[fanfic] Meant to Be 4
Fanfiction: Meant to Be - Chapter 4
Author: 9mm_meg
Characters/Pairings: USUK, Canada, mentions of France and Seychelles this chapter
Rating: M overall, T this chapter
Warnings: none this chapter
Summary: Sequel to Let It Mean Something. Alfred's got the second chance he never dared to dream of, but no matter how in love he is, it doesn't change the fact that he might not actually know Arthur at all.
Disclaimer: Hetalia isn’t mine
A/N: So sorry for the lateness of this chapter! It’s even longer than the last one, though, so hopefully that makes up for it…
Also, THANK YOU as usual for your unparalleled awesomeness. Love you all~
The next morning, Alfred is dimly aware that his phone is blaring on the nightstand next to his bed. He assumes at first that it’s just his alarm, so he ignores it (naturally), but then he realizes that it’s not the usual alarm tone.
It’s a ringtone-the only personalized one on his whole contact list.
“Green eyes… you’re the one that I wanted to find…”
He hits the floor in a mess of twisted blanket and sheets, fighting to untangle himself and get to the phone. It’s a close call, but he manages to snatch it off the table and answer it before it’s too late.
“Hey!” he says, annoyed with the scratchy way his voice makes it obvious that he’s just woken up.
“Hello… How are you this morning?”
“Great! You?”
“Oh, fine, I suppose.”
There’s silence for a moment, so Alfred tries to hurry and think of something to say, but then Arthur takes a deep breath and starts, “Alfred, I… I’m really, very sorry,” and his heart sinks.
“For what?” he asks nervously.
“For last night. I’m afraid I may have… well… come on a bit strong.”
Bewildered, Alfred intelligently replies, “Huh?”
Arthur’s voice rises in pitch, almost sounding a little panicky, and he says in a rush, “Er, I may have been too forward? Too flirtatious? Did I make you uncomfortable in any way-”
“No, no-I get what you’re saying-”
“-because I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. I’m not usually so bold, and I’d hate to have done anything to push you away so early on, because, quite frankly, you’re sort of wonderful, and I-and I should probably stop speaking now.”
Alfred snorts-really and truly snorts-but he can’t even be bothered to be embarrassed by the fact because he’s too busy trying not to laugh and fluster Arthur even further. He quickly composes himself and says, “Arthur, seriously, you have nothing to worry about,” his wide grin nearly audible.
“Oh. But you seemed sort of taken aback…?”
“Yeah, well,” he says, feeling a little braver himself, “it’s kinda hard to keep my cool with a hot guy coming on to me like that.”
There’s a spluttering noise from the other end of the line, and Alfred can’t help but laugh.
“Oh, let’s be serious now.”
“I am! You’re a fox! I thought my brain was gonna leak out my ears.”
Arthur finally breaks down and lets out a chuckle, muttering something that sounds like ridiculous, and Alfred climbs back onto his bed, snuggling down into the blankets and enjoying the sound of Arthur’s voice in his ear.
“You obviously need new glasses, but I’m flattered all the same,” Arthur says, ignoring Alfred’s psh of disagreement. “Anyway, I’m glad we seem to be on the same page. I was worried from the moment I got in last night. I didn’t think I’d be able to reach you this morning either… I was sure you said you had work.”
“Oh, yeah, I do,” Alfred says, paying more attention to the way he says eye-ther instead of ee-ther.
“Really? The bank must keep late weekend hours… It’s nearly 9:15 now, isn’t it?”
And for the second time that morning, Alfred hits the floor.
“WHAT?”
There’s a text message waiting for Alfred after work, when he thinks it’s safe to pull his phone out of his pocket (once he’s all the way out to the parking lot of the bank and certain that his very angry manager isn’t watching him for one more offense that would give him an excuse to fire him).
Arthur
Provided you still have a
source of income, how
about I let you buy me
dinner next week?
Alfred grins and replies, Sure, provided you’re inclined to call it a date :)
“You look unbelievably attractive and sexy and I will love you for the rest of my life based entirely on that particular shirt that you’ve picked out.”
Alfred glares at Matthew, and Matthew glares back.
“You left out the ‘charming’ part,” Alfred huffs, adjusting his collar and turning back to the dressing room mirror.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” Matthew starts, putting on the stuffiest, old-ladyest English accent he can come up with. “You’re so awfully charming, Alfred! Oh, do take me now!”
A brief scuffle promptly ensues, but it ends when a salesperson pokes her head around the corner and gives them a don’t-make-me-call-security look, so Matthew releases Alfred from his headlock, and Alfred removes his teeth from Matthew’s forearm.
(As soon as she’s gone, Alfred gets in one last kick to Matthew’s shin.)
“He doesn’t sound like that,” Alfred grumbles, unbuttoning the shirt as he heads back to his changing stall.
“You said he was British.”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t sound like that.”
“’Ello guvnah?”
Alfred sticks his head out of the curtain and gives Matthew another glare. “No,” he says.
A few moments later, he comes out with another shirt and another pair of slacks, and gestures at himself questioningly.
“Irresistible,” Matthew deadpans.
“You’re not helping, Mattie!”
From back in the stall, Alfred’s phone begins to ring, but he ignores Matthew’s groan at his choice of ringtone in favor of rushing back in to fish it out of the pocket of his own jeans, tossed haphazardly to the floor.
“Arthur! Hey, what’s up?”
“Hello, Alfred. Look, I have to apologize-”
“I don’t like that our phone conversations have to start this way, Arthur.”
There’s a pause, and then a nervous laugh, and Arthur continues, “Yes, there does seem to be a pattern forming… But this time you may not be so pleased with me.”
“Oh?” Alfred hastily sits on the little stool and bites his lip, wondering what on earth could displease him about Arthur. Seriously.
“Yes. It looks as though I’m going to have to cancel on you tonight. I’ve done everything I could to keep from it, but one of my friends has just had a nasty shock, and unfortunately I’m the only person in town that can babysit him.”
“… What?”
Arthur sighs. “I know. It’s dreadful timing, and, believe me, I’m not happy about it either. Apparently Francis has been chasing after the ‘love of his life’ for some weeks now, and today he’s found out that the man is completely straight. He’s not taking it well at all.”
Alfred’s first thought is ouch, but then he realizes who they’re talking about here, and a sudden, surprising wave of jealousy has him blurting out, “Francis? But you hate his guts!”
“Well, of course, but that doesn’t stop him being my friend.”
“Actually, normally, yeah, it sorta would.”
“Alfred,” Arthur says as though he’s addressing a five-year-old, and, to his immense surprise, the sound of it actually grates on his nerves a little. “It’s complicated. I’ve known Francis a long time, and, despite the way we treat each other under normal circumstances, we’ve sort of looked out for one another from the start, if not begrudgingly. He’d do the same for me, as much as I hate to admit it.”
This doesn’t do much to alleviate Alfred’s aggravation, but he keeps it in check. Arthur’s journal never had anything but negative things to say about Francis, so any sort of actual friendship between them just does not compute to him… but whatever.
“Anyway, the fact of the matter is that I do still want to have dinner another time, if you’re willing…”
Alfred shakes off his frustration and does his best to brighten his voice back up to normal as he replies, “Oh yeah, definitely. Is tomorrow cool, or will Frankie be done with his pity party by then?”
“That wasn’t very nice,” Arthur says reproachfully, though the fact that he has to stifle a laugh before he says it sort of lessens the effect. “No, I doubt he’ll be anything more than a worthless, blubbering lump of French melodrama on my sofa for the next few days. Next weekend would probably be best.”
Something seems familiar about next weekend, like, recently familiar (as opposed to four-years-ago-familiar), but whoever had invited Alfred to anything next weekend can just deal. Arthur takes precedence, no question. But then he realizes that they’re talking another week of waiting… It seems like forever, but before Alfred can start mentally whining about it, he remembers that he was once prepared to spend the rest of his life without ever having met the man, and seven days starts to look like less of an eternity.
“Sure,” he says, and suddenly, he remembers what’s going on next weekend. He quickly adds, “But I’m gonna make special plans this time, so no cancelling on me again, okay?”
“Oh, really now? And what exactly does that entail?”
“Allll… Come onnnnnnn,” Matthew suddenly whines outside the stall, but Alfred ignores him and digs his heel into one of the size 13 Converse (Hey, those are mine!) sticking in under the curtain. “Ow! Damnit, Al!”
“Huh-uh. You’ll just have to wait and see…”
The week has passed uneventfully, and somehow, by some miracle, Alfred has now survived an entire fifteen days without a single glimpse of Arthur. By Wednesday he’d read the journal four times, and on Friday he’d even gotten halfway through The Silmarillion before giving up to go back and read the journal again, but, all in all, it’s been mostly bearable.
But today is Saturday, finally finally Saturday, and as soon as Arthur (gorgeous in his plum-colored shirt, striped tie, slim grey trousers, and cardigan folded over one arm) climbs into his passenger seat, smiles, and says, “So what’s this about ‘special plans’?” the two weeks of waiting suddenly seems like an adequate price to pay.
The ride over to their mystery destination (since Alfred refuses to tell) is mostly uneventful, aside from Alfred trying not to be obvious about starting at Arthur out of the corner of his eye (but fifteen days-come on!) and the two of them catching up on the last few days since they spoke. Apparently Francis has decided to continue gracing the world with his presence and will not be slashing his wrists in grief anytime soon (“Though we can still hope,” Arthur adds), Arthur’s Premier League team had done well last weekend, and he’s finally taken Alfred’s advice and talked to his brother James.
“How did that go?” Alfred asks interestedly.
“Not bad, considering. He only called me ‘runt,’ which is outright sweet for him.”
“Uh… What does he normally call you?”
“Let’s just say it rhymes with ‘runt.’”
“Ah.”
Neither says much more after that, but it’s only a moment or two later that they pull up in front of a small, old theatre with a few couples milling around under the lit-up marquee.
Arthur leans down in his seat to get a look at what’s playing, his breath fogging the window as he reads aloud, “Kiss Me, Kate?” He turns around slowly, revealing a seemingly stunned look on his face, and Alfred freezes, terrified that he’s made some sort of mistake.
“Yeah. The, um, musical?” he offers. “It’s really a nice little place. They do dinner before the show, and I know one of the girls in it-”
“Alfred,” Arthur cuts him off, eyes narrowing in suspicion.
Oh God, he’s blown it.
“Yeah?” he nearly squeaks.
“Who’ve you been speaking to about me?”
Huh?
“I don’t-I haven’t-well, my brother, but-”
“No, I don’t know him,” Arthur interrupts again, dismissing the conversational Matthew with a wave of his hand before continuing, “Who told you that I absolutely adore this musical?”
Panicked, Alfred frantically tries to remember if he’d read that somewhere in the journal, but he’s almost certain that Arthur had never mentioned it… After all, when he’d called and reserved the tickets, he’d had no idea if Arthur would like his selection. He thought he probably would, but he wasn’t sure…
Then he sees the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of Arthur’s mouth, and Alfred realizes that he has just unknowingly done really, really well.
“Seriously?” he asks.
Arthur smiles.
On the way in, they have a short non-verbal disagreement about who’s going to open the door for whom, but Arthur concedes with an affectionate, sighed idiot and lets Alfred usher him in with all the gentlemanly charm he can muster. Their table is just barely big enough for two place settings, and, as they find when they sit down, their chairs are crammed together close enough that the sides of their legs bump under the table.
“Cozy,” Alfred observes, and Arthur nods.
“Rather. Although I’m certain that was a complete accident, hm? Not pre-arranged or anything…”
Alfred gives him a sly grin.
“Oh yeah, absolutely.”
Dinner is delicious, the performance is engaging (though the way Lois/Bianca occasionally winks at Alfred from the stage is a bit embarrassing-he’s pretty sure he made it clear to Angie that he wasn’t interested), and as they make their way up the sidewalk to Arthur’s front door, Alfred decides that tonight has been damn-near perfect.
Arthur stops at the top step, turning back towards him, and Alfred pauses a step below, unsure of how to react.
“Well,” Arthur says, messing with the keys in his hand and staring somewhere in the vicinity of Alfred’s left shoulder, “thank you for dinner, the show, all of that… It was brilliant.”
“Yeah. That actually turned out better than I’d hoped.”
Arthur smiles, meeting his eyes for just a second before looking away again, and Alfred’s breath catches. They’re closer than he’d realized.
“Now it looks as though I’ve got a lot to live up to, since next time will have to be my treat.”
Next time, as in another date… There’s a flutter in Alfred’s chest, and he suddenly feels a little lighter on his feet, a little taller than he really is. He hadn’t lied when he said this evening had gone better than he’d imagined; if anything, he’d understated the facts. He never could have dreamed of things going this well, not in a million-
It’s not until Arthur’s already pulled away and staring at him expectantly that Alfred registers the breath of air at the side of his nose, the tickle of coarse blond hair against his cheek, the brush of a warm mouth over his own.
Arthur kissed him.
Arthur kissed him.
And he totally missed it.
One rather large eyebrow lifts questioningly as Alfred stands there gaping, mentally swearing at himself, and refraining from a spontaneous, celebratory jig of triumph all at once, and when he finally works out that he’s got a tongue, vocal cords, voice, and a brain to make them all work together, the only thing that comes out of his mouth is, “Um, can I have a redo?”
Arthur rolls his eyes, mutters, “Oh, I suppose,” as though it’s such a bother, and fixes that half-smirk on him.
This time, Alfred’s ready.
His heart is pounding in his chest, and he’s wondering if he won’t wind up passing out over this, but he’s ready. He starts to lift up on his tiptoes to make up for the few inches Arthur’s got on him thanks to the stairs, but Arthur bends down to meet him halfway and presses their lips soundly together. It’s not particularly gentle or soft or even sweet, but it’s Arthur that’s kissing him, and Alfred feels distinctly weak at the knees thinking of just how right it is.
It’s over all too soon, and Alfred gets the feeling that he’s not the only one wishing it’d go on just a little longer as they pull apart. But for some reason, neither makes a move to bring them back together… although that could possibly have something to do with the way Alfred suddenly wobbles and has to move one foot to the step below to steady himself. (Smooth.)
Arthur doesn’t seem to notice, though, and is instead staring hard at Alfred, like he’s having some quick but intense mental debate-but then the look disappears, and he smiles again.
“Remind me to never cancel on you again,” he says, and Alfred’s urge to dance comes back with a vengeance.
They exchange brief good nights, Alfred works up the nerve to peck Arthur on the cheek before he slips inside, and, as he practically floats back down the sidewalk to his jeep, Alfred realizes that he’d only been halfway right earlier.
Now tonight has been perfect.
A/N: This chapter… it’s given me plenty of issues. The flow still sort of bugs me, but after scrapping the whole thing and starting over about twelve times, I’ve decided that this is as good as it’s gonna get. Sorry for any mediocrity. And the wait. /holds out wrist for slapping
In other news, Al’s got big feet. Who’s surprised?
Kiss Me, Kate is a play-within-a-play based on Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew. My (remarkably non-cultured) husband surprised me once by taking me to see it while we were dating, and, hey-it worked for him. Why not Al? ^_^
(I can’t guarantee that you won’t see any more of my own personal experiences in this in the future. >_>)
Also, Angie is Seychelles, who seems to think that “her only abilities are to sing, dance, and make souvenirs,” according to the Hetalia wiki. I therefore thought it fitting that she’d be in a musical.
Author: 9mm_meg
Characters/Pairings: USUK, Canada, mentions of France and Seychelles this chapter
Rating: M overall, T this chapter
Warnings: none this chapter
Summary: Sequel to Let It Mean Something. Alfred's got the second chance he never dared to dream of, but no matter how in love he is, it doesn't change the fact that he might not actually know Arthur at all.
Disclaimer: Hetalia isn’t mine
A/N: So sorry for the lateness of this chapter! It’s even longer than the last one, though, so hopefully that makes up for it…
Also, THANK YOU as usual for your unparalleled awesomeness. Love you all~
The next morning, Alfred is dimly aware that his phone is blaring on the nightstand next to his bed. He assumes at first that it’s just his alarm, so he ignores it (naturally), but then he realizes that it’s not the usual alarm tone.
It’s a ringtone-the only personalized one on his whole contact list.
“Green eyes… you’re the one that I wanted to find…”
He hits the floor in a mess of twisted blanket and sheets, fighting to untangle himself and get to the phone. It’s a close call, but he manages to snatch it off the table and answer it before it’s too late.
“Hey!” he says, annoyed with the scratchy way his voice makes it obvious that he’s just woken up.
“Hello… How are you this morning?”
“Great! You?”
“Oh, fine, I suppose.”
There’s silence for a moment, so Alfred tries to hurry and think of something to say, but then Arthur takes a deep breath and starts, “Alfred, I… I’m really, very sorry,” and his heart sinks.
“For what?” he asks nervously.
“For last night. I’m afraid I may have… well… come on a bit strong.”
Bewildered, Alfred intelligently replies, “Huh?”
Arthur’s voice rises in pitch, almost sounding a little panicky, and he says in a rush, “Er, I may have been too forward? Too flirtatious? Did I make you uncomfortable in any way-”
“No, no-I get what you’re saying-”
“-because I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. I’m not usually so bold, and I’d hate to have done anything to push you away so early on, because, quite frankly, you’re sort of wonderful, and I-and I should probably stop speaking now.”
Alfred snorts-really and truly snorts-but he can’t even be bothered to be embarrassed by the fact because he’s too busy trying not to laugh and fluster Arthur even further. He quickly composes himself and says, “Arthur, seriously, you have nothing to worry about,” his wide grin nearly audible.
“Oh. But you seemed sort of taken aback…?”
“Yeah, well,” he says, feeling a little braver himself, “it’s kinda hard to keep my cool with a hot guy coming on to me like that.”
There’s a spluttering noise from the other end of the line, and Alfred can’t help but laugh.
“Oh, let’s be serious now.”
“I am! You’re a fox! I thought my brain was gonna leak out my ears.”
Arthur finally breaks down and lets out a chuckle, muttering something that sounds like ridiculous, and Alfred climbs back onto his bed, snuggling down into the blankets and enjoying the sound of Arthur’s voice in his ear.
“You obviously need new glasses, but I’m flattered all the same,” Arthur says, ignoring Alfred’s psh of disagreement. “Anyway, I’m glad we seem to be on the same page. I was worried from the moment I got in last night. I didn’t think I’d be able to reach you this morning either… I was sure you said you had work.”
“Oh, yeah, I do,” Alfred says, paying more attention to the way he says eye-ther instead of ee-ther.
“Really? The bank must keep late weekend hours… It’s nearly 9:15 now, isn’t it?”
And for the second time that morning, Alfred hits the floor.
“WHAT?”
There’s a text message waiting for Alfred after work, when he thinks it’s safe to pull his phone out of his pocket (once he’s all the way out to the parking lot of the bank and certain that his very angry manager isn’t watching him for one more offense that would give him an excuse to fire him).
Arthur
Provided you still have a
source of income, how
about I let you buy me
dinner next week?
Alfred grins and replies, Sure, provided you’re inclined to call it a date :)
“You look unbelievably attractive and sexy and I will love you for the rest of my life based entirely on that particular shirt that you’ve picked out.”
Alfred glares at Matthew, and Matthew glares back.
“You left out the ‘charming’ part,” Alfred huffs, adjusting his collar and turning back to the dressing room mirror.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” Matthew starts, putting on the stuffiest, old-ladyest English accent he can come up with. “You’re so awfully charming, Alfred! Oh, do take me now!”
A brief scuffle promptly ensues, but it ends when a salesperson pokes her head around the corner and gives them a don’t-make-me-call-security look, so Matthew releases Alfred from his headlock, and Alfred removes his teeth from Matthew’s forearm.
(As soon as she’s gone, Alfred gets in one last kick to Matthew’s shin.)
“He doesn’t sound like that,” Alfred grumbles, unbuttoning the shirt as he heads back to his changing stall.
“You said he was British.”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t sound like that.”
“’Ello guvnah?”
Alfred sticks his head out of the curtain and gives Matthew another glare. “No,” he says.
A few moments later, he comes out with another shirt and another pair of slacks, and gestures at himself questioningly.
“Irresistible,” Matthew deadpans.
“You’re not helping, Mattie!”
From back in the stall, Alfred’s phone begins to ring, but he ignores Matthew’s groan at his choice of ringtone in favor of rushing back in to fish it out of the pocket of his own jeans, tossed haphazardly to the floor.
“Arthur! Hey, what’s up?”
“Hello, Alfred. Look, I have to apologize-”
“I don’t like that our phone conversations have to start this way, Arthur.”
There’s a pause, and then a nervous laugh, and Arthur continues, “Yes, there does seem to be a pattern forming… But this time you may not be so pleased with me.”
“Oh?” Alfred hastily sits on the little stool and bites his lip, wondering what on earth could displease him about Arthur. Seriously.
“Yes. It looks as though I’m going to have to cancel on you tonight. I’ve done everything I could to keep from it, but one of my friends has just had a nasty shock, and unfortunately I’m the only person in town that can babysit him.”
“… What?”
Arthur sighs. “I know. It’s dreadful timing, and, believe me, I’m not happy about it either. Apparently Francis has been chasing after the ‘love of his life’ for some weeks now, and today he’s found out that the man is completely straight. He’s not taking it well at all.”
Alfred’s first thought is ouch, but then he realizes who they’re talking about here, and a sudden, surprising wave of jealousy has him blurting out, “Francis? But you hate his guts!”
“Well, of course, but that doesn’t stop him being my friend.”
“Actually, normally, yeah, it sorta would.”
“Alfred,” Arthur says as though he’s addressing a five-year-old, and, to his immense surprise, the sound of it actually grates on his nerves a little. “It’s complicated. I’ve known Francis a long time, and, despite the way we treat each other under normal circumstances, we’ve sort of looked out for one another from the start, if not begrudgingly. He’d do the same for me, as much as I hate to admit it.”
This doesn’t do much to alleviate Alfred’s aggravation, but he keeps it in check. Arthur’s journal never had anything but negative things to say about Francis, so any sort of actual friendship between them just does not compute to him… but whatever.
“Anyway, the fact of the matter is that I do still want to have dinner another time, if you’re willing…”
Alfred shakes off his frustration and does his best to brighten his voice back up to normal as he replies, “Oh yeah, definitely. Is tomorrow cool, or will Frankie be done with his pity party by then?”
“That wasn’t very nice,” Arthur says reproachfully, though the fact that he has to stifle a laugh before he says it sort of lessens the effect. “No, I doubt he’ll be anything more than a worthless, blubbering lump of French melodrama on my sofa for the next few days. Next weekend would probably be best.”
Something seems familiar about next weekend, like, recently familiar (as opposed to four-years-ago-familiar), but whoever had invited Alfred to anything next weekend can just deal. Arthur takes precedence, no question. But then he realizes that they’re talking another week of waiting… It seems like forever, but before Alfred can start mentally whining about it, he remembers that he was once prepared to spend the rest of his life without ever having met the man, and seven days starts to look like less of an eternity.
“Sure,” he says, and suddenly, he remembers what’s going on next weekend. He quickly adds, “But I’m gonna make special plans this time, so no cancelling on me again, okay?”
“Oh, really now? And what exactly does that entail?”
“Allll… Come onnnnnnn,” Matthew suddenly whines outside the stall, but Alfred ignores him and digs his heel into one of the size 13 Converse (Hey, those are mine!) sticking in under the curtain. “Ow! Damnit, Al!”
“Huh-uh. You’ll just have to wait and see…”
The week has passed uneventfully, and somehow, by some miracle, Alfred has now survived an entire fifteen days without a single glimpse of Arthur. By Wednesday he’d read the journal four times, and on Friday he’d even gotten halfway through The Silmarillion before giving up to go back and read the journal again, but, all in all, it’s been mostly bearable.
But today is Saturday, finally finally Saturday, and as soon as Arthur (gorgeous in his plum-colored shirt, striped tie, slim grey trousers, and cardigan folded over one arm) climbs into his passenger seat, smiles, and says, “So what’s this about ‘special plans’?” the two weeks of waiting suddenly seems like an adequate price to pay.
The ride over to their mystery destination (since Alfred refuses to tell) is mostly uneventful, aside from Alfred trying not to be obvious about starting at Arthur out of the corner of his eye (but fifteen days-come on!) and the two of them catching up on the last few days since they spoke. Apparently Francis has decided to continue gracing the world with his presence and will not be slashing his wrists in grief anytime soon (“Though we can still hope,” Arthur adds), Arthur’s Premier League team had done well last weekend, and he’s finally taken Alfred’s advice and talked to his brother James.
“How did that go?” Alfred asks interestedly.
“Not bad, considering. He only called me ‘runt,’ which is outright sweet for him.”
“Uh… What does he normally call you?”
“Let’s just say it rhymes with ‘runt.’”
“Ah.”
Neither says much more after that, but it’s only a moment or two later that they pull up in front of a small, old theatre with a few couples milling around under the lit-up marquee.
Arthur leans down in his seat to get a look at what’s playing, his breath fogging the window as he reads aloud, “Kiss Me, Kate?” He turns around slowly, revealing a seemingly stunned look on his face, and Alfred freezes, terrified that he’s made some sort of mistake.
“Yeah. The, um, musical?” he offers. “It’s really a nice little place. They do dinner before the show, and I know one of the girls in it-”
“Alfred,” Arthur cuts him off, eyes narrowing in suspicion.
Oh God, he’s blown it.
“Yeah?” he nearly squeaks.
“Who’ve you been speaking to about me?”
Huh?
“I don’t-I haven’t-well, my brother, but-”
“No, I don’t know him,” Arthur interrupts again, dismissing the conversational Matthew with a wave of his hand before continuing, “Who told you that I absolutely adore this musical?”
Panicked, Alfred frantically tries to remember if he’d read that somewhere in the journal, but he’s almost certain that Arthur had never mentioned it… After all, when he’d called and reserved the tickets, he’d had no idea if Arthur would like his selection. He thought he probably would, but he wasn’t sure…
Then he sees the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of Arthur’s mouth, and Alfred realizes that he has just unknowingly done really, really well.
“Seriously?” he asks.
Arthur smiles.
On the way in, they have a short non-verbal disagreement about who’s going to open the door for whom, but Arthur concedes with an affectionate, sighed idiot and lets Alfred usher him in with all the gentlemanly charm he can muster. Their table is just barely big enough for two place settings, and, as they find when they sit down, their chairs are crammed together close enough that the sides of their legs bump under the table.
“Cozy,” Alfred observes, and Arthur nods.
“Rather. Although I’m certain that was a complete accident, hm? Not pre-arranged or anything…”
Alfred gives him a sly grin.
“Oh yeah, absolutely.”
Dinner is delicious, the performance is engaging (though the way Lois/Bianca occasionally winks at Alfred from the stage is a bit embarrassing-he’s pretty sure he made it clear to Angie that he wasn’t interested), and as they make their way up the sidewalk to Arthur’s front door, Alfred decides that tonight has been damn-near perfect.
Arthur stops at the top step, turning back towards him, and Alfred pauses a step below, unsure of how to react.
“Well,” Arthur says, messing with the keys in his hand and staring somewhere in the vicinity of Alfred’s left shoulder, “thank you for dinner, the show, all of that… It was brilliant.”
“Yeah. That actually turned out better than I’d hoped.”
Arthur smiles, meeting his eyes for just a second before looking away again, and Alfred’s breath catches. They’re closer than he’d realized.
“Now it looks as though I’ve got a lot to live up to, since next time will have to be my treat.”
Next time, as in another date… There’s a flutter in Alfred’s chest, and he suddenly feels a little lighter on his feet, a little taller than he really is. He hadn’t lied when he said this evening had gone better than he’d imagined; if anything, he’d understated the facts. He never could have dreamed of things going this well, not in a million-
It’s not until Arthur’s already pulled away and staring at him expectantly that Alfred registers the breath of air at the side of his nose, the tickle of coarse blond hair against his cheek, the brush of a warm mouth over his own.
Arthur kissed him.
Arthur kissed him.
And he totally missed it.
One rather large eyebrow lifts questioningly as Alfred stands there gaping, mentally swearing at himself, and refraining from a spontaneous, celebratory jig of triumph all at once, and when he finally works out that he’s got a tongue, vocal cords, voice, and a brain to make them all work together, the only thing that comes out of his mouth is, “Um, can I have a redo?”
Arthur rolls his eyes, mutters, “Oh, I suppose,” as though it’s such a bother, and fixes that half-smirk on him.
This time, Alfred’s ready.
His heart is pounding in his chest, and he’s wondering if he won’t wind up passing out over this, but he’s ready. He starts to lift up on his tiptoes to make up for the few inches Arthur’s got on him thanks to the stairs, but Arthur bends down to meet him halfway and presses their lips soundly together. It’s not particularly gentle or soft or even sweet, but it’s Arthur that’s kissing him, and Alfred feels distinctly weak at the knees thinking of just how right it is.
It’s over all too soon, and Alfred gets the feeling that he’s not the only one wishing it’d go on just a little longer as they pull apart. But for some reason, neither makes a move to bring them back together… although that could possibly have something to do with the way Alfred suddenly wobbles and has to move one foot to the step below to steady himself. (Smooth.)
Arthur doesn’t seem to notice, though, and is instead staring hard at Alfred, like he’s having some quick but intense mental debate-but then the look disappears, and he smiles again.
“Remind me to never cancel on you again,” he says, and Alfred’s urge to dance comes back with a vengeance.
They exchange brief good nights, Alfred works up the nerve to peck Arthur on the cheek before he slips inside, and, as he practically floats back down the sidewalk to his jeep, Alfred realizes that he’d only been halfway right earlier.
Now tonight has been perfect.
A/N: This chapter… it’s given me plenty of issues. The flow still sort of bugs me, but after scrapping the whole thing and starting over about twelve times, I’ve decided that this is as good as it’s gonna get. Sorry for any mediocrity. And the wait. /holds out wrist for slapping
In other news, Al’s got big feet. Who’s surprised?
Kiss Me, Kate is a play-within-a-play based on Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew. My (remarkably non-cultured) husband surprised me once by taking me to see it while we were dating, and, hey-it worked for him. Why not Al? ^_^
(I can’t guarantee that you won’t see any more of my own personal experiences in this in the future. >_>)
Also, Angie is Seychelles, who seems to think that “her only abilities are to sing, dance, and make souvenirs,” according to the Hetalia wiki. I therefore thought it fitting that she’d be in a musical.