Author's Note: I'm back, yayayay! Enjoy guys! Comment!

Chapter 7

Hateful Tongue Action and Goodbyes

The first few weeks of Arthur living in their home had been weird. Alfred would never forget the times he'd walked around the house 99% naked at four in the morning to get water, only to find Arthur already in the kitchen. Man, what a horror. But after a while they fell into a groove, and it seemed that the anger Arthur had for Alfred seemed to dissipate with time. No more apologies were ever spoken, none needed to be. When the school saw the duo walking to school together, it became somewhat clear that they'd made up. Plus, there was something fun about having someone that was like the brother he'd never have suddenly living in his home. Not to mention, Cynthia had secretly bought the punk an entire wardrobe-almost none of it black. So, the Brit didn't have much of an option but to wear normal and fitted blue jeans and a few lightly-colored band shirts.

The narrator won't bore you with the next five months of their life. January, February, March, April, and May sped by within a day. Especially with the fact Alfred finally grew a pair and told his friends to back down from Arthur, the two were practically inseparable. Elizabeta was probably the last one to forgive the American, she'd taken months of glaring at him from across the hall before Arthur had to tell her to lighten up. And there they were, the beginning of June. Their last day was on the fifth, and as of the moment they were swamped with end-of-year exams. It quickly became evident who was better in their classes, Arthur spent countless nights staying up with Alfred until midnight, helping the other study for his classes. There was one thing that didn't change though, it was the fact that Alfred was dead set on staying a heterosexual. No joke, Arthur had given Alfred plenty of opportunities, like walking into his room at two in the morning in boxers. Of course, he'd make up some shit reason for it like he needed help with homework. But really, how could he be any more appetizing? Arthur finally concluded that despite the fact they'd almost kissed on Christmas, the blue eyed male really didn't want anything to do with him in that sense.

As of the moment it was too early for anyone with a desire to have a lazy life to be awake, and the two were heading to school, conversing about anything and everything.

"Why don't you go to the dance, Arthur? C'mon man, it's the celebration dance, the one last dance of high school, your last chance to get to witness American culture!" Alfred prompted with a little frown. "I don't wanna go either, but Liz asked so like-why not?"

"Because dances are society's way of weeding out those who are popular and those who are not. And I have no desire to get there and be ignored." Arthur replied, running a hand through his more-blond-than-red hair.

"You're no fun at all, Art… Come on, some girl out there wants to go but no one's asked her. Make her day."

Arthur shrugged his shoulder, rolling his eyes simultaneously. "I don't have a suit…" He grumbled finally, in a tone that made Alfred wonder if that'd been the whole reason he didn't want to go in the first place.

"Oh hell Arthur, we can find you a suit!" Alfred replied, not receiving much of an answer from the shorter. It was seriously hard for Arthur to act like the cute little rebel punk he was when Alfred was such a funny person to be around.

The two walked up to the grand school building, something that ensured eight hours of sitting down in a painfully boring class. Liz ran up to the both of them, her cheerleading uniform as tight and as not-school-appropriate as it always was. "Hey guys! So, you excited to like, finally get out of the hellhole that has been our forced home for the past four years?" She rambled, chocolate colored hair bouncing slightly as she tilted her head. Both boys chuckled in response.

"Yeah, pretty ready to escape this hell hole." Alfred responded, one hand moving to unzip the bombers jacket that seemed to be sown to his body. Arthur tended to stay quiet for the fifty times she asked the same question a day, usually because quitting school meant him going back to England, and Alfred always looked somber or off put whenever he mentioned it.

"By the way, Arthur, who are you going to the dance with?" The Hungarian teenager asked out of the blue as the three continued on their way to the front of the school building. The Englishman let out a nervous chuckle, shrugging his shoulders.

"I dunno if I'm going to go, to be honest." He replied simply, earning a light smack on the back of the head.

"Oh, nonsense! C'mon silly, it's the last time you can embarrass yourself here. I heard Gwen's still looking for someone to take her to the dance!"

Arthur tried not to make a face at the mention of the other girl. She'd been one of those people who had hated Arthur until Alfred thought he was alright, then she'd flip flopped and started saying Arthur was 'way hot'. Yeah, way hot his ass. "I'll think about it…" He muttered quietly, trying to end the conversation as quickly as possible. He kicked a stone as they passed the sad attempt for a garden, wilted flowers that were out of season with mulch that cracked when you stepped on it.

And hence, the jock and the punk went along their daily routines, through first, second, and third period. Then to lunch, then to fourth. Just like always, at lunch they'd meet up near the trash can Alfred used to push Arthur into, and they'd find some secluded area outside where they could bitch and moan about teachers until they were red in the face. Then they'd go home, eat, bathe, study, sleep, repeat. They were inseparable, yet at the same time neither of them would admit it. They were like those fan fictions you read late at night, the glare of your phone making your eyes sting. So wrong that they go against your morals, yet undeniable.


Monday turned to Tuesday, Tuesday to Wednesday, and Wednesday to Thursday. The inseparable duo were finally escaping from their next to last day of school. Alfred was practically having to drag Arthur, who'd had three final exams back to back and looked as if his soul had been sucked out of him. "Come on man, one more day." Alfred said with a joyous grin as he watched his friend walk a few steps behind, eyes trained on the cracked concrete.

"Ugh… Bloody hell. I give up, I give up on my future." He muttered, thankful for the patches of shade granted as they stepped beneath a series of trees. Up ahead was the football field, where Alfred was headed to receive some sort of medal for being such an asset to all of the games. Although the American had assured it was no big deal, based on the talk from other students a very few amount of people actually got the awards that had the American's name on them. So, of course Arthur had insisted on going.

The partial redhead plopped down on the bleachers with an exasperated sigh, laying back and stretching out. "Really Kirkland, you can head home. This is going to be a lot of boring talk about responsibility in the real world." The American said, standing at the base of the bleachers and looking up to all the people who were sitting perched on the metal stairs.

Arthur shook his head, a hand moving up to twirl around the piercing in his tongue, before moving to do the same to the one in the cartilage of his ear. "Nah, I don't mind. More time spent here is less time I have to study for Physics tomorrow." He mused, sitting up. Alfred seemed to be on the verge of saying something, until his name was called from the coach standing on the opposite side of the field. He gave a sheepish half-assed salute, before jogging off to go line up with the three others who'd worked their hardest in the past season. The Englishman sat upright, tensing slightly as he heard a voice behind him. His head whipped around to see a woman, long blond hair curling and cupping her cheeks. Her face seemed to be sculpted from the gods, long and thick eyelashes cast shadows down over carved-from-gold cheekbones. And this was coming from a gay guy.

"Francine… Yes?" The punk said more than asked. He remembered her, the girl that every guy in the school went for but never got to. Apparently she thought she was too good for everyone, never let a man lay a hand on her. Even he could see why she was desirable, a body that had more curves than winding up a mountain and a French accent that was to die for. Or so, Arthur'd heard every other hormonal teenage guy say.

"Oui! It's nice to finally get to talk to 'ou, 'ou have been the talk of the school recently." She said with a little smile, dexterous fingers twirling a piece of her hair around.

"Me? The talk of the school? That's funny." Arthur said dryly, although he was smiling. He turned around so he was facing her, the sun beating down on his back through The Beatles t-shirt he was wearing.

"Oui, the cute little not-so-punk-anymore-but-still-punk Arthur Kirkland. 'Ou rose up from the biggest loser to the top ten most desired in ze school." The French teenager said in a quiet, attractive tone. Arthur snorted, running a hand through his hair to comb it out of his eyes.

"Glad to hear my evil plan to steal the ladies hearts has been working." He replied in a joking tone.

"It's been working. 'Ou are gay, are 'ou not?" Francine said bluntly, something everyone seemed to pretend didn't exist. It even caught Arthur off guard for a moment, before he nodded.

"Yep love, 100% as straight as a circle."

"Would 'ou like to accompany me to ze dance, Arthur?" The French lady asked suddenly. "As friends, of course. All of the other men 'ere want to feel me up. I'd love to go, just not with them." For a moment Francine sounded more human at that point than she ever had. Maybe it was because Arthur hadn't talked to her often, but all he'd ever heard about her was she was too good for everyone. He'd never considered the possibility she just didn't want to be with anyone. But at the same time, the end of her sentence dropped dangerously, enchantingly. It sounded like the way women in movies asked men to sleep with them.

"That sounds lovely to me, doll. Everyone here wants me to feel them up, so I'm glad we have an understanding." Arthur said with a little grin, earning a laugh. He watched as the golden ringlets of curls spilled over her shoulders, eyelashes batting. He couldn't help but feel like at least a bit of her story was fake, she certainly had scooted closer and lowered her shirt just a bit. The Englishman cleared his throat, glancing out to the field. He hadn't picked the best seats, he could barely hear what was being said. Alfred seemed as bored as hell though, shoulders slumped as he listened to the never ending mantra. Arthur turned back to her, smiling. "So… I can pick you up at eight?"

"Magnifique~ See 'ou then, Arthur." She said, rising to her feet. Arthur noticed the high heels that accompanied a short skirt and a jean jacket over a tank top. An odd choice in dress, but then again, Arthur wasn't any good at determining outfits. He watched as she made her way down the uneven steps, wondering how in the world someone could wear such high heels on such gross and old bleachers. His eyes followed her until she was out of sight, then he sighed and slumped down. At least Alfred would be pleased with his choice, probably. Had it been up to Arthur, he would of stayed home and played Black Ops with Alfred in their underwear.

But if it was going to be his last night in America, he might as well go out with a bang. And oh, was he going to be going out with something.


Friday night approached like wild fire, catching on to everything and making everyone go crazy. Girls were looking for the perfect dress, guys asking their parents if they could stay in a motel for the night so he could lay his lady. This wasn't a prom, more of a going away party-that didn't make it any less essential for people to show how popular they were. It wasn't even funded by the school, some rich-ass kid had rented out part of a big center. Meaning, there'd most likely be a surprise alcohol visit by the alcohol fairy. Alfred and Arthur had gone last minute shopping to find a suiting tux for the Englishman, which proved to be difficult considering neither of the two had an abundance of money. Finally though, eight o'clock rolled around and Arthur was using Cynthia's car to pick up Francine. Bless the older lady's heart, she treated Arthur like he was her son.

The Englishman rolled up in the four-door, black car. It wasn't particularly nice, but not the worst looking thing either. Alfred had taken his car to get Liz by that point. Walking up to the door, the punk used his spare hand to tug at the collar of the white button up, which felt like it was choking him. He'd abandoned the tie in the car, and was already unbuttoning the top three buttons to give his throat a bit more breathing room. He knocked once, twice, three times quickly before his hand dropped to his side, and he waited. Most guys were nervous right about now, picking up a girl they may like. But he was oddly calm, looking around the nice porch as he waited. He wasn't quite sure how Francine viewed it, but he honest to god just wanted to go hang out and drink some punch with Alfred and Liz.

The door swung open half a minute later, a woman standing there. It took Arthur a few seconds to realize that it was no woman, rather Francine. With heavier make up on and the sleek blue dress that hugged her figure, she looked to be in her twenties. Not to mention the slit that came up to upper thigh, something that had Arthur been straight, he would of appreciated. "Wow, you look lovely." He complimented, smiling faintly. Her hair was all pulled back into a professionally done bun, a few shorter strands loose and falling down in front of her eyes, which were their normal bright, enchanting color.

"Merci, Arthur~" She cooed in her normal sweet-as-honey tone, reaching out and slipping her arm through his. "Shall we go?"

"We shall." Arthur replied, closing the door of the house for her. "Do I need to do the whole scared-date thing to your parents?" He asked, earning a playful giggle in reply.

"Non, they're taking this night to go out on a date. 'Ou're in the clear." She said as they walked to the car.

Arthur pretended to wipe sweat off his forehead with a grin. "Whooh, good, I'm not splendid with parents."

The two got in the car, creating small chit chat about nothing in particular as they made their way to the center they had rented out. Arthur didn't have a flying fuck where it was of course, so they got lost half a dozen times, each time he'd apologize profusely as they came to a dead end. Along the ride though, there was one thing evident. Francine didn't seem to mind he was gay, she went on with flirting and making not-appropriate eye contact. Pulling up to the center finally was a relief, Arthur tugged at the collar of his shirt as he hopped out of the car, looking around. The parking lot was nearly full, he had already dropped his 'date' off at the front so she wouldn't have to walk.

Arthur took his merry time entering the building, appreciating the long, drawn out front lawn. It was nicely decorated, with little lights sticking out of the cobblestone ground to light his way to the entrance. A few people sat on the grass and conversed, red solo cups already in their hands. That could only mean the alcohol was there. Great. Arthur + Alcohol = waking up the next morning not remembering why you were in a strangers bed. Literally.

Entering the double doors, Arthur got a good feel of what a club would look like. Sure, people were dressed up a lot nicer, dresses were being twirled around the dance floor and men were giving not-quite-yet-bedroom eyes. Others were dancing too, although they were dancing close enough to be having sex. Hell, if the music stopped you'd probably be able to hear they were having sex. The Englishman stood there awkwardly for a good long minute before Francine found her way over. She was just handing off an empty shot glass to a passing waiter-dressed man, grinning. "Dance with moi, Arthur." She said in a close-to-commanding tone. The Englishman didn't have much of a choice as he offered out a hand, beginning to sway along with the music.

His eyes were on the dance floor, looking around. Yesterday, he'd been excited to tell Alfred about Francine. But the second he had, the American hadn't been as happy as he should have. "By 'ask some girl that wants to go', I didn't mean her!" He'd said in an angry tone, "I meant someone who doesn't want to get in your pants!" Of course, they'd had a whole little argument over it, thankfully though it was just angry babble, and they still ended up hanging out and playing video games in their underwear that night. It didn't change the fact Alfred was peeved off about Francine, Arthur could tell when he finally caught Alfred's glare. The American seemed happy for a moment, Liz attached to his torso as they swayed. Then he saw the French lady on the Englishman, and he turned his head away with an angry huff. 'Bloody great Arthur. Gonna piss off your one friend on the last night you're here.' The two foreigners swayed back and forth slowly, Arthur doing his best to keep at least three inches away from her. Yet, she kept stepping closer every time he stepped back, keeping her chest pressed against his. Of course, that didn't help every time Alfred glanced over.

The next two hours were a blur of dancing and grinding. Francine didn't seem to care that Arthur didn't return the favor of pressing their bodies together, she just went all for it herself, swaying back and forth as she rolled her hips into Arthur's whenever the music beat permitted it. After close to two hours of the motion, though, the French lady gave out a soft huff-probably of defeat. It wasn't difficult to feel that the Englishman was not reacting to her in the slightest. As the slow song's tune slowly drifted off to a stop, they stepped away. Arthur was surprised to hear a loud, oh-so American tone right near him. "Well, ladies and gentlemen. I hope I'm not interrupting or anything…" Growled Alfred, who sounded like his soul goal had been to interrupt them. "But I'd love to bother Arthur for a drink. It is his last day here, and all."

Francine had already disappeared, her eyes on another boy. Apparently she'd realized Arthur was the gayest gay to ever gay the rainbow sea. Alfred grabbed his friend by the arm and pulled him outside. As soon as the cool wind greeted them and the smell of must and perfume faded, he got a whiff of alcohol on the American's voice. "Awh, you've been drinking without me." Pouted Arthur with a hint of a smile, accepting a beer with a mutter of a thanks. The American didn't look so happy as he twisted off the cap to his own and chugged down half of it, little rivets of the light brown liquid seeping out of the corners of his lips. It seemed like mere seconds before the American tossed away an empty bottle onto the crisp grass, rolling down the slight sloping hill and knocking into others. There was a momentary choir of glass hitting glass.

Arthur smiled, until he saw his friend look over to him with a bit of a frown. Sipping at his beer slowly, Arthur raised a thick eyebrow. "I said take a girl to the dance who had no one else to go with, Arthur," seethed a very intoxicated Alfred. "Not get laid on the dance floor." The Englishman's lips parted slightly in a confused look, biting down on his tongue. The little stud in the tip of it gleamed in the moonlight that hung directly above them.

"I didn't think you'd care this much, love." Muttered Arthur in reply, walking slowly across the grass with Alfred. He listened to the sound of the snapping twigs beneath their feet, glancing to either side of him to see flowers sprouting from the ground.

"Oh, because you wanted her to try to fuck you on the dance floor. That's sure as hell what it looked like." Alfred grabbed Arthur's beer from his hand, downing a good amount of it as the Englishman made a few sounds of protest from his lost beverage.

"You're making this into a big deal, Alfred, and it's not a big deal."

"Damn it, Arthur! This is your last night in America, I wanted to hang out with you-not have some girl moaning in your ear all night!"

"Then you shouldn't of pushed me to get a date, Jones. We could of just showed up and hung out."

"Oh, you know I couldn't show up with you alone! People would of thought that we were both f-" Alfred stopped himself. Arthur quirked up an eyebrow, nose twitching as he spared a glance over to him.

"That we were both what? Faggots?" sneered Arthur. He stopped walking, turning to look around, before shooting daggers at Alfred. The building that the party had been in was one big square. He could still see the elaborate entrance to the building, where the smell of lust poured from its open doors. Dozens of people were laying out on the grass with their dates, some people making out, and some just admiring the star-spotted sky. Alfred glared right back, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You know that's not what I meant," he snapped, "you know what I think? I think you leap for every chance to make me seem like the bad guy. I wanted you here, I wanted to hang out with you."

"You just didn't want people to think we were faggots, because of course, that would so ruin lil' Jones' reputation. And we can't have that, can we?" Arthur rolled his eyes, taking a little step closer. "And guess what, you kind of are the bad guy here. I don't know if you recall the last four years of our lives, where you kind of beat me into the ground."

"Fuck! Arthur, fuck! I've apologized, haven't I!? You can't pin that on me for forever!"

"No, just for four more years."

Alfred, with a huff of exceedingly bad-smelling breath, unfolded his arms and lightly placed his hands on Arthur's chest, pushing him back a foot or so in the way that only white boys started fights. "Oh yeah? I might as well make it four years and a day, because you're really pissing me off right now."

Arthur pushed back, harder. He placed his hands on the American's black-clad chest and shoved, having to use most of his strength to move the monstrous American. Don't get him wrong, Arthur was only an inch or so shorter, but he hadn't spent four years growing muscle with football either. "I'd like to see you try, you drunken son of a bloody bitch." Alfred shoved again, then Arthur. Each time they both had to step back and regain their balance.

Alfred was the first to make a move. He reared his fist back before slamming it forward into Arthur's cheek. A loud, piercing yelp of pain sounded, and half a dozen people looked over to the two. Arthur didn't miss a beat, though. He stumbled to regain balance, taking a step forward and slamming a fist back on the blond's jaw. Maybe it was because of the increased level of alcohol, but Alfred almost fell over with the hit alone.

By this time, people were starting to gather. People whipped out their phones, pointing their video camera's directly at them. Half of the people cheered for Alfred, as they had for the past four years. But some cheered for Arthur too, and that gave the Englishman a fire in the pit of his belly he'd never had before. Alfred ran forward after a moment and tackled the younger, slamming his shoulder and back onto the concrete. Arthur coughed dryly and attempted to regain his breath as he felt another fist on his cheek, and another, and another. He threw his hands up in front of himself to try to protect his face, struggling under the weight of the football player. A few more small hits and Alfred started to recede, thinking Arthur had gone still enough to of been unconscious. But the Englishman just seized that as a chance to slam his kneecap into the American's crotch, hard.

A howl of agony rang around and Alfred stumbled back and away from the Englishman. He stayed down just long enough for Arthur to get back up to his feet. The shorter rubbed at his own nose, wiping away all the blood that flowed freely from it. He glanced around to all the people, watching their mouths move. They seemed to be shouting, but the blood pumping through his ears acted as a sufficient muffler. His heart felt like it was about to race out of his chest, and his legs shook slightly as he took a few weary steps back. Alfred stayed on the ground for a while longer, groaning inaudible things and holding his groin. He seemed to forget about the fight for just a moment, until he glanced back up and realized he was on camera. He slowly stumbled up to his feet, heat and pain flashing all over his body. Intoxicated and hazy blue eyes searched amongst the crowd for Arthur. He finally located the Brit, edging his way towards the corner of the building, a place probably laced with more nooks and crannies. He raced after him, all of the other teens taking slightly longer to catch up.

Alfred slammed Arthur against the brick wall that was just around the corner, one of his hands balling up in the collar of the man's suit, the other craning back and forming a fist. Alfred growled and ground his teeth, sneering dangerously. He could faintly hear the sound of feet as all the graduates raced to try to find the two fighting teens. He glanced around with dangerous, potent eyes.

Something slammed into Arthur's face. But it wasn't Alfred's fist, it was lips. Hot, angry, bleeding lips that tasted heavily of iron and anger. Alfred was kissing him, hotly. A tongue had already forced its way between Arthur's lips, and he completely ignored the loud groan that accompanied the sudden movement. Arthur's hands, which were holding onto the fist in his shirt, slid down and grasped onto the wall. He didn't need to bother keeping himself upright, because the American had him pinned there with two hundred pounds of muscle.

Alfred was drunk. So hella drunk, he didn't know or care if Arthur was kissing back. All he knew was that this was the only thing that got the blood flowing down south well enough. The only person he wanted to pound into a mattress, to hear moan and whine. And he was already halfway there, Arthur's tongue fought back valiantly as little sounds spilled from his bruised lips. His hands slid up and tangled in the American's hair, grabbing painfully tight as he yanked him forward. Alfred ground against him, and for the first time that night Arthur ground back, violently. The whole thing was a mix of pleasure and pain, their teeth clashed and Arthur's nails dug underneath the American's white button up, sinking deeply into the skin as he jutted their hips together. While Alfred kept one hand gripped in the material of his shirt, the other ran back and grabbed Arthur's ass, giving it a tight squeeze and growling low-toned, dirty things against his lips.

All too soon, they could hear footsteps approaching from around the corner. Alfred yanked back and kept his fist balled in the collar of Arthur's shirt. The Englishman seemed to be in a bit of daze for a moment longer, until his cheek was once more occupied by a fist. He coughed, spitting out a mouthful of thick, slimy blood that stuck to his lips. Camera phones trained on them again as he ducked under the second fist, having managed to yank away from the hand in his shirt. Arthur prayed that the darkness hid the bulge in his and Alfred's pants as he stepped forward. The noise of the world started back up, the scuffing of shoes against the concrete and the grunts of the two boys as they threw punches and kicks.

The whole fight ended with a knee to Alfred's stomach. Arthur recoiled once he was sure the American had fallen unconscious to the ground. Half the crowd cheered, half booed, but in the end all of them turned off their phones and wandered off. Arthur scoffed shakily, rubbing at his nose with a wince. "F-fucking vultures… Only want fun." He scoffed, looking around. After the flash of phones stopped, the only thing that lit up the night was the lamp post that poured a light-yellow colored light onto them. He bent his head to let blood drip from his lips, glancing to Alfred. The American was completely unconscious, smelling heavily of alcohol. That had most likely been one of the only reasons Arthur'd one, alcohol always gave the users opponent the upper hand. With a little huff, the Englishman slipped his arms under Alfred's armpits and dragged him a few feet to the grass. That took up what little energy he had left, before he shakily rest on the grass next to the American. He turned his head to look over to the man, whose lips were bruised from kissing and who's pants were still a bit tighter than they should of been. His chest rose and fell steadily though, a small dribble of blood running down the corner of his mouth.

"You're such an asshole…" Arthur muttered tiredly, rolling on his side and reaching out weakly to grip onto the football players hand, lacing their fingers loosely together before he fell into sleep.


It felt like years later before the green-eyed man felt consciousness slip back to him. The first thing he realized was that there was something heavy resting across his chest, and made it quite hard for him to move. His eyes fluttered open slowly, groaning and turning his head away from the light that poured down from the lamp post. It was still dark out, but when he strained his vision he could see the beginnings of a deep orange color pour over the rows of houses and trees. He turned his head again, glancing over. The first thing he realized was that the heavy thing on his chest was an arm. His eyes followed the black-suited arm, up to the mans shoulder, and finally face. 'Alfred.' He thought tiredly, letting his head roll back onto the grass with a sigh. He looked up to the sky, frowning to himself as the stars disappeared slowly.

Finally, he rolled over to face the other, before sitting upright. His head was pounding, but he had a feeling it was from being slammed into a wall. He could of sworn he'd felt those lips before. The second that thought occurred to him, it bugged him. Alfred's lips felt known. They'd never kissed before. They'd come close, but they never had. Or at least, to Arthur's knowledge…

After another minute of sitting in the grass and trying to forget the pain that radiated throughout his body, he reached over to gently shake the others shoulder. "Alfred, Alfred… Get up." He muttered quietly, shoving at the football players shoulder weakly. There was a deep grumble of something incoherent, before hazy blue eyes slid open. He seemed to be even more disoriented than Arthur, looking around helplessly for a moment before he noticed the punk.

"Damn, another hour of sleep woulda been nice…" He grumbled tiredly, a hand reaching up to rub at his temples. He still smelled awfully of alcohol, and after sleeping half a foot away from him the whole night, Arthur was sure he did as well.

"The sun's coming up… We should probably head home, I need to be at the airport by eight."

Alfred blinked. Last night came snapped into his vision, and he sighed. Slowly, the both of them worked their way up to their feet, stumbling and using each other as canes to get upright. "Sorry 'bout your jaw." said Alfred finally.

"Sorry about your balls." Arthur replied, a hint of a smile working its way on his lips. The grin faded a moment later, considering the cut on the soft, rosy skin there hurt too much to be stretched.

The both of them spared a long, lingering look before they nodded-a confirmation that all was forgotten and in the past… Slowly, the two began to weave their way through the sleeping bodies in the grass. A few times, Arthur bent down to help pull a ladies dress down a bit further, to protect their upper thighs from being exposed as they slept. Finally they made it to the car, in which Alfred fumbled with his keys for a while before Arthur confiscated them. "You drank gallons, doll, let me drive." He said simply. The blue eyed man slipped into the passengers side without a single complaint, letting his head rest against the back of the seat as Arthur started up the car and they were off. He suddenly realized he'd left Francine, and made a mental note to later text Liz to make sure she found a ride home. He realized in that moment as well that he'd just left Mrs. Jones' car there, chuckling to himself with a hint of regret. Oh well. It was his last few hours in America, and he didn't want to spend it calling a less-drunk friend to drive it home.

The next hour was a daze. Arthur packed the few belongings he had into a roller suit case and changed out of his suit. He grabbed a shower to wash off the smell of booze after Alfred had, changing into a pair of black, slim-fit jeans and a plain white t-shirt. He slid on Van's that were blue and red, with little British and American flags decorating each side. After cleaning all his piercings out carefully and after insuring his backpack had a book and his phone in it, he headed downstairs to the car. It took effort and serious skill to juggle the donut and coffee in his hand, and get the trunk open as well. But he managed, and used his hip to nudge all of his luggage into the space, before reaching up and slamming the trunk down.

"Mind if I drive you instead of my mom?"

Arthur jumped half a foot into the air at the voice. He'd not been expecting someone behind him. Whipping around his head, he saw a tired looking Alfred with a cup of coffee in his hand the size of Texas. After returning from his momentary panic, he shook his head. "Not at all… Are you still drunk?"

"Hangover. Took half a bottle of ibuprofen, I'll be okay."

Arthur wouldn't complain with a free car ride, nor getting to look at the gorgeously sculpted face of Alfred one last time. Granted, his jaw was spotted with two bruises and he had a cut or two on his lip; but it was the same breathtaking smile and piercing eyes. He needed at least a little more time with American beauty.


The ride to the airport was quiet, contrasted to what Arthur thought. He'd had some idea in his head that they'd spill their guts to one another, and make out hotly in the parking lot. But that didn't happen. Alfred kept his hands on 10 and 2, and his eyes didn't once veer from the road. Arthur understood the determined gleam in his eyes, especially after the accident. The only attempt at conversation was held as they both waded through the beginning crowd of people. In the airport it smelled thickly of coffee and some neutralizer-spray that they doused the place in, in an attempt to keep it from smelling so hideously American. Alfred asked the saddening question of, "Are you ready to go back to England?"

Mentally, the football player prayed that Arthur would say no, he'd say that he wanted to stay here and help Alfred become famous-because surely, he would one day. But all the Englishman replied with was, "Yes." This was followed by a five minute silence, in which they went from terminal to terminal, Alfred sort of following along like a lost little puppy at this point, not willing to let go of his owner. They stepped onto an underground trolly, Arthur holding onto his rollarbag with one hand, and the strap of his book bag with another. He turned around to Alfred suddenly. "Good luck, in the future I mean. I take it you're still going off to Hollywood?" questioned the green-eyed teen, remembering an earlier conversation.

Alfred gave his attempt at a large, goofy smile, and he nodded. "Hell yeah! The next time you'll be seeing my face, it'll be on the cover of the tabloids! I'm gonna be famous, and you'd better believe it!" The two of them laughed, just as the train dinged and they hopped off. Arthur's never liked the sounds of airports. Of overly powerful men and women's shoes echoing off the tiled floors, of the sound of crying children. They slowly walked to Arthur's gate, the glowing 'E' that slowly approached meant that Alfred could continue no further.

"You'd better keep that promise. I look forward to hearing all about you, Alfred F. Jones." The security guards gave the two of them a look as they approached the gate, as if analyzing the fact Alfred didn't have a bag. (Probably not to mention the fact that their faces were covered in bruises.) People continued to push by them, nudging their shoulders accidentally as they hurried on their way. Arthur glanced back, seeing his gate five feet away. Five feet further that way and he'd be gone-no turning back… Arthur looked to Alfred once more, his smile fading.

"Damn right you will… Damn right…" Alfred cleared his throat and looked away, eyebrows turning up slightly despite his best efforts to not look upset. Arthur wanted to stay, to converse, to share all of his emotions. But that would drain him, ruin him, and he couldn't tell Alfred all of these things now.

"Goodbye, Alfred."

With that, Arthur turned away and began to walk. Quickly, one step, two steps, three steps. He bowed his head down and rifled in his pocket for his passport, sniffing once as he ground the palm of his free hand into his eye. Tears. Damn it. Why tears now? He reached out to offer the security man his passport, before his arm was being grabbed and he was yanked back. Before Arthur had a second to question Alfred's motive, he felt lips pressed to his own. Not rough like last night, and not tasting of alcohol. Soft, sweet, kind lips that molded to his and urged him to lean in closer. While one arm wrapped around the Englishman's waist, the other hand moved up to cup his non-injured cheek, pulling Arthur into one of the most loving embraces he'd ever felt. Alfred sighed against his lips, releasing a breath he'd held in for four years. Nothing around them mattered, not the people, not the sounds, and not the fact that it would all be gone in mere seconds.

Of course, people all around made disgusted faces and pushed by. The nicer ones just made little sounds like 'aww' before hurrying through. Arthur didn't care if they saw. And for once in his life-neither did Alfred. He savored the flavor of Arthur's lips, the way their bodies didn't quite fit together like his and some petite girls did, but the way they found a way to fit.

Finally Arthur pulled away. He did so reluctantly, a small string of saliva snapping between them. Sapphire locked on to emerald. For a second longer, just a second, they enjoyed each others company. And then Arthur slipped out of his grasp. His eyes welled with more water as he let out a throaty chuckle, his hand sliding up to graze over the American's cheek. "I'll miss you too." He muttered, rubbing at his eyes before he turned around and took the final step through the gate.

And Alfred was left there, staring after the dissipating silhouette of the man that only at that moment, he realized he loved.


Author's Note: Hello everyone! I'm sorry I took so long on this, as you've all heard before-it's finals season and I've been studying my ass off. In actuality, I have my biggest final tomorrow-but school's fried my brain to the point where I don't even give a fuck anymore, so instead of studying I spent four hours finishing this chapter.

This Fanfiction is NOT DONE! I know it seems that way, but like I said in the first chapter, I'm basing this off of a RP I did with a friend. It'll continue with a pretty big time skip. So don't worry friends, the fun will go on for many more chapters, and I can also promise that from here on out there'll be more smutty, dirty, kinky goodness between people. I'd also like to point out there will probably be more than UsUk though, so if you can't handle the fact that people in real life tend to have more than one person they sleep with, sorry bro but you're gonna have to deal.

It'd be really nice if you'd comment! I spend hours working on these chapters, and I would be very thankful if you'd take five seconds to send something that'll let me know what you thought! If you have any critiques, feel free to send them! If ya wanna flame I'm actually pretty cool with it but be prepared because I will curse your ass out to the point where you'll curl up in a corner and ball your eyes out. Be warned. (I'd prefer not to be flamed, if at all possible bros.) But PLEASEEE! Send a comment if you have the time! I love to hear anything you have to say!