To say that the news of his arrival – and rather infamous attachment to The Empire Singer, Arthur Kirkland – was obnoxious and grossly widespread was an understatement. When he had stepped into the London airport he had expected to see Arthur, maybe be forced to say a few nice things to Antonio and Gilbert and then accidentally step on Francis' foot.
What he had not expected, was the ridiculous amounts of reporters, media bloggers, paparazzi, and all around nosy people that swarmed his gate. Cameras were flashing and snapping, microphones were being pushed into Arthur's face, who in turn said nothing, a massive scowl carved onto his mouth as questions floated about the entire area. Alfred grimaced, shouldering his backpack and stalking up to Arthur.
"Look! Excuse me are you Alfred Jones perchance? Is it true you're romantically involved with Arthur Kirkland of The Empire?" an overenthusiastic woman asked him, shoving a rounded microphone towards his face.
Alfred, looking a bit petulant and very out of his element, reached for Arthur, waiting for the Briton to take his hand before directing his scalding glare towards the woman. "Don't talk to me with that accent," he hissed as he began to pull Arthur away, through the crowds and towards the baggage claim. They hadn't seen each other in three weeks, and even though he hadn't been expecting a romantic reunion, not that he wanted one, of course, but this had to have been the worst outcome. "I don't need my shit. We can pick it up tomorrow or something. I want the fuck out of here."
Arthur's fingers wove around his. "I understand, and I apologize. Gilbert made a press leak about our relationship when he was on a talk show last week. I didn't think it would be this bad."
"Tell Gilbert he's a fucking cunt and I hate him."
Alfred guessed that one of the perks to being in an actual relationship with the blond musician was that he never had to fear for lack of transportation or amusement. He had never been fond of public transportation, and even less so now that he knew there were stark-raving-mad fans constantly underfoot. England, he found out, was nothing like America. He wasn't sure if he liked it, but he was here for Arthur.
Arthur, to Alfred's almost surprise (the past year had been so full of surprises that Alfred felt he was beginning to grow immune to them), lived in a simple apartment. It wasn't a penthouse, or wide and spacious. In fact it looked completely normal, if not meticulously furnished and kept. He threw his bag onto the couch and sighed, purposefully draping himself over Arthur in the most obnoxious way he could and groaning. "I'm so fucking tired."
"Mm, did you have a pleasant flight?" the musician asked pleasantly, wrapping his arms around Alfred's middle and burying his nose into his shoulder.
Alfred squirmed a bit, unused to the intimacy but unwilling to say anything against it. "Uh, yeah it wasn't bad. Fucking long as hell though."
"Unsurprising," Arthur mumbled in amusement. He looked up from the American's shoulder, his hands tracing along the blond's back, feeling the familiar swells of muscles and jut of bone. "I missed you," he breathed.
"I… uh, really?" He coughed. "Well of course you did." Alfred pulled away from Arthur, placing his hands on either side of the Briton's face. "Fuck, I'm bad at this. I missed you too and shit so can we just fuck and get over this weird… whatever the hell it is?"
Arthur laughed loudly, his hands wrapping around the back of the American's neck, sandy blond hair tickling at the insides of his wrists. "If it'll make you feel better, I'm not against a good shag."
Alfred sighed in relief before Arthur smashed their lips together in a hungry kiss. His hands crawled beneath Arthur's shirt, touching the musician softly, almost hesitantly – as if he wasn't sure how he was allowed to touch or feel. Arthur bit the American's lip harshly. "Don't fret now, love," he teased with a sharp smirk. "Nothing's changed, just cleared the smoke. Be yourself."
"Shut up, you bastard. Besides, no one likes who I am, so what's it even matter?"
Arthur touched Alfred's cheek. "I do. What else matters?"
Their mouths slipped back together. Alfred asserted himself, pressing his tongue into Arthur's mouth as they stumbled about the room, Arthur leading Alfred towards the bedroom and the bed. They fell onto the blankets with surprised grunts and Alfred loomed over Arthur's prone body, letting his breath ghost over the Briton's face. His blue eyes, too blue to be true, filled with bitter intelligence and hope and caring, stared down at Arthur.
"You're positively breathtaking," Arthur mumbled, his fingers dancing up Alfred's arms. Alfred scoffed, but didn't argue. Instead he began undressing them both, leaving open-mouthed kisses across Arthur's skin as it became exposed.
Alfred lapped at one of Arthur's nipples. "How do you wanna do this?" he asked as he tweaked the other nipple with a smile. "'Coz I'm game either way."
Arthur wrapped his arms around Alfred's chest and rolled them over, hovering over the American and grinding their naked groins together. "Allow me to treat you," the musician purred into Alfred's ear, his tongue flicking across his earlobe. "I want to make love to you-hmph!"
"Da-don't talk like that!" Alfred blustered, his hand held firmly against Arthur's mouth. "Just shut your stupid ass mouth and fuck me." His face was pinched with embarrassment as he stared at Arthur, his hand wavering before falling from the musician's mouth with a slump. "Stop sayin' nice things…" he grumbled.
"Alright, we'll have it your way for now." Arthur huffed, his fingers trailing across Alfred's skin, tickling at the trail of coarse blond hair above Alfred's growing erection. "But you'll have to learn to grow accustomed to it – someday."
Alfred didn't respond, only spread his legs further for Arthur as the Englishman's fingers wrapped around his cock. He didn't want to think about the sentimental bullshit, not now, not ever. Is all he wanted was a good fuck and he wanted Arthur to be the one he fucked. He didn't want to share Arthur; he didn't want others to even think about Arthur. But he didn't want to say it. To come up with some pretty word to describe the animal feelings he had. That was Arthur's job.
Arthur's fingers were slicked with cold lube as he pushed them inside Alfred's entrance, prodding at the familiar bundle of nerves that made Alfred swear and writhe. "Just do it," Alfred breathed as he back arched off the mattress of the bed, his fingers burying into the warm blankets around him. Without argument, Arthur complied, pushing the head of his cock into Alfred slowly, letting his hands roam over Alfred's chest as the American breathed in heavily, his ribs shuttering and hitching as he fought back gasps and moans.
"Shit, you're so…" Arthur choked on his own words, thrusting forward and allowing his hands to drift upwards to tangle into Alfred's hair. "So tight… so hot." His head bent forward and Alfred's fingers ghosted along his spine, causing him to shiver and jerk.
It was gentle – at least in comparison to their usual trysts, and Alfred tried to use softer touches, to stop holding his breathe so he wouldn't gasp or moan. He was trying, and he hoped Arthur realized that.
Arthur bit at the edge of the American's collarbone, nipping harshly and sucking at the bruising skin. "Mine," Arthur growled out as he sat back to observe his mark, thrusting himself deeper inside of Alfred. The American only reached up, his fingers tangling into the musician's hair and pulling him into a biting kiss – tongues and teeth.
And when Alfred came, Arthur's spindly fingers wrapped around his cock, he hoped Arthur knew that he belonged to him as well.
He was just too scared to say it.
It wasn't long before they found that the press and Alfred never saw eye to eye. Arthur was torn between being mortified and amused.
Alfred sat in a stiff chair with starched padding, his fingers drumming restlessly on the armrest as a small brunette woman stared him down from a few feet away. He definitely didn't like the set up.
"Thanks for agreeing to this interview today, Mr. Jones," the woman started blithely, pulling out a little recorder and set it in her lap.
Alfred made a stupid noise. "Arthur made me," was his bored reply. And the fact that he was even here to begin with confused him. He wasn't the famous one, or talented, or sexy as fuck, he was just fucking the guy that actually was. "So what'd you wanna know, huh? I'm really good at making up bullshit, so let's get this shit over with."
"I… excuse me?"
He rolled his blue eyes and did the one thing he promised Arthur he wouldn't do: blew a bubble. Alfred gnashed the pink gum between his teeth as he sat back in his chair, letting one of his legs drape over the armrest. "What, did you invite me to an interview without any questions? Jesus fuck and I thought Antonio was stupid." His eyes narrowed at the woman. "Well fine, here, I'll give you three facts about me and Arthur, 'kay?"
The brunette looked confused, her hands tittering with her pen and paper as she tried to comprehend just where the sudden hostility had come from. "I… yes, but pardon my asking –"
"Three facts!" Alfred interrupted, jabbing a finger into the air. "I'm from the U.S.; Arthur is from England, and we like to fuck. A lot. All the time." With a frustrated movement, Alfred stood from his chair, brushing invisible dust from his shirt and leaving the brunette dumbfounded in her seat.
Arthur met him outside the cramped building, writing something in a notepad with the back of his car seat tilted in relaxation. "That didn't take long," the Englishman said as Alfred clambered into the passenger seat. He studied Alfred's upset face for a moment. "I'm going to have several phone calls tomorrow, aren't I?"
"I see…" Arthur leaned over, catching Alfred's lips in a kiss, smiling lightly when the American nibbled on his lower lip. "I look forward to their complaints. Should be an interesting way to start the day, I'd think."
Alfred snorted. "Whatever floats your boat."
Over the months, Alfred had earned himself a reputation in the U.K. as one of the most impossible people to get along with – especially in interviews. He was even surprised to find his name in a poll of "Britain most disagreeable celebrities", in the Sun Magazine. Arthur had laughed about it for days, while Alfred wondered when, exactly, he had become celebrity enough to be put on such a list.
Alfred found that, while on the tour bus with The Empire band, being with Arthur constantly was rather inescapable, but actually living with the musician was even more so. They slept together, ate together, did nothing together – everything together. It was domestic and strange and whenever Arthur was out at band practice or at a small concert that Alfred didn't feel obligated to attend, the American spent his time wandering the streets and underground of London. He wished he had a V.I.S.A and a job – something to keep his mind occupied as the weeks ran on. And as much as he knew that Arthur wasn't hurting for money, he also didn't like spending Arthur's money. It left a bad taste in his mouth, made him feel useless, like… like a house wife of all things.
"I'm not," he grumbled to himself, his voice gruff and angry as he walked down the streets. Arthur was at the studio recording some new song that he refused to tell Alfred about. Not like the American cared. It was probably about some girl in a bad relationship anyway.
He found himself at a little teahouse café and decided that he might as well stop before he got lost. Alfred sat at a wire table outside, ordering anything that was a coffee byproduct, his hands clenching at a wad of pounds in his pocket. Arthur's money. He occupied himself with glaring heatedly at his shoes until someone sat at his table across from him. "Hello."
Alfred glared up at the black haired stranger, unpleased at the man's antics. "Who the fuck're you?" he spat. Couldn't the guy tell he was busy being pissed off? He really wished he had some gum now.
The man smiled serenely at him, seemingly unaffected by the poison spat at him. "I apologize. I was hoping to introduce myself. My name is Kiku Honda," the man leaned forward, resting his hand on top of Alfred's clenched fist. "And I just wanted to let you know that you're sleeping with my boyfriend."
Violently Alfred snatched his hand away, his glare intensifying. "I am not sleeping with your shitty ass boyfriend," he hissed, standing up to leer down at the Asian man. The guy was too calm to be accusing him of such a stupid thing, and it only pissed Alfred off more.
"Yes," Kiku said sweetly, clasping his hands together over the tabletop. "You are. Arthur Kirkland. You're sleeping with Arthur Kirkland."
And in that moment Alfred could tell, could see where Arthur had gotten the lyrics for Don't Leave Me Here – the calm face, the sweet lies; fuck he could tell that Arthur had written a song about this man. He looked up to see a camera held up above the walking crowd and Alfred cursed loudly. He kicked over his chair, uncaring as it clattered into the street. "Fuck you!" he yelled bitterly, "Fuck you, you fucking liar! You broke up with him. You don't fucking care about him. He's not your fucking boyfriend!"
"Oh? And you do – care about him that is?"
Alfred hated how calm the guy was, how the man's brown eyes seemed to narrow in challenge. He hated everything and everyone and he flipped the table over with a stream of curses before leaving the scene, his hands stuffed into his pockets and no answer to be given. Because to him it was obvious. He shouldn't have to say it.
Two weeks later Arthur shoved a magazine in Alfred's face. "You did what?"
Slowly Alfred pried the booklet from Arthur's hands, reading over the article with an air of feigned nonchalance. Estranged Alfred Jones Sneaks Behind the Empire's Arthur Kirkland's Back? [See his fit on being CAUGHT! Pg. 33!] On the cover was a blurry snapshot of the moment Kiku Honda (and Alfred had done everything in his power to forget that man's face) had placed his hand over his own. It looked intimate and wrong. Alfred frowned. "You would seriously believe this shit?" he asked instead.
"Other than the fact that you threw a tantrum in public? No, I don't want to. Not one bit. But it's hard to ignore the fact that your boyfriend is hanging around with your ex – and holding hands, is that what that is?" A long finger jabbed at the photo. Arthur's green eyes were narrow, his brow furrowed in anger and disbelief. He actually looked… hurt.
Alfred found himself laughing humorlessly, crossing his arms and attempting to bury himself into the couch cushions. "That's funny," he muttered sharply, "He told me that he was still your boyfriend. That you were cheating on him with me." His eyes found Arthur's. "That's why I threw that 'fit'. I don't know why that motherfucker touched me or how he found me, or even knew who I was – okay?"
Arthur's shoulders slumped downwards as Alfred's voice began to grow more and more meek as he spoke. The Englishman sat haphazardly on the couch next to Alfred, his hands moving to card through the American's sandy blond hair. "Alfred…" He sighed, and upon seeing the same petulant expression, he leaned down and tucked himself against Alfred's side. "I'm sorry."
"You wrote a song about him," the American murmured.
Alfred shied away further, but Arthur wrapped his arms about the blond's shoulders, effectively pulling him closer. "In the song… you talk about loving him even after he left you. I…"
Arthur silenced Alfred by pressing a finger to his lips, half surprised that the motion had actually worked. "That was a long time ago, Alfred," he insisted with a wan smile. "Now I sing that song simply because it sells. There is no sentiment – but…" He sat up to tower over Alfred, his hands slowly crawling up the American's sides. "For someone who isn't well off with words, you are certainly able to find the deeper meaning in things. I envy that."
The American scoffed, halfheartedly pushing Arthur's face away from his chest. "Whatever… I just… Ugh. At least you didn't have some stranger come up and try and hold hands with you. That guy gives me the creeps."
"I can't believe he touched you." Arthur, with a bit of effort, straddled Alfred's hips. His face scrunched up in displeasure. "No one's allowed to touch you – especially not Kiku. You're mine. Mine, mine, mine," he said, singsong, as his hands began to crawl underneath Alfred's t-shirt.
"Possessive fucker," Alfred grumbled as he arched his back, allowing Arthur to push his shirt up and below his chin.
Arthur smiled sharply. "Indeed I am," he muttered before kissing at the American's rosy nipples, his tongue flicking the perky nub. "I don't share." Purposefully he ground his hips into Alfred's watching the aroused blush that began to rise onto his face, starting from the American's ears and making its way to his cheeks. He wondered if someday Alfred would kiss him – not the lusty, heavy kisses that made his head swim and his groin ache, but just to turn around a corner one afternoon and peck him on the lips. For Alfred to tell him that he loved him, to willingly cuddle in the large bed in his room, to maybe sneak up behind him and hug him around the waist. "Maybe someday…"
Alfred shot him a disgruntled look. "I don't want you to share me, even someday, you freak." He picked at the button of Arthur's jeans. "And even if you're thinkin' of like… a threesome or shit; I don't do chicks. And the other guy has to be sexy as fuck – and young, no old bastards – I mean you're pushing it when it comes to age and – mmph!"
The musician silenced Alfred with an opened mouth kiss, his hand pushing its way into Alfred's boxers. "That's not what I meant. I was thinking aloud, you twit." Alfred gasped as Arthur began rubbing circles at the underside of his balls. After undoing the snap of the American's jeans, Arthur pulled the fabric down to Alfred's thighs. He gave Alfred's cock a long, attentive lick, his breath ghosting over the length before he hummed in thought. "I've an idea," he said eventually, sitting up and working off his own trousers.
"I'm having trouble believing that." Alfred snorted at the scalding glare Arthur shot him. He sat back and watched as Arthur fumbled around a small drawer in the end table by that couch that was mostly used for unread mail, his fingers stroking his cock slowly. Arthur pulled out a bottle of some off-brand lotion and shook it, squirting a large amount into the open palm of his hand. "What're you going to do with that?" the American questioned, pressing his thighs together. He wasn't in the mood to try and clean the lotion mess from his ass tonight. Shitty lube as it was.
"Stop fussing," Arthur said as he rubbed his hands together, smothering the lotion over and between his fingers. He grasped Alfred's and his own cock in each hand, letting the lotion slather across their erections. Arthur smiled as Alfred bucked up into his hand, the American grasping his wrist but allowing movement as the musician saw fit. "Lay back."
After a moment of confusion, Alfred did as he was told. Arthur crawled over the American's prone body, their cocks rubbing together. The lotion made it slippery and wet, the head of Arthur's cock rocking against Alfred's navel as the musician leaned upwards to capture a kiss.
Arthur waited until Alfred gave an impatient moan, pinching at the cuffs of his sleeves in a silent plea for more. His hands were sticky with lotion and he sat up, cupping his hands around their cocks and squeezing gently. It felt great – Alfred's dick against his own. He thrust into his own palms, against Alfred, friction seeking and horny. Alfred responded in kind, his large hands moving over Arthur's to add more pressure.
Their hot gasps and moans, accompanied by the slick, slimy noise of lotion, were the only noises in their ears. Alfred came loudly, simply groaning out nonsense words as his body shuddered in climax. Arthur continued to work against him, hoping to make sense of the odd noises and cut words that spilled from the American's lips but to no avail. Lethargically Alfred tugged at Arthur's cock, squeezing from base to tip and fisting back down, repeating the motions until Arthur came with a stunted cry of Alfred's name.
They both seemed to hold their breath as the meaning of the word began to become clear to them. And as Arthur collapsed onto his chest, semen dirtying their clothes, Alfred attempted to hold the Englishman against him, but when Arthur made no noise or comment, Alfred thought he was somehow doing it wrong and dropped the embrace. It didn't make sense.
To Arthur intimacy had always meant something sexual. Intimacy was sex and a relationship within the sheets. But now, with Alfred, he knew that it extended far beyond that. It was what happened while watching the telly, how they chose what to eat for dinner, it was about PDA and the willingness to display it, it was about the fact that between Alfred and himself, he felt there was little intimacy beyond a good fuck.
Alfred had lived with him for six months now, six months, and he'd never heard a single "I love you" from his American boyfriend. It's what he wanted – to hear those words.
He sought out Alfred that night after a studio session with the rest of the band. They were prepping for a tour of Eastern Europe and parts of Asia, a new single debut was in the ready and Arthur wanted to ask for Alfred to come. It was only eight months long, significantly shorter than the tour of America. Arthur found Alfred huddled on the couch, a blanket over his shoulders as he stared at his phone absently. There was a strange feeling about the room, but Arthur decided to ignore it in favor of cutting to the chase.
"Alfred, I've some news for you," he said, standing before the American with his hands on his hips. When Alfred glanced up at him, he frowned. "Our next tour is starting soon. We'll be leaving for Poland in two weeks."
Arthur startled. "Pardon? What did you just say?"
Alfred sat up, his blue eyes wavering on Arthur's face before falling back to the floor. "I can't go."
"What do you mean you can't go? And just what do you plan on doing here for eight months alone? Hm?" Arthur swallowed a thick lump in his throat, his hands beginning to shake in fear and emotion. This was beginning to sound exactly like his conversation with Kiku over a year ago. Alfred thrust his phone at Arthur, the screen displayed brightly, but Arthur pushed the device away without a second thought. "Alfred fucking tell me what's going on! You fucking asshole!" He took in a shuddering breath. "I've waited six fucking months for something from you! You're so reluctant in everything we do other than sex! You won't hold my hand, it's a miracle if you even bother to cuddle and goddammit, you won't even tell me if you love me! I doubt you even do at all!"
The American blinked owlishly. There was a long, pregnant silence and then suddenly the blond was on his feet, jabbing a finger into the singer's chest. "What? What! You're going to just… throw that shit in my face?" He pushed Arthur away from him, and even though he wasn't actually a violent person, he really felt the need to throw something. He chose words. "It's not my fault I don't fucking know what to do in an actual relationship! I don't fucking know at all! It's fucking weird and I'm always trying to do things right but I can never tell and I was hoping that you would be able to tell! I'm really fucking trying!"
He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, glaring off to the side at nothing in particular. "Sorry. I'm really fucking sorry… but still… I can't go with you."
Arthur bit his lower lip, stepping up to Alfred carefully. Gingerly he touched his palm to Alfred's cheek. "No, I'm the one who is sorry – for not trying harder to understand… But Alfred, love, why can't you come on tour with me?" He prayed that the words that were uttered next wouldn't be a repeat of Kiku's conversation.
"I have to go to Canada," Alfred said at length. "Matthew's sick."
"For eight months?"
His grasp on his phone tightened. "Really sick."
Arthur sighed long and hard. Cautiously, as if Alfred would shatter in his hold, Arthur circled his arms around the American. "I cannot deny you that," he said softly into the dark cotton of Alfred's hoodie. "I'll make arrangements in the morning. But can you… just for tonight…"
Alfred said nothing, simply pulled Arthur closer, cradling the back of the musician's head with a hand. "I'll do my best."
The hospital was quiet that afternoon, just as it had been for the past month. The sterile air was become all too familiar to Alfred's nose as he walked down the halls, a bag of chips and a cup of coffee in his hands. He pushed his way into room 21A , giving the nurse inside a wink before settling into the chair next to Matthew's bed. "How's it goin'?" he asked as he set his coffee down on a small table.
He had spent the last month taking care of Matthew's small apartment on the outskirts of Vancouver, gathering the mail and keeping it clean and ready for the Canadian's return – which would hopefully be soon. "Not bad," was Matthew's soft reply. He touched the gauze around his neck. "Gunna be an ugly scar."
"I'd rather have an ugly ass scar than be dead from fucking cancer," Alfred shot, ignoring the way the nurse gave him an offended look. She bustled out of the room and he slouched. "It'll be a great way to pick up chicks - a conversation starter."
Matthew chuckled, a breathy noise with only the rise and fall of his shoulders to enunciate the gesture. "They say my hair'll fall out soon. You should get me that… what'd you call it? "Ruskie" hat you saw the other day." Alfred attempted a smile, but it felt awkward and he stopped. "Anyway… You and Arthur are still going strong, right?"
"I guess." Alfred took a long drink of his coffee. "I mean… we're still… uh… together or what the fuck ever…"
"But…?" his brother urged, and fuck if Alfred couldn't deny him. He kind of missed not having to see Matt – he'd forgotten over the years how manipulative the fucker could be.
Alfred shrugged. "It's… weird – you know? He texts me and I don't mind or nothing… I mean sometimes we even have good conversations and shit – fuck. What I'm trying to say is… Well… He wants me to say the magic three words and… I don't know…"
Matthew lay back against his pillows, staring absently at the T.V. across the room. "Yeah, I get it. You're scared?"
The American ducked his head. "Not sayin' I am or not… But yeah. What if I say it and it turns into a huge joke – I mean Arthur can be a huge asshat like that. He has that… thing he does with words, where he can make even the most horrible thing sound, I don't know, pretty and shit. And I… don't."
"But do you really think he would?"
Alfred opened his mouth, closed it, and sighed. "No…"
Matthew smiled. An alarm went off, chirping some unfamiliar song merrily and the Canadian picked up his phone from the small table next to his bed, switching the alarm off with ease. "Speaking of Arthur; The Empire is debuting their new single in… I think they're in Finland or Sweden? I'm not sure." He picked up his remote and changed the channel, absently rubbing uncomfortably at the bandaging around his throat. "I'm sure you'll want to see this."
"Sure." Alfred leaned onto the mattress of Matthew's bed, pillowing his head in his arms as he watched the T.V. intently. The scene was dark and it had to be around eight or nine at night wherever Arthur was. The crowed hummed and cheered, making the sound of the T.V. fizzle a little.
Arthur was standing center stage, a red tinted light pouring over him. "Hello Stockholm," he purred into the microphone. Alfred missed his voice, the deep undertones and way it seemed to grow gravelly and husky whenever he was turned on. Alfred shook himself. Now wasn't the time to daydream. "This song is for someone who couldn't be here today. Enjoy!"
The crowd screamed again, even though Alfred wasn't sure if half the audience even understood what he said. Francis began to pluck out a guitar rift, Gilbert tapping on the cymbals in counter beats. Arthur dipped the mic, cradling the device like a lover as he began to sing, soft and melancholy.
"It's sharp, your smile
A cage for your venom tongue;
For bitter words, sweet and vile.
You talk like you've seen it all
Dismissing things before your eyes
This road you walk is bitter, after all
Because you're a nobody
A misfit standing on the roadside.
But I know you're somebody
Just a loser lookin' for a place to hide.
Let it be with me
My beautiful Misfit
Let it be with me!"
Alfred reached for remote and quickly turned the television off, his breaths coming in short gasps. Matthew gave him a look that was a mixture between confusion and sympathy. There was something in his chest – the lyrics, and he knew for a fact – were about him. Him. "Oh God, Matthew, he wrote a song about me." And almost at once, everything seemed to make sense. The hours hidden away in the room with nothing but a pen and paper, the way he refused to let Alfred see what he was working on, the anxiously excited looks the musician would give him whenever anything was mentioned about new material. The whole time – the whole fucking time – Arthur had cared. Alfred felt guilty.
For the first time in a long time, he cried. He sobbed into Matthew's shoulder, blubbering about every mistake and assumption he had ever made as the Canadian ran his fingers through Alfred's sandy blond hair.
"So Mr. Jones is it true that you and Arthur Kirkland of the famous band The Empire are no longer together?"
Alfred frowned at the Canadian reporter. Arthur had been the one to tell him to accept the interview in the first place. In fact, there were only two weeks left of Arthur's tour, which ended in the southern part of Japan. He couldn't wait to see him again. Canada was driving him fucking crazy – and as much as he cared about Matthew and everything, he was really, really tired of syrup. He'd rather watch Arthur eat a marmite sandwich again than suffer through another morning of pancakes and maple syrup.
"I dunno, Miss…" he struggled for a name for a moment, "Miss. Why don't you tell me?"
The woman pursed her lips, scribbling something on her paper violently. "That's a very dodgy answer, Mr. Jones."
He smiled, amused more or less. "You got me. You seem like the no-nonsense, BS breaker, Miss Miss. I bet you already got all the answers written down in your little notebook, waiting for me to say either something stupid like a dickweed, or I spill some controversial shit that I don't even know about." Alfred crossed his legs and pinched the bridge of his nose. "And we both know this isn't going anywhere, can I just leave?"
"Is it true that the song titled: My Misfit is about your home life back in America?" the reporter trucked on, surprising Alfred. Normally they gave up by now.
Alfred shrugged. "No. Haven't you actually listened to that song? Garbage. It's just a bunch of sentimental crap thrown together about someone that doesn't exist. You guys are reading into this shit too much. They're famous – they make shit to sell it."
"Love sells, Mr. Jones."
The American made an irritated noise. "So does sex – and I'm really good at that, and that could be a false statement for all you know." The ringtone on his phone went off, playing a jingle he'd heard over in England that he'd liked, only to find months later that it came from an insure commercial. "It's true by the way. I've got to take this call – I'm important as fuck. Thanks for talking with me and all that."
He pulled his phone from his pocket, pressing the receiver to his ear after answering. "What do you want?"
Arthur's chuckle was like a godsend to his ear and he found that he was smiling to himself. "Why don't you come on outside? I'm sure you've frightened away yet another interviewer…"
"Well this one was pretty feisty, to be honest, but what's outside?" he questioned, one eye narrowing in suspicion as he did what he was told anyway. He pushed open the news station door, peering around until he spotted Arthur standing on the corner, waving as if it were some kind of cliché movie from the nineties. "What are you doing here?" he asked breathless, the phone still at his ear as he stood in the doorway of that station.
Arthur laughed again. "Gilbert came down with pneumonia, so the rest of the tour was cancelled. You look surprised."
Slowly his feet began moving, one step and then another. "I am. But… fuck. I'm so glad." And before he knew it he was in front of the singer gathering the man up in his arms and touching wet and affectionate kisses to Arthur's face. "Holy shit, you're really here, right?"
The Englishman grinned, reaching up and cupping Alfred's face in his hands. "I'm honestly, truly here, love."
They shared a sweet kiss, and to Arthur's delight Alfred shakily took one his hand from his face, twining their fingers together haphazardly. Things would be okay.
Alfred's breath was hot on Arthur's neck as they moved together on the bed; the rumpled magazine tickling at Alfred's dangling foot. His blunted nails scratched a portrait on Arthur's back as the Englishman's cock moved within him, his toes curling in pleasure.
"H-hey, Ar… Ahh-Arthur?" he moaned out into Arthur's neck. Arthur grunted in response to indicate he was listening, but continued his pace, peppering Alfred's body with butterfly touches across the most familiar and sensitive stretches of skin. "That… nnngh song you wro-wrote?"
Finally Arthur paused, holding Alfred's gaze with his acidic green eyes. "Yes?"
Alfred could see the anxiety in Arthur's expression. He smiled gently, pulling Arthur's head down for a tender kiss, but not before whispering:
"I love you."
Unimportant Notes: Omg it's finally done! Oh gosh, oh goodness. How…? Awekfhawuea I want to thank blulious on tumblr for keeping me on track with this. I'm pretty sure without you it'd still be at part one and some forgotten WIP so thank you so much!
And I'm so sorry about forgetting to post this to fanfic for so long! Forgive me guys! (also I'm sorry for any errors that might be found in the entirety of this fic