breathed him in. “I can’t believe you’re here! I can’t believe you’re real!” This was everything Arthur remembered, everything he had dreamed about. This was Alfred. Arthur pulled his arms even tighter and Alfred gasped.

“Yeah, I’m real. I’m also really… uh… in a bit of pain.”

Arthur quickly let go. “Oh bollocks, sorry.” He tried to step back but Alfred grasped his hands. Arthur looked up into his face. He was still there. Still real. And he was grinning. Arthur shook his head, overwhelmed.

“I can’t… I don’t understand…”

“I’ll explain everything. But first…”

Arthur’s heart almost stopped. “Yes?”

“First… I just have to pass out for a minute.” Alfred squeezed Arthur’s hands, winked, then fell to the floor, unconscious, with a smile on his face.

One of the nurses whistled. “That’s the longest I’ve seen anyone stay conscious with that amount of sedative in their veins.”

Arthur couldn’t take his eyes off Alfred. He hadn’t left the hospital since he arrived, despite the efforts of the two military guards who stood watch at the door. The doctor had refused to let them force Arthur out, pointing out that he had somehow calmed Alfred, and that no one wanted to see how Alfred would react if he woke up and found him no longer there. So Arthur sat beside Alfred’s bed, clasping his hand, watching as he lay sleeping. Alfred had deep purple bruises around his eyes. Bandages seemed to cover almost his entire body. The hand that Arthur clutched onto almost desperately was missing a finger… the hand that lay resting on the bed was missing two. The rest of his fingers were devoid of nails. Arthur felt sick, angry, devastated. Yet at the same time he felt relieved, ecstatic… because no matter what had happened to him, Alfred was alive. And by some miracle lying here, in London, sleeping beside him and holding his hand.

The room was rather small, clinical, and contained two beds, some chairs, and not much else. The bed beside Alfred’s was empty. The door swung open and Arthur looked up as the young nurse from earlier walked in and smiled down at him. Well, that was a nice change. The military men at the door kept throwing him dirty looks and muttering under their breath. The nurse placed some vials and packages down on the bedside table, scribbled a few things on a clipboard beside the bed, then reached over and took Alfred’s other hand. Arthur watched as she gently turned it around and felt his wrist for a pulse. His stomach fell, once again, when he looked at Alfred’s butchered hand.

“What happened to him?” asked Arthur in a small voice.

The nurse glanced up at him and smiled kindly. “From what we can gather, he was held prisoner for nearly a month. They seemed to think he had some sort of information, and they tried rather hard to get it.”

Arthur cringed and a hot wave of anger ran through him. “How did he escape?”

The nurse released Alfred’s hand and again wrote something on the clipboard. “Well that is the question. He was delivered to an American base by a group of Italians, but… we’ve no idea how he managed to get free of the SS. He won’t tell anyone. Until he does, the military want to keep a very close eye on him.” She nodded toward the guards standing at the door.

“He feels hot…”

“Yes. He’s fighting a fever. He’s not in very good shape at all, I’m afraid, but compared to how he was… well, let’s just say it was utterly incredible how he was able to fight so hard to try and leave. He wouldn’t be conscious a minute before he was up and charging to be let out the door. He certainly must have had something important to do.”

Arthur smiled. Something important. Foolish, marvellous Alfred. “I suppose so.”

“Well I am supposing that with you here he may finally be able to get some rest.” The nurse winked at Arthur as she left the room. Arthur blinked a few times after her in surprise. He laughed a little to himself, looked down at Alfred, and felt his heart jump to his throat when he noticed Alfred’s eyelids fluttering. Arthur held his breath as Alfred slowly opened his eyes, blinked a few times, then looked straight up at Arthur. His face lit up in a blinding grin.

“I’m really not dreaming?”

Arthur shook his head and smiled back. “Not unless I am.”

Alfred smiled happily. “If we’re dreaming… let’s not wake up.”

Arthur nodded, his throat choked up. He just lifted Alfred’s hand to his lips and kissed it.

“I think…” said Alfred, his eyes slowly closing, “I think I need to sleep some more.”

“That’s all right. You sleep. I’m not going anywhere.”

Alfred’s eyes closed, a smile still on his lips. He sighed quietly. “My… Arthur…”

Arthur did nothing more for the rest of the afternoon than sit holding Alfred’s hand and watching him sleep. It was one of the best afternoons of his life.

It seemed like hours later. Arthur blearily opened his eyes to find that the lights had been lit and realised he must have fallen asleep sometime in the early evening. He blinked in confusion, unsure where he was, until with a sudden rush of joy it all came flooding back. Arthur rubbed his eyes with his free hand, looked down at Alfred, and found him smiling up at him. Arthur smiled back. He had never felt so happy, so content, so unbelievably thankful in his entire life. The weeks of despair already seemed a distant memory. For months he had felt as though a part of him had been ripped out… and now he felt whole again. They both just gazed quietly at each other for what could have been a minute… could have been days. Arthur never wanted to move.

“What happened to your face?” Alfred finally said as he tried to reach up to touch Arthur’s cheek. His hand fell back heavily on the bed.

“It’s nothing,” said Arthur quickly. He shrugged. “Broke a glass.”

“You all right?” Alfred furrowed his brows in concern. Arthur laughed in disbelief.

“You’re asking me that? Good God, Alfred, it’s just a scratch. I’m slightly more concerned about you right now.”

Alfred grinned again. “Don’t you worry about me. I’m just fine.” Arthur frowned. His bruised eyes, his bandaged head. He didn’t look fine.

“I missed you, Alfred.” Arthur swallowed heavily and looked away. “You can’t possibly…”

Alfred ran his thumb in circles around Arthur’s palm. “I’m sorry Arthur. They wouldn’t let me out and they kept throwing my letters away. It was so hard… knowing you were just down the road and I couldn’t reach you.” Alfred’s expression twisted in pain. “It nearly killed me.”

“I wish I’d known. I thought…” Arthur took a ragged breath, the awful memories flooding him. “I really thought you were dead.”

Alfred squeezed his hand. “I promised I’d come back to you, didn’t I? Didn’t you believe me?” Arthur laughed and Alfred smiled. “How did you find me?”

“This French man came into the pub and he…”

Alfred interrupted. “Francis? Damn it, that frog escaped and won the bet! I was wondering why his bed was empty. Obviously his strategy was a little more effective than mine.”

“His strategy?”

Alfred winked. “Seducing the nurses.”

“Oh.” Arthur wondered how Francis had escaped the Germans. He decided not to think about it. “So you… didn’t try that one?”

“You think I could seduce anyone looking like this?” Alfred grinned widely, his hair sticking out of his bandage and falling in his eyes. Arthur’s heart thumped a little faster.

“Well, frankly, yes.” Alfred scoffed and Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Gentlemen never lie, remember?”

Alfred looked away. “Stop. I know I don’t look the best right now.”

“You look magnificent.” Alfred looked back at him, eyebrows raised, and Arthur’s cheeks burned as he dropped his gaze to the bed. He laughed nervously. “So… your strategy was what… to beat down every military guard in the place?”

“Pretty much. I’d have been out of here days ago, too, if it wasn’t for that damn sleeping needle they keep sticking in me.”

“Sedative. Why on earth did you keep fighting them then?”

“Because I had to get to you.” Alfred said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Arthur burned with both joy and dismay that Alfred would trouble himself so much for him. Embarrassed, thrilled, overjoyed; he searched for a way to change the conversation. “Matthew didn’t know you were here?”

“No.” Alfred glared at the two military guards still standing outside the door. “I haven’t been able to speak to anyone.”

“He only just left for France.”

Alfred groaned and closed his eyes. “Damn. I should be going too.”

“No, you shouldn’t.”

Alfred shook his head. “Not like I can anyway. The doc said I’ll never fly again. Not after what they did to my eyes.”

Arthur felt as though he’d been kicked in the stomach. His eyes… what had they done to his eyes? Arthur searched for something to say. There was nothing to say. “Alfred…”

Alfred interrupted him quickly as he looked up at the ceiling, his eyes shining. “Did you get my letters from Italy?” Arthur let Alfred change the subject and answered.

“Yes. Your grammar is atrocious and you can’t spell in Italian.”

Alfred laughed but kept his eyes on the ceiling. He blinked rapidly. “Oh. I do apologise.”

Arthur’s heart ached. He just wanted to take Alfred home, wanted to hold him, wanted to touch him and kiss him and… “When will they let you out of here?” The question came out before Arthur even thought about asking it.

“Soon as my injuries heal up I guess. Well, the ones that can heal anyway.” Alfred looked down at his hand resting on the bed. Arthur felt another wave of anger overwhelm him. Anger at the Germans, at the war. What it had done to Alfred, what it had taken from him. Alfred was supposed to be young and cheerful and optimistic and naive forever. This wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.

Arthur squeezed Alfred’s hand gently. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

“Don’t be silly. Could’ve been worse.” Alfred winked at him, and he reminded Arthur so much of that charming, irritating young pilot who had first walked into his pub. But there was something different, something changed, something lost. He wasn’t quite the same anymore. But he was still Alfred, still the wide eyed fool who Arthur had been helpless to stop himself falling in love with.

“I just want to take you home.” Again, it was said before Arthur could think about it.

“I’d like that,” said Alfred, smiling. “But first there’s a… uh…” Alfred took a deep breath, “…small matter that has to be cleared up.”

“What?” Arthur suddenly remembered the last letter from Alfred, the one Matthew had handed him… I have done something. It may have been incredibly stupid. It may have been treason. Arthur looked over at the door, leaned closer to Alfred and whispered, “Alfred, what did you do?”

Alfred’s eyes suddenly went wild as they stared into Arthur’s. “I’m not a traitor, Arthur. I’m not.”

Arthur nodded reassuringly even as his stomach twisted with worry and curiosity. “I know.”

“What I went through, and I didn’t say a thing. I didn’t tell them a thing! I didn’t… so how can they…” Alfred spoke quickly, frantically.

“Ssh, it’s all right. I know. You’re not a traitor, Alfred. You’re a hero.” Arthur wanted nothing more than to fall onto the bed and hold Alfred in his arms. It was painful that he couldn’t. “You really are.”

Alfred laughed, high, slightly frenzied, and he gazed at the ceiling. “They all called me a hero. It made no damn sense. It was even in the papers, you know. The American Hero.” Arthur remembered. Alfred F Jones, American hero, here to save England! The smile fell from Alfred’s lips and he sounded wistful as he continued. “I always wanted to be a hero. But somewhere along the way I realised that I didn’t want to be their hero.” Alfred turned his head and his blazing blue eyes stared straight into Arthur’s. Straight into Arthur’s core. “I wanted to be yours.”

Arthur’s breath caught in his throat. He’d never been so transfixed in his life. This entire mad, wild, surreal, amazing afternoon had led him here, back to his Alfred, to sitting here next to the most perfect, damaged, beautiful person in the world, who needed Arthur just as much as Arthur needed him. Arthur held tight to the hand he hadn’t released since he sat down hours earlier. “If you were my hero, what would you save me from?”

“From loneliness.” Alfred said it like it was obvious.

Arthur smiled, happiness filling his chest, warming every part of him, soothing every concern and filling every gap that had ever existed within him. “Very well. You can be my hero, Alfred. If I can be yours.”

Alfred just breathed out happily, grinned, winked, held Arthur’s hand, heart, soul, all of it, everything. “Oh, Arthur. You always were.”

We'll Meet Again - Capítulo 7

Sun, 10 Jul 2011 13:53:23 -0400

Arthur very slowly came to the realisation that the surface beneath him was no longer hard and cold, but soft and warm. The world was no longer pitch dark and the room seemed bright on the other side of his eyelids. He finally opened them and quickly realised he was lying in his bed. And that he felt extremely, awfully sick. Turning his head he saw a glass of water on the bedside table and grasped for it greedily. He swiftly finished the whole thing before falling back into the soft nest of pillows.

He could barely remember anything. He had started drinking… Why? Oh. Alfred. He had wanted to get rid of the pain. Well, it seemed to have worked for a while… but now it was flooding him again, and with it came the additional pain of his stomach turning itself in knots and his brain pounding against his skull. Arthur shut his eyes and tried determinedly to fall back asleep. It didn’t take long.

When Arthur opened his eyes again the light was not so bright and his head was not quite so close to exploding. He managed to drag himself to the mirror and he blinked in surprise at the person who stared back at him. His eyes were dark, sunken. His hair was a matted mess. His lips were flakily dry and a large red cut ran across his cheek. He raised a hand to his face hesitantly and noticed that it was also covered in cuts. In short, he looked terrible.

Fragments of images flashed through his memory… glass smashing against a wall, bottles falling empty beside him, the stone floor of the cellar rising up to meet him… Arthur closed his eyes against his reflection and the memories and forced himself to get dressed. He managed to make it downstairs and, entering the room, the first thing he noticed was the empty glass of bourbon on the mantelpiece. His stomach flipped. Noticing a note under the glass, he quickly hurried over and grabbed it.

Alfred would not want this.

Matthew.

Matthew. Of course. The last thing he had seen… it wasn’t Alfred’s face at all… but apparently it hadn’t been a dream either.

Arthur felt a wave of anger overwhelm him. He glared angrily at the note before ripping it to pieces and throwing it into the fireplace under the mantelpiece. How dare Matthew. How the hell did he know what Alfred wanted? Alfred was dead. As soon as he thought it, Arthur’s knees nearly buckled beneath him. Dead. Dead. Alfred was dead.

“Of course he’s bloody dead,” Arthur whispered to himself. He knew that. So why was it like a punch to the stomach to finally think the words? Arthur breathed deeply, picked up the glass and took it over to the sink. Back to work. What else could he do?

A week passed in the empty, grey, lifeless existence Arthur had quickly become accustomed to. He was waiting for it to get easier at some point, but at the same time expecting it not to, and somehow also hoping that it wouldn’t. As the daily life of the pub went on around him, Arthur remained unmoving and lost in the centre of it. Business had once again slowed down, and today Arthur was left with little to do besides stand behind the bar polishing every glass one by one. It was the kind of mind numbing task he almost enjoyed doing these days.

“How are you feeling?”

Arthur looked up from polishing the forty eighth glass to see Matthew standing at the bar, in full dress uniform with his cap in hand. And of course, his polar bear attached to his lapel. Arthur suddenly wondered how he could have ever mistaken him… or anyone… for Alfred. “Better.”

“Good. I was worried.”

Arthur shrugged. “Why ever should you be worried?”

“You were in that cellar for an entire day.”

“Oh. I was?”

Matthew fidgeted with his hat. “That night, I came to see how you were doing and the pub was closed…”

“If it was closed, how did you get in?” Arthur interrupted.

“You need to start remembering to lock doors.”

“Oh.”

“What were you doing, Arthur. I walked in and you were lying in a pool of broken glass and bourbon. There must have been six empty bottles next to you, not counting the broken ones.”

Arthur shrugged again, expressionless. “I was thirsty.”

Matthew’s expression was unreadable, but seemed tinged with sadness. “Arthur…”

Arthur quickly interrupted him. “Forgive me, though I know it was unforgivable to cause you such trouble. Please, accept my apologies.”

Matthew smiled and shook his head. “You do not need to apologise, Arthur.”

“Nevertheless.” Arthur did feel awful for being such a nuisance to Matthew. He was also incredibly embarrassed, and rather uncomfortable. As if he didn’t have enough to feel awful about. He just wished he had been left to crawl out of that cellar himself.

Matthew paused, seemingly at a loss for words. “We are leaving for France. In fact I am already late. I told you I would come say goodbye, so…” Matthew spread his hands.

Arthur felt another crushing wave of sadness. He didn’t expect Matthew to come back. “Matthew. I’m afraid I never was terribly good with goodbyes.”

Matthew just nodded. “I thought as much. And I understand. I just wanted to… make sure you would be all right. You will be, won’t you?”

Of course not. “Yes, of course.”

“Good… Good.” Matthew held his hand out over the bar. “Goodbye, Arthur.”

Arthur took Matthew’s hand in a warm handshake. “Goodbye, Matthew. Good luck.”

Matthew gripped his hand tightly. “And don’t do that again.”

Arthur nodded. When his hand was released, he turned his back and closed his eyes. Would he ever stop feeling like this? Like the world kept ending around him? Even when someone tried to help… all Matthew did was unwittingly cause him pain… and now by leaving he was causing more. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. But there it was. Behind him he heard Matthew walk to the door. “Matthew.”

Silence.

“Please… please be careful.”

“You too, Arthur.”

Arthur kept his eyes closed and waited for the sound of the door shutting. Instead he heard an unfamiliar voice behind him.

“Well, bonjour Monsieur!”

“Uh, bonjour,” said Matthew.

“Forgive me, you seem very familiar… we have not met before?”

“I do not think so.”

“Then please, we must meet now. Let me buy you a drink… for you are the loveliest thing I have seen since I arrive in England!”

“I… uh…” Matthew coughed softly. “Pardon, pas maintenant…peut-être une autre fois.”

“Ah, and he speaks French! Be still my heart! Please, you must not leave!”

“As luck would have it, monsieur, I am just now on my way to France.”

“Ah, how cruel the fates can be… for that is where my heart desires to go yet I cannot, and though I wish for you to stay you are leaving in my place! Perhaps one day, if we are lucky, we shall meet again.”

Matthew laughed dismissively. “We shall see. Au revoir, Monsieur.”

Arthur turned once he heard the door shut. He sighed deeply. Bloody marvellous. First he had to deal with the yanks, now he had to deal with the frogs. The Frenchman approached the bar. He was dressed in an infantry uniform. His blonde hair fell to his shoulders - rather long for a military cut – a light down of stubble covered his chin, and his right arm was bandaged from armpit to wrist. “Ah, how quaint. A little English pub.” His voice was heavily accented.

“How can I help?” asked Arthur sullenly.

He leaned on the bar and smiled widely. “Yes, please bring me a bottle of your best red wine. French, if you have it. Not to be rude, but your English wine is, how you say… disgusting.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow before retrieving a bottle of wine from a glass cabinet behind him and slamming it down in front of the Frenchman. “Merlot. Best we’ve got. Incredibly old, perfectly cellared, simply one of the best wines in the country. One hundred pounds. Oh, and it’s English.”

The Frenchman wrinkled his nose. “Perhaps I will just have a glass of brandy.”

Arthur shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He replaced the wine and reached for a bottle of brandy instead.

“So what is this little pub of yours called, Englishman?

Arthur gritted his teeth. Arrogant frog. “The Emerald Lion.”

The Frenchman furrowed his brows and tapped his chin. “Le lion vert. Hmm. The name is familiar for some reason.” He nodded as Arthur placed a glass of brandy before him. “Merci, mon ami.”

“It’s Arthur. And kindly refrain from calling me your ami.” Arthur had a sudden memory… “And kindly refrain from calling me your buddy.” “All right, sorry Art. Thur.” And the sudden despair of remembrance engulfed him once again.

“Very well.” A smile played at the Frenchman’s lips as he gazed at Arthur. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Arthur. My name is Francis. Won’t you join me in a drink?”

“No, thank you. I’m working.”

Francis shrugged. “Sante. ” He held his drink up in a toast. Arthur noticed that two of his fingers were missing and felt a sudden stab of guilt. After all, Francis had fought for the same thing as Alfred. Whatever that meant these days.

“What do you think of the brandy?” asked Arthur, attempting to be slightly amicable.

“You know, this is the first drink I have in two months.” Francis took a deep sip. “And I must say, it is excellent.”

“It’s English,” said Arthur with a tiny smile.

“Well, I suppose everyone gets it right once in a while.” Francis finished the glass with a flourish. “I must apologise. I do not normally drink so fast.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry… you should see the Americans we get in here,” said Arthur as he refilled the glass.

“Ah, the Americans,” said Francis. “The young blonde gentleman who passed me at the door earlier… do you know him? He is not an American?”

“Yes, I know him. And he’s Canadian.”

“Ah, of course. The polar bear. Ah, what terrible timing… what a twist of fate.” Francis sighed melodramatically. “What a tragedy.”

Arthur suppressed a laugh. It was the most he had smiled in weeks. “So Francis, whatever brings you to England?” Arthur picked up where he had left off earlier, polishing glasses. He was actually starting to feel rather grateful to this French soldier for the distraction.

“An English hospital ship, actually.”

“Oh. Were you wounded in Europe?”

“Italy. I was captured by the SS.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Arthur stared at the bar top. He didn’t want to know how Francis had lost those fingers. But his curiosity was overwhelming. He thought of Alfred, captured, what he had gone through. So much for distraction. “Was it… was it very terrible?”

Francis dropped his gaze to his glass and his eyes seemed suddenly dark and hollow. “You really do not wish to know,” he said softly.

“I’m sorry,” said Arthur again. He suddenly felt rather ill. “But you escaped… did many soldiers manage to escape?” A foolish hope.

“Not from those who captured me.” Arthur looked at him inquisitively and Francis clarified, “Gestapo. Let’s just say that I was incredibly lucky. I have a… how would you say… a gift for escaping.”

“Oh.” Arthur reproached himself for even daring to hope about Alfred under those circumstances.

“If I may ask…” Francis looked at Arthur intently over the brandy glass. “You seem very interested in this… why?”

Arthur paused, then without knowing why he was telling this strange Frenchman, said, “I know someone who was captured by the SS.”

Francis placed his glass down and sighed. “Ah, mon Dieu. I should not have…”

Arthur shook his head. “It’s quite all right, I assure you. I did ask, after all.”

“This person… he was a relative? A brother?”

“No, he was an American. He was… he was…” Arthur bowed his head, unsure how to finish the sentence. He was inimitable… he was mad… he was everything…

There was a brief moment of silence before Francis spoke softly. “Ah, I see. I am sorry.”

Arthur shook his head again, blinking rapidly. “This is wartime. What can we do.”

“What indeed.”

“Do you know Francis…” Arthur took a deep breath then looked up at the Frenchman and smiled. “I think I will join you in a drink.”

A few brandy’s later and thankfully the conversation had veered away from such painful topics. Arthur knocked back another glass of brandy as Francis stared at him wide eyed.

“You may speak of the Americans, but I have never seen someone drink like you, my friend.”

Arthur waved a hand. “I’m used to it. I can hold my liquor.” He immediately knocked over the bottle and decided to ignore Francis’ laughter. As though the frog could talk… he was already on his fourth glass. “And it is terribly rude to compare me to a Yank.” Arthur and Francis seemed to have found common ground in their mutual exasperation with Americans.

“No class, whatsoever!” said Francis through his laughter. “And such a terrible sense of fashion!”

Arthur nodded in earnest agreement. “And have you ever tried to play baseball? Absolute bollocks! No bloody sense, none at all.”

“Mon ami, but you should see the Americans in Paris! They seem to think that the entire world speaks English!”

“English, ha! What they speak is not English… and what they spell certainly isn’t either.”

Francis laughed loudly. They were quickly drawing stares from other customers in the pub, but Arthur didn’t care. This was the most light-hearted he had felt in weeks. “And their food,” continued Francis. “It is worse than the English!”

Arthur ignored that last jab. “Their chocolate is rather good.” He paused, lost in thought for a moment. “And they’re so… eager. Energetic. Actually, they’re really not that bad at all, old chap.”

Francis placed his empty glass down on the bar. “Ah, this is true. I have been two weeks in the hospital not far from here, stuck next to this American… funny, friendly, but mon Dieu he could simply not shut up!”

“I know just what you mean,” said Arthur, remembering Alfred’s inability to keep his mouth shut. He hadn’t seemed to know how.

Francis waved a hand. “Fighter pilots. They are all the same.”

Arthur smiled grimly. “It rather seems like it.”

“Ah la la, but this pilot was an odd one. When he was not sedated he spent the rest of the time trying to pull off his bandages, fighting the staff and trying to escape the place. We had a little bet going to see who could get out first. As I said to him, if I can escape the Germans, I can escape the English.” Francis raised his drink again.

Arthur hesitated. “Why was he trying to leave?”

“Ah, he kept saying he had to see someone…” Francis trailed off and looked at Arthur curiously. “Attend, I am sure this is where I have heard the name of this pub… what did you say was your name again?”

Arthur clutched the glass in his hand so hard he could feel it cracking. “Arthur,” he responded in a very small voice. The air seemed to grow heavy around him.

“Of course! Arthur from the Emerald Lion!”

Arthur froze in shock. He didn’t dare to think. He didn’t dare to breathe. “What was his name? This American fighter pilot?”

“Alfred. Lieutenant Alfred Jones.”

Arthur dropped the glass, ignoring it shattering at his feet. The world seemed to fall apart and remake itself around him. His heart stopped, leapt in his chest, then thundered rapidly. He stared unseeing, unbelieving at Francis, and though he could see his lips moving he could not hear a word. The sudden silence was followed by a deafening crash in his ears. When Arthur could finally move, when he could finally breathe again, he managed to speak in a whisper. “Where did you say that hospital was?”

We'll Meet Again - Capítulo 6

Sun, 10 Jul 2011 13:45:57 -0400

Sunday 26 March 1944

My Dearest Arthur,

Bonjourno! (That’s Italian for hello, you know.) This letter is being sent courtesy of the Italian resistance. The world really does work in weird and wonderful ways sometimes.

Not a day after I sent my last letter to you, Matthew and I met this friendly group of Italians while visiting the local village. There we were, chatting away, when I noticed that one of them looked really familiar…it took me a moment to realise where I had seen him before. The German’s photo! He was the young man with the dark eyes and the wild hair! I pulled him aside and asked if he knew a German fighter pilot named Ludwig. Oh, Arthur. The look of shock… then joy… then utter despair. He obviously knew him… and obviously knew what it meant that I knew of him as well.

His name is Feliciano, he is a part of the Italian resistance and he speaks English pretty well… unlike his brother Lovino who tends to just yell at us in Italian real loud and angry like. Their grandfather (who is known as Rome) leads the movement and they are very skilled at moving Allied prisoners of war to Spain where they can then make their way home. Feliciano does not seem to be as fervent about the cause as his grandfather or his brother, but he is cheerful and sweet and seems just a little scared… when we first met him he jumped out in front of us frantically waving a small white flag and yelling “I surrender” in four different languages.

Feliciano met Ludwig while the Germans were stationed near his village and fell immediately in love. He didn’t care about sides or allegiances… he just met him and loved him. And it was mutual. Feliciano is so helpful to us but he knows at the same time that I helped shoot down Ludwig and imprison him… and yet Feliciano was fighting against the Germans the whole time. It seems there are no sides when it comes to love.

The village here really is very beautiful. One day, when all of this is over, we’ll come back here and see it together… without the tanks and the flattened buildings and the burning fields.

I miss you so much. I spend every day thinking about how much I can’t wait to get back to you. You’re the one, Arthur… the one I want to spend every day of my life with. And the longer I’m here the stronger the conviction grows… I love you. It feels so good just to be able to write the words!

Things might not be going perfectly, but I’ll make sure I come back to you, Arthur. I’m The Magician, after all!

Love always, Alfred.

Arthur ran his hand gingerly over the letter, folded it, and placed it carefully in his top dresser drawer beside all the others. It was the last letter he had received from Alfred, arriving the morning after the heartbreaking news. The letter was dated a few days before that awful news broadcast… Alfred must have written it only hours before he was captured.

For days Arthur had tried to stop the evil thoughts which assaulted his mind, but found it impossible. What had the SS done to Alfred? Did he talk? Did he scream? Was he scared? Or did he laugh defiantly and play the hero that he always thought he was? Arthur tried desperately to shake the fears from his head. But God, why Alfred? Why the most honest, cheerful, wonderful person he’d ever known… why the one person in the world who least deserved it.

Arthur sighed, pulled himself together, and headed downstairs to work. He plastered on a smile as he walked into the pub and one of his regulars nodded to him as he passed. “How are you holding up there, old chap?”

Arthur waved a hand. “I’m fine, the doctor says it was just exhaustion.”

“Ah, you work yourself too hard! Slow down or you’ll end up making yourself ill like last time!”

Arthur laughed and nodded. He’d managed to pass off his reaction to the radio broadcast as a fainting fit brought on by overwork. Nothing more. Everyone had accepted it, and life went on.

Arthur glanced around the pub as he reached the bar. There weren’t so many American soldiers around these days, much to his relief. Just the sound of an American accent was enough to pull at Arthur’s heart so strongly he thought it would break. Every soldier grinning at him and asking for a bourbon tore him in two once again. Every young green American with those stupid idealistic views and naïve ideas brought back memories of Alfred and shattered the hours Arthur had spent trying to forget. But it was quiet today, and he was grateful.

Arthur got through the rest of the day the way he always did. And every day after that. And through each one, Arthur tried not to think, not to remember, not to feel. Life went on and Arthur tried to go on with it. Hour by hour, day by day, week by week, month by month. Everything blurred together, one day into the next. He maintained his composure and carried on the same as he always had before. He smiled at the customers. He poured the drinks. He wiped the tables. He did his job.

But everything seemed grey somehow. Arthur hadn’t realised how dull life had been before Alfred. Alfred was life… vibrant and real. Though he had only been in Arthur’s life a few short days, he had quickly become the greatest thing in it. He was sunshine and reality and beauty. And he was gone. So life went on. Dull, and grey, and empty. And though every day Arthur tried his hardest to forget, every night he pulled out that last letter and read those final paragraphs over and over, the ones he had memorised word for word.

“I miss you so much. I spend every day thinking about how much I can’t wait to get back to you. You’re the one, Arthur… the one I want to spend every day of my life with. And the longer I’m here the stronger the conviction grows… I love you and I will forever.

…I’ll make sure I’ll come back to you, Arthur.”

Another evening ended the way it always did, with Arthur not quite knowing where the time had gone or what he had done with it. He busied himself cleaning and when he reached the table by the second front window, Alfred’s table, he tried to wipe it down as fast as possible. A strong memory hit him, of Alfred sitting there grinning, winking and raising his bourbon glass for another refill. Arthur tried to shake the memory away and looked up at the sound of the front door opening.

A jolt of shock shot through him so strongly it was almost painful. Alfred walked into the bar. Arthur’s heart hammered against his chest and he clutched tightly onto the cloth in his hand. His head swam in a sudden wave of unreality. Alfred smiled sadly at him, but there was something wrong. His hair was too long. His eyes were too dark. He had a polar bear attached to his lapel. Arthur’s stomach sank to his feet. He went back to wiping the table and fell back into the manner he had accustomed over the last months. Calm. Composed. Emotionless.

“Hello, Matthew.”

“Hi, Arthur. How are you?”

“Bloody marvellous. How are you?”

Matthew shrugged. “About the same.”

“Oh good.” Arthur felt small stab of guilt for his cold welcome, but an irrational wave of anger suppressed it. Why did Matthew have to come back here? Why was he here to remind Arthur, when all Arthur wanted was to forget?

“Are you just closing?” asked Matthew as he walked to the bar and looked around.

“Yes,” said Arthur as he walked back to the bar and threw the cloth down onto the counter. Looking around he realised that the bar was empty and he hadn’t even noticed. He reached for the bottle of rum and poured two glasses, passing one to Matthew and swiftly downing the other. He poured himself another.

Matthew nodded in thanks as he took the glass. “I suppose you… I mean… it’s been so long, you must have heard…”

“Yes,” said Arthur, saving himself the pain and Matthew the unease of trying to complete that sentence.

“Oh. How? If you don’t mind my…”

“Radio,” interrupted Arthur.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Matthew looked genuinely dismayed. “What did you hear?”

Arthur sighed deeply and took a large gulp of his rum. Did he really have to say this out loud… “Shot down. Captured barely alive. Taken by the SS to be…” Arthur choked out the last word. “…interrogated.” The words were engraved in his memory.

Matthew looked down into his glass. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “He went down behind enemy lines. We haven’t heard anything since, but since it’s been so long… there’s very little hope.”

Arthur nodded. He knew this. What he didn’t know was why Matthew was here to voice Arthur’s fears and make it so much worse.

And Matthew continued. “It was a trap. He was surrounded. But he was amazing… none of us have ever seen anything like it. He shot down seven of them. That’s unheard of. He drew their fire away from the rest of us, and…”

Arthur couldn’t stand it. “Is this where you tell me he was a hero who fought and died bravely and I should be very proud? I’m quite aware of that. And it isn’t as though I am his widow. Perhaps you should be telling all this to his family.”

There was a moment of silence as a spasm of hurt passed across Matthew’s face. Arthur looked away, feeling a little guilty. “I’m sorry, Matthew.”

“It’s all right.” Matthew stood in silence for a moment. “You know, you were all he talked about. Arthur this, and Arthur that… when this war is over, I’m gonna show Arthur America… I tell you what he nearly drove me insane with it.” Arthur closed his eyes tightly. “He loved you, Arthur. Please don’t ever forget that.”

Arthur breathed deeply before finally opening his eyes and looking up at Matthew. “No. I don’t think I ever will.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve just caused you pain coming here.” Matthew reached into his pocket and pulled something out. Arthur gasped as he saw what it was. “We found it in the wreckage.”

Arthur’s hand felt leaden as he reached out and took the handkerchief. He swallowed heavily and unable to say anything, he just nodded. He looked down at the embroidered handkerchief, the gift he had given Alfred to serve as a good luck talisman. The irony was too cruel.

“And one more thing.” Arthur’s heart flipped as Matthew handed him a battered envelope. “He wrote this the morning before… well, you know. He never got to send it. I’m sorry I waited so long, but I thought I should give it to you personally.”

Choked up, Arthur nodded again. Here Matthew was just trying to make him feel better, trying to help, and Arthur was being horrible. Arthur wanted to apologise but he simply could not speak.

“We’re heading to France soon. I’ll come and say goodbye before we head over,” said Matthew, heading for the door.

“Matthew,” Arthur finally managed to choke out. Matthew turned. “Thank you.”

Matthew smiled and nodded, then left.

Arthur looked down at the handkerchief, ran his fingers over it, then held it up to his face. He inhaled deeply, trying desperately to get the slightest touch of Alfred from the small piece of cloth. Had it touched Alfred’s skin… his lips… had Alfred been holding it when his plane crashed down… Arthur quickly tried to hold back the dark thoughts and ripped open the letter.

My Dearest Arthur,

I have done something. It may have been incredibly stupid. It may have been treason.

I don’t know if it was wrong. It didn’t feel wrong… but now I don’t know what may happen to me. All I know is that I don’t regret it.

Arthur… whether I come back to you or not… I will love you forever.

My love always, Alfred.

Arthur stared at the page, completely unsure what to make of the words. He read them what felt like hundreds of times. Eventually he did the only thing he really could do… he poured a glass of bourbon, drank it, then poured another. Bourbon was Alfred’s drink. It felt appropriate.

Arthur walked slowly over to the mantelpiece and placed the glass of bourbon carefully down on the surface. As he stood looking at it memories started to flood his mind unbidden. The first time this fresh faced American pilot had stood at his bar, grinning widely and asking for a glass of bourbon… Bourbon, straight over ice… you Brits have bourbon over here, right?… the first time he had introduced himself over the bar… Alfred F. Jones, American hero, here to save England!… the first time of many that he’d asked Arthur to have a drink with him… I’ve never drunk with an Englishman before! And that fateful time that he finally succeeded… Arthur, buddy, how about you come have that drink you promised? And of course the night Alfred had tried desperately to grasp a glass of scotch off a customer standing at the mantelpiece, terrified of the story of the ghost of the Emerald Lion.

Arthur laughed as he looked at the single glass of bourbon sitting on the mantelpiece. Alfred always was so fanatical. Arthur shook his head as the smile fell from his face. “Alfred, you bastard… you promised you’d come back.”

It took only a few seconds, and all of Arthur’s composure fell to pieces. All his carefully constructed calm self-control fell apart and his despair overwhelmed him for the first time since those first few moments he had heard the heartbreaking news on the radio. He couldn’t stay in this room. The memories were too overwhelming. The bedroom would be even worse. Finally Arthur fled into the cellar and headed straight for the bourbon shelf. Taking a bottle from the shelf, he looked down at it for a brief moment before in a sudden fit of impulse he hurled it as hard as he could at the stone wall. He wanted to shatter the memories, shatter the pain. He watched as the bottle smashed into a million brilliant glass pieces. Just like his heart.

And then he finally let it all come out. Grasping two more bottles from the shelf, he didn’t pause to think before smashing them both against the wall, one after the other. Why did this bloody war have to happen? Why did he have to meet someone so amazing only to have him snatched away? Why did he have to find such happiness only to lose it and then know forever what he was living without? Why were there no bloody answers to any of these questions?

Arthur screamed, he yelled, he cried. He wanted this feeling gone. He wanted Alfred back. He wanted it so badly it hurt. He didn’t notice as a shard of glass flew back and sliced his cheek. He simply grabbed more bottles and smashed them as hard as he could. Turning to grab another bottle, he finally fell to the ground, pulled off the lid and drank. It seemed to take only seconds for him to down a bottle of bourbon and he reached for more. He didn’t stop. When one was empty, he grasped for another.

Perhaps an hour passed. Perhaps a day. Perhaps more. People may have been speaking to him, but Arthur ignored them. He simply grasped for more bourbon. The dark turned to light, then back to darkness. Arthur reached for more bourbon. Blackness. Blessed oblivion.

Arthur was dreaming. The soft melody of ‘We’ll Meet Again’ wafted through the air. Alfred was there… grinning, winking, laughing, smiling. “I’m gonna show you it all, Arthur!”… “You’ll love it you really will!”… “I like that… when you smile…”

The air was thick and the cellar floor was hard and cold beneath him. Arthur finally opened his eyes… and there he was, right in front of him. That golden hair, that golden skin, those blue eyes. Arthur looked up into Alfred’s beautiful face and smiled. “I knew you’d come back to me.”

And then oblivion took over once more.

We'll Meet Again - Capítulo 5

Sun, 10 Jul 2011 13:34:00 -0400

Sunday 30 January, 1944

Dear Arthur,

I hope this letter reaches you all right. Just a quick note to let you know that all is well. I can’t say much… censors monitor everything we write, and they might cut it out.

We arrived here the other day. Pretty messed up landing but we are getting on our feet. Hope you are well!

From Alfred.

Sunday 6 February, 1944

Dear Arthur,

Things getting better. This place is amazing, but I miss… England. Yeah. I think about England all the time. I can’t wait to get back to… England.

Still can’t say a lot, but… let’s just say the krauts have good reason to be pretty darn scared now that the Americans are here! Oh, and the Canadian too. Matthew sends his greetings!

From Alfred.

Tuesday 15 February, 1944

Dear Arthur,

Sorry these letters are so short… we’re not supposed to say much.

The weather is good. Food terrible. Still miss England.

Yesterday was Saint Valentine’s Day. Next year I will send a real Valentine… until then…

You… Lo… From Alfred.

Thursday 17 February, 1944

Dear Arthur,

Getting this sent with the officers mail so hopefully it gets past the censors.

These krauts fight pretty darn hard. I’ve taken down four of em already… that’s the most in the whole squad! Their Messerschmitts ain’t no match for our Mustangs!

Our song came on the radio this morning. I was singing along until the guys in the squad started throwing empty cans at me for no reason. I guess they’re just jealous that I’ve bagged more krauts than any of em.

I still miss England. Oh, and in case you’re confused, when I say England I mean you.

Love Alfred.

Monday 28 February, 1944

Dear Arthur,

I found out today that the krauts have a name for me. They call me…(you’re gonna love this one)… The Magician. Because I appear and disappear like magic. Great, isn’t it! Lady Beth and I are the terror of the skies! Matt is really jealous, even though he says he isn’t. I always said I was the hero of the squad!

I keep your handkerchief close to my heart every day. But I can’t say too much. Even though this is sent with the officers mail there is still a chance it’ll be seen by the censors.

Love Alfred.

P.S. Just to prove I really am a Magician, I’m going to do something AMAZING… add an extra day to the month! That’s right… just you wait, I’m gonna make February twenty nine days long this year!

Tuesday 29 February, 1944

Dear Arthur,

Abracadabra! 29th of February, told you I’d do it!

Love Alfred.

Thursday 9 March, 1944

Dear Arthur,

Things aren’t going as well as planned, but we’ve been told to expect that. Matt and I are fine but some of the squad… well…

I have to be careful of the censors.

The higher ups tell us that things will get better once reinforcements arrive. Guess we just have to hold out ‘till then.

On a brighter note, bagged me another kraut today which makes me officially a fighter ace. They say I might get a medal. Funny… I thought I would be happier about that.

But if I fight and defeat them here, that means they won’t get to England. That’s what I think about every time I go up.

Love, Alfred.

Wednesday 15 March, 1944

Dear Arthur,

Two of my squad were captured yesterday. No sign of those reinforcements we were promised. We’ve been told we might be moving out soon but no word on when.

Knowing that you are safe and waiting for me gets me through each mission. Right now it’s the only thing that does.

Love, Alfred.

Sunday 19 March, 1944

Dear Arthur,

Well we were told we’d be heading to France but no sign of that… just stuck here day after day going nowhere. The countryside would be pretty if it weren’t for the burnt out tanks and flattened barns everywhere. And the villagers are friendly enough but they seem damn scared… and I don’t blame em. And the assaults just keep coming and we go up and do our job but it don’t seem to do nothing.

Getting damn sick and tired of this place. God knows how long we’ll be here.

Lost three more of my squad this morning. Three in one morning… Damn sick and tired.

There’s nothing I wouldn’t do right now to hold you for just one minute. I want it so much it hurts. Damn the censors, I don’t give a damn anymore. If you’re getting these letters it means they got through. I pray you’re getting these letters.

All my love, Alfred.

Thursday 23 March 1944

Dear Arthur,

It’s funny. I’ve shot down more of the enemy than anyone out here and yet… it doesn’t feel like I thought it would.

We bagged this German today… pilot, flew like an eagle, just all power and strength and grace, you know. Took a pack of us to bring him down and he still survived. He told us his name… Ludwig something or other… his rank and his number, and that was it. We bring him into the base and one of the guys takes the German’s wallet. He pulls out this photograph and starts laughing, showing it to all the guys… and the German just stares at them with this look that is both the most terrifying and the saddest thing I ever saw. I didn’t think it was right, so I take it off the guy, thinking it’s a picture of Ludwig’s wife or something. It’s not. It’s this young guy, smiling this bright laughing smile, this young guy with dark eyes and dark hair that sticks up in this one wild curl. And he don’t look like no relation to this blonde haired blue eyed German. It’s strange. I didn’t think that I would have anything in common with the krauts. Seems I was wrong.

The special forces arrived soon after and took the German away. Before they left I put the photograph in his pocket when no one was looking. He didn’t say nothing, but I ain’t never seen someone look so grateful. And I thought how strange it was… that it was people like this that I’m shooting down. Just ordinary people with dreams and hopes and photographs.

There were two words written on the back of the picture… “Bella Ciao”. It means “Goodbye Beautiful”.

Love always, Alfred.

Arthur held the latest letter to his chest and sighed deeply. He had already read it eight times. He was not sure whether the letters helped or made things worse. He devoured every word but being left with no way to respond was almost unbearable. And each sentence stabbed at his heart… with every letter Alfred seemed to lose a little more of that naivety and wide eyed optimism that had made him so endearing and so frustrating at the same time. But it seemed the reality that had been thrust upon Alfred had also made him more open and compassionate. While sometimes painful, each letter also left Arthur a little more in love than he had been before.

It had been hard to get back to normal life after Alfred had gone. Arthur was completely unprepared for how much he would miss the bloody Yank. After the life and joy and, well, sheer bloody frustration that Alfred had brought into his life, the days without him now seemed flat and empty.

Arthur waited anxiously every day to see if a letter would be delivered… the postman was slowly getting used to being practically accosted when he came to the door. And Arthur was almost obsessed with reading every newspaper he could get his hands on, talking to every returning soldier, listening to radio broadcasts day and night, desperate for any news he could possibly get on the war in Europe. Gathering information on the war had become his life, to the extent that he wondered what he ever had to do with himself before Alfred had appeared and turned everything upside down.

Arthur sighed again, folded up the letter, and placed it carefully in a locked drawer behind the counter. He looked around to see if he was needed, but the evening was fairly slow. The evenings generally were these days, now that most of the Americans had disappeared. Only a few regulars remained in the pub, clustering around the far end of the bar and making small talk about the war. A few months earlier and Arthur would have been bored stiff with the conversation. Now, he hung on every word.

“They say the landings in Italy went appallingly,” said one of the men, a gentleman in a suit who tapped his pipe against the bar and sent ash flying everywhere. Arthur barely noticed, too focused on the man’s words.

“Of course the Americans would make an awful great mess of it,” agreed an elderly regular who looked disapprovingly at the pipe ash that settled on the bar.

“I heard the Germans were tipped off somehow,” added another patron, tapping his glass to be heard. “Seems someone was in on it.”

“Well I hear the Germans are about ready to pull out of there. Just about had enough,” said Arthur. Well, an English soldier had mentioned something to him along those lines earlier in the week. Arthur wasn’t sure how reliable the information was, but he wanted to believe it.

“Smartest thing they’ve done in the whole bloody war, I say,” said the regular. “Although certain sources of information would have us believe otherwise.”

“Oh! That reminds me,” said Arthur, reaching for the radio and fiddling with the dial. He smiled wryly to himself, remembering how only several weeks ago he had told Alfred that he couldn’t stand the radio. Now he was practically glued to the thing. He scrolled through the endless static until he found what he was looking for.

“Germany calling, Germany calling…”

The voice was met by a chorus of groans. “Why are you listening to that traitor, Arthur?” asked the pipe smoking gentleman.

“At least we get some information from him,” said the elderly patron.

“Bah! All lies, you all know that. He’ll be hung, that Lord Haw Haw, you wait and see.”

“And good riddance to him! Doesn’t mean we can’t hear what he has to say right now.”

Arthur ignored the customers. He listened to Lord Haw Haw’s every radio broadcast. As difficult as it was to listen to the traitor’s posh, smarmy voice night after night telling the English nation they were fighting a losing battle, talking about the superiority of the German nation and spinning obvious lies about the war, occasional truths got through and Lord Haw Haw’s broadcast was one of the only places to get information on the fate of Allied troops.

A heated debate had quickly sprung up among the regulars but Arthur was too busy trying to hear the radio to get involved. Most of the time the broadcast held nothing of interest, but over the din Arthur managed to hear a few words which caught his attention… Italy… American… pilot… “Ssh,” said Arthur, holding up his hand. “What’s that he’s saying?” He turned up the radio and the bar fell quiet as Haw Haw’s grating voice filled the room.

“The New York Times reported today that an American fighter ace caught in a trap over Italy has shot down nine German planes single-handedly in the midst of an ambush. This is, of course, an absurdity. The pilot, whose name was not released but who is referred to as ‘The Magician’, was unable to take down a single Messerschmitt Bf 109 before his plane, a P-51 Mustang named the ‘Lady Beth’ was shot down over the Italo-German border…”

Arthur ceased to hear anything. The radio sound faded to a distant hum and black waves pounded through his head. The phrase repeated in his head over and over… a P-51 Mustang named the ‘Lady Beth’ was shot down… Arthur looked around for a chair but, not finding one, sank to the ground. Alfred’s plane shot down over enemy territory… Alfred’s plane… Alfred… He couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t real. He had imagined it… surely he had imagined it… the distant hum snapped back into focus and that awful voice droned on above him, cutting into him, slicing his heart and his sanity into pieces. The cruel words refused to stop.

“The pilot was captured barely alive by German forces soon after being shot down. He is believed to be a valuable officer in the American Air Force and thus in possession of a vast amount of important information. He has been taken into official custody by the SS and will be questioned extensively before he…”

The radio faded into pounding black waves once again. SS… questioned extensively… Before he… Oh God before he what… “I can’t breathe…”

Unrecognisable voices thrummed through the thick air around him.

“Get some water.”

“Someone call a doctor!”

The room tilted dangerously around him and he didn’t even notice he was screaming until someone appeared before him, taking his hands and trying to calm him. Arthur couldn’t hear anything clearly but those terrible words. Lady Beth… shot down… barely alive… questioned extensively… SS…

Arthur tried to nod, he tried to say he was all right. But he wasn’t. Of course he wasn’t. Alfred was captured and soon to be interrogated. And after that… the SS weren’t exactly known for letting prisoners go free. Arthur swallowed a wave of nausea and fought to stay conscious. He barely noticed the people around him.

Of course Arthur wasn’t all right. How could anything ever be all right now.

We'll Meet Again - Capítulo 4

Sun, 10 Jul 2011 13:32:00 -0400

It happened so gradually that Arthur barely noticed it. It seemed that one day his pub fairly swarmed with American soldiers, and the next, the place was almost empty. Of course it had not been that sudden, but when Arthur looked around one sunny afternoon and noticed how few men in uniform were in the pub, he was shocked. Somewhere along the way he had become used to the Americans. And now that there were so few, he couldn’t help but feel a slight twinge of sadness… and along with it the awareness of what this sudden emptiness implied. But that was too painful to think of.

Not a day had passed in the last week without Lieutenant Alfred Jones turning up at the bar, grinning cockily and proposing some new and exasperating way to waste Arthur’s time. And of course he spent every night in the pub with Arthur, talking and laughing and grinning and winking and even bloody singing. And Arthur had done everything in his power to resist the blinding, magnetic, and undeniable attraction the American held. There was no point in being drawn in by Alfred’s charms, he tried to tell himself. Any way this mess ended, it was going to be bad. But that didn’t mean that Arthur could stop himself from spending every moment he possibly could with the bloody frustrating pilot.

And now Arthur stood behind the bar, mindlessly polishing the same glass he had held for the last twenty minutes, trying to convince himself that he was not waiting for a certain American fighter pilot to walk through the door this bright, sunny, endless afternoon. He risked a moment to turn away from the door and place the glass away. Almost immediately he heard Alfred’s voice behind him.

“Howdy sugar, are you rationed?”

Arthur spun around, smiled widely, then immediately tried to suppress his delight. “I beg your pardon? I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” The smile quickly fell from his face at the look on Alfred’s. It made Arthur feel suddenly ill. “Whatever’s the matter?”

“Busy this afternoon, is it?” Alfred made an attempt at a grin, but his eyes weren’t sparkling and he didn’t lean easily on the bar like he always did. He did not even ask for a bourbon. Arthur poured one anyway.

“Rather steady, I suppose… what’s wrong?” Arthur refused to be driven off the subject.

Alfred hesitated. “Come have a drink with me.” His eyes, his voice, his fidgeting hands - they all told Arthur that something was different. This was not a regular visit. Arthur nodded slowly.

“Very well. Take a seat and I shall be with you in a moment.” Arthur turned and put away a few bottles, grabbed a cloth to wipe down the bar top, and tried unsuccessfully to quell the growing dread in his stomach. Eventually when the bar top was sparkling clean and nothing remained to delay him, he headed over to the table by the second front window with a glass and a full bottle of rum to sustain him.

They sat in complete silence for a few minutes, tension building, until finally Alfred spoke. “Well, we’re… we’ll be heading out tomorrow.” Alfred placed his glass down and looked into Arthur’s eyes. Arthur looked away. Another silence.

“Where?” asked Arthur finally.

“We’re stationed somewhere in Italy. “Anzi… Anza…” Alfred laughed humourlessly. “I can never remember those Italian names.”

“Anzio,” said Arthur, his body going numb. He tried to swallow. He had known this day was coming, but somehow he had thought they would have a little longer. He shook his head, trying to make sense of it. “That’s sudden.”

Alfred shrugged. “They don’t give us much warning. We knew we were leaving soon though. It’s not unexpected.”

“I suppose not.” Arthur looked past Alfred at the wall. He willed himself to focus on it. There were a few cracks. It would need to be repainted. The noise of the pub washed over him and turned to static in his head. When Alfred spoke it seemed to come from far away.

“I’ll write to you.”

“Thank you, but I expect you will be quite busy. Please don’t waste your time on me.” And why would he… after all, what was Arthur to Alfred?

“But I…”

Arthur stood up hurriedly. “I… I must go. There is so much to do for tomorrow… I mean, this evening, I…” Arthur hastily grasped for his glass of rum, only to knock it over. He ignored it and picked up the bottle instead. “Please, stay safe, and I expect to see you after this great bloody mess is all over, yes? Goodbye, Alfred.”

“Arthur..”

Finally Arthur looked back at Alfred and for a long moment their eyes remained locked. It took all Arthur’s strength to tear his away. He turned, almost knocking the chair over in his haste, and rushed from the room. He tried desperately to hold himself together as he passed groups of people drinking and talking and laughing. His hands clenched into fists and his eyes stung. Finally he pushed open the back door, hurried up the stairs and through his living area into his bedroom, and shut the door behind him. Leaning back against it, he covered his face with his hands and promptly burst into tears.

This was absurd, he told himself. He should be relieved to be rid of that annoying American. But all he could feel was a cold, empty hole where his heart used to be. The idea that he would never see Alfred again left him breathless. The thought that he… but no, he couldn’t think that. Arthur unscrewed the bottle of rum and gulped it down, unheeding of the burning in his throat. All he wanted was oblivion. He swallowed, breathed deeply, and drank again as the tears streamed over his cheeks. He wiped them away impatiently. Alfred was going. Alfred was gone. And Arthur had known all along that he would but the reality of it knocked him nearly senseless.

After gulping down a few more mouthfuls of rum, Arthur gasped for breath and headed for his bed, wanting nothing more than to crawl under the covers and never come up. But he stopped in his tracks as the door opened behind him. Arthur froze mid step, feeling his stomach twist and his neck burn. He had forgotten to lock both doors. The door behind him clicked shut and he felt a warm presence at his back. He couldn’t turn around.

“Now, I don’t want that to be the way we say goodbye,” said Alfred.

“Is there a better way?” asked Arthur bitterly. He tried to wipe his tears without making it obvious, but felt Alfred grasp his arm gently but firmly. Arthur forced himself to turn and look at Alfred. “Why did you follow me?”

“Why are you crying?” Alfred asked in a soft voice, ignoring Arthur’ question as he gently touched Arthur’s damp cheek.

“I… I…I’m not.” Arthur tried again to wipe his tears and Alfred took his hand.

“Because of me?” Alfred took the bottle from Arthur’s hand and placed it on a nearby table.

Arthur shook his head, paused, then nodded.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No. I just… I…” Arthur took a deep breath, wiped his eyes, and helplessly let it all come out. “I just want you to know that I never cry and I know I seem completely ridiculous but I don’t understand how you do this to me… Oh why did you have to come into my life and make everything wonderful and awful and oh so bloody confusing!” Arthur shut his eyes tight against the tears that refused to stop falling. “And I knew all along that you would leave, so I tried so hard not to feel this… but in the end I just could not stop…” Arthur caught himself before the words slipped out. “Oh bollocks this is so absurd!”

“Ssh,” said Alfred, putting his arms around Arthur and slowly pulling him close. He leant down and kissed Arthur’s eyelids gently. Arthur shuddered at the feeling of his warm breath against him. “I’m sorry. But I couldn’t help it. From the second I saw you all I wanted was to make you smile.”

“Don’t say that!” said Arthur, half-heartedly trying to push Alfred away. Alfred didn’t move. “Don’t say it, because you’re leaving and I won’t ever see you again and I can’t bear it, I can’t bear that you won’t…”

“I’ll come back to you,” interrupted Alfred.

Arthur looked up into those smiling blue eyes and suddenly realised how terrified he was that Alfred wouldn’t. “Please Alfred, I…” but unable to give voice to the feelings which flowed through him, Arthur just grasped Alfred’s collar, pulled him down and kissed him. He suddenly stopped, panicked, and tried to push Alfred away but was stunned when Alfred reacted strongly, devouring Arthur’s mouth as he enclosed his waist with strong arms. Arthur felt such a strong jolt of desire that he was shocked, but when he realised Alfred was responding, everything he had denied feeling came flooding out. He was terrified of Alfred leaving. He was terrified of Alfred forgetting him. He was terrified that maybe he had not meant to Alfred what Alfred had meant to him. He was simply terrified.

Arthur tried to forget the terrifying thoughts by wrapping himself in, around Alfred, and he cried out in surprise when Alfred lifted him with strong arms. Arthur’s head started spinning. He wrapped his legs around Alfred and, their lips still joined, Alfred carried him to the bed, where they fell down together. And Arthur finally realised that this was what he had wanted all along… like this… Alfred…

“Alfred… Alfred,” gasped Arthur, clutching onto Alfred’s shoulders, placing kisses on his lips, his cheek, his neck, his ears… Arthur’s breath caught from the amazement of touching Alfred like this, the way he wanted, the way he had wanted to since he first laid eyes on him.

“Arthur, I…” began Alfred, pausing to thoroughly kiss Arthur again, “Do you want…”

“Yes!” Arthur almost screamed, thrusting up into Alfred. It suddenly struck Arthur that they were both very, very aroused. “Ohh yes… I want…”He was still a little shocked, but not enough to stop. Alfred was kissing him. Alfred was touching him. Alfred wanted him. “I want this.”

Alfred ripped Arthur’s shirt off before doing the same to his own. “I want you,” Alfred whispered and Arthur gasped as their skin pressed together. It felt electric, unbelievable, perfect… like nothing he had ever felt before. Arthur tangled his fingers in Alfred’s sweat damp hair and desperately sought out Alfred’s lips again. They tasted of bourbon and sunshine and a slight hint of chocolate. Of Alfred.

Arthur could feel Alfred’s heartbeat racing beneath his warm, smooth skin, could feel it thrumming in his hands as they roamed, rough and impatient, across Arthur’s trembling body. It was intoxicating. Arthur wanted more. Breaking the kiss, Arthur reached over to his bedside table, retrieved a jar of cold cream and pressed it into Alfred’s hand with shaking hands. Alfred stilled and Arthur silently panicked, afraid he had jumped quickly to the wrong conclusion. But then Alfred’s breathing became erratic against Arthur’s neck and he whispered “Arthur, I’ve… never…”

Arthur smiled in relief, resting his head in the warm crook of Alfred’s shoulder. “Neither have I… but… do you want…”

“Yes!” Alfred interrupted before pulling Arthur up into a heated kiss. Alfred reached down and fumbled clumsily at Arthur’s trousers. Half amused, half aroused, Arthur kicked them off. Alfred quickly opened the jar and Arthur gasped when he felt Alfred’s hand suddenly right there, cold and wet. Arthur wasn’t sure if it really happened that fast or if it was the rum and the sudden exhilaration turning everything into a wild blur. But Alfred was against him, was entering him, and the initial pain didn’t matter because everything was wonderful and intense and Arthur had never felt so much in his life. He could hardly make sense of it with the spinning in his head and his frenzy to touch as much of Alfred as he could, be as close to him as possible, to never let him go.

“Are… are you all right?” asked Alfred with a shaky voice.

“Mm-hmm,” said Arthur in a tiny whisper, eyes tightly shut, barely able to answer through the waves of pleasure overwhelming him.

“Do you remember when I told you about that feeling when I first flew, and I couldn’t quite explain it?” Alfred spoke with warm, gentle breaths against Arthur’s lips.

Arthur’s eyes flew open. “Yes…” Something about intense, breathtaking, being nervous but never wanting it to end…

“It felt like this.”

At those words, heat shot through his spine like shards of glass and Arthur fought to maintain control even as he clung tightly to Alfred and they moved together in a forceful rhythm. Tingling pleasure permeated every part of him; his body thrummed with tension everywhere Alfred touched. Everything seemed to fade and this was all that existed now – their bodies melding together, their tongues sparring, lips and limbs and sweat and breath. It was all too much. The pleasure narrowed, sharpened, focused, and Alfred’s face blurred above him as Arthur released with a soft cry. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice broken and muffled by Alfred’s shoulder. Half sobbing, half laughing. “Damn it all, I love you.”

And Alfred gasped, and shuddered, and trembled for a long moment before falling forward onto Arthur. Arthur held him close while they brought their breathing under control. Their bare skin pressed together, slick with sweat. Then Alfred lifted his head, looked into Arthur’s eyes, and said “I love you too.”

Arthur buried his face in Alfred’s shoulder, suddenly embarrassed that he had let such words slip. “You don’t even know me,” he mumbled. It seemed too incredible, too wonderful that Alfred could mean it.

Alfred laughed shakily. “Sure I do.” He rolled onto his back and pulled Arthur into his arms. Arthur rested his head on Alfred’s chest, enjoying the feel of the hard muscle beneath him. “And I’m gonna find out even more. I wanna read every page there is to read in the book of Arthur.”

Arthur furrowed his eyebrows. “What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know, it just sorta occurred to me.”

Arthur smiled against Alfred’s chest. “You’re hopeless.”

“You’re perfect.”

“Shut up.”

Arthur listened to Alfred’s heart beating steady and slightly fast beneath him. Their hands entwined while Alfred twirled his thumb gently over Arthur’s palm. A warm glow filled Arthur’s chest. Alfred… lovely, annoying, incredible Alfred… loved him too. And he was leaving. The late afternoon sunshine flooded through the curtains, illuminating parts of the room while throwing others into shadow. Arthur’s quiet contentment was slowly turning back to gloom. Alfred seemed to sense it.

“I meant it before. I’ll make sure I come back to you.”

Arthur’s breath hitched. He wished he could make himself believe it. “And how will you do that?”

Alfred winked. “Magic.”

Arthur laughed and shook his head. “You’ve said that a few times. Are you some sort of magician, Lieutenant Jones?”

“I must be. I’ve made it this far.”

“Oh… that reminds me.” Arthur turned away from Alfred’s blinding grin and reached for his shirt. He retrieved a white embroidered handkerchief from the front pocket and pressed it into Alfred’s hand. “I’ve been meaning to give this to you. You mentioned you didn’t have a lucky charm, so…I embroidered this.” Alfred raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell anyone,” added Arthur gruffly.

“Our little secret,” said Alfred, winking. He held the handkerchief up before him. It was pure white with a red and blue pattern embroidered around the edge. In the corner two crimson letter A’s interlaced. Alfred smiled and Arthur focused intently on his hands. “I’m honoured. It ain’t no polar bear, but I think it makes one mighty fine lucky charm.”

Slightly embarrassed, Arthur grunted, turned his head and tried to change the subject. “It’s getting dark,” he noted.

“Well you know what you have to do when it gets dark,” said Alfred, tucking the handkerchief into the pocket of his trousers, even as he pulled them on.

“Huh?” asked Arthur, confused.

“Keep smiling through,” Alfred broke into song, “just like you always do…”

“Oh God!” Arthur covered his ears. “Do not start that nonsense again!”

“Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away!”

In his haste to silence Alfred, Arthur reached for the nearest weapon he could find. He came up with a pillow and attacked Alfred with it. “You truly are the most awful singer I have ever heard!”

“You lie!” cried Alfred, flailing wildly beneath the pillow.

“Gentlemen never lie!”

“Well that’s all well and good, but I was talking about you,” grinned Alfred.

Arthur gasped indignantly and renewed his assault with the pillow. This time Alfred fought back. By the time they both fell laughing, exhausted onto the soft bed, the light outside was almost gone.

As the sun faded, Arthur and Alfred lay in silence, hands still clasped, their chests rising and falling in a similar rhythm. At some level Arthur realised he should be getting back to work, but he ignored the thought. These may well be the last moments Arthur ever spent with Alfred. He tried to ignore that thought, also. As they lay touching, breathing together, it painfully occurred to Arthur that he had never been so happy in his entire life than he was when with Alfred. And he had spent weeks trying to ignore it and push him away.

Beside him, Alfred started humming the rest of the song he had begun singing earlier. Arthur felt regret surge through him and he clung onto these last precious moments, feeling Alfred’s skin against his, breathing Alfred’s scent, listening to his gentle humming mixed with uneven breath. Arthur fell asleep to the soft tune of ‘We’ll Meet Again’, lying against Alfred’s chest, their hands firmly clasped together.

When Arthur woke, the room was dark, and Alfred was gone.

We'll Meet Again - Capítulo 3

Sun, 10 Jul 2011 13:26:56 -0400

“Right, so I grasp it here like this…”

“Put your hand here… down more.”

“Like that?”

“That’s it, now grip it a bit more firmly…”

“This feels incredibly awkward…”

“You have to open your hands up slightly… put your other one up here… thaaat’s it. And open your legs a bit more.”

“Agh! It’s just a bloody bat, it shouldn’t be this complicated,” grumbled Arthur, trying for what felt like the eightieth time to stand in a batting stance that Alfred found acceptable. He felt like he was going to fall over. And it really did not help when Alfred stood behind him and placed his hands over Arthur’s own, trying to correct his technique.

When Alfred had walked into his pub earlier brandishing the bat and proclaiming that he would explain baseball Arthur had not imagined that he would be expected to play the blasted game. Now here he stood in the middle of the local cricket green trying to remember the difference between a strike and a slide and attempting to hit the bloody ball at least once. At least the sky was just as bright and clear as the day before, with no reminder of the earlier weeks of rain. It was like Alfred had brought the sun.

“Now bend your elbows a bit more…loosen your grip a little… there you are, I think you have the hang of it,” said Alfred. He stepped back and Arthur suppressed the slight feeling of disappointment. “Now, eye on the ball, all right?” Alfred picked up the ball, tossing it between his hands as he walked backwards away from Arthur. “Twelfth time lucky!”

“Oh shut up,” grumbled Arthur, taking a few practice swings.

“Here we go!”

Alfred threw the ball. Arthur swung. He missed. “BOLLOCKS!” Arthur threw the bat on the ground. “This game is utterly absurd! And stop laughing!”

“I’m sorry!” said Alfred through hysterical laughter. “It’s just, honestly, I’ve never seen anyone miss so many…”

“I am quite done with this baseball nonsense!” interrupted Arthur. “Take your bloody bat, I’ll show you a real bloody sport…”

After procuring a cricket bat and ball from the nearby club, Arthur sauntered back onto the pitch, eager to knock the cocky grin off Alfred’s face. Alfred hadn’t seemed to have gotten over his laughing fit, however.

“All right then Arthur, what have you got to show me?”

Arthur scowled at him. That damn arrogance drove him mad. “Let’s just see how good you are at a real game, shall we?”

Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to take long for Alfred to grasp the basics of cricket… apart from a few mistakes in terminology. “Okay, so let me get this straight,” he said after Arthur gave him a quick rundown of the game. “The pitcher…”

“Bowler.”

“Bowler stands here,” said Alfred, jumping around at one end of the pitch next to Arthur. “And then the, uh, guy with the bat…” Alfred took off towards the other end of the pitch.

“Batsman,” Arthur yelled after him.

“Batsman stands here…” Alfred called back. “Only there’s two of ‘em, and the other one stands over where you are, with the pitcher – ah, bowler.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Okay. And the catcher…”

“Wicket keeper.”

“Yeah him, he’s here.” Alfred tapped the ground with the cricket bat.

“Precisely. Jolly good. Are you ready?”

“Lay it on me, buddy!”

“Let’s see how bloody impressive you are now, Alfred Jones.” Arthur lined up on the pitch, ran and bowled the ball. Alfred hit it clear of the field.

“How many is that? Was that a six?” he called. “Do I have to run now?”

Arthur could have strangled him.

That night at the pub Alfred seemed quite proud of his new cricketing prowess and had no hesitation in professing it to anyone who would listen. “So cricket’s really not all that different from baseball in the end,” he said to a group of Americans as they clustered around the bar. Arthur wiped the bar top down, silently fuming. “I mean there’s a bat, there’s a ball, you hit it and you run. Simple as that. There’s even a catcher.”

“Wicket keeper,” muttered Arthur irritably.

“What did you think of baseball, Arthur?” asked Matthew, ignoring Alfred. He was clearly used to his boasting.

“Well,” said Arthur as several Americans turned and stared at him. “It’s, uh…” It was frustrating, made no sense and all he could remember of the strategy was Alfred’s arms around him. “…jolly hard to hit the ball,” he finished lamely.

Matthew nodded. “I never quite got the hang of it either.”

“That’s because it’s obviously an American game and you foreigners just can’t handle it,” said Alfred with a grin on his face that was entirely irritating. Arthur wondered how he had ever mistaken it for charming. The other Americans cheered appreciatively at Alfred’s statement.

“May I remind you,” said Arthur through gritted teeth, “that you are the foreigner here.”

“Exactly,” said Matthew. “So if I were you, Lieutenant Jones, I’d show a little respect… or who knows, you might get kicked out of here and never invited back.”

“Aw, Arthur wouldn’t do that to me, would you?” said Alfred, leaning on the bar and grinning at Arthur. “How about I apologise, and we’ll call it even?” He winked. Arthur clenched his fist around the washcloth. “And can you pour me another bourbon?”

One of these days Arthur was going to teach Alfred the meaning of the word ‘please’. He turned to get the bottle of bourbon, only to find it empty. He sighed. It would be his third trip to the cellar that evening. Arthur dropped the washcloth and dusted off his hands.

“Or even a scotch would do,” said Alfred, looking at the empty bourbon.

Arthur waved a hand. “I’ll have to get some bourbon regardless.” He paused. Scotch. That reminded him… he looked up at Alfred and smiled sweetly. “Actually, would you mind awfully if I asked you to help me bring some up from the cellar?” Remembering Alfred’s terror at the Tower of London and Westminster Abbey, Arthur devised a plan to knock arrogant Alfred down a few pegs.

“Well,” said Alfred, leaning over the bar and lowering his voice so only Arthur could hear him, “when you smile like that, how can I possibly say no?” And suddenly he was charming again. Arthur quickly scowled.

“Follow me.” Arthur led Alfred to the back of the room and down the dimly lit stairs, descending into the cold and dark cellar. Alfred slowed and his shoulders stiffened. Arthur smiled deviously to himself.

“Ah, this place of yours is a little creepy, Arthur,” said Alfred, his head darting back and forth. “Just like all these old English buildings…”

“Do you think so?” asked Arthur innocently. “It dates back to the eighteenth century, you know. And it’s built on ruins far older than that.”

“Is… is that right?” asked Alfred nervously.

“Mm hmm. The bourbon is over in this corner here,” said Arthur, leading Alfred further into the shadowy cellar. Alfred followed slowly. “Funny, these old pubs,” Arthur continued as he ducked behind a shelf stocked with bottles and barrels. “There’s always a story.”

“Oh,” said Alfred, his voice small and trembling slightly.

“Would you like to hear ours?” There was indeed a story to Arthur’s pub, The Emerald Lion. His brothers had told it to him as a child to scare him. It had never worked however… Arthur loved ghost stories, and frankly had always wished there really was a spirit to haunt the place when he was all alone in the cold empty building.

“…sure,” squeaked Alfred. He quickly cleared his throat and spoke in a voice a little deeper than usual. “I mean, uh, sure.” Clearly Alfred did not feel the same way.

Arthur laughed quietly to himself and passed two bottles of bourbon to Alfred from behind the shelf and leaned down to fetch a couple more. “The legend goes that in the early nineteenth century, this pub belonged to a young married couple. One day, the young chap was called away to fight the French in the Napoleonic wars. The young woman waited patiently, and every evening, she would leave a glass of scotch on the mantelpiece in the hope that he would come home that night to drink it, as was his custom in the evening.” Arthur very carefully and discreetly manoeuvred a barrel of bourbon so that it was sitting on the edge of the shelf. He stood and faced Alfred, who stood stock still, gripping the bourbon bottles with shaking hands.

“But every morning she would wake to find the glass still full,” Arthur continued. “Eventually, the news of the Battle of Waterloo reached London, and with it the knowledge that thousands of English soldiers had been killed. But she refused to give up hope. That night, she put out the glass of scotch, the same as any other evening. The next morning, though… it was empty.”

Alfred gasped, looking terrified. Arthur hid a smirk and continued sinisterly.

“Again that evening she put out the glass, and again the next morning she found it empty. She continued to repeat this ritual every night of her life until her death of old age.” Arthur paused dramatically and walked slowly towards Alfred, lowering his voice to a soft, eerie tone.

“But the strange thing is, that in the hundred years since, occasionally a glass of scotch will be found sitting on the mantelpiece at the end of the evening. And it is well known that if this happens, you must leave it. For if you are to empty it before morning…” Arthur trailed off and left the sentence hanging, suspended, as he stared at Alfred’s pale face with wide unblinking eyes.

Alfred’s face was frozen in a horrified glare. He swallowed heavily. “What?” he finally whispered. “What happens if you empty it?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur whispered back. “Because no one has ever lived to tell.”

At that moment, the barrel of bourbon Arthur had loosened fell and crashed loudly to the floor. Alfred shrieked, dropped both bottles of bourbon, and fled up the cellar stairs. Arthur laughed triumphantly. “Now we’re even, Alfred Jones.” He cleaned up the mess, fetched a few bottles of bourbon, and was quite pleased with himself until he came up the stairs to find Alfred frantically trying to pull a full glass from a customer’s hands as they stood by the mantelpiece. It took Matthew and three Americans to drag Alfred away, all while he shouted that he was simply trying to save the unwitting customer from the deadly wrath of a vengeful ghost. Arthur had to offer the customer free beer for a month. He sighed deeply. Evidently, he couldn’t win.

Over the next few nights Alfred stayed late at the bar after all the soldiers had left. They talked about everything. About Alfred’s farm back in the states. About Arthur’s family and how his parents had died and his brothers had left him … how they hated him. About Alfred’s plane, over and over, his sweet Lady Beth that he described so many times that Arthur felt he knew her himself. About Arthur’s fears that he wouldn’t manage, would never live up to his parent’s expectations and that in the end his brothers would be right and he would fail. And sometimes in those last dark hours when everyone else had left and the sky was growing grey Alfred would talk about his own fears, the possibility of failure, that maybe he never would make a difference, the fact that most fighter pilots never made it back home. It was these rare talks that scared Arthur the most, and not knowing how it got there his hand would slip into Alfred’s and he would wonder if he would ever cling to it in the future.

“That radio of yours work?” asked Alfred, nodding to the radio behind the bar counter. It was late one evening, everyone had left, and once again Arthur was left alone with Alfred, having a few final drinks before he closed. Arthur had come to cherish this time, though he would never let Alfred know it.

“Yes. I don’t often listen to it however.” The radio bothered him these days. If it wasn’t constant censored news updates, or that awful Lord Haw Haw’s German propaganda, it was those terribly sad wartime songs like the ones Miss Lynn did so well.

“Hey now, why’s that? This place could use a little music!” Alfred sprung up and raced over to the bar, switching on the radio and attempting to tune it. “I’m sure we can get something decent on this thing…”

Arthur rolled his eyes, finished his rum, and went to help Alfred with the radio. “It’s a bastard to tune,” he said, taking over and scrolling through static until something definable as music came through the speakers.

“There, there, stop! What’s that?”

Arthur groaned as the orchestral tune swelled out of the speakers. One of the reasons he didn’t listen to the radio… “Just one of those depressing wartime songs.”

“Oh, I know this one!” Alfred turned to Arthur, bowed, and offered him his hand. “May I have this dance?”

Arthur heart leapt but he suppressed it and scoffed. “Are you mad?”

Alfred shrugged. “I’ve been called that on occasion.” He grinned. “Dance with me.”

Arthur sighed. He still couldn’t resist that grin. Alfred took him in his arms and led him out from behind the bar. He pulled Arthur against him, placed an arm around his waist and took Arthur’s hand in his. Arthur had to admit it… his heart was beating faster and his stomach fluttering. Well, that was annoying. Arthur rested his hand on Alfred’s shoulder and looked up into his grinning face. “This song is manipulative drivel.”

“Oh hush! It’s pretty.” Then, to Arthur’s horror, Alfred started singing as he spun Arthur inelegantly around the floor. “We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when…”

“Stop it,” said Arthur, embarrassed and bewildered and amused all at once. “You can’t sing.”

Alfred just sang louder. “But I know we’ll meet again some sunny day!”

“Stop it!” Arthur tried desperately not to laugh. It was not funny, it was ridiculous. “You’re terrible!”

“Keep smiling through…” Alfred’s hair was as bright as the sun…

“Stop!”

“… just like you always do…” Alfred’s eyes were a brilliant clear blue…

“NO!”

“Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away!” Alfred was grinning…

Arthur finally gave up and burst into laughter. Alfred laughed as well as he continued swinging Arthur around, completely out of beat with the music, as the melody washed around them. At least while Alfred was laughing he couldn’t sing.

“I’m sorry,” said Alfred through his laughter.

“For the dreadful singing?” Arthur could hardly keep his feet in time with Alfred’s, which were far too fast for the slow tune.

“No! I’ve forgotten the rest of the words…”

“That’s quite all right, I assure you!”

“Oh wait… I remember… So will you please say hello, to the folks that I know, tell them I won’t be long…”

“Oh no!” cried Arthur.

“They’ll be happy to know, that as you saw me go, I was singing this song!”

Arthur shook his head. Alfred was hopeless. And sweet, and mad, and cheerful and naïve and energetic and arrogant and oh how would anything ever return to normal after he was gone. As the tune continued they fell silent. Alfred stopped swinging him and slowed to a gentle swaying actually in time with the music. His grip on Arthur’s waist tightened and he pulled both their hands in between their chests. Arthur could barely breathe from the conflicting emotions flowing through him. When the chorus started again Alfred sang it softly.

“We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when…”

Tears stung Arthur’s eyes and he lowered his head. How silly to get emotional over such a sappy song. His back quivered where Alfred’s hand moved over it gently and his hand trembled as Alfred gripped it almost painfully. Arthur hesitated, then leaned his head on Alfred’s shoulder, hoping to hide his shining eyes. He felt Alfred’s lips close by his ear, singing the last words of the song.

“…but I know we’ll meet again, some sunny day.”

We'll Meet Again - Capítulo 2

Sun, 10 Jul 2011 04:32:31 -0400

Bright sunlight crept under Arthur’s eyelids and forced them open. He groaned loudly, throwing the blanket over his head to block it out. Weeks of overcast days and it decides to be sunny on this one. Arthur clasped his head in his hands, trying to stop it exploding. Why the hell did he feel so… suddenly the memory of the night before hit him like a fist. What had he done? What did he say? Oh god how did he end up in bed without his shoes and… Arthur quickly patted himself down and thankfully found all his clothing intact. He buried his head in the pillow and tried not to scream. Well that was the last time he would ever see that bloody American… that was a good thing, yes? Arthur only felt sick at the thought. But that might also be from the copious quantities of rum he’d consumed the night before. What on earth had he been thinking?

Trying to throw it out of his mind, Arthur dragged himself out of bed to begin getting ready for the day ahead. It wasn’t like he had never dealt with a hangover before. It was just the sudden memories that kept appearing unbidden… Alfred grinning and winking, Alfred leaning towards him, Alfred laughing, Alfred carrying him… “AGH!” cried Arthur, shaking his head of the unwanted recollections. They just grew stronger, replaying over and over. Arthur decided there was nothing to be done but get dressed, go down to work, and forget he had ever met an American pilot named Alfred F. Jones.

The morning passed uneventfully. A few Americans came in for an early lunch with local girls on their arms, but the place was generally quiet. Arthur gave thanks for small mercies and spent his time trying to avoid looking at a certain table by the window and running a cold cloth over his forehead when no one was looking.

At noon, Arthur stood behind the bar, the cold cloth over his face, working hard on trying to erase the last week from his mind when it was all blown to hell by two words.

“Howdy Arthur!”

Arthur jumped and quickly threw the cloth on the floor. He looked up at Alfred, his face dripping. “Good God man, do you have to yell so loud?”

“I didn’t yell…”

“Well I just have this flipping great headache…”

“Oh yes, I’m not surprised,” said Alfred, laughing. Arthur glared at him and Alfred cleared his throat. “So anyway,” he continued, leaning on the bar, “I was thinking, that if this relationship is ever gonna go anywhere, we’d better start seeing each other in the daytime.”

“Relationship?” Arthur’s head still felt fuzzy… he must have heard that wrong.

“Show me the sights of London!” Alfred was all intensity and eagerness, dressed immaculately in his military uniform and cap along with the ubiquitous bomber jacket.

“What? I’m working, I’m…. I’m…”

Alfred grinned. “It’s a beautiful sunny day out there, you’re gonna spend it all in here with a cloth on your face?”

Arthur closed his eyes. Why could he not resist that bloody grin. “Very well,” he said through gritted teeth. “Let me fetch my coat.”

An hour later they had hardly seen anything of interest in Arthur’s mind, but Alfred was fairly hopping in excitement. They stood on the deck of a river boat as it crossed the Thames and Arthur was quickly growing rather embarrassed by all the stares the energetic American was drawing from fellow passengers. “Wow, wow, oh my gosh! What do you call that thing again?”

Arthur peered sideways at Alfred. “London Bridge.”

“Wow!” Arthur’s face was lit up like a Christmas tree as he craned his neck looking upwards.

“…It’s just a bridge.”

“It’s LONDON bridge! Like that song! You know… London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down… London Bridge is…”

“Yes yes all right, for heaven’s sake…” said Arthur, trying to quiet Alfred as his raucous singing caught the humoured and surprised attention of several onlookers. “I know the damn song.”

“So we’re hopping off over the river, right?” Alfred pulled something out of his pocket and starting unwrapping it. Arthur groaned when he realised it was a chocolate bar. He put his hand to his head, exasperated, hoping the other passengers hadn’t noticed.

“Alfred.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re eating chocolate.”

“I know. Do you want some?” Alfred held the bar out to him.

“No… I…” Arthur didn’t know quite how to tell Alfred that he was being rather rude considering everyone in Britain had been on sweets rations for years. He leaned in and whispered. “We’ve been at war for quite a while here. Things like this are very hard to come by for us.”

“Ohh,” breathed Alfred, his eyes going wide. He glanced around guiltily. “I have more, should I offer everyone else some?”

Arthur started laughing but quickly stopped when he realised Alfred was serious. “Wait, Alfred, what are you…”

“Greetings folks!” Alfred turned and called out cheerfully to the passengers behind him. Arthur was horrified as everyone stared at Alfred, obviously unsure what to make of this strange American. “I’m honoured to be here in your lovely city! Now I’m hoping some of you fine people can help me out with a small problem. I’m shipping out soon to fight the Krauts in France, and I have…” Alfred pulled out a handful of chocolate bars, attracting the immediate attention of several small children… “all this candy I don’t know what to do with! Now I wouldn’t want it to fall into the wrong hands, so I was wondering if anyone could help an ally out and take ‘em off me.”

Arthur’s face was frozen in shock, as were the faces of a few of the passengers. Others, however, were smiling, a few of the women were giggling to each other, and the children didn’t take their eyes off the chocolate.

“Here, it’s really good… Hershey’s, all the way from America! Try some!” The children walked slowly towards Alfred, looking shy and uncertain. Alfred held the sweets out to them, smiling widely. Each of them took a bar, giggling happily, before running back to their parents. Alfred tipped his hat to his gawking audience. “Have a good day, folks!” He turned back around and winked at Arthur.

Arthur shook his head. “You’re quite mad.”

Alfred just laughed, then pulled another bar from his pocket and held it out to Arthur. “I saved the last one for you.”

Arthur could not stop his lips pulling into a smile. He tried in vain to furrow his brows and wipe the smile from his face. “Fine.” He snatched the bar and jammed it in his own pocket.

“I like that,” said Alfred, staring at Arthur.

“What?” asked Arthur huffily. How bloody irritating that he could not even control his facial expressions around the American.

“When you smile.”

Arthur cast his eyes out at the river, the smile finally falling from his face and the back of his neck flushing with heat. They stood in silence and he could feel Alfred’s eyes on him for the rest of the short journey.

“So what is that tall bridge over there?” asked Alfred after they had stepped off at the port across the river and walked a while along the bank. It was the finest day in months, the sun high and a gentle breeze blowing.

“That there is Tower Bridge.”

Alfred’s face lit up again. “That one is terrific!”

“And that is the Tower of London,” said Arthur, pointing over the street

“Ooh, fantastic!” cried Alfred. They stopped and stared over at the imposing buildings. “Can we go in?”

“Of course not!” said Arthur haughtily. “It’s full of traitors and enemy spies.”

“Wow!” Alfred looked truly fascinated.

“Oh, that’s not the most interesting thing about it,” said Arthur.

“Really? What else?”

“Well, it’s the most haunted place in the United Kingdom, if not the world. There are dozens of ghosts in there… including Lady Jane Grey, the Princes in the tower, and Sir Walter Raleigh.” Arthur found these sorts of ghost stories fascinating. “On stormy nights, the ghost of Anne Boleyn is said to walk the tower, dressed all in white and carrying her severed head under her arm…” Arthur turned to find that Alfred was no longer standing beside him. He looked around, confused. “Alfred?”

He walked a few paces before spotting Alfred further down the road, leaning against a tree and looking like he couldn’t breathe. Arthur gasped and ran to him.

“Blimey man, are you all right?” he asked, concerned by the pale green colour of Alfred’s face.

Alfred looked up at him, clutching his chest and sweat beading his brow. “I… don’t… like… ghosts!”

Arthur tried not to, but he burst into hysterical laughter. They quickly left, steered away insistently by Alfred who kept glancing back fearfully as though the ghost of Anne Boleyn was on his heels. Arthur had been happy to walk along the river, but Alfred was desperate to get far away, as fast as possible, and headed straight for the nearest bus stop. Arthur couldn’t stop snickering… the loud, brash, swaggering American was afraid of ghosts.

Alfred seemed to get over his terror rather quickly however, and whistled as the red double-decker pulled up at the bus stop. “Wow! It’s one of those super tall ones!” he said as he swung himself up onto the platform. “Howdy, Miss,” he said, tipping his hat to the pretty young conductor who giggled and smiled at him. She barely even looked at Arthur as he purchased their tickets.

Arthur made his way into the crowded bus. Finding an empty seat, he was just about to sit down when he realised Alfred was, once again, nowhere to be seen. “What now?” he muttered, then winced when he heard a familiar loud voice shout down the stairs.

“Hey Arthur! There’s a whole other bus up here!”

Arthur felt every passenger’s eyes stare at him. He smiled apologetically. “Sorry. Uh… he’s American.” Arthur hurried up the stairs. He proceeded to spend the rest of the drive trying to get Alfred to sit down, apologising to the other passengers, and on one occasion having to haul the stupid Yank back into the bus when he tried to lean out the window to shout a greeting to some American soldiers on the sidewalk. Arthur was relieved when they finally reached their destination, though probably not so relieved as the other commuters.

It was difficult to keep up with Alfred. Arthur didn’t know where he got his energy from, but it was endless. He tried to keep pace as Alfred barrelled down the busy streets, weaving amongst the mass of pedestrians, talking non-stop as he went.

“I’ve really never been in a city this big before, you know? This city is huge! I mean, I was in New York, but not for long, before we shipped out. Now that was one wild city! I’ll take you there after the war, Arthur. We’ll see it all together. And then I’ll show you where I live. It’s only a small town… we don’t have nothing so fancy as all this, but you’ll really love it, Arthur, I know you will.”

“I… I…” Arthur was a little thrown, unable to believe Alfred and unsure whether he wanted to. “That’s rather a long way to go, isn’t it?”

“Nonsense! I’ll fly you there in Lady Beth.”

Arthur laughed. “I don’t think your plane will make it from England to America, somehow.”

“‘Course she will!” Alfred grinned at him and even in the bright, busy London street Arthur felt his breath knocked out of him. That bloody grin.

“And how will… um… ‘she’… manage that?” asked Arthur, staring at Alfred and unheeding of the street traffic that narrowly avoided him.

“Magic,” said Alfred, and winked at him. Arthur stared, transfixed, until Alfred looked away and gasped loudly. “Ooh ooh!” Alfred practically skidded to a stop in the street, his eyes fixed upward. “I know this one! That’s Big Bob!” he cried.

The spell was broken and Arthur again burst into laughter. “Ben.”

“Hey?”

“It’s called Big Ben! Well, actually, the tower isn’t named Big Ben at all… that happens to be the name of one of the bells.”

“Really? Huh. You sure know a lot, Arthur.” Alfred stood stock still in the middle of the footpath still staring up at the clock tower. The busy crowd surged around him, but he didn’t move.

“Alfred?” Arthur waited a few moments, but Alfred still did not budge. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting for it to ding,”

Arthur didn’t fancy his chances of getting Alfred to move, so he simply stood there as the passing pedestrians shot them strange looks and parted around them. He watched Alfred watching the clock until after only a few minutes it rang in the hour.

“Haha, fantastic! All righty, where to now? Ooh can we go in that strange looking building over there?” And Alfred took off, headed towards Westminster Abbey down the road. “Keep up, old man!”

Arthur scowled. “I beg your pardon?” he called, hurrying to catch up. He was, however, grateful for the tiny break. He really was starting to feeling like an old man today.

Once inside the dark abbey, Alfred quickly lost his cheerful grin. He moved along slowly, glancing around suspiciously, pressed quite close to Arthur’s side. Arthur couldn’t help but find it rather amusing.

“This place is creepy,” whispered Alfred nervously as they walked slowly past the low stone coffins. “Are there really dead bodies in these things?”

Arthur wasn’t quite sure if he was serious. They were coffins after all. “Oh, no,” he said sarcastically. “They’re stone all the way through.”

“Oh.” Alfred breathed a sigh of relief. “Well that’s okay then,” he said.

Arthur glanced at Alfred quizzically. Surely he hadn’t taken him seriously. “I wasn’t serious, they really are…” he fell quiet as Alfred tensed up again. Apparently he had. “Oh, forget it.”

Alfred was quite insistent they leave after that. “You Brits sure are big on the scary old buildings, ain’t ya,” he said as he hurried out into the street. Again, Arthur couldn’t help laughing.

The pedestrian traffic thinned out as they walked further down the street. Alfred started to slow down and eventually came to a stop in front of a roped off bomb site. Only one wall of the building was left standing, fixed at a dangerously skewed angle, the rest reduced to flattened rubble around it. Alfred whistled lowly. “Whew, the Krauts sure did a number on that one.”

Arthur nodded. “Quite. We still have quite a lot of sites left like this one. From the Blitz, you know.” It struck Arthur how young Alfred looked, standing there, gazing into the ruins. He turned and looked at Arthur with wide, bright eyes.

“That’s why I’m doing this, Arthur,” he said, gesturing over the wreckage. “I’m gonna stop this happening here or back home or anywhere else. We’re the good guys, Arthur. I’m gonna go to France and put a stop to this, you’ll see… I’m gonna save London!”

And he sounded so young as well… like he honestly believed he could take on the world. Arthur sighed sadly. “Come on Alfred. There’s a lovely park just up here I want to show you.”

“Oh, great!” Alfred fell briskly into pace beside Arthur, snapping back into high spirits, but he didn’t have quite the same spring in his step as before.

Alfred finally slowed down when they reached St James Park. The air started to chill and they wandered aimlessly past trees and gardens and couples taking an afternoon stroll. As they passed a bench Alfred lightly took Arthur’s arm and led him over to it. Arthur felt the touch shock through him and was surprised by the sudden nervousness it evoked. He sat down and felt something pull tight in his pocket. Confused, he reached in and pulled out the chocolate bar Alfred had handed him earlier. “Oh,” he said in realisation. “Blimey, forgot about that.”

“Try it! American chocolate is the best chocolate in the whole world,” said Alfred fervently.

Arthur scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Is that so.”

“It is! Try it! Don’t you like chocolate?”

Arthur sighed, ripped open the bar, and took a bite. He paused, surprised. It actually was very good. Arthur shrugged. “It’s passable, I suppose.”

“Passable.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“That must be why you’re scoffing the whole thing.”

Bollocks. Arthur glared at Alfred. But he didn’t stop eating the chocolate.

“So it’s that hard to get candy here, huh?”

“Well, we’re on rations. Everything is hard to get right now.”

Alfred sighed and leaned back, throwing his arms across the top of the bench. “You Brits have had it tough for a few years, haven’t ya.”

Arthur laughed humourlessly. Alfred had no idea. “London is different now from only a few years ago. So much destroyed. And the Blitz…” Arthur shuddered, still overwhelmed by awful memories. The dread of the coming nightfall, the evil of the air raid signal, those horrifying moments crouching in shelters unable to sleep through the noise. The terror which quickly gave way to a numbing acceptance… never knowing what would be standing and who would be breathing in the morning. Arthur felt a brief brush of Alfred’s hand against his.

“I remember seeing a film about it back home a few years ago,” said Alfred quietly. “Certainly looked like you had it rough.”

“We did. We still do,” said Arthur. “But we’re strong. We made it through then, and we’ll make it through now. We’re British, after all.”

Alfred smiled. “I’m starting to see quite a bit about you Brits.”

“And does the American like what he sees?” asked Arthur, looking up at Alfred and smiling.

“Yes,” said Alfred softly, looking intently at Arthur. “He certainly does.”

Arthur’s neck burned despite the chilly wind and he dropped his gaze to his feet.

“Well, I’m impressed,” said Alfred, his voice rising to its usual loud volume. “Your city is fantastic.”

Arthur raised his eyes to Alfred’s grinning face and smiled back. “I know.”

We'll Meet Again - Capítulo 1

Sun, 10 Jul 2011 04:26:39 -0400

The Americans were starting to drive Arthur mad. For a week now his pub had been full of loud, obnoxious, carousing American soldiers on leave. They yelled, they drank, they fought occasionally, they drank, they flirted with the local girls and they drank some more. Then they did it all over again. To begin with it was a vaguely interesting break in the same tedious old routine. By the end of the second night Arthur had had enough.

To be honest, they were not all bad. They generally tried to be well behaved, they poured a lot of money into his pub, and after all, they were allies fighting a common enemy.

Truth be told, they weren’t starting to drive Arthur mad at all. He was.

“Hey, Art, buddy. Another bourbon here.”

Arthur looked up at the grinning blonde holding his empty glass over the bar. Everything about the American irritated Arthur. His absurd bomber jacket he seemed to live in. His perpetual grin. The way he never combed his bloody hair. And the arrogance… Arthur hadn’t been the least bit surprised to learn he was a fighter pilot. Thought the whole bloody British Isle owed him their freedom and allegiance. Arthur gritted his teeth and took the glass from him.

“It’s Arthur. And kindly refrain from calling me your buddy.” Arthur poured another bourbon.

“All right, sorry Art. Thur.” Alfred grinned. He was obviously used to getting his way with that grin. “Come have a drink with us.”

“Thank you, but no. I’m working,” said Arthur.

“I thought you owned the damn place. Let someone else pour the drinks for a while. Take a load off.”

Another irritating thing. That ridiculous accent. He seemed to be able to stretch every word into seven syllables. “Thank you again, but I’m afraid we’re run off our feet with all you soldiers. Maybe another time.” It was the sixth time Arthur had given that answer.

“Well all right, later then. I look forward to having a drink with ya.” Alfred winked, picked up his bourbon and sauntered back to his table.

Arthur let out a deep breath. He turned and placed the bourbon back on the shelf, took a cloth from beneath the bar, and began wiping the bar top vigorously. What was it about the bloody Yank. Why did he keep asking Arthur to drink with him? Why did he keep looking over at him behind the bar and waving? Why did he have to grin like that? And why the bloody hell did it affect Arthur so much when he did?

Arthur risked a glance over at the pilot’s table. He always sat at the same one, by the second front window, with that other fellow that looked so much like him that Arthur wondered if they were brothers. Sure enough, Alfred was looking right at him. And grinning. Arthur quickly looked down. This was preposterous. He ran a hand over his heated forehead and knew he must be bright red. Throwing the cloth down, Arthur stormed over to the other side of the busy pub. Surely there must be some empty glasses to pick up.

A elderly regular nodded to him as he passed. “How are you dealing with all these bleedin’ yanks Arthur?”

Arthur chuckled lowly. “It’s keeping me on my feet, I can tell you that much.”

“Ah well, chin up, eh? Don’t know why we need them here anyway, as though our boys can’t take on the jerry’s on their own!” laughed the old man.

“Rather,” agreed Arthur.

“Ah well my lad, won’t be long before they’re out of your hair, I imagine.”

“I can hardly wait.” Wasn’t that the truth.

A few hours later and the pub was much quieter. Arthur was busy wiping down the empty tables and collecting glasses. He did have a few staff, but still preferred to do much of the work himself. The pub had always been a family business and it was his life, having lived in it for all of his twenty three years. But he was the last family member left here now, so he felt it his duty to do as much as possible on his own.

Arthur looked around. Most of the patrons left were locals, but a few Americans still hung about. Including Alfred. Arthur tried to avoid looking his way, but couldn’t ignore the loud voice that called to him as he walked past the American’s table.

“Arthur, buddy, how about you come have that drink you promised?”

“I promised no such…” Arthur trailed off, faced with Alfred’s pleading expression. He sighed. “Very well then. One moment.” Arthur went to the bar and poured himself a small glass of rum. After all, it was fairly quiet. And maybe this would finally stop Alfred’s constant requests.

Arthur sat down at the table, taking the seat closest to the bar. He half hoped for a patron to approach it for a drink, giving him an excuse to leave. He was far too nervous sitting this close to Alfred.

“This is my wingman, Matthew Williams,” said Alfred.

Arthur nodded at Matthew. He really did look remarkably like Alfred. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Evening. Lovely bar you have here.” Matthew was so quiet Arthur could barely hear him.

“Thank you. Um, so sorry to be rude, but you two aren’t…”

“Related? Nah. Pure coincidence. Confuses the hell out of some of the superiors, I tell ya. I finally made Matt grow his hair so they can tell us apart.” Arthur laughed loudly. Matthew shook his head.

“It doesn’t help that they never believe me when I tell them who I am. ‘Matthew Williams’ I say and it’s always ‘Who?’ Damned frustrating, eh.”

Alfred leaned over and whispered to Arthur. “Never mind him, he’s Canadian.” Arthur shivered and leaned away slightly when he felt the warm breath on his ear.

“I heard that,” said Matthew.

“You’re Canadian?” asked Arthur, taking a gulp of rum.

“Oh, not anymore, he joined the good guys long ago. No longer a subject of the British Empire, eh, Matt? Not, of course, that there’s anything wrong with that,” smiled Alfred.

Arthur narrowed his eyes at Alfred slightly.

“I still consider myself Canadian,” said Matthew.

“As do we all. He never lets us forget it,” Alfred told Arthur. “Lives on maple syrup, carries little polar bears around…”

“Carries polar bears?”

“Ah, this here…” said Matthew, unpinning a tiny fluffy white bear from one of his lapels, “…is Kumabaro. He’s my lucky mascot.”

“I thought his name was Kumajiro?” asked Alfred.

Matthew shrugged. “Something like that. Anyway, we all have one… a lucky charm that is. Except for Alfred.”

“Why don’t you have one?” asked Arthur.

“Nothing’s ever turned up. Besides, never needed one before. I’m alive, ain’t I?” Alfred raised his glass and drained it.

“I’ll drink to that,” said Matthew, draining his also. Arthur thought he’d better follow suit.

“Now we’re dry here… hey, barkeep!” shouted Alfred. “Oh wait…” he laughed raucously.

“Amusing,” said Arthur, unsmiling. “Very well then, I suppose I’d better bring the bottle.”

An hour later and Arthur had consumed far more alcohol than was wise while he was still working. At least the pub had quietened down even further, with only a handful still remaining. Matthew had left twenty minutes earlier… something about needing to oil an engine, Arthur couldn’t remember… after Alfred had spent a couple of minutes doing that winking thing to him. What was with all this winking? It must be an American thing.

It felt a little odd to be sitting with the man who had been driving him to distraction for a week now. Sure, Alfred was still arrogant and loud and, well, American, but he wasn’t all that bad, Arthur supposed. Just very confident and perhaps a bit naïve. But still rather irritating.

“And we’re doing this for justice, you know, I wouldn’t be here otherwise. We’re fighting for freedom here. We can’t just let the powers of evil and tyranny take over while we stand willing and able to prevent it,” said Alfred, gesturing strongly as he continued his oration. “It’s just… un-American.”

Arthur nodded. “And where were you two years ago?” he muttered around his glass as he took a sip.

“Pardon?”

Arthur waved his hand. “Nothing. How long have you been flying?”

“I used to go up with my dad as a kid. I still remember the feeling I got when I first went up there,” said Alfred, his face vibrant. “It was, exciting… like that feeling you get when something is so intense and so sort of terrifying and breathtaking and fantastic and you’re a little nervous but you never want it to end. Know what I mean?”

Arthur didn’t, but he couldn’t help but be captivated by the smile on Alfred’s face and the look of joy in his eyes. “Sounds awfully nerve-racking to me, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, it’s hard to explain. But it’s my life. Signed up for the air force as soon as I turned eighteen, and before you know it, here I am in England, fighting in a war! Life can be damned odd sometimes.”

“Certainly… wait. How old are you?”

“Nineteen. Why, how old are you?”

“I… er…” Arthur hadn’t realised Alfred was so young. Suddenly he felt like an old man. “Never mind.”

“Oh no, you have to tell me now!” said Alfred, putting his glass down and leaning over towards Arthur. “Are you really old?”

“No!” said Arthur indignantly. “I’m just not a teenager.”

“That’s okay, I like older men,” said Alfred, doing that bloody winking thing. Arthur stared at him, a little shocked. What was that supposed to mean?

“I’m twenty three if you must know. Though it is awfully impolite to ask.”

Alfred laughed. “Hey, you asked me first, Arthur.”

Bollocks. So he had. “Well. Either way. Really, nineteen?”

Alfred just nodded.

“Right. Fine. Jolly good.” Arthur finished his glass, embarrassed. He barely noticed Alfred fill it up.

“So Arthur, you got a girlfriend? A wife hanging round here somewhere?”

“What? No.”

“Didn’t think so.”

Arthur gasped indignantly. “Just what the hell is that…”

“Here, let me show you a picture of my girl,” interrupted Alfred.

Arthur felt his anger dissipate as his heart sank. He told himself not to be ridiculous. Of course Alfred had a girlfriend. He was too handsome not to. Wait, when did he stop being irritating and become handsome? Arthur decided it must have been sometime after the fourth drink. Besides, it wasn’t like he cared. “Oh. Very well, let’s see.”

Alfred pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and pulled out a small battered photo. “That’s her.”

Arthur looked at the photo and blinked a few times. “Um. It’s a plane.”

“Hey, hey, that ain’t just any old plane. She’s a P-51 Mustang, her name’s Lady Beth and she’s beautiful, ain’t she?”

“Yes, yes quite… I just… thought you were talking about your girlfriend.”

Alfred laughed. “Oh Arthur, Arthur. Beth is the only lady who’ll ever have my heart.” He winked again.

Oh. Bollocks. Arthur drank quickly, hoping Alfred didn’t notice his burning cheeks. Looking around, Arthur realised that they were the last two in the pub. “Looks like closing time.”

“Come now, how about one more to round off the night?” Alfred grinned pleadingly at him.

Arthur paused then shrugged. Surely one more couldn’t hurt.

One hour later…

“And ANOTHER thing,” Arthur shouted. “Is it so bloody hard to add the letter ‘u’? ‘Color, honor’…” he trailed off, trying to locate his drink on the table. Finding it, he took a deep sip and continued, “and so on and so forth… where do you yanks get off butchering proper English spelling?”

“Well, um…”

“And BASEBALL!” shouted Arthur, swinging his drink and barely noticing half of it landing on Alfred. “How on Earth do you play baseball? It makes no bloody sense!”

“I’ll explain baseball to you, if you explain cricket to me,” said Alfred, wiping the rum from his shirt.

“Hey, hey,” said Arthur, wagging a finger at Alfred. “Nothing wrong with the great game of cricket. Tradition. Gentleman’s game. Sport of Kings.”

“I thought that was horse racing.”

Arthur waved a hand. “Sport of, sport of Princes then. Dukes. Sport of Baronets at the very least.” Noticing his drink was empty, Arthur reached for the bottle. It suddenly disappeared.

“Hey…”

“Maybe you’ve had enough.”

Arthur glared at Alfred through bleary eyes. “I own a bloody bar, I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough! And, and, the other thing. You know, the thing.”

“The thing.”

“Yes, that thing. It’s stupid. Oh, and your food is terrible. Don’t you agree, Matthew?”

“Ah, Matthew’s not here anymore.”

Arthur squinted at the identical blonde next to Alfred. “Who’s the chap next to you then?”

“All right, seeing double, it’s time to go to bed.”

“What? Hey!” Suddenly the ground flew away from him. It took him a few seconds to realise he was lying over Alfred’s shoulder. “HEY! What is the meaning of this? Who do you think you are?”

“Where’s your bedroom?”

Arthur gasped indignantly. “I’m not telling you that!”

“Why not?”

“I don’t even know what sort of man you are!”

“I assure you, I’m a perfect gentleman.”

“No you’re not, you’re an American. Ah… blimey, how did we end up upstairs?”

“Never mind. Where’s your room?”

“At the end of the hall. I’m warning you, I’m tougher than I look!”

Was Alfred laughing? Arthur tried to kick him in indignation. The next thing he knew he was being tossed onto his bed.

“Gosh… how did I get here?”

“Magic,” said Alfred, grinning down at Arthur.

“That thing! There! That bloody grin! Why do you always grin like that?”

“Does it bother you?”

Arthur could feel his shoes being pulled off. “No,” he said huffily. It makes me…feel…” Feeling the soft pillow beneath him, Arthur couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore. They drifted shut and he sighed deeply. The last thing he felt was a light kiss to his forehead. But he may have imagined it.

Dia Seguinte - Oneshot

Sat, 25 Jun 2011 03:45:00 -0400

Dia Seguinte

Mesmo antes de abrir os olhos, Arthur pode sentir aquela indesejada dor de cabeça, muito conhecida sua. Não era incomum que o jovem inglês de 23 anos frequentemente terminasse suas noites em ressacas pesadas. Era simplesmente mais forte que ele. Mesmo antes de abrir os olhos, Arthur pode distinguir uma claridade incômoda no recinto, que provavelmente pioraria a sua dor de cabeça no justo momento em que abrisse os olhos. E, mesmo antes de abrir os olhos, Arthur pode sentir um peso sobre a sua cintura. Um peso do qual ele não se lembrava e tampouco conseguia presumir o que poderia ser. Então, movido mais pelo fato de haver constatado um elemento desconhecido no processo de acordar, Arthur finalmente abriu os olhos.

E sobressaltou-se.

À sua frente, o rosto mais angelical que o inglês havia visto talvez em toda a sua vida, repousava com uma expressão tão mais angelical que a sua natureza original. O garoto à sua frente estava adormecido com um ar tão tranquilo, que demorou para Arthur finalmente processar o que os fatos não deixavam calar.

Primeira constatação factual: Havia um braço o abraçando pela cintura. E esse braço muito provavelmente era do garoto adormecido à sua frente.

Segunda constatação factual: Havia um homem dividindo a cama com ele. Um loiro, de feições angelicais, mas ao mesmo tempo, masculinas.

Terceira constatação factual: Tanto Arthur quanto o anjo loiro à sua frente estavam nus.

Tipo, nus. Pelados. Despidos. Como vieram ao mundo. Cobertos somente por uma fina camada de lençol. Enfim… Nus.

A partir disso, o inglês chegou à quarta constatação factual daquele momento: Arthur havia bebido. Bebido tanto, que não se lembrava de nada. Só sabia que estava na cama, com um homem, ambos pelados. Ele sinceramente não precisava de memória nenhuma para saber o que tinha acontecido, Na-ã.

Principalmente depois da quinta constatação factual da manhã, a qual se referia a certa dor, em um lugar que definitivamente não deveria estar doendo.

Se a cabeça do loiro não estivesse a ponto de explodir (figuradamente falando) ele teria pulado da cama e começado a gritar, amaldiçoando todas as coisas vivas do mundo e, de quebra, teria provavelmente agredido verbalmente o anjo adormecido. Mas Arthur estava de ressaca e não tinha o poder sequer de se irritar, por enquanto. Tudo o que o jovem conseguiu fazer foi movimentar-se de leve, na tentativa de se livrar do abraço, e acordando não-intencionalmente, o seu ‘acompanhante’, no processo.

Arthur quase sentiu o coração derreter quando encarou aqueles olhos tão azuis. É como se ele houvesse sido hipnotizado pela segunda vez em menos de 24h.

O jovem recém-despertado então lhe dedicou o sorriso mais terno que o jovem inglês havia recebido desde o natal, quando ele foi passar alguns dias na casa da mãe.

- Bom dia. – Disse em um quase ronrono, dando-lhe um selinho. - Dormiu bem?

Arthur estava absolutamente sem palavras. Nem sabia se havia dormido bem, pelo simples fato de não se lembrar de simplesmente nada.

-Hn.

Arthur precisava se organizar mentalmente, mesmo que isso significasse cavar tão fundo na sua própria memória que isso só viria a piorar a sua dor de cabeça. Para isso, ele precisava buscar a raiz daquilo tudo.

Começou quando ele e um pequeno grupo de amigos da universidade planejaram uma viagem – estúpida, na opinião do loiro, - para os Estados Unidos. Por pequeno grupo, entenda-se seu amigo-inimigo Francis, um bolsista francês da mesma idade e curso de Arthur, e o namorado canadense dele, Matthew, também bolsista, mas calouro. Sim, Francis era gay. Ou bissexual, quando ele resolvia flertar com mulheres. Na verdade, Francis flertava com qualquer coisa viva e humana que fosse dotada de um mínimo de beleza para os seus padrões. Tanto faz.

Então, Matthew tinha esse meio-irmão americano e sugeriu que o trio se hospedasse na casa dele, em Richmond. Em primeiro lugar, Arthur nem sabia o porquê de haver concordado com aquela viagem, considerando o fato de que provavelmente seria brutalmente ignorado pelos pombinhos e colocado em uma situação puramente ‘empata foda’. Mas o fato foi que concordou e eles partiram de Londres em uma sexta-feira fria e chuvosa, e foram recebidos no aeroporto local pelo anjo loiro já mencionado anteriormente. Arthur lembrava mais ou menos da primeira impressão que tivera do rapaz: barulhento, irritante, arrogante e idiota. Com um complexo de herói idiota.

Então, por que eles estavam na mesma cama? Nenhuma pista.

- Mas que infernos… – Grunhiu Arthur levando uma mão à testa quando sua cabeça latejou mais forte.

- Eu disse pra você parar de beber, mas você definitivamente não me ouviu. – Aquele garoto o estava repreendendo? Não, sério, ele estava? – Vou pegar algum remédio pra você.

Quando o americano fez menção de se levantar, Arthur, mais por uma questão de se preparar psicologicamente para a vista que viria a seguir, o interrompeu.

- Não, remédio não. Quero chá. Só uma xícara de chá.

- Chá. – O outro arqueou a sobrancelha. – Reze pra termos algum aqui.

Então, a cena que Arthur temia ocorreu. Aquele garoto – de que Arthur definitivamente ainda não lembrava o nome – se levantou. E ele estava justamente como Arthur previra: nu. Mas ele era – oh, Deus – tão perfeito. Ele tinha o corpo tão definido, tão adequado, que o inglês não pode evitar ficar encarando. Arthur nunca fora muito afim de garotos e, certamente, aquela era a primeira vez que havia dormido com um. Mas aquele americano era simplesmente um Deus na Terra, por assim dizer.

- Curtindo a visão? – Sorriu o maior.

Arthur corou violentamente e desviou o olhar, ainda sem palavras coerentes na mente.

- Idiota. – Grunhiu, observando pelo canto do olho o americano se vestir.

- É, é. Não foi isso que você disse, ontem à noite.

E se Arthur podia corar mais do que já estava, assim ele o faria. Assim que se sentou e pegou o travesseiro com o objetivo de atirá-lo contra o outro, este rapidamente correu para fora do quarto, gargalhando.

Arthur então enterrou a cabeça nas mãos, em parte por causa da dor, em parte pela percepção do que havia feito.

Então, ele havia lembrado mais alguns fatos. Fazia três semanas que ele estava nos Estados Unidos e, nesse meio tempo, desenvolveu uma relação de mútua implicância com o jovem irmão de Matthew. Sim, jovem irmão. Enquanto Matthew tinha… Quantos anos? Uns vinte? Alfred – sim, era esse o nome dele! – tinha dezenove. Então, Francis sugeriu que Alfred desse uma festa e convidasse todos os seus amigos. Não demorou para que o americano se convencesse da ideia, principalmente considerando que seus pais nunca estavam em casa (o que Arthur achou um pouco triste) e Alfred ter toda a liberdade do mundo para fazer o que bem entendesse (o que talvez explicasse o quão mimado o garoto se mostrava algumas vezes). Com relação à festa… Bom, Arthur só lembrava-se dela até quando ele começou a beber. Depois disso, sua memória não conseguia mais trabalhar.

Arthur decidiu se levantar. Seria melhor acabar com essa dúvida perguntando para Alfred o que havia acontecido durante a festa. Pelo menos do mais importante ele se lembrava. Agora restava sofrer com alguns detalhes básicos.

Mas antes, ele tomaria um banho. Aquele cheiro de sexo definitivamente não o agradava e evitar a sensação de estar sujo era uma das suas maiores paranóias, quando sóbrio.

- HETALIA -

Como não encontrou a sua blusa no meio daquele caos absurdo, Arthur precisou se conformar em sair casa afora vestindo apenas uma calça de moletom qualquer que encontrara na gaveta – ora, sim, se eles haviam passado pela etapa mais íntima, porque não emprestar uma mera peça de roupa? – de Alfred. Sua condição foi facilitada principalmente devido ao fato de ele realmente não estar com saco para se preocupar com a aparência. Não com aquela dor de cabeça.

Enquanto caminhava pelo corredor, descia as escadas e atravessava a sala, o inglês pode ter uma verdadeira dimensão das conseqüências da festa da noite anterior. Havia comida, bebida, vidro quebrado, e substâncias não identificadas por todo o canto. Inclusive papel higiênico espalhado. Arthur sentiu um repentino nojo dos americanos em geral: como eles conseguiam ser tão destrutivos?

Um cheiro conhecido invadiu-lhe as narinas. Então Alfred havia encontrado o tal chá. Sorte. Arthur entrou ainda sonolento na cozinha. Alfred estava em frente ao fogão, cantarolando baixinho até perceber a chegada do outro.

- Achei que você fosse ficar na cama. – Comentou o americano, fazendo beiço. De alguma forma, ele parecia desapontado.

- Não era uma boa idéia. Emprestei uma calça sua, se você não se importar. Precisava de um banho.

- De boa. Depois do que você me emprestou noite passada, a casa é sua. – Sorriu maliciosamente.

Arthur fez o maior esforço possível para ignorar o outro e prosseguiu com o seu objetivo.

- Eu tinha, digo, tenho que perguntar uma coisa.

- Vai em frente.

- O que exatamente aconteceu ontem à noite?

A reação de Alfred foi um tanto retardatária.

- EU SABIA! EU SABIA QUE VOCÊ NÃO LEMBRAVA! – Escandalizou. A princípio, Arthur temeu que o outro ficasse chateado, mas contrariamente, Alfred desatou a rir. – Caara, você me deve dez dólares! Ontem, quando você pulou em cima de mim, eu disse: Artie, você não vai se lembrar disso. Você vai se arrepender! Mas, cara, vocês ingleses são tão teimosos! Mas eu confesso que foi a melhor coisa do mundo aquela sua striptease. Quero dizer, você fica totalmente muito mais sexy quando bêbado, sabia? E eu não sabia que você tinha essa queda por mim, como você disse que tinha…

- Peraí, eu disse o QUÊ?

- Você subiu em cima de mim, começou a se esfregar e dizer que, apesar de eu ser um idiota, arrogante, mala, barulhento e várias outras coisas nada legais e nada condizentes com a pessoa incrível que eu sou, que você se sentia mega atraído por mim e queria saber como era me beijar, etc. Mais ou menos isso.

E Arthur urgentemente precisou de algo para se apoiar, ou ele desfaleceria no chão imediatamente. Ele havia acabado de confessar aquela atração idiota que vinha tentando esconder desde a primeira vez que vira o americano (atração inicialmente bastante amenizada pelas ‘qualidades’ já mencionadas dele).

- Hahahaha, Artie, não fique assim! – Riu o americano, dando tapinhas amistosos nas costas do outro. – Eu não teria aceitado se não fosse recíproco, sabe? Apesar de mau-humorado e meio bipolar, eu fiquei mega afim de você, mas tinha minhas dúvidas quanto às suas preferências… Até ontem à noite.

E de novo aquele sorriso malicioso.

Apesar de mais ou menos aliviado, Arthur preferiu ignorar o último comentário e partir para perguntas mais pertinentes.

- Não me chame de Artie, esse não é o meu nome. – Repreendeu. – E o que eu fiz durante a festa?

Alfred parou para pensar um pouco e essa demora angustiou o menor.

- Nada muito grave. Quer dizer, você bebeu, começou a contar a sua vida pra mim e pra uns dois outros colegas, depois começou a reclamar da vida, estudos, amor… E depois, quando você ficou muito insuportável falando de fadas e unicórnios, eu já estava sozinho. Você viaja bastante na maionese, huh? Bom, mas pelo menos você foi decente e só me atacou quando todos os convidados já estavam bêbados o bastante para discernir o que era homem e o que era mulher. Bom, exceto pelo Francis… Ele disse algo como que ia ter muito assunto pra conversar hoje de manhã. Mas ele tava bem ocupado lidando com o Mattie… Ah, prefiro não lembrar da cena.

- O Francis sabe. – Disse em um tom miserável. – Esse bastardo idiota sabe! Eu estou tão ferrado! Tão ferrado! Eu juro que ele vai me perseguir para o resto dessa minha vida idiota!

- Hei, acalma aí, Artie. Não é como se o Francis tivesse algum ponto a favor. Quero dizer… Ele namora o meu irmão. Qual o problema em você ter um pouco de diversão também? Eu não sou tão indesejável assim, sou?

A cara de cão sem dono de Alfred foi o bastante para transformar o coração de Arthur em uma massa mole de ternura. Ele era simplesmente irritante – mas adorável.

- Não, não! Meu problema não é com você. Está certo que você é um peste, um pé no saco com complexo de herói… Mas isso é o que conquista, no final. O problema é a minha relação de eterna rivalidade com o Francis. Sabe como é, sempre quem é o melhor, sempre quem vai se dar bem… Essas coisas.

- O chá está pronto! – Anunciou Alfred, completamente ignorando as duas últimas frases do outro.

Idiota. Arthur rolou os olhos.

- HETALIA –

- BONJOUR, MES AMIS! COMMENT ALEZ-VOUS AUJOURD’HUI? MAIS QUEL BELLE MATIN¹!

- Argh, cala essa boca, idiota. – Grunhiu Arthur, massageando as têmporas.

Alfred, que estava sentado na mesa, à frente do inglês,acenou.

- FAAALA, SEU FRANCÊS DOIDO! - Riu o escandaloso idiota americano.

- God lord…

- Mon chèr Arthur, estou orgulhoso de você. – Anunciou Francis, bagunçando os cabelos do inglês. – Eu jamais imaginaria aquele seu lado, seu pequeno pervertido! Acho très triste que você não tenha mostrado esse lado pra mim antes… Sinto inveja do Alfred aqui, sabe.

- Ah, cala essa boca.

- Bom dia. – Cumprimentou um sonolento Matthew. Mas assim que seus olhos pousaram nos dois anglófonos sentados à mesa, suas bochechas esquentaram. – V-vocês d-dois… É… Hm…

- Hahaha, Mattie! Não mais que vocês! Hahaha!

Arthur realmente não sabia se esse idiota falava alto assim de costume ou de nervoso.

- C’est pas vrai, mon ami! A diferença é que vocês só se empolgaram com o fim da fête. A esse ponto, nós já havíamos concluído… Mas eu confesso que os gritos e gemidos do Artie aqui quase não nos deixaram dormir. – Riu, aproximando-se de Alfred. – Para ser sincero, até ontem à noite eu achava que ele era assexuado, sabe.

Oh, well, como Arthur queria ser tragado pela terra naquele momento. Ou pelo menos jogar a mesa em Francis. Mas aquela dor de cabeça era tão persistente! Arthur finalmente chegou à conclusão que pouco importava e tascou as mãos no pescoço do outro.

- REPETE ISSO, SEU SAPO! REPETE!

- AS-SE-XU-A-DO.

- Hm… Gente… Mudando um pouco de assunto… – Começou timidamente Matthew. – Precisamos arrumar nossas coisas.

Um silêncio esquisito pairou sobre a cozinha.

- Hã? Pra quê? – Perguntou Arthur, por fim. O inglês ainda estava tentando esganar Francis.

- Você estava tão porre ontem que esqueceu que vamos voltar para l’Anglaterre amanhã de manhã, foi?

- Voltar… Para… A Inglaterra… Amanhã?

Oh, hell, Arthur tinha esquecido totalmente de um detalhe crucial: a festa da noite anterior havia sido uma festa de despedida.

- HETALIA -

Alfred não tinha muita certeza, mas alguma coisa lhe dizia que havia algo de errado com o clima na casa depois do café da manhã. Ele não tinha muita certeza do por que, no entanto. Amaldiçoava nessas horas a sua falta de percepção. Matt sempre lhe dizia para ler o ambiente, mas por mais que Alfred se esforçasse, ele não conseguia imaginar nenhuma palavra pairando sobre a cabeça de ninguém. Soava simplesmente estranho.

Observava Arthur arrumar a mala, na esperança que conseguisse ‘ler’ alguma coisa. Sacudia-se para frente e para trás, denotando inquietude, ou melhor, hiperatividade. Por fim, suspirou, dando-se por vencido.

- Arthur, você está estranho.

O inglês parou de dobrar as roupas e demorou um pouco para olhar para o maior, sentado à cama, como se pensasse em uma resposta adequada o suficiente àquela observação idiota.

- Hm. É impressão sua. – Grunhiu, engolindo o sarcasmo. Não sabia nem porque ia usá-lo, de qualquer modo. Não era como se Alfred tivesse a obrigação de sustentar uma nuvem cinzenta (justamente como a de Arthur) na cabeça só porque seus hóspedes partiriam no dia seguinte. E Arthur estava sendo sentimental demais. O que ele esperava? Um abraço sufocante e uma voz rouca, chorosa, dizendo ‘prometo que vou escrever’ e outras promessas idiotas de amor, acompanhadas por um arco-íris ao fundo? Qual era a dinâmica dos relacionamentos à distância, afinal? (Não que Arthur pensasse em sustentar um. Na-ah.)

- Eu tenho quase cem por cento de certeza que estou sentindo uma aura esquisita vinda de você. – Comentou. O dedo indicador brincando com o próprio lábio inferior. Arthur achou o gesto no mínimo provocante.

-…

- Você tem certeza de que está bem?

Assentiu tentando parecer desinteressado e voltando a se concentrar em arrumar as malas. Idiotas.

- Não, não está.

Ok. Aquilo estava se tornando irritante. Se ele tinha dito que estava bem, por que raios aquele americano idiota não acreditava – ou fingia acreditar, tanto faz – e continuava a sua vida normalmente, feliz e cheia de comida gordurosa e heroísmos infantis, como parecia fazer desde sempre? Arthur respirou fundo e tornou a olhar para o americano.

- Então me diz, Alfred, o que te faz achar isso? – Perguntou em tom ácido, no mínimo ameaçador.

- Primeiro: a tal da aura agora maligna ao seu redor. Segundo: você parou de responder às provocações do Francis em algum momento hoje mais cedo. Terceiro: você ainda não tocou no seu chá. E já passou das cinco.

- Muuuito engraçado. Não é todo inglês que toma chá às cinco da tarde, seu idiota. E não precisa ser cinco da tarde para você tomar chá.

- Mas isso não muda o fato de você ainda não ter bebido o seu.

- O q… Ah… Dá um tempo, eu já ia beber… Tá?

- Aham.

- Argh, eu desisto. - Sentenciou sacudindo as mãos e retornando pela terceira vez a atenção para a mala quase arrumada.

Alfred ficou olhando com certa diversão enquanto o inglês organizava as últimas peças de roupa. Arthur, por sua vez, parecia imerso nos próprios pensamentos, pouco se importando com a forma com a qual organizava as últimas peças de roupa. Enquanto admirava o outro, os olhos azuis cintilavam, certos de que, de alguma forma, com aquela pequena discussão, o clima ao redor do inglês havia melhorado… Um pouquinho. Pelo menos a ponto do silêncio seguinte não se tornar constrangedor ou esquisito, mas relativamente confortável.

- Hm… Alfred?

- Sim?

- Você já esteve na Inglaterra? – Arthur tentou parecer o mais desinteressado possível.

- Hm… Na Inglaterra? Não. Pensando bem, acho que eu nunca saí dos Estados Unidos.

- Hm…

- Por que a pergunta?

- Não, nada… Eu só estava pensando se… Bom, ora, se… Se… Sei lá, se você não queria aproveitar que estamos indo e pegar uma carona. Pra visitar um lugar novo, sabe. Não pra ficar lá. Eu poderia ser o seu guia turístico na cidade. Seria legal. Depois… Depois você voltava. – Ou não, acrescentou mentalmente.

Alfred pareceu ponderar durante um instante e em seguida deu um sorriso meio sem jeito.

- Sério, eu adoraria isso. O convite foi extremamente tentador, mas não dá. Eu… Eu tenho… Uma porção de coisas pra fazer depois que vocês partirem, sabe. Não dá pra adiar.

Arthur tentou ao máximo disfarçar o desapontamento e sorriu meio nervoso.

- Ah. Não, tudo bem. Eu entendo. Não sei nem porque propus essa ideia maluca, pra começar.

- Você queria que eu fosse, não é? É por isso que está assim? – Perguntou o americano, sério.

- O-Oq… O quê? M-Mas é claro que não! Não, não, não, foi só uma idéia idiota! Como você disse que nunca saiu dos Estados Unidos, essas coisas… Aí eu pensei nisso. Mas não é grande coisa. Sério.

- Não minta para mim, Artie. Você não precisa mentir para mim.

Artie?

- Não é Artie. E n-não estou.

Arthur mordeu os lábios. Não era para soar tão inseguro.

- Sim, está.

Arthur sobressaltou-se com o hálito quente em seu ouvido. Sequer havia percebido Alfred se aproximar.

- N-Não estou. – Engoliu seco.

- Então por que você está tremendo? – Perguntou o maior, quase que em um sussurro, enquanto forçava Arthur a encará-lo, segurando-o pelo queixo.

- Eu… Eu… – Merdamerdamerdamerda. Americano idiota. Voz sedutora idiota. Sedução idiota. Viagem idiota. – É culpa sua. Toda sua! Você fica me irritando, e me seduzindo e me irritando de novo. Você me deixa desnorteado. É quase como uma droga. E aí… E aí nós dormimos juntos. Merda, e eu simplesmente confundi as coisas… Do que é que você está rindo, seu idiota?

- Você é tão gracinha, Artie! Fica todo cuti-cuti porque não consegue se expressar direito… – Riu, limpando uma lágrima. Arthur estava a ponto de replicar, quando percebeu o semblante do outro mudar para ligeiramente terno, sem mais aquele sinal de gozação infantil. - E é por isso que eu gosto de você.

Alfred inclinou-se para frente e os lábios dos dois se encontraram. Começou com um roçar gentil, que foi se aperfeiçoando a medida que os corpos se uniam e as mãos encontravam seus destinos. Arthur subitamente esqueceu-se de quem era, de onde estava e para onde ia, intoxicado pelo aroma do outro. Tentou lembrar-se do nome daquele perfume, falhando miseravelmente. Pouco importava. Sentiu as mãos de Alfred por baixo da sua camisa, acariciando sua pele, que se eriçava a cada contato. Envolveu o pescoço do maior com os braços, diminuindo qualquer milímetro de espaço que ousasse separá-los. Deixou que a língua do americano brincasse com a sua, em um conflito amigável de dominância pelo beijo. Romperam quando precisaram recobrar a respiração, mas não demoraram a voltar ao ritmo. Alfred deitou Arthur com todo o cuidado na cama, sem separarem-se uma vez sequer. Habilmente mantinha os lábios provando cada centímetro dos do menor, enquanto desabotoava-lhe a blusa, sem urgência.

Alfred se aproveitou de cada ponto do pescoço exposto do menor, mordiscando, lambendo e beijando. Deixando marcas que demorariam um pouco para desaparecer. Em resposta, Arthur gemia baixinho. O contato entre os quadris, mais especificamente entre as duas excitações recém-despertadas causava em Arthur uma onda de prazer que o forçava a engolir gemidos mais altos do que os que se permitia.

Alfred prontamente livrou-se da calça do inglês, e da sua própria também. Tornou a beijar Arthur, dessa vez, não muito profundamente. Retomou a atenção para o pescoço, em seguida tórax, abdômen e…

-Aaahhhhh – Gemeu o loiro, ao sentir algo quente envolver seu membro pulsante. Alfred lambia, chupava, lambia e beijava, fazendo com que Arthur ora grunhisse ora gemesse incoerências, desejoso de mais daquele contato. – D-Droga, Alfred… Ahhh… Não… Ahhh… Brinque comigo… Hmmm… Desse jeito…

Alfred reprimiu um sorriso satisfeito, continuando o trabalho. Não era difícil perceber que Arthur estava quase sem forças para resistir à urgência de vir. Era o que o americano queria, afinal.

- Droga, Alfred… Hmmm… Acho que eu vou… Ahhh…

Era mais forte que ele. Todo aquele prazer que Alfred lhe proporcionava era simplesmente como estar no paraíso, e do paraíso ninguém quer sair. Alfred limpou a substância esbranquiçada do canto da boca com a língua, o que fez com que Arthur corasse violentamente. Os olhos azuis encararam os olhos esmeralda parecendo completamente dominados pela luxúria, sedentos de mais. Alfred rompeu o contato visual, aproximando-se do ouvido do inglês, para dizer, com a voz embargada pelo prazer.

- Vamos, Arthur, quero ouvir você gritar o meu nome.

- HETALIA -

Arthur sempre odiou despedidas, com todo o seu coração. Mas, contraditoriamente, queria que Alfred estivesse lá para lhe dar um último abraço antes de seu retorno à Inglaterra. Não era como se eles nunca mais fossem se ver, droga. Mas mesmo a qualidade de redutora de distâncias da internet parecia inútil ante a angústia do jovem inglês em se ver sabe-se lá quantos milhares de quilômetros de distância daquele americano irritantemente apaixonante.

-… Arthur… ARTHUR!

- PUTA MERDA, NÃO GRITA NO MEU OUVIDO! O QUE VOCÊ QUER, SEU SAPO?

- Que tal se você achasse logo o seu lugar em vez de ficar parado aí no meio do corredor, atrapalhando todo mundo? – Francis cruzou os braços, engolindo uma gargalhada para dar um ar mais sério à frase. Arthur então percebeu a fila de passageiros que se formara atrás de si, pouco antes da poltrona de número nove. Mortificado, o inglês adiantou-se para a de número onze, tomando o assento da janela e desejando ser tragado pela terra. Não demorou para o francês e seu namorado tomassem os dois lugares vazios ao seu lado. Francis ria, divertido pelo pequeno pití que o inglês dera no avião. Matthew parecia haver tomado a vergonha do inglês e sentiu compaixão pelo pobre Arthur.

- Ah, cher Artie, eu nunca havia imaginado você agindo como uma adolescente apaixonada. Ah,l’amour.

- Cala essa boca.

- Ficar sonhando acordado com um affair americano em pleno avião…

- Francis…

- Francis, acho melhor você parar. Ele não parece muito feliz com isso… – Comentou um Matthew temeroso, bastante ciente do olhar gélido e ao mesmo tempo ameaçador de Arthur. Seu namorado, no entanto, fez questão de ignorá-lo.

- Mas eu não te culpo. Alfred é realmente um rapaz incrível. Pena que viva tão longe… Aliás, eu mesmo não entendo por que ele non veio se despedir hoje…

Francis mal reparou quando Arthur agarrou a gola de sua camisa com força. O verde de seus olhos cintilava de raiva, irritação e mais uma coisa que Francis percebeu ser tristeza.

- Ouça aqui, seu idiota. Não meta o nariz nos meus problemas. Se aquele americano estúpido não veio, é problema dele, não meu. Agora me deixa em paz. Quer que eu fale em francês? Le Me-Deixa-em-paz.

Emburrado, o inglês virou-se para a janela e cruzou os braços. Se pudesse somente se levantar e sair andando em busca da cadeira mais distante, assim faria. Ouviu Matthew sussurrar um ‘eu disse’, parecendo verdadeiramente chateado. Depois ele sussurrou alguma coisa que Arthur não quis ouvir. Ele sabia que era sobre Alfred. O estúpido Alfred que depois de dar a Arthur a melhor noite de sua vida – que ele podia lembrar também – desapareceu da própria casa, deixando para trás só uma mensagem de “Boa viagem, amorzinho, sentirei sua falta. Xoxo”. O que era essa porcaria de xoxo afinal? E se ele ia mesmos sentir a falta de Arthur, por que não se despedir? Talvez Alfred odiasse situação de despedidas, assim como Arthur. Mas ainda sim… Era triste, muito triste, não tê-lo por perto para dizer um adeus.

- HETALIA -

Desde que chegara dos Estados Unidos Arthur emanava uma aura depressiva. Todos os seus amigos perceberam, mas tinham medo de perguntar. Francis e Matthew sorriam sem jeito, temerosos de espalhar quaisquer boatos desnecessários sobre o inglês e irritá-lo – ou deprimi-lo – ainda mais. Kiku, o amigo mais próximo de Arthur, era o único que tinha conhecimento do caso de verão do loiro. Estava chovendo. E Kiku estava sentado sobre a cama desocupada do lado oposto da cama de Arthur.

- Você devia voltar pra cá. O quarto parece vazio. – Comentou o inglês em um tom neutro, quase desinteressado. Era como se quisesse só quebrar o silêncio. Kiku suspirou.

- Você sabe que não posso. Yao não ia ficar muito contente e o nosso namoro finalmente começou a andar. Ele não gosta do fato de eu dividir o quarto com outro homem… Principalmente se esse homem é você.

- Nossa, porque eu sou muito perigoso. Não, espera, vou te estuprar agora. – Ironizou, arrancando um risinho do amigo.

- Já tentou ligar pra ele?

Arthur se fez de desentendido, olhando de modo inquisitor para Kiku.

- Você sabe, o americano… O tal de Alfred.

- Nah.

- Você devia.

- Não tenho o número dele.

- Mas o irmão dele tem.

-…

Kiku suspirou.

- Faz quase três semanas que vocês voltaram dos Estados Unidos. Você não pode continuar depressivo desse jeito. Liga pro cara. Ou então o esqueça. Você tem duas opções. Escolha entre uma delas. Não é tão difícil assim, afinal, vocês já dormiram juntos…

Arthur corou violentamente.

- Quem diss…

- O Francis. Mas pela sua reação, a informação procede.

- Sapo maldito. – Grunhiu baixinho, enterrando a cabeça no travesseiro.

Kiku se levantou e olhou através da janela. O céu estava azul, sem nuvem nenhuma. Era uma morna manhã de Domingo e as aulas começariam no dia seguinte. Com elas, o Outono.

O som da música Hands Open, da banda Snow Patrol preencheu o ambiente. Arthur olhou entediado pro próprio celular, sem atender.

- Quem é?

- Não sei. Não conheço o número.

- Você já parou pra pensar que pode ser…

Arthur não precisou que o amigo completasse a frase.

- A-Alô? A-Alfred! – Arthur lançou um olhar rápido para Kiku, que sorria triunfante. – Bem, e você? Aham. As aulas começam amanhã, então… É. Não sabia que você tinha o meu número. Quem? Ah, claro, o Francis. Não, não, tudo bem. Na verdade, eu estava pensando em pedir o seu número para o seu irmão. Por que eu não pedi antes? Ora, porque… Ei, e você! Por que você não pediu o meu antes? Ocupado? Com o quê? – Perguntou desconfiado. – Como assim segredo? Não seja estúpido, não estou curioso para saber porcaria nenhuma… É O QUÊ, SEU IDIOTA? … Mas o quê? Você está tirando com a minha cara? Estou começando a me arrepender de ter sentido saud… Nada. Esquece. Eu disse esquece. Es-que-ce. Saco. Hein?

Abra a porta.

Arthur paralisou durante alguns segundos, ainda digerindo a frase e logo atirou o celular pra qualquer canto do quarto, sem nem mesmo desligá-lo e praticamente voou em direção à porta, abrindo-a.

Alfred estava lá, parado, com aquele sorriso inconfundível no rosto, mochila nas costas e malas nas mãos.

- Olá, Artie! Sentiu a minha falta?

- I-Idiota… O-O-q… C-Como v-você… P-pra quê… O-O que você está fazendo aqui?

- Achei que você fosse ficar feliz…

- EU ESTOU! – A frase saiu um pouco mais alta do que Arthur planejava. – Quero dizer…

- Hahaha, já entendi! Mas não se preocupe! Seu herói já está aqui para animar o resto da sua vida universitária!

- É… O QUÊ?

- Ué, o Matt não te contou? Nem o Francis? – Arthur sacudiu negativamente a cabeça. – Fui aprovando nos exames em Maio. Eu vim estudar aqui. Por isso ofereci nossa casa pra vocês, pra que eu conhecesse algum amigo do Matt, daí não chegasse completamente desorientado aqui. E por isso que eu não me preocupei em deixar vocês no aeroporto… Eu também queria fazer surpresa, e como eu precisava organizar minha document… P-Por que você está chorando, Artie?

- N-Não estou chorando… S-Seu idiota… Americano i-idiota.

- Aww… Não chora, Artie! Você ainda nem me deu o meu beijo de boas vindas!

E Alfred recebeu o beijo mais apaixonado, desesperado, urgente, desajeitado, molhado, espontâneo e perfeito que já havia recebido na vida. E correspondeu. E Kiku pigarreou meio alto, desejando poder sair por aquela porta antes que as coisas esquentassem demais.

- HETALIA -

¹ Em Português: Bom dia, meus amigos! Como vocês estão hoje? Mas que bela manhã!

Outras palavras/expressões estrangeiras utilizadas:

l’Anglaterre: A Inglaterra

C’est pas vrai, mon ami: Isso não é verdade, meu amigo.

l’amour: O amor

Fête: Festa

Mon chèr: Meu querido, meu caro.

God lord: Meu Deus, Meu Senhor, Senhor Deus… Whatever.

Hell : Inferno

Somnambulist - Oneshot

Sat, 25 Jun 2011 00:50:00 -0400

Somnambulist

I never would have guessed, looking at my little brother, that he was a sleepwalker. Sasuke just wasn’t that type of person. While I wouldn’t say he was the perfect human being (that title has already been bestowed upon me by our parents), he came pretty close to it. Every movement, tilt of his head, flicker of his eyes was decided and controlled. He made no unnecessary actions. So it was with great surprise that I found out how unbelievably animated he was when he was asleep.

It didn’t start off as sleepwalking though, if I remember correctly. I think the first time I was subjected to Sasuke’s sleeping tendencies was when he was twelve years old.

I had come home drunk after celebrating my eighteenth birthday with Deidara and Sasori, and was trying with utmost importance to be quiet as I snuck into the house, seeing as I had overstepped my curfew by four hours and the sun would be coming up soon.

Like a ninja… I tip-toed into the entrance hall through the miniscule crack in the front door I had created, toeing off my shoes and leaving them by the step because I didn’t think I would be able to put them in the rack quietly. The house was completely silent save for my father’s gentle snores from upstairs, and the rhythmic tick-tock of the clock in the living room. There was no welcome committee, much to my relief, because I didn’t particularly fancy the idea of my parents finding out that I am not quite the perfect little boy they think I am.

I pushed the front door shut, wincing when it slammed into its frame. “Shh!” I hissed at the inanimate object, putting one finger to my lips in the universal sign to shut up. “They’ll fucking hear you!”

I paused then, listening to see if I had woken anybody up. There was one moment of panic when I couldn’t hear my father’s snores, but then I heard a constricted cough and the rumbling sounds continued, undisturbed.

Letting out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding, I gave the traitorous door one askance glare that said “I’ll see YOU in the morning,” and began the next part of my stealth mission, which was climbing the stairs.

Now, our house was not a typical Uchiha home. Most of our relatives prefer the traditional one-level homes with walkways and pretty water features in the garden and a dojo attached to the back. But for some reason, and one that I utterly cursed that night, my father had decided we should live in a more westernised, modern house. Of course, there were still elements of the traditional (we had a dojo at the back after all), but the fact remained that this house had stairs. Squeaky ones at that.

Anyone else would have failed miserably at climbing the stairs quietly after the amount of alcohol I had consumed, but because it was me, I somehow managed to ascend onto the landing without more than a gentle creak. I paused at the stop of the stairs, crouched low as if I were an assassin, getting back my breath after the considerable effort I had put into that endeavour. From my position, I could see the sliding doors to both my parents’ bedroom and my little brother’s. Sasuke’s was slightly ajar because he always got a bit warm in the night.

I was about to rise to a standing position and continue down the corridor to my own room, and finally collapse into bed, when I heard a noise. A moan, to be exact.

I wrinkled my nose at the sound, wondering if my parents were indulging in some spontaneous, late night sex. And then I remembered that my father’s snores were still reverberating throughout the house. And that moan had definitely not been my mother, it was too deep.

I sat in my crouch for a few minutes, but when I didn’t hear it again, I decided I must have been hearing things. By this time, my legs weren’t willing to cooperate enough to let me walk on them, so I got onto my hands and knees and began to crawl stealthily towards my room, like a panther stalking its prey.

I was directly in front of Sasuke’s door when I heard another moan, this one much longer and louder, and definitely not a figment of my imagination. I froze, my eyes focused in on the crack in the door to my brother’s room. It had sounded like it was coming from in there. But my brother was asleep, wasn’t he? And why would he be moaning?

Shit, maybe he’s hurt, I thought through the haze of alcohol duping my brain. Images of my adorable little brother falling off the bed and cracking his head on the nightstand flooded my overactive imagination. Overcome by worry, I shuffled to the door and slid it across a little bit, peering into the darkness of Sasuke’s room.

I exhaled quietly when I saw the covers mounded up over his small form and no blood anywhere to be seen. He was turned on his side, his face towards me, covered up to his chin by his duvet. He looked so small and sweet. His cheeks were flushed, possibly because it was too warm for him, and his long eyelashes formed perfect black crescent moons on his cheeks.

His mouth was open, and he was panting. And then, just as I was about to retreat and close the door, he moaned again.

And this was no moan of pain, I could tell. That was a moan saturated in sex.

I stared, astounded. His forehead was slightly furrowed, almost as if he was in pain or experiencing a very intense sensation, his lips were parted to reveal his small teeth, and his bangs were stuck to his slightly damp face.

It occurred to me then, that Sasuke was having a wet dream.

And rather than being embarrassed by this fact, as most siblings would be, I found myself transfixed. Sasuke had now started up a continuing, steady stream of moans, little whimpers and gasps, almost as if he had been waiting for me to arrive before the show started, and was gnawing on his lower lip with those small teeth of his. He was so cute, and flushed, and…

Holy shit, I realised, this is turning me on.

Sasuke suddenly kicked his covers off so that they were only covering the lower part of his legs, making me jump. His body was lithe and lean, just in the first phases of puberty. His hips were well defined and showing over the top of his brushed cotton pyjama pants. And he was hard.

I swallowed, unable to look away. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, the sensible part of me was screaming to close the door, go to bed and forget this had ever happened, but the arousal was drowning that part out quicker than blood stains your clothes. My designer jeans had become uncomfortably tight, and I was gripping the frame of the door for support as I watched my brother’s chest rise and fall heavily, his messy hair spread out over the pillow and falling in his eyes.

And then, Sasuke reached down and began to touch himself in his sleep. He didn’t go under his pyjamas, but he started to palm the tent in his pants quite enthusiastically. He had rolled onto his back now, and he was arching and gasping. He reminded me of a cat; he was elegant and utterly… seductive.

I vaguely wondered what he was dreaming about for it to be having such a profound effect on him. I had had my fair share of wet dreams before, and been unfortunate enough to witness Deidara in the midst of one a few times at sleepovers, but I doubted that neither I nor my best friend reacted like this at all. Sasuke was jerking his hips towards his hand now, his whole body twitching as though electric currents were running across his skin. I was mildly horrified to realise that Sasuke looked sexy.

It hit me all of a sudden, what I was doing. What I was getting aroused over. A cold wave of confusion swept over me, and before I could witness my brother’s imminent orgasm, I scrambled out of the room and slid the door shut with a snap, breathing hard. His moans still bled through the door though, so I pushed myself to my feet and rushed down the corridor to my room.

Once my door was safely shut, I collapsed on my bed and threw my hands over my face. My jeans were still uncomfortably tight, and the echoes of my brother’s whimpers were haunting my brain like malicious spirits.

“Fuck,” I mumbled. My mind was swimming with emotions and confused thoughts, mixing with the alcohol to make a potent mixture of utter bewilderment.

I had just watched my brother jerking off in his sleep. And it had turned me on. It was sick on so many levels. For starters, he was male. Then add in the fact that he was underage and sprinkle in a little bit of incest, and you had one potent potion of homosexual, incestual paedophilia.

And what made it worse, I realised as my hand slipped down to pop the button on my jeans and pulled out my pulsing dick, was that I wasn’t trying to squash the feelings before they blossomed into something more dangerous. If I was truly disgusted by myself, I thought as I began to pump up and down and my choked gasps filled the room, I wouldn’t be jerking myself off whilst replaying the images of my writhing, sweaty little brother in the midst of a vivid wet dream.

I came so quickly it was almost embarrassing, grunting and clenching my free fist in the sheets. Right before I passed out, I resigned myself to realising that after so many years of being the perfect Uchiha, I really didn’t give a damn that I was turned on by my little brother.

I didn’t have the fortune of witnessing Sasuke in the throes of a wet dream after that one time, unfortunately. But his other sleeping habits more than made up for it.

Three years passed without incident, although I had begun to harbour an almost dangerous obsession for my younger brother. I would discreetly watch him as we ate breakfast, observing the shapely pout of his pink lips as he put spoonfuls of cereal in his mouth, resisting the urge to lick off the tomato juice that got stuck on his upper lip after he drank from his cup. When we curled up on the sofa in the kid’s lounge to watch a movie, I would spend most of the time mentally repressing an erection because Sasuke was always a bit cuddly and would press up against me innocently.

His body developed as most Uchiha’s did, perfectly. By the time he was fifteen, he was taller than our mother and on the way to surpassing our father in height. He was on several sports teams at school, so he was toned and athletic, although he still retained a slightly girly figure much to his annoyance and my inner delight.

His hair got more and more unruly as he grew as well. In contrast to my long, sleek locks or our father’s well cropped businessman haircut, Sasuke’s hair seemed to be on a mission to defy all forces of nature and hair products. Nothing he did could stop it from sticking up at the back, so in the end he resigned to getting it cut in a way that suited its disobedient tendencies, something that caused his school admirers to double in population and my masturbation sessions to triple in intensity. My fantasies were suddenly filled with visions of me grabbing the spiked locks at the back of his head as I sucked on his throat, or his sweeping bangs falling in his eyes whilst I jerked him off.

I kept my fantasies relatively tame for the sake of my sanity whilst he was underage, though it was really, really difficult. But I didn’t think I would be able to live with myself if I started fantasising about my brother in sexual situations more serious than touching each other. So whilst he was under sixteen, I jerked off to my memories of his wet dream, or made up scenarios where I would touch him until he came. It was more than enough, believe me.

One night when Sasuke was fifteen and I was twenty-one, I was taking a shower after a long day studying in the university library. It was close to midnight, and I was the only one up, or so I assumed. I was stressed out, so I decided to relieve some tension. Shampoo suds still clinging to my chest, I leaned back against the cool blue tiles and reached down to grasp my erection firmly.

Soon, I was lost in the sensations and images burned on my eyelids. Sasuke writhing and groaning on his bed, one hand on his dick with his back creating a perfect arch that brought his chest closer to the ceiling. Me climbing over him, taking over the job and pressing heated kisses to his flushed temples, his cheeks, his lips, his neck. Watching his expressions as I brought him closer and closer to orgasm, his teeth indenting his lower lip and sweet whimpers emanating from his throat.

With an explosive grunt, I came in my hand, my body trembling and pressing flush against the shower wall to keep me upright. My head fell back, my long hair tickling my back, and my gasps were lost in the steam as the evidence of my sin was washed down the drain. I swallowed hard, waiting for the black spots to clear so that I could finish showering and go to bed.

I was brought out of my reverie with a jolt when I heard a clatter in the bathroom, something that sounded suspiciously like our toothbrushes falling on the tiled floor. And then I heard the sound of footsteps as someone shuffled around.

I was surprised. I hadn’t heard the person come in, whoever they were, and I hadn’t known that anyone was still up. I rinsed off all the soap suds and cum, turned the water off and grabbed a towel from outside the shower stall, grateful for the separation in the room that prevented the other person from seeing me naked. I hoped that the water had been loud enough to mask my moans, if they had come in when I was jerking off.

I wrapped the towel around my waist and stepped out of the shower, wringing my hair out before walking into the main area of our large bathroom. I was surprised to see Sasuke stood at the sink, apparently brushing his teeth.

Toothbrushes littered the floor where he had apparently knocked them off, which was my first clue that something wasn’t quite right. Sasuke was obsessive-compulsive about tidiness; he would never leave something on the floor once he had knocked it over.

I glanced at his reflection in the mirror, and blinked. Sasuke was brushing his teeth alright, but his eyes were closed. I could tell from the smoothness of the eyelids that he wasn’t consciously keeping them closed either, and from the slight jerking of his eyes underneath the eyelids, he was in the midst of rapid eye movement.

I chuckled endearingly. Sasuke was sleepwalking.

It was somewhat of a shock, but at the same time it was the most adorable thing I had ever seen. He was brushing his teeth with exhausted, limp movements of his arms, one arm bracing him on the sink, and his head was drooping slightly as if his neck was having a hard time staying upright. He was wearing a pair of old tracksuit trousers and a loose black vest, showing off his toned arms and his lightly muscled shoulders, as well as those prominent hips that I had dreamed about so many times.

He spit out the toothpaste into the sink and rinsed out his mouth, completely oblivious that I was stood behind him in just a towel, before replacing his toothbrush on the side and wiping his mouth with the hand towel. I wondered if the reason he was able to do all of these actions so smoothly in his sleep was because it was a completely habitual routine that he had been doing since he was old enough to brush his teeth without supervision.

I wasn’t so sure as to whether I should wake him up or not. I had heard that you should leave sleepwalkers to get on with it because it was dangerous to wake them up, but I didn’t really want him to go out onto the landing and fall down the stairs. I reached out as he began to pad out of the bathroom, his shoulders slightly slumped, and I grabbed his upper arm.

“Sasuke,” I called gently. He came to a stop, his closed eyes focused on the floor. His face looked so beautiful when he was asleep; it was quite mesmerising to watch. When he didn’t respond, I shook him a little, calling his name again. “Hey Sasuke, wake up.”

He turned his head in the direction of my voice, his eyes still smoothly closed. I watched him, waiting to see if he would wake up. And then he spoke.

“Aniki?” he mumbled in his deepening, sleepy voice. It was so sweet and disarming that I found myself swallowing. I scratched my cheek, a nervous habit I had developed over the years.

“Wake up, otouto,” I murmured, giving him another little shake. He turned towards me, tilting his head to the side in his trademark movement of confusion or curiosity.

“A-aniki?” he asked again, sounding a bit tremulous this time. He shifted on his feet, looking nervous even though he was still asleep.

I wondered if humouring his conversation would wake him up, so I replied. “Yes, Sasuke, it’s me.”

Sasuke seemed to hear this loud and clear, but he reacted in a way that left me extremely confused and aroused. He blushed so violently that the pink spread down to his collarbone, and turned his head away with a nibble on his lower lip. My eyes were drawn to the action, the way his teeth scraped over the plump flesh and left a light ingrain in the wake of their movement. It was sexy, and I had to take a few steadying breaths before I could speak again.

“What’s wrong, otouto?”

Sasuke shuffled some more, his closed eyes directed very briefly to my hand that was still squeezing his bicep. “Can I ask you something, Itachi-niisan?”

“Um, sure,” I murmured, painfully aware that I was still only in a towel.

He tilted his face up, his closed eyes directed straight at me. He gnawed on his lip again. “Aniki… will you kiss me?”

My groin jerked even as my mind was sent spiralling into confusion. Could this really be happening? Here was Sasuke, the object of my affection for the past three years, standing in front of me and asking me to kiss him. Even if he was asleep.

It made me wonder if Sasuke secretly harboured feelings for me too. After all, they did say that dreams were messages from one’s subconscious. It was completely possible that Sasuke was dreaming this encounter as he sleepwalked, and that this was a product of some extremely similar feelings to the ones I had.

I decided not to dwell on it for too long. The situation was too good to pass up. So I stepped forward, conscious of the tent showing in my towel, and placed my other hand on Sasuke’s hip. He tilted his head back further, his messy hair ghosting the back of his neck, and I slid the hand on his arm up over his shoulder to bury my fingers in the soft spikes at the base of his skull. He licked his lips, his eyelashes fluttering on his cheeks.

Tightening my grip on the back of his neck, I bent down and angled my head to the side a little, letting my lips graze over his lightly to test the waters. I didn’t want Sasuke to suddenly wake up in the middle of kissing me, no matter how many feelings he might have been harbouring towards me. He would almost certainly freak out and cause a scene.

When his eyes didn’t open and he whimpered in expectant need, I decided it was safe. I leaned in and pressed my lips firmly against his in a closed-mouth kiss.

Oh sweet lord. His lips were so soft and plump and cushioned, completely smooth and unchapped. I could feel his quickened breathing through his nose on my cheek as I kept our lips anchored against each other. I nearly jumped when I felt a hand on my bare chest, and then let out a groan when Sasuke dragged his nails lightly down my torso.

I slipped my tongue out, probing cautiously at his lips, and he parted them without any hesitation. I grunted in overwhelmed satisfaction as I thrust the slick organ into his waiting mouth, stepping closer to him and jerking on his hips so that our crotches were aligned. We both groaned into our counterpart’s mouths as our erections ground against each other. Our tongues began to twirl and thrust against each other, sliding and tasting and making wet noises that sent shudders of lust through my muscles.

Sasuke whimpered and pressed his chest to mine, our torsos coming flush together. Even though he was wearing a vest, I could feel every contour of his athletic upper body, the way my little brother’s abdominals flexed as he began to kiss me more fervently. My hand clenched in a near iron grip in his hair, just like I had dreamed of doing for the past three years, and I yanked his head back to break the kiss.

He gasped in protest, but it quickly turned into a sleep-injected moan when I latched onto his neck and started to suck. I was grinding our hips together forcefully now, and I gradually backed him up until he was pressed against the wall.

“Aniki!” he moaned, his hands running all over my damp chest and shoulders whilst I nipped with my teeth and tongued at the bruise that I was working on, the mark of my territory. I didn’t care about what he would think when he woke up and saw it. Sasuke was mine, and I was going to lay my claims on him as far as was appropriate for his age. Although it was proving very difficult to exercise self-restraint.

The tension was building within our groins now at the friction of our hips, and I knew I wasn’t going to be able to last long. This was a dream come true, this was what I had been thinking about, fantasizing about since I was eighteen. And Sasuke didn’t seem too far off coming either, from the way his legs were trembling and the escalated volume of his moans.

Claiming his mouth again in another heated kiss, I reached between us and cupped his erection through his tracksuit pants. The rough groan in my mouth was enough encouragement to continue, and as our tongues swirled and thrust I began to massage my little brother’s cock, revelling in the continuous stream of lusty noises he let out into my heated gasping mouth.

“Mmf-aniki!” He gave a muffled cry, thrusting his hips into my hand, and then groaned long and low as his entire body began to seize with the force of an intense orgasm. I pulled away to observe the expressions on his face, the bruised and parted lips, the crease of his forehead and the flush to his cheekbones, and that was all it took to send me spiralling into my second orgasm of the evening, drenching the towel that was still precariously wrapped around my hips.

It took a lot of willpower not to collapse against Sasuke, but I managed it. I braced my hands on the wall either side of his head, licking and nipping and biting at his open mouth, occasionally sliding my tongue in to play with his. He panted and gasped, amazingly still asleep (how deep a sleeper was this kid anyway?).

I pulled away eventually. Sasuke pushed himself off the wall, eyes still firmly closed. His face was still a bit pink but he appeared to have calmed down now. He turned his face to me as I took my ruined towel off and placed it in the laundry basket, pulling on my boxers and sweatpants.

“Goodnight, aniki,” he mumbled sleepily, and then he shuffled out of the bathroom. I listened to make sure that he got to his room safely, and as soon his door clicked shut, I sat down heavily on the floor.

I just got off rutting against my little brother, and it was the fucking hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.

I touched my lips which were tingling with the sensations of kissing Sasuke, a small smile on my usually impassive face.

When Sasuke was seventeen and I was twenty-three, I found out that he had gotten a piercing without telling anyone, in a most interesting way.

Much to my disappointment, there had been no more incidents like the one in the bathroom. I had heard him getting up in the night a few times, but mostly whenever I came out of my room he acted like I wasn’t there. Most of the time, he went down to the kitchen and got a midnight snack and then went back to bed, usually without shutting the fridge after him, which was a pain.

I was sat at the low table in the living room, my feet tucked underneath me as I sat on a plump cushion. Sasuke had gone to bed about an hour ago. Our parents were away on one of their many business trips, so I was taking the opportunity to write some of my dissertation in the comfort of our lounge rather than hunched over my desk in my room. The light of the laptop and the orange glow of the flames in the fireplace were the only sources of light in the room. Quiet music was playing through the speakers, and I was completely relaxed.

I tapped at the keys on my computer, my long fingers flying over the keyboard. I would occasionally pause to consult one of the many thick books piled up on the floor next to me, either to cite a reference or clarify a fact. I was working solidly and making a lot of progress. Hopefully, the damned paper would be finished by the end of the month, leaving me to focus on my side research projects.

The door to the living room slid open and Sasuke wandered in, evidently sleepwalking. He had gotten even taller, and was only a few inches shorter than me now. His hair was in his face and whilst he had a more masculine development to his face now, he still looked adorably sleepy and cute. Apart from the fact he was wearing a pair of knee-length pyjama shorts and nothing else. That was just sexy.

I was used to Sasuke’s sleeping excursions by now, having acknowledged that the bathroom incident was regrettably a one-time thing, so I turned back to my laptop and continued to type. Sasuke shuffled around the room for a little bit, picking a few books up off the bookshelf and apparently perusing their contents before replacing them. He was less messy now than he used to be, as if his body had adjusted to his sleepwalking enough to let his OCD for tidiness transcend the barrier of consciousness.

I was so immersed in my paper that I forgot he was there for a while. It must have been at least thirty minutes later that I was startled out of my typing reverie by him flopping down beside me on the floor, leaning in as if reading what I had typed even though he was clearly asleep.

“Go to bed, otouto,” I chuckled, ruffling his hair and trying to ignore the way the muscles flexed in his well built shoulders as he braced his weight on one arm. He was leaning in very close to me, close enough that I could smell the shampoo he had used in the shower earlier.

At the sound of my voice, he tilted his head as if to show he was listening. I was about to urge him to go to bed again, when he reached over and began to trace circles on my leg.

“Sas-” I choked out, feeling my dick spring to life. I had been craving intimate contact with him as if it were a drug ever since our spontaneous rutting session two years previously, and to suddenly be given it again was like a shock to the system, leaving me temporarily stunned. He didn’t notice this, his hand continuing to move on my thigh, trailing up higher and higher until it was brushing directly over the bulge in my jeans.

“Aniki…” he breathed, a cocky smirk on his face. I wasn’t sure if that turned me on more than the innocence he used to exude, but I wasn’t complaining. My little brother had really developed into a walking wet dream in the past few years, and I had no doubts that he was a bit of a slut in the time he spent awake. I had seen the girls and guys he snuck into the house when our parents were asleep, and heard the groans coming from his room. I wasn’t even jealous. The idea of my brother fucking the breath out of someone (or being fucked, judging by some of the screams I had heard him making) was just more fuel for my masturbation fire.

Not wanting to pass up the opportunity to play, I tilted my head to the side and kissed him firmly, our lips moulding together as if they were destined to seek each other out. His hand was fiddling with the button on my jeans now, and I trembled when the button popped and released some of the tension on my now painfully erect dick.

He pulled away from the kiss, eyes still closed, and got onto his hands and knees as he pulled the zipper down. I sat back, putting my hands on the floor behind me and resting my weight on them. Though this was only my second intimate encounter with my brother, I wasn’t going to let nerves or shock delay what I dreamed about daily. And now that Sasuke was over sixteen, I was willing to let him go as far as his dream-state took him.

“Itachi-niisan,” he growled, reaching into my jeans and pulling out my pulsing length, “Let me suck you off.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a demand. And by god, there was no way in hell I was going to say no.

“I’m all yours, otouto,” I replied, pressing a kiss to his temple before taking the chance to pull my t-shirt over my head. I leaned back on my hands again once the obstructing garment was gone, my erection pulsing in Sasuke’s hand.

He gave another sleepy but cocky grin and shifted a bit on his hands and knees. There was plenty of room between my lap and the table, so I didn’t bother shuffling back at all. I watched, biting my lip as Sasuke began to pump my dick firmly with one hand, resting his weight on the other between my legs. His chest was covered in a light sheen of sweat that glimmered in the low light of the fire and my computer, and I resisted the urge to lean forward and lick it off him.

He’s definitely done this before, I thought as he expertly swept his thumb over the tip, collecting precum to lubricate the pumping action. He was squeezing at random intervals, making me grunt, and twisting his hand from side to side as he worked. It was so much fucking better than any quick hand job I could give myself in the shower.

He wiggled his hips a little, and then bent down as though doing a one armed push up, so that his lips ghosted over the swollen tip of my dick. I groaned, feeling his hot breathing along my length. He gave a sleepy chuckle and then took half my length into his mouth at once.

“Shit,” I gasped, resisting the urge to close my eyes because this was a sight I wanted to burn on my memory for all of time. Sasuke’s mouth was burning hot and so wet. It was taking every ounce of self control I possessed not to thrust up into that incredible heat. He sucked hard, his cheeks hallowing, and then began to ease off my length. He dragged his tongue up the underside, and that’s when I felt something cold pressing against my pulsing vein. Something metal.

I gasped and watched as Sasuke sucked all the way up to the tip, and then he began to lap at the head with his tongue. And as I had suspected, there was a small silver bar in the middle of that sinfully skilled tongue.

When the hell did he get THAT? I thought, but it was one of the last thought processes I had because that was too much, it was too sexy. Sasuke had turned from a cute, graceful, innocent little kid into this shameless, slutty bad boy, and I was not complaining. Not when he knew exactly how to use that piercing as well. He would press his tongue flat against the tip of my dick and drag the piercing over the slit, occasionally letting it slip in, and then when he fully engulfed me (oh fuck, the kid could deep throat as well, too good, gonna come), he let the piercing press against the vein again, putting pressure on it and tugging me closer to the imminent explosion in my groin.

I couldn’t have lasted even if I wanted to. It was too good, too taboo, too fucking sexy. I came within minutes, shouting and jerking my hips as I spilled milky cream down his throat. And he swallowed it all, lapping it up from the tip of my dick and collecting it from his lips with his tongue, the piercing glinting in the light.

And the kid was still asleep. Fuck me.

He sat up and kissed me, and I was so turned on even after coming so hard, that I didn’t care that I could taste myself on his tongue. We fought for dominance, Sasuke no longer the young inexperienced boy who would let me do what I wanted, but eventually he submitted to my insistent tongue. Kissing him, feeling that piercing pressing against my slick, heated tongue was better than any wet dream or fantasy I could ever cook up in my head, and we both groaned into the kiss.

He pulled away after a few minutes, his lips swollen, and began to nuzzle at my neck, pressing kisses to the spot under my ear. I shuddered when he growled, “Aniki, fuck me.”

I smirked. “As you wish, otouto.”

I got up on my hands and knees, mirroring his position, and pushed on his chest until he conceded and lay on his back. I climbed over him, my legs on the outside of his and my hands either side of his head on the floor. I kissed him, hard, relishing in the submissive sounds he started making, the whimpers and mewls and gasps that made it really hard for me to take it at least a little slow.

I knew I should be feeling guilty. I was practically taking advantage of Sasuke in his sleep. But I couldn’t bring myself to stop. It was too good to be true, a dream that had become reality and I fully intended to get my share, make Sasuke scream the way that tanned blond kid had done the other day. I would make him beg his older brother to fuck him harder, would have him writhing and moaning like that time I saw him having a wet dream when he was twelve. I was going to screw him so hard he wouldn’t be able to walk for a fucking week. I didn’t give a shit if it meant he realised what had happened. I knew he would come to me when he was awake, eventually. This was his payment for teasing me for all those years, and I was going to take full advantage of it.

I reached down between us and hooked my fingers over the hem of his shorts, smirking at the tent in the cloth. He had a flushed look of desperation on his sleeping face as I pulled them down over his slim legs. I noted with pleasure that he wasn’t wearing any underwear, and I grasped his free erection in my hand and began to pump on him whilst I waited for my dick to reawaken.

“Aniki!” he groaned, wriggling his hips and biting his lip. I bent down and began to kiss at his chest, tasting the sweat I had wanted to lick off earlier, scraping my teeth over his stiffened nipples. I licked at the dip of his sternum, trailing my tongue down the line of his abdominals before thrusting it into his navel. By now, my dick was fully awake, but I had every intention of getting him off before I fucked him. I was going to use his cum as lube, and I told him so, knowing he could hear me even though he was asleep.

“F-fuck,” he gasped, bucking his hips into my hand.

I bit down at the flesh just above his hipbone, hard enough to bruise, and then growled through my teeth. “Come.”

As if on command, his whole body went stiff and then he let out a long groan as ribbons of cum spilled out of his dick and onto his stomach, some of it flecking my cheek. It wasn’t quite the scream I was going for, but that could come in a minute. Come being the operative word.

I sat back with a smirk, pleased to see that the cockiness had been wiped off his face to be replaced with pure breathlessness. His eyelashes kissed his cheeks as they fluttered in his sleep, and his lip was bleeding a little where he had bit down as he came. Fuck, so hot.

I trailed my fingers through the pool of cum on his stomach, gathering some of it up. “Don’t forget what I just said,” I growled, making him part his legs so that I could sit between them. “I’m going to use your cum as lube, otouto.”

He nodded. “Do it, aniki, please.”

I shuddered at the begging tone to his voice, before hooking one of his pale legs over my shoulder, exposing his entrance to me more fully. I circled the pink hole with my cum-covered index finger, grinning when he twitched and gasped, and then let the finger slide in.

There was hardly any resistance. Whether that was because my little brother was so used to being screwed, or because he was asleep, I don’t know, but my finger slid in all the way up to the knuckle without any trouble. Sasuke’s chest was heaving deeply, his face incredibly flushed and his choppy bangs stuck to his face and in his eyes. He looked like he was in heaven, and I was right up there with him.

Even though there was little resistance, Sasuke was tight. Really tight. It was a bit of a tight squeeze just to get a second finger in alongside the first, and I groaned as I imagined how much he was going to squeeze my dick when I finally got it in there. I scissored efficiently with my fingers, keen to stretch him a little so as not to hurt him, all the while twisting my wrist in hopes that it would make my fingers glance over his prostate.

When they did, the reaction was beautiful. Sasuke’s hands flew into his own hair, clenching into fists as he screamed loudly enough to make my ears ring. “Oh god, there aniki!” I grinned wickedly and continued to abuse the gland within him, pumping my fingers in and out of his ass and making sure they grazed his prostate every time they went in or out. His dick was rapidly coming back to life, the left over cum on his stomach running to the sides as he writhed and groaned. I bent over, pushing the leg on my shoulder into his chest, and licked up his cum, relishing in the taste of my brother’s sex.

I couldn’t wait much longer though. Deeming him stretched enough, I slipped my fingers out, and pulled Sasuke’s other leg up onto my shoulder, leaving him utterly exposed. My dick was so hard it was painful, and when I lined it up to his slickened entrance, Sasuke moaned my name so sexually that I had to stop breathing in my efforts to not just thrust into him.

Tightening my grip on his thighs, I rubbed the tip of my cock against his twitching hole a few times, and then pushed forward slowly, watching with fascination and greed as his ass swallowed my cock inch by inch, spreading to accommodate my reasonable girth. I didn’t stop until I was fully seated inside of my brother, my balls pressed up against his ass cheeks, his body almost bent in half as I leaned over him.

I brushed some hair out of his sweaty face, dusting my fingers over his closed eyes, and then kissed him, swallowing a whimpering gasp when I began to roll my hips. Sasuke’s hands reached up to grip at my hair, which was hanging loose rather than in its customary ponytail. My tongue thrust in and out of his mouth, a prediction of what I was going to do to his ass in a matter of minutes, as soon as he was used to my dick.

I heard a muffled “aniki!” into my mouth, and took that as my cue to continue. I sat up a little and repositioned my hands on his hips, pressing a kiss to his knee. I drew my hips back slowly, gauging his reaction carefully, and when I saw nothing but stifled lust, I snapped back into his body hard enough that Sasuke’s entire body arched up towards me. His face was lost in the sensations and he looked so breathtaking that I felt winded. He was tight (so tight), and squeezing his ass around my dick almost deliberately, and it was at that point that I gave in to temptation and started to really fuck him.

“Come here,” I snarled, bending down and kissing him hard, starting up a delicious, brain-melting rhythm that made the sounds of slapping skin on skin and his incredible moans bleed into the darkened room. My hips pistoned into his smaller body over and over, his inner walls clenching around my cock like muscled velvet.

“Aniki!” He wrapped his arms fully around my neck and began to smash his hips upwards, meeting my thrusts with perfect timing and doubling the slamming waves of indescribable nirvana coursing through our bodies. The moans I had barely been repressing burst out in a series of angry, breathless grunts, my fingers still digging into that incredible tainted flesh of his hips and ass, leaving deep violent purple grooves.

He broke the kiss and began to bite and suck at my neck, my hair covering the action like a veil. I could feel his gasps and moans on my neck along with that rough, pierced tongue and vicious teeth, and I had to bite my own lip to hold back a breathless scream, yes, Uchiha Itachi was being brought to screaming as he fucked his little brother whilst he slept, and he was fucking loving it.

“Shit, Sasuke,” I growled. Sweat coated us both now, our hair in our faces and in our eyes and our usually pale and emotionless faces were flushed and screwed up in pleasure. I was close, so close that I could taste my orgasm, and from the way Sasuke was clenching and contracting around me and his moans were getting ear-splittingly loud, he was nearly there as well. With a snarl, I shifted my hips a little, searching for the right angle, and after a few shallow thrusts I hit the mark. Sasuke’s mouth left my throat as his head fell back, his face the perfect picture of ecstasy as I began to abuse his prostate repeatedly.

“Fuck, come on otouto,” I gasped, my head falling on his shoulder and my arms wrapping around his torso, lifting him off the floor and bending him even further in half as his legs were still on my shoulders. He whimpered and mewled in my ear, his fingers digging into my shoulders, and then finally, with one spasmodic clench, he came all over our stomachs, screaming my name and shuddering and jerking against me.

I began to drive into him even rougher than before, making his teeth clack together, desperate to follow him over the edge. It didn’t take long, he had gotten so tight and the sheer thrill of what I was doing was enough, and with a muffled shout into his collarbone I thrust deep inside him and filled him with massive spurts of cum. I could feel it seeping out of his ass and over my balls as we collapsed on the floor, but I didn’t care, this was heaven, right here with my little brother, sticky with sweat and sex on our parent’s living room floor.

I didn’t want to get off him, I wanted to lay there forever. I didn’t want him to wake up and go back to his reality of taking bed partners that weren’t biologically related to him. But all good things must end eventually, and with a reluctant sigh, I braced my arms on the floor and lifted myself off him. I glanced at his beautiful, flushed face, and froze.

Sasuke’s eyes were open.

“It wasn’t a dream?” he breathed, staring up at me with those wide, dark eyes, eyes that I suddenly wished that I could have stared into as I screwed him. I bit my lip, wondering what would happen when I answered.

“No,” I replied carefully, “You were asleep, but it happened.”

He blinked a few times, his eyes roving around and taking in the situation. Our hips pressed together, cum leaking out of his ass, more on our stomachs, my uncharacteristically dishevelled appearance.

And then he smiled.

“Kiss me,” he demanded, and my stomach clenched with delight. As I bent down and pressed our lips together, our eyes open and watching each other, my brain was singing a hallelujah chorus. Sasuke was awake, and he wasn’t running away, and he was happy. The future held so many possibilities that I felt myself already getting hard again, my dick stiffening in his ass.

“Next time,” he murmured between heated kisses, “I want to be awake.”

Fuck yes

. There was going to be a next time.

Sweet Seduction - Capítulo 3

Sat, 25 Jun 2011 00:45:50 -0400

Capítulo 03 – Amor.

A pergunta feita por Reita soou baixa e enrouquecida, enquanto os olhos escuros do mesmo se mantinham fixos na imagem erótica de Ruki deitado sobre aquele tapete. Os cabelos avermelhados espalhados, a face corada, os orbes nublados fitando-o de forma lânguida, parecendo ainda perdido nas sensações que ele proporcionava, piscando algumas vezes, demonstrando que enfim havia compreendido sua indagação.

“_ Diz… Fala pra mim…”, Reita pediu, fitando-o longamente… E ele só queria ouvir… Apenas ansiava ter a sua resposta daqueles lábios carnudos e tentadores, voltando a mover os dedos, aprofundando-os o máximo que podia.

“_ Ahmm…”, Ruki gemeu, sentindo as bochechas quentes.

Os olhos bonitos do vocalista se fecharam ao sentir o toque tão profundo, arqueando de leve e estremecendo devido às sensações deliciosas que o gesto lhe proporcionou. Por um momento Ruki se sentiu indefeso e envergonhado e acabou por cobrir os olhos com as costas da mão, ficando ainda mais corado, mesmo que terrivelmente excitado.

“_ Hummm… Si-Sim…”, O pequeno respondeu num fio de voz, mordendo o lábio inferior, seu coração batendo rapidamente.

Reita percebeu que havia deixado Ruki sem jeito e lamentou por isso, no entanto, ao receber aquela resposta não pôde deixar de sorrir enlevado. Sua emoção era tão forte que quase não cabia em si de felicidade, os batimentos cardíacos acelerando dentro de seu peito devido às sensações deliciosas que aquela afirmativa lhe causou.

“_ Eu… Eu queria que… Humm… Fosse você…”, O pequeno sussurrou, lambendo os lábios que se encontravam secos, ainda mantendo os olhos cobertos pelo braço. Sentia-se envergonhado por revelar isso, mas precisava dizê-lo, afinal… Ele queria mais, deu um passo a frente, se insinuou e agora colhia sua recompensa, saindo finalmente daquele ‘quase’, para enfim ser de Reita.

“_ E-Eu… Nem sei o que dizer…”, De repente, Reita ficou desconcertado em meio aquele sentimento que queimava em seu coração… Aquele sentimento estranho e confuso que sempre estivera ali, bem escondido.

“_ …?!”, Ruki notou, pelo tom de voz, que Reita estava embaraçado, e por um momento pensou que talvez devesse ter ficado calado ou mentido. Não seria a primeira vez e…

“_ Eu sempre quis você… Eu sempre…”, A voz de Akira ficou trêmula e embargada, mas ele continuou, sorrindo ao outro de maneira doce.

Lentamente, Ruki tirou o braço de cima dos olhos, fitando Reita, vendo-o sorrir.

“_ Sempre quis amar você assim… Sempre!”, O baixista completou emocionado, desejando apenas dar prazer ao mais novo.

O cérebro de Takanori parou, não conseguindo seguir qualquer linha de raciocínio ao ouvir aquelas palavras, que logo fizeram todo sentido em sua mente e o pequeno fitou Akira profundamente, sentindo o coração bater forte. Os sentimentos que via dentro dos olhos negros do baixista faziam eco dentro de si, deixando-o quase explodindo devido à gamaexorbitante de emoções.

Por um momento, Reita quase se arrependeu pelo que havia dito ao perceber o silêncio entre eles. No primeiro instante, não soube dizer se tinha falado demais sobre algo que nem mesmo ele próprio sabia classificar. E se estivesse errado sobre o que sentia? Não queria ferir Ruki por causa de sua típica imprudência, afinal, não era um garoto… Precisava pensar mais nas pessoas a partir de agora, principalmente quando se tratava de alguém tão especial quanto o vocalista, no entanto, tudo era tão confuso! Mas, se aquilo que estava sentindo não era amor, o que mais poderia ser? Respirando fundo, ele notou o modo como o ruivinho o fitava, se perdendo em meio ao que via ali, seu coração batendo mais forte, acelerado, a emoção o tomando por completo… Havia tanto sentimento naqueles orbes escurecidos, que seria impossível não se sentir profundamente tocado. O pequeno o correspondia, fosse lá o nome que desse para aquilo que sentia… E era isso que realmente importava!

“_ Então me ame…”, O baixinho sibilou, sem desviar o olhar.

Reita sentiu o coração falhar uma batida. Aquelas palavras… Poderia alguém duvidar delas quando se podia sentir derreter por dentro? Logo ele, que nunca fôra do tipo romântico, estava ali… Quase suspirando. Sem demora, começou a mover seu dedo devagar, entrando e saindo, sentindo a textura do canal apertado que fazia seu membro pulsar forte no mesmo ritmo que investia naquele interior quente e acolhedor, sem nunca desviar o olhar dele.

“_ Hummm…”, Reita gemeu, deliciado e excitado.

“_ Uhmmmm… Isso… Me ame!”, Ruki sussurrou, lambendo os lábios, fitando-o com paixão… Com amor! Remexeu-se ao senti-lo mover o dedo, acariciando-o por dentro em um entra e sai lento, causando sensações deliciosas em seu corpo, brincando e atiçando mais sua libido.

“_ Taka…”, Akira chamou o nome dele baixinho, seu dedo explorando aquele interior intocado com cuidado, acariciando-lhe apenas, sem pressa alguma, encantado com aquele momento que compartilhavam, sabendo que não seria somente sexo dessa vez. Estava cansado de se sentir solitário e abandonado, porém agora…

“_ Uhhhmmmm… Rei-chan…”, O pequeno ronronou lânguida e manhosamente.

“_ Hummmm…”, Reita deixou um silvo escapar ao ouvi-lo gemer seu apelido, tão excitado quanto era possível estar. Só de ouvir aquela voz, sua ereção pulsava em resposta, de tão necessitado que estava daquele corpo que muitas vezes desejou em segredo.

“_ S-Se doer… Quero que me avise.”, O baixista murmurou, fitando-o intensamente, com carinho, seu coração batendo mais forte do que nunca ao vê-lo sorrir em resposta, concordando com a cabeça, ondulando o quadril de encontro a si, acompanhando seus movimentos… E pôde perceber, pelos olhos de Takanori, que para o pequeno eles não faziam sexo, mas sim amor!

“_ Uhhhmmmm… Coloca mais, Aki… Você… Não vai me machucar.”, Takanori gemeu sensualmente, mordendo o lábio inferior, fitando-o de forma amorosa, desejoso por mais.

“_ T-Tem certeza?”, Akira perguntou incerto, sua voz rouca denunciando seu estado de excitação.

“_ Ahm… Si-Sim…”, Sussurrou o pequeno, ofegante, ainda sentindo os lentos movimentos em seu interior, uma onda quente se espalhando por seu corpo enquanto via o carinho e o cuidado do baixista, que parecia até mesmo… Apaixonado? E apenas pensar nesta possibilidade fazia o coração de Ruki aquecer.

“_ Não quero que você sinta dor.”, Akira se preocupou, levando a mão livre àface do menor, acariciando-o suavemente, vendo-o fechar os olhos, suspirando enlevado… E neste momento ele soube que estava conseguindo transmitir ao menor todo o seu carinho e preocupação.

“_ Eu não irei…”, Takanori sussurrou, abrindo os olhos, transmitindo através de seus orbes toda a serenidade e amor que sentia, tocando a mão dele que estava em seu rosto com a sua, quase ronronando.

“_ … Quero que sinta apenas prazer!”, O mais velho disse, se inclinando sobre o corpo menor, beijando-o docemente, sem deixar de tocá-lo, ainda que de maneira receosa aumentasse o ritmo, conforme o pequeno tanto queria.

“_ Uhmmm…”, Ruki gemeu dentro do beijo, correspondendo de modo afoito enquanto sentia os dedos dele invadindo-o, tocando-o mais enfaticamente.

Reita se sentiu mais seguro para prosseguir, sabendo que não o estava machucando, todo o receio foi esquecido diante daquele beijo cheio de desejo, ardor e paixão… E sem parar o que fazia, começou a aumentar gradativamente a velocidade, circulando seu indicador conforme entrava e saía do corpo apertado, o atingindo fundo diversas vezes, se deliciando com a sensação agradável que era tocá-lo de forma tão íntima.

“_ Aaaahhhhmmmmmmm… Akiraaaa…”, Ruki abandonou os lábios de Reita, arqueando e repuxando o tapete com suas mãos pequenas, completamente sem fôlego, o corpo se contraindo fortemente devido aos espasmos que percorriam cada músculo, desnorteado com o prazer que tomou conta de si ao ter algo em seu interior tocado.

Akira ofegou quando ouviu Takanori gemer seu nome de maneira arrastada e soube que tinha encontrado aquele ponto especial dentro dele… Podia sentir o corpo menor arquear sob o seu, a pequena mão buscando apoio no tecido que apertava e isso apenas o excitou mais, fazendo-o morder o lábio inferior, extasiado só por vê-lo dessa forma… Perdido em prazer, ofegante e olhando-o languidamente.

“_ Fa-Faz isso… De novo…”, Ruki pediu, ainda arfante, fitando Reita com os olhos nublados de desejo.

“_ A-Assim?”, Reita perguntou ofegante, sua voz soando baixa e sexy, tocando-o mais uma vez naquele ponto mágico, pressionando ali, vendo-o arquear mais uma vez e gemer.

“_ Aahmm… Faz mais… É… Booom!”, Ruki mordeu o lábio inferior, num misto de sensualidade, timidez e desejo, ansiando por mais daquela sensação que apenas Reita poderia lhe dar.

“_ É gostoso assim, Taka?”, O baixista quis saber… Ouvir daquela boca que o fazia enlouquecer, que lhe dava prazer, começando a estocar de maneira mais forte e ritmada, mordendo o lábio inferior a cada investida, nunca deixando de olhá-lo, para não perder a reação do vocalista.

“_ Aaaahhhhh… Isso!!!”, O vocalista gemeu enrouquecido, seu canal secontraindo e apertando os intrusos devido aos espasmos de prazer.

“_ Diz pra mim… Adoro ouvir você…”, Reita disse em tom enrouquecido, se inclinando para lamber os mamilos dele, extasiado com a expressão de prazer no rosto do amado.

“_ Aahmmm… É… É… De-Delicioso! Uhmmmm… Por Kami, Aki…”, Ruki movia a cabeça de um lado para o outro, arqueando e estremecendo, seu corpo se arrepiando e respondendo a cada estímulo proporcionado por Reita, seus músculos ficando, a cada instante, deliciosamente tensos, a sensibilidade a flor da pele.

Reita podia sentir o corpo menor tremer e se contrair devido aos seus toques e saber que era o responsável por aquela expressão de deleite no rosto do mais jovem o deixava atiçado além da conta. Seu próprio membro pulsava, desejando o carinho daquelas mãos… Daquela boca, mas o que mais ansiava era senti-lo como ninguém ainda havia feito e ter a certeza de que Ruki nunca se entregara assim a outra pessoa o deixava nas nuvens! Um sentimento inexplicável de felicidade o tomava completamente, fazendo-o desejar muito mais do que apenas uma noite de carícias ao lado dele. Queria dormir com ele… Acordar com ele… Tomar café da manhã com ele!

“_ Aahmmm… R-Ruki…”, O baixista não cabia em si de emoção, de excitação.

Aquela mistura de sensações intensas, desconhecidas até o momento que compartilhavam, o fascinava. Então, secretamente, Reita desejou que pudesse parar o tempo!Erguendo seus olhos escuros, ele mordeu o lábio inferior, fitando aquela face contorcida em prazer e decidiu acrescentar mais um dedo, movendo-os devagar para que ele tivesse tempo de se acostumar devidamente, porque apesar da pressa, sabia que deveria ter esse tipo de cuidado para com o baixinho.

“_ Aahmmm…”, As mãos pequenas de Ruki foram para os ombros e cabelos de Reita quando este lambeu seus mamilos mais uma vez, sentindo mais um dedo em seu interior, um pouco de desconforto o atingindo, mas logo se acostumou, gemendo e ofegando, percebendo que poderia chegar ao orgasmo apenas com aquilo, porém queria ter Reita dentro de si.

Akira sentia as mãos de Takanori em seus fios de cabelo conforme lambia a pele sensível e já rija dos mamilos róseos. E sem parar de movimentar os dedos, desceu com os chupões por aquele abdômen lisinho e branquinho, marcando-o como sempre quis fazer, ainda tendo tempo de parar as provocações ali só para, mais uma vez, observar o rosto bonitoexpressando aquele doce prazer.

“_ A-Aki… Ahmmm… Espe-Espera… Assim, eu… Eu não…”, Ruki não conseguia pensar direito, não com Reita tocando seu ponto sensível o tempo todo suavemente, seu membro rijo deixando escapar gotículas de pré-gozo, obrigando-o a repuxar os cabelos dele, se perdendo naquelas sensações, deixando um choramingo lânguido escapar de seus lábios.

“_ Esperar por quê?”, Sussurrou o mais velho, dando mordidinhas no abdômen branquinho, fazendo movimentos circulares com os dedos, sabendo bem o que estava provocando nele.

“_ Pá-Pára! Eu… Assim eu vou… Ahm… Gozar…”, Ruki conseguiu dizer entre gemidos, corando por parecer um garotinho inexperiente, o que de fato era… Em uma relaçãocomo aquela. Não queria se mostrar tão terrivelmente sensível ao que Reita fazia consigo, mas estava sendo inevitável, porém precisava se acalmar só um pouco, necessitava apenas de alguns instantes para recobrar o controle já quase perdido…

Ouvir dos lábios de Takanori que estava próximo de um orgasmo com tão pouco deixou Akira lisonjeado e também, profundamente excitado! Aquele baixinho não fazia idéia de como o deixava… E o vocalista estava tão lindo coradinho que por pouco não se aproximou e se inclinou sobre o menor para morder-lhe as bochechas enrubescidas. Como ele podia ficar assim, tão apertável, mordível… Violável?

“_ Hummmm… Eu te deixo assim tão excitado, Ru-chan?”, O baixista indagou em tom malicioso, voltando a brincar com o mamilo rijo, passando sua língua ali, enquanto sua mão voltava a atingi-lo bem fundo.

“_ Aaaaahhhh!!!! D-Droga, Aki… Como você pode ser tão… Hummmm… Tão bom…?!”, O mais novo sussurrou, ofegante, arqueado e deliciosamente tenso como as cordas de um violino.

“_ Ahh, Taka…”, Reita sorriu de maneira safada, abandonando o mamilo róseo e se inclinando sobre ele ao ser elogiado, se deliciando ao vê-lo envergonhado. Sua mão livre alcançou-lhe a face, passando os dedos de leve, descendo até o pescoço, usando as unhas curtas para arranhá-lo suavemente.

“_ Reita…”, O pequeno ofegou, olhando-o de forma sôfrega.

“_ Hummm… É você que me deixa maluco de tesão…”, O baixista sussurrou perto do ouvido do vocalista, em tom rouco e necessitado, seus dedos entrando naquele interior quente mais lentamente, percebendo cada tremor do corpo menor, ouvindo a respiração curta e pesada dele quando o tocava naquele ponto exato de prazer… E Reita teve que morder o lábio inferior com mais força ao senti-lo se contrair, apertando deliciosamente seus dígitos, não conseguindo se impedir de gemer baixinho.

“_ Ahmmm…”, Reita gemeu, percebendo que a resistência oferecida por aqueles músculos estavam lhe tirando o juízo, tentando conter os pensamentos selvagens que lhe invadiam a mente, deixando-o à beira da loucura. Era muito difícil se segurar e estava usando todo o controle que possuía… Mas havia um limite para que sua sanidade fosse testada e o baixista sabia… Não agüentava mais! Não quando sentia a pressão exercida sobre seus dedos, aquele corpo quente ardendo sob o seu… Aqueles gemidos enlouquecedores…

“_ Rei-chaaaannnnnn…”, Ruki chamou, abraçando Reita, as carícias em seu ponto sensível nublando sua mente… E o vocalista começou a se descontrolar, ondulando o quadril lentamente, seus gemidos se tornando mais curtos e rápidos, o corpo estremecendo. O pequeno sabia que se continuasse assim chegaria ao orgasmo, porém não conseguia parar.

“_ Aahhhh…”, Reita gemeu junto a ele, seu próprio membro pulsando em desejo, enquanto tentava pensar coerentemente, o que se provava cada vez mais impossível.

“_ Aahmmmm… Isso… Não pára… Eu… Uhmmmm… Eu tô quase…”, O corpo delicado se retesava, o pênis rijo pulsando, adornado por gotículas de pré-gozo e Ruki estava quase… Quase caindo naquele paraíso de nome orgasmo.

Ruki pedia, por pouco implorando para que não parasse, ondulando seu quadrildaquele jeito obsceno de tão sexy contra sua mão… E tudo o que Reita conseguia era gemer desconexamente em resposta. Mais um pouco e estaria tendo um orgasmo só por vê-lo se derretendo sob seus toques!

“_ R-Ruki… Ahmmmm…”, Reita tentou articular alguma frase, sem sucesso, apenas gemendo roucamente o nome dele perto de seu ouvido. Sem mais controle, sem mais se segurar, ele o atingiu fundo mais uma vez antes de retirar os dedos, se afastando.

“_ Aaahhhhh!!!”, Ruki arqueou todo, perdendo o ar com a onda forte de prazer que sentiu ao ser tocado mais uma vez tão fortemente na próstata, mas então se sentiu vazio quando foi subitamente abandonado pelos dedos de Reita.

Akira mordeu o lábio inferior ante a visão que tinha do pequeno abaixo de si.

“_ Nãããããooooooo, Rei-chan… Nã-Não pára…”, Ruki choramingou, abrindo os olhos, a respiração completamente descompassada, a mente desnorteada. Por que ele parou? Estava quase… Quase gozando. Faltava tão pouco! Lambeu os lábios, tentando clarear a mente, a fim de perguntar os motivos dele, afinal, havia sido um bom menino, Reita não podia ser mal assim e lhe negar o alívio que merecia, certo?

“_ Delícia…”, Reita sussurrou antes de posicionar seu membro na entrada do vocalista, gemendo somente pelo toque naquela região, sentindo-a se contrair em resposta.

O prazer por tocá-lo daquela forma era visível na face de Reita e sem aviso ou demora o penetrou num movimento longo e contínuo, antes que Ruki pudesse falar ou expressar qualquer coisa, forçando centímetro por centímetro, até entrar tudo, respirando de maneira ofegante quando fez o primeiro movimento, ainda curto, para que ele se acostumasse, apesar de lhe custar. Seu corpo parecia ter vida própria naquele momento!

“_ Ahmm…”, Ruki gemeu, sentindo o ar faltar em seus pulmões ao ser penetrado de uma vez, abraçando Reita com força, as unhas firmando nas costas dele, mordendo o lábio inferior até quase machucar, notando a lenta investida em seu interior.

Reita se movimentava bastante devagar, sentindo aquele interior se abrir para ele ao mesmo tempo em que as unhas do pequeno deslizavam por suas costas, mesclando prazer com dor, e não pôde se impedir de gemer alto, arqueando seu corpo em resposta, dando mais uma pequena estocada, mordendo o lábio inferior, extasiado.

“_ Es-Espera…”, Ruki pediu fracamente, sentindo os olhos úmidos. Ainda não estava acostumado e a sensação de dor permanecia forte em si.

Ao ouvir a voz dele baixinha, pedindo para que esperasse, Reita reuniu todo o seu frágil controle, obedecendo e ficando imóvel. Não queria que ele sentisse dor, mas parecia que seria impossível livrá-lo dela de qualquer maneira… Teria que ser paciente e seguir o ritmo do seu chibi, ainda que isso estivesse enlouquecendo-o.

“_ V-Você é tão apertado…”, Reita sussurrou contra o rosto dele, lambendo-lhe os lábios avermelhados, as duas mãos indo em direção aos cabelos ruivos, afagando-os. Não sabia o porquê, mas o baixinho lhe inspirava muito carinho e também um grande sentimento de proteção.

Ruki arfou quando Reita parou como havia pedido, ouvindo então o sussurro rouco contra sua boca, sentindo a língua quente acariciar seus lábios, carinhosa e instigante, fazendo-o suspirar, as mãos fortes afagando seus cabelos, deixando-o mais calmo. Fechou os olhos por um momento, apenas sentindo os carinhos, relaxando aos poucos, apreciando cada gesto.

“_ … Tão quente!”, Akira quase gemeu as palavras, apertando seus lábios quando sentiu seu membro pulsar involuntariamente dentro de Takanori.

“_ Uhm…”, Ruki ronronou, sentindo um arrepio lhe percorrer a coluna ao ouvir aquilo.

“_ Ahh… Que gostoso!”, O baixista disse, descendo uma das mãos pela lateral do corpo menor, pousando-a sobre uma das coxas, apertando de leve ao mesmo tempo em que meneava o quadril mais uma vez, voltando a atingi-lo fundo, sua visão se nublando perante o gesto prazeroso.

“_ Aahmmm… Rei-chan…”, Ruki gemeu manhoso ante o movimento, respirando profundamente, lambendo os lábios, para então mordê-los de leve ao perceber que a dor estava amainando.

“_ Dói muito, Taka?”, Akira perguntou preocupado, quase considerando parar se o estivesse machucando demais.

“_ Humm… Já… Já está diminuindo…”, O pequeno sussurrou em resposta, abrindo os olhos, fitando-o, erguendo uma das mãos para acariciá-lo no rosto, vendo-o sorrir em alívio, apreciando seu carinho.

“_ Você é lindo demais, Ru-chan…”, A frase saiu dos lábios de Reita sem que conseguisse evitar, fazendo-o corar em seguida pela espontaneidade do que dissera. Ele mesmo não entendia como às vezes se sentia tão tímido. Era Takanori ali… Deveria falar o que estava sentindo, não?

Ruki molhou os lábios mais uma vez, erguendo as pernas, mantendo-as flexionadas, movendo levemente o quadril para se acomodar melhor, seu canal pressionando o membro em seu interior sem que pudesse evitar, ofegando com isso. Suas unhas se apertaram mais uma vez nas costas de Reita e o vocalista mordeu o lábio inferior.

Quando o vocalista ergueu as pernas, mudando um pouco a posição, Reita teve que respirar bem fundo, seu corpo se retesando em resposta. Agora estava ainda mais profundo naquele interior quente e sentia os músculos dele se contraindo todos ao redor de seu pênis, ainda que estivesse cedendo pouco a pouco… E aquilo estava deixando-o louco…Louco de vontade de começar a se mover, de provar o êxtase que apenas ele poderia lhe dar.

“_ Ahm… Você… Você gosta, Aki? De… De estar dentro de mim?”, Ruki indagou roucamente, sentindo-se mais calmo, seus olhos brilhando enquanto esperava a resposta,percebendo que seu corpo estava mais acostumado em tê-lo fundo dentro de si.

“_ Ahmmmm…”, Reita rosnou, ouvindo a pergunta do pequeno em seus ouvidos, a face contorcida em deleite e os lábios entreabertos, achando que aquelas palavras lhe soaram mais sensuais do que realmente eram, naquela voz perfeitamente rouca dele.

“_ D-Diz… Fala pra mim…”, Ronronou o chibi, lambendo os lábios.

“_ Gosto… Gosto… Ahmm… Muito!”, O loiro tentava falar entre os gemidos baixos, seu quadril meneando ao ritmo imposto pelo menor, sentindo seu corpo inteiro vibrar conforme ia e vinha, apertando o ruivinho contra si.

Ruki sentiu um tremor forte quando Reita o respondeu… Ele não apenas ouvia, mas sentia isso… Sentia pelo modo como ele o tocava, que se movia e a voz dele estava tão grave e sexy que o excitava, fazendo-o gemer com as idas e vindas lentas e profundas dele, notando que era todo tocado por dentro, causando o aparecimento de um prazer manso, mas extremamente apreciável!

“_ Você é tão gostoso…”, Reita disse, deixando a vergonha de lado, mordendo o lábio inferior enquanto lhe dava um longo olhar, os fios molhados de seus cabelos se colando em sua testa.

“_ Uhmmmm… Você também é…”, O chibi sussurrou, lambendo os lábios dele, seus olhos brilhando devido à excitação e prazer que permeavam seu corpo.

“_ Não sei como agüentei tanto tempo… Huummmm…”, O loiro se moveu mais forte agora, saindo todo pra então voltar de uma só vez, grunhindo pela carga de prazer imediata.

“_ Aaahhhhmmmm… Reitaaaaahhhhh…”, Ruki gemeu alto, jogando a cabeça para trás e arqueando ao sentir a forte investida, a onda de êxtase sendo grande demais, fazendo-o se contrair todo.

Reita apoiou uma das mãos na cintura estreita, usando toda a força que ganhou em exercícios, estocando-o forte, aumentando gradativamente o ritmo para que Ruki o acompanhasse, vendo que ele enfim estava relaxando o suficiente. A sensação gostosa deluxúria aumentando conforme sentia o pequeno se contrair mais e mais em períodos rítmicos, deixando-o alucinado.

“_ Aahmmm… Faz mais…”, Ruki pediu, ofegante, e sem pensar muito, enlaçou Reita pela cintura, apertando-o entre suas coxas, as unhas agora nos ombros dele, arranhando-o, enquanto ondulava o quadril contra o mais velho.

“_ Aaahhhh… Ruki!!!”, Akira gemeu alto, voltando a entrar com força nele, quase que bruto, sentindo aquelas pernas ao redor de sua cintura, dando-o mais liberdade ainda… E tudo o que fez foi morder o lábio inferior, seus olhos procurando os do mais novo, querendo guardar todas as expressões daquela face, não querendo perder um único momento que fosse, desejando vê-lo atingir o orgasmo.

Aquelas investidas selvagens estavam deixando o pequeno ensandecido, o prazer que sentia a cada estocada sendo grande demais, ficando perdido em meio àquela grande carga de prazer, sua respiração rápida entremeando os gemidos, suas bochechas rubras e os lábios inchados, mostrando em sua expressão o quão deliciado estava no momento.

“_ Ahh… Ahhh… Akira…”, Ruki ondulava a pélvis contra o quadril do loiro, uma de suas mãos segurando com força no tapete ao mesmo tempo em que o volume de seus gemidos aumentava para quase gritos, e tê-lo estocando-o naquele ritmo forte, intenso e tão fundo o deixava insano de tesão.

“_ Aaahmmm… Faz assim… Isso…”, Reita incentivava os movimentos dele, sentindo que aquilo aumentava o prazer de ambos, passando a exercer mais força nas estocadas, segurando agora ambas as pernas dele com as mãos, para assim penetrá-lo mais fundo, enquanto gemia palavras obscenas, em descontrole. Estava perto, muito perto… E não conseguia parar agora!

“_ Aahhh… Não pára! Não pára agora, Aki! Uhmmmm… Por favor… Mais… Mais forte… Que gostoso!!!”, Ruki gemia descontroladamente, sua voz rouca saindo banhada no mais puro desejo, seu membro gotejando entre os corpos, sentindo o abdômen dele roçando na pele sensível da glande, sendo um aditivo ao seu prazer… E sabia que não duraria mais do que dois minutos se aquele ritmo continuasse…

O mais velho podia ver que acertara em cheio com aquela posição, pois não somente ele estava aproveitando, como Ruki também a julgar pela reação, e saber disso o envaidecia de tal maneira que jamais poderia por em palavras! Tanto tempo tendo sonhos eróticos e quentes com o companheiro de banda… Tanto tempo fingindo que a atração não existia… E agora tudo parecia distante demais, distante daquela realidade maravilhosa onde os dois satisfaziam um ao outro, seus anseios e desejos, os corpos unidos no mesmo ritmo enlouquecedor. Reita se deliciava em vê-lo se contorcer, enquanto o penetrava mais e mais, sentindo-o rebolar junto a si, quase gritando de prazer.

“_ Aahhh… Ruki! Geme… Geme pra mim bem gostoso…”, Reita pediu em êxtase, entrando tão forte agora que sentia seus corpos se chocarem, deixando um barulho surdo como fundo aos seus gemidos exaltados.

“_ Akiraaaaaa…”, O ruivinho arqueou, mordendo o lábio inferior.

“_ Você gosta assim, hã?”, Perguntou, erguendo mais as pernas dele, firmemente, quase as pondo sobre seus ombros, sentindo seu abdômen um tanto malhado roçando na glande de Ruki.

“_ Aahhh… Siiimmm!!! Isso… Isso mesmo! Forte… Aahmmm…”, Ruki gritou enrouquecido, sentindo suas pernas serem mais erguidas, ficando exposto às investidas selvagens de Reita, que o tocava fundo e com força, se contorcendo ainda mais em prazer.

“_ Gosta forte? Ahhh…”, Reita saiu e voltou ainda mais rápido, de maneira feroz, gemendo alto, apertando as coxas branquinhas, marcando-as com seus dedos, seu baixo-ventre se contraindo perigosamente enquanto ele se fartava daquele corpo gostoso.

“_ REITAAA!!!”, Ruki gritou, arqueando e jogando a cabeça para trás, sentindo os músculos de seu baixo-ventre se contraírem, seus testículos bem como a parte interna de suas coxas formigando deliciosamente ao mesmo tempo em que seu corpo se tensionava de forma perigosa.

Quando o pequeno gritou seu nome, arqueando todo, Reita praticamente urrou de prazer, os músculos dele apertaram ainda mais sua ereção e isso o estava enlouquecendo! Isso sem falar naqueles gemidos… Por Deus, Ruki não fazia idéia de como estava fazendo seu controle desaparecer daquele jeito. Gemeu baixinho, mordendo o lábio inferior em seguida, se perdendo naquela face imersa em prazer, seu baixo-ventre se contraindo mais forte a cada investida, o suor colando os fios de cabelos em sua testa, enquanto mirava o rosto corado do vocalista… Tão lindo… Tão perfeito!

“Eu o quero só pra mim!”, Akira pensou possessivo ao imaginar mais alguém o tomando como fazia agora, não gostando nada da idéia. Ruki era seu… Somente seu! E com este pensamento, mais uma vez segurou-lhe as pernas firmemente, embora suas mãos estivessem trêmulas, enterrando-se mais naquele interior quente.

“_ E-Estou… Estou quase… Ahmm…”, Akira avisou, atingindo-o fundo a cada estocada energética, seus olhos se fechando sem que pudesse evitar, devido à sensação arrebatadora.

“_ Oh, por Kami, Aki…”, Takanori ofegou, arranhando-o enquanto tentava se controlar.

“_ Hummm… Vem comigo… Não se segura…”, Pediu o mais velho, enrouquecido.

“_ Aaahmmm… Akiraaaaahhhhhh… Uhhhmmmmm…”, Ruki sucumbiu ante as intensas sensações, o toque forte em seu ponto máximo de prazer somando ao roçar do abdômen definido em sua glande e a voz grave o levou ao ápice. Seu corpo todo se convulsionou, se contraindo sucessivamente, enquanto derramava a prova de seu êxtase entre os corpos, sujando a ambos, gritando o nome daquele que mais amava.

E cada reação do corpo menor era sentida perfeitamente por Reita, seja pelo tato, audição ou visão… E saber que ele estava chegando ao orgasmo foi a gota d’água para o baixista, que estremeceu ao sentir seu abdômen ser molhado pelo sêmen de Ruki, conforme ele arqueava e gritava seu nome naquele tom erótico.

“_ AAHHH… TAKA!!!”, Akira também gritou alto, numa última investida, sentindo as forças lhe faltando quando o orgasmo o atingiu intensamente, fazendo sua cabeça rodar com a sensação deliciosa.

“_ Aahmmm…”, Takanori se contorceu ao sentir os jatos quentes o preenchendo,ofegando, perdendo o ar, se afogando em deliciosas sensações, até não ter mais forças nem pra se mover.

Reita não parou de se mover, continuando a atingir o menor naquele ponto que sabia ser o mais sensível dele, prolongando o êxtase de ambos até diminuir o ritmo, exausto e satisfeito como nunca estivera. Aquilo havia sido uma experiência incrível! Deixou-se pesar apenas por alguns instantes sobre o pequeno, para então se largar sobre o tapete macio, rolando para o lado, finalmente deixando o interior quente e acolhedor do amigo, ficando alguns segundos em silêncio, aproveitando aquele momento. Queria guardá-lo na memória… Queria registrar cada detalhe e jamais esquecer!

Takanori permanecia inerte, ainda sentindo os resquícios do orgasmo, seus olhos fechados e os lábios entreabertos puxando o ar com força, seus músculos se contraindode forma gostosa vez ou outra, enquanto sua mente se mantinha submersa naquele mar extasiante e lentamente foi abrindo os orbes escuros, voltando sua face corada para Reita, vendo-o jogado ao seu lado, simplesmente… Lindo!

“_ Uhm…”, O ruivinho lambeu os lábios que estavam secos de tanto gemer e gritar, tentando se mover, mas aquela letargia deliciosa o deixava extremamente lento e comdificuldade o baixinho se virou de lado, mantendo os olhos no rosto do baixista.

Reita permaneceu quieto, sua respiração se normalizando aos poucos, enquanto fitava o teto, sua mente em outro lugar e ao mesmo tempo em lugar nenhum. Nem estava tendo consciência do pequeno ao seu lado, ainda curtindo a sensação gostosa que percorria todos os músculos de seu corpo.

“_ Aki?”, Takanori chamou baixinho, sua voz rouca. Não queria que aquela fosse a última vez… Não queria que ele fosse embora… Não suportaria vê-lo tocando outra pessoa, principalmente depois do que fizeram.

Ao ouvir seu nome saindo daqueles lábios bonitos, Akira virou o rosto, sorrindo em seguida para Takanori. Era estranho, mas agora somente de ouvi-lo chamar daquela forma tão carinhosa e íntima o fazia sorrir encantado.

“_ Taka-chan…”, O loiro pronunciou, sentindo aquela sensação no estômago de novo, reconhecendo-a como algo que não sentia há muito tempo! E era só olhar para o vocalista pra ter certeza… Certeza de que havia se apaixonado, e o melhor… Era correspondido!

“_ Aki-chan…”, O chibi sussurrou mais uma vez, se movendo, se inclinando sobre Reita, colocando seu peito sobre o dele parcialmente, seus dedos deslizando pelo rosto másculo, seus olhos mostrando receio… Temor por vê-lo simplesmente se afastar.

Realmente Reita só podia sorrir! Era engraçado como tudo estava claro para ele agora, depois do que havia acontecido… Tão claro que o gesto de Ruki somente aumentou a felicidade que dançava dentro de si e ele aproveitou aquela sensação, fechando os olhos por um breve momento até voltar a abri-los com o toque daqueles dedos gentis e pequeninos. Porém, pôde perceber que havia algo naquele olhar além de carinho… Havia temor.

“Mas por quê?”, Suzuki se perguntou em pensamento.

“_ …!”, O coração de Matsumoto batia forte, enquanto a apreensão o preenchia.

“_ Há algo errado?”, O baixista perguntou por fim com a voz rouca e baixa, levando sua mão a dele, apertando-a entre seus dedos, não querendo que qualquer coisa estragasse aquela noite. E uma dúvida o atormentava agora… Teria feito algo que Ruki não gostara?

“_ Eu…”, O pequeno começou baixinho, não sabendo como perguntar isso a ele, acabando por desviar o olhar e morder o lábio inferior, inchado devido aos beijos deliciosos que trocaram. Seu coração se apertava e mesmo sentindo a mão dele sobre a sua, não conseguia se acalmar.

Reita notou a hesitação dele e suspirou, temendo pelo pior. Sabia que Ruki não era uma pessoa dada a namoros e constantemente o via com garotas, mas sabia que não era nada sério… E apesar de saber que ele gostava de si, não tinha certeza se isso seria suficiente para assumirem um compromisso, afinal, a família dele era tão conservadora. Talvez seu chibi tivesse medo de se expor de alguma maneira e…

“_ Aki, você… Você não vai ficar longe de mim, né?”, Takanori indagou, voltando a fitá-lo nos olhos.

“_ Como?”, Akira piscou quando ele falou, os pensamentos esquecidos na hora.

“_ Eu queria tanto que fôssemos namorados…”, O ruivinho falou baixinhoenquanto mergulhava dentro dos olhos negros dele, se perdendo em seu brilho, no carinho quente que vinha daquelas esferas escuras, aquecendo seu corpo e apenas, segundos depois, foi que percebeu o que havia dito e quase… Quase entrou em pânico.

“_ Mas o quê…?!”, Toda a linha de raciocínio de Reita sucumbiu ao compreender do que Ruki falava, se surpreendendo por fim, seu coração dando um salto no peito, que ele jurava ser audível, tamanha era a sua emoção. Namorados? Então ele queria…

“_ Mas… Quer dizer… Se você quiser, eu… Eu me torno seu amante!”, O pequeno disse rápido, temendo que ele não quisesse nada sério, abraçando-o e escondendo seu rosto na curva do pescoço dele, orando a Kami para que Reita ao menos o aceitasse como seu amante, pois não iria suportar não mais poder tocá-lo, sentir suas mãos em seu corpo enquanto o baixista o possuía.

O mais velho ainda se sentia flutuar ao saber que Ruki o queria como namorado,quase saltando pela felicidade que o tomava, mas quando pensou em dizer um ‘sim’, foi novamente bombardeado por aquela torrente de palavras rápidas vinda do menor, seu cérebro processando-as aos poucos, sentindo-o esconder o rosto e o abraçando forte, percebendo-o nervoso e agitado.

“Amante?!”, Reita se perguntou, quase rindo. Mas o que diabos aquele baixinho estava pensando?! Que ele não ia querer por acaso?

“Eu não devia ter…”, Ruki se martirizava, quando teve os pensamentos interrompidos.

“_ Ru-chan…”, Reita o chamou, doce, entrelaçando seus dedos.

“_ Si-Sim?”, Ruki sussurrou, sentindo o coração batendo cada vez mais rápido.

“_ De onde você tirou a idéia de ser meu amante, hum? Você sabe que eu estou sozinho…”, Disse o mais velho, voltando a sorrir para o adorável chibi.

“_ Eu sei, mas… Mas se você quiser, nós podemos…”, Takanori estava se perdendo nas próprias palavras devido ao nervosismo que o atormentava.

“_ Eu só quero ficar com você… Só você!”, Akira sussurrou sensualmente,puxando o corpo dele para cima do seu.

“_ Co-Como?”, O ruivinho indagou, surpreso. Reita queria ficar apenas com ele? Havia escutado certo, não é? Prendeu a respiração, mantendo seus orbes presos aos dele, esperando que o amado falasse algo que lhe confirmasse que tudo não passava de um delírio.

“_ A pergunta é se você quer ficar comigo.”, Completou o mais velho, soltando-lhe a mão para acariciar os cabelos sedosos.

“_ Akira…”, Sussurrou o mais novo, maravilhado com aquela possibilidade… A oportunidade de enfim namorá-lo.

“_ Você quer ser meu namorado, Taka-chan?”, Akira perguntou, querendo ouvir em alto e bom som o que ele já sabia apenas por olhar nos olhos de Takanori.

Reita sorriu ainda mais ao notar a incredulidade no rosto do pequeno. Era tão difícil assim que ele acreditasse que o queria tanto? Que o amava e o queria sempre perto? Esperou ansiosamente pela resposta dele, não deixando, no entanto, transparecer seu nervosismo. Sentia-se como um adolescente mais uma vez e isso era maravilhoso! Poder perceber de novo aquela espécie de emoção, de sentimento… Havia esperado tanto por isso, mas nunca imaginou que seria logo com seu amigo querido, companheiro de banda… Anos haviam se passado e somente agora descobrira que era mais do que amizade. Como o destino era caprichoso, não? Logo quando achava que ficaria sozinho e…

“_ Eu quero… Eu quero sim, Aki! Eu sempre quis…”, O jovem vocalista sussurrou, emocionado, encantado por ver que ele ansiava o mesmo e em sua felicidade tomou os lábios de Reita em um beijo quente, deixando-o perceber através daquele ato todo o seu carinho, paixão e amor, as mãos apertando o corpo maior, empolgado com aquela doce descoberta.

Ouvir aquelas palavras tão esperadas, tão desejadas somente o fez sorrir emocionado, e antes que pudesse falar algo, Reita foi surpreendido por um beijo que lhe roubou todo o fôlego que conseguira recuperar. Então lhe envolveu o corpo com seus braços fortes, beijando-o como da primeira vez, apenas sem tanta pressa agora, sorvendo-lhe os lábios com carinho, deixando transparecer todo o seu sentimento ali, sabendo ser totalmente correspondido por Ruki… E para Akira aquilo chegava a ser mágico! Estar junto de uma pessoa que amava, que queria realmente ficar ao seu lado…

“_ Taka…”, Sussurrou o baixista, afastando seus lábios, ofegante.

“_ Eu… Só quero… Você, Rei-chan…”, Ruki sussurrou, arfante, contra os lábios dele, prendendo o inferior entre os dentes, mordiscando e chupando deliciosamente aquela boca deliciosa, seus olhos brilhando de felicidade, vibrando por saber que agora era namorado de Reita.

“_ Também… Também só quero você, Ru-chan…”, Akira sibilou de volta,tentando compassar sua respiração, quando sentiu Ruki lhe morder a boca de leve, sugando em seguida, novamente despertando seu desejo.

Akira lambeu o pescoço de Takanori, aproveitando para morder de leve a região,suas mãos apertando-lhe as nádegas, fazendo a fricção entre os corpos aumentar, sabendo que o vocalista sentiria algo crescendo entre suas pernas, um sorriso safado se desenhando em seus lábios bonitos.

“_ Hum… Assim eu vou querer de novo…”, Disse no ouvido dele, gemendo baixinho, deliciado ao ter o corpo pequeno roçando no seu, atiçando-o mais.

“_ Ahm… É? Você vai querer?”, Ruki indagou, ofegando ao ter as nádegas apertadas, sentindo certo volume de encontro a seu baixo-ventre.

“_ Humm… S-Sim…”, A voz do loiro saiu levemente trêmula devido ao desejo que o outro lhe despertava… Aquela espécie de fome que sentia só de tê-lo assim tão perto, sobre seu corpo.

“_ Uhhmmmm…” Ruki gemeu, ondulando o quadril contra o dele, sentindo novas lambidas em seu pescoço e aproveitou para mordiscar o lóbulo da orelha de Reita, sua língua passando no pequeno brinco da orelha direita.

Reita gemeu alto quando Ruki insinuou a pélvis contra a dele, provocante, aproveitando a proximidade para arrepiá-lo todo de prazer com aquela língua quente tocando sua pele naquela região tão sensível, brincando com seu lóbulo, despertando mais uma vez sua libido naquela noite, nem sequer se lembrando se ainda chovia ou não lá fora… Todos os seus sentidos se mantendo fixos no ser sobre si.

“_ Ru-chan…”, Suzuki pronunciou as palavras arrastadamente, como se elas fossem um pedido por clemência. O pequeno não sabia como o estava deixando excitado de novo e se continuasse assim não poderia se conter, o tomaria mais uma vez ali, naquele chão mesmo.

“_ Aishiteru, Aki…”, Takanori falou bem baixinho no ouvido dele, as palavras saindo doces e amorosas, erguendo o rosto para fitá-lo, lambendo-lhe os lábios em seguida.

“_ Aishiterumo, Taka…”, Akira sussurrou de volta, num tom terno e quente,deliciado com aquela declaração, não conseguindo conter a alegria em seu peito, encantado com a beleza do pequeno, daquele rosto infantil que tanto amava, lambendo a língua que antes acariciava seus lábios.

“_ Faz amor comigo…”, O pequeno pediu, suspirando.

“_ Sim, amor… Mas desta vez, vou querer você na cama.”, Reita propôs docemente, voltando a beijar aquela pele branquinha.

“_ Humm… Então vem… Me leva pra cama!”, Ruki sussurrou, se afastando de Reita, apesar de lamentar a perda de calor, ficando de pé em frente a ele.

Ruki permaneceu parado por alguns instantes, deixando que Reita visse todo o seu corpo, a pele branca marcada de vermelho pelas mãos e a boca do mais velho, porém o menor não parecia se importar com isso, pelo contrário… Ele ansiava ser novamente amado.Seu membro semi-rijo despontava entre as coxas macias e roliças e logo o ruivinho deslizou a mão direita pelo próprio abdômen, sentindo-o sujo de sêmen, mas ignorou tal fato, descendopara a virilha, se arrepiando visivelmente.

Reita teve que segurar os ímpetos de levá-lo no colo, mas acabou desistindo da idéia ao se perder naquele corpo nu, reparando nas marcas que deixara na pele branquinha e mais precisamente embaixo, onde uma nova ereção se formava. Ele praticamente salivou ao ver Ruki descer a mão pelo abdômen lisinho, se tocando até chegar bem perto do… Seu cérebro quase entrou em pane e o baixista teve que morder o lábio inferior em reflexo. Como ele podia o provocar assim?

“_ Vem… Faz amor comigo da forma que desejar…”, Takanori sussurrou docemente, num tom lânguido e sensual.

“_ Com toda certeza…”, Akira respondeu depois de alguns segundos, sorrindo de forma maliciosa, rapidamente se colocando de pé, chegando perto o suficiente para quase beijá-lo.

Ruki ergueu as mãos, colocando-as ao redor do pescoço de Reita, acariciando de leve a pele, apertando os ombros e então brincando com os fios da nuca dele, sentindo a respiração quente contra a sua, seduzido por aqueles olhos negros que pareciam querer enxergar-lhe a alma, causando arrepios em seu corpo.

“_ Quero você naquela cama…”, Akira sibilou, beijando-o de leve, apenas para provocá-lo… Para excitá-lo.

“_ Humm… Reita…”, Ruki gemeu, sentindo as mãos fortes em sua cintura.

“_ … De quatro.”, O mais velho murmurou rouco, antes de morder o lábio inferior do menor, puxando-o com os dentes.

Ruki ofegou, sentindo as bochechas aquecerem com a revelação de Reita, estremecendo ao ter o lábio inferior mordiscado daquela maneira sexy e provocante, e tudo o que fez foi se agarrar mais a ele, sentindo as pernas subitamente bambas, as emoções sendo fortes demais para que pudesse se manter em pé sozinho.

“_ Como você quiser, Rei-chan…”, Respondeu o chibi bem baixinho, envergonhado e excitado ao mesmo tempo, mesmo sabendo que não precisava se sentir assim, afinal, eram namorados, certo?

“_ Eu quero você hoje e sempre… Só pra mim!”, Carinhosamente Akira entrelaçou seus dedos, finalmente puxando-o antes que desistisse e começasse a fazer amor ali mesmo com o amado.

No fundo, apesar de seu desejo por aquele pequeno ser imenso e quase desesperado, Reita sabia… Sabia que não estaria sentindo aquela emoção se não estivesse certo de que havia algo maior entre eles… Não estaria quase explodindo de felicidade como estava, se não tivesse certeza de que aquela não seria apenas mais uma noite, mas o começo de muitas… O começo de uma nova vida ao lado dele!

Ruki o seguiu, encantado demais, sentindo os beijos suaves e os carinhos ternos e cálidos daquelas mãos fortes e grandes. E eles mal chegaram ao corredor e os braços definidos envolveram seu corpo, pegando-o no colo como se ele fosse o tesouro mais importante, fazendo-o se sentir deliciosamente amado e protegido.

“_ Eu te amo…”, Reita tornou a dizer quando alcançaram o quarto e o pôs delicadamente na cama, como o ser precioso que ele era, acariciando-o na face.

Ruki deixou que seus orbes escuros fossem escondidos pelas pálpebras, se sentindo profundamente emocionado, suspirando com a carícia tão doce e terna, se contendo para que lágrimas de pura felicidade não surgissem em seus olhos… E naquele momento ele agradeceu a Deus… Agradeceu por ter tido coragem de iniciar sua doce sedução, de ter dado o primeiro passo, porque agora ele estava colhendo os frutos de suas ações e estes não poderiam ser mais gratificantes.

“_ Te amo, Takanori!”, Reita repetiu, deixando seu corpo pesar sobre o do menor, sentindo os dedos pequeninos deslizarem por suas costas, suavemente, fazendo-o suspirar e se arrepiar ante tamanha delicadeza.

“_ Também te amo, Akira!”, Ruki respondeu em tom doce no ouvido dele, gemendo baixinho ao ser amorosamente apertado pelos braços fortes.

Os lábios se encontraram em um beijo cheio de amor, não demonstrando pressa alguma em provar cada detalhe da boca do outro, as mãos calmas e firmes decorando a anatomia do parceiro, enquanto a chuva ainda caía… Porém os amantes não se importavam com tal fato, pois o que precisavam não estava lá fora, mas naquele quarto… Dentro dos corações deles, e enquanto aquele sentimento fosse cultivado, dia após dia, ambos não precisariam ter medo do futuro, pois juntos teriam a força para enfrentar qualquer desafio.

Fim.