[fanfic] Meant to Be 6
Fanfiction: Meant to Be - Chapter 6
Author: 9mm_meg
Characters/Pairings: USUK
Rating: M overall, R this chapter
Warnings: language, intense making out and things that go with it
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: Alright. This is late. I know. Like, twice-as-long late. I’M SORRY.
Also, I’ve got good news, and I’ve got bad news. We’ll go bad news first ‘cause I like to end it on a high note. Just how I roll.
BAD NEWS: I do a whole lot of writing at work, and apparently, I didn’t realize just how much. A lot of this chapter happened on my iPad during my lunch breaks, but I can’t really guarantee that will work all the time. And the thing is, if I can’t write at work, it takes me waaaaay longer, and as it’s officially no longer appropriate for me to work on this particular story at work, future chapters are probably gonna take longer.
GOOD NEWS: It’s officially no longer appropriate for me to work on this particular story at work.
(elbowelbowwinkwink)
In the four years after Alfred had finally come to terms with how he felt about the man he’d accidentally killed, he’d taken up quite a few hobbies in an attempt to keep his hands and mind occupied. If he wasn’t rock climbing, hacking gaming systems, modeling for an art class at his university, or any one of the dozens of other things he did outside of work and Skyping Matthew (who had moved back to Montreal once Alfred had finally started showing signs of a recovery), it was all too easy for him to fall into thoughts of how things might have been, what he could have done differently… and every time he did, it ended poorly with either a call to his brother, a long, expensive trip to the White Hart, or both.
The decision was made fairly early on that he would eventually make it over to the UK to visit Arthur’s grave, but he took his time in saving up for it and making plans, staying busy with finishing school, getting into a professional career, and, at the same time, focusing on his long series of extracurricular activities. Matthew (and the therapist he’d finally gone to talk to a few times) agreed that it was better that way, that spreading out his focus would help him keep a solid grasp on his emotional stability. So he did.
And then, once he felt he was ready, he politely ignored both of them and their emphatic suggestions to not go through with it, and took a week of vacation in February 2015.
He’d known then that it was the right thing to do, and now, two months later (actual duration-wise), he still thinks of it with a rather told-you-so sort of attitude. Of course, neither one of them could have predicted the outcome of his trip across the Atlantic (though they’d warned him of several things: nervous breakdown, suicide, transference of his emotional/romantic attentions to Rhys Kirkland as a substitute for his brother, etc), so he supposes he can’t really fault them for trying to look out for him.
But Alfred is still grateful for the opportunity to get a grip on his sanity… as well as certain other benefits from his formerly busy lifestyle.
Tonight in particular, he’s thankful for the six months of cooking lessons.
His veal Marengo is simmering away on the stove (after a trip to the grocery store that left his wallet considerably lighter), a bowl of sliced strawberries coated in sugar and white balsamic vinegar is chilling in the fridge, and he’s chopping up a handful of arugula for the salad, wondering how he ever lived with such a crappy chef’s knife. Arthur’s due to arrive in about-he pulls his phone out to check the time-five minutes, so he’s doing good schedule-wise… and oh hey, look. He’s got emails.
The first is a Facebook message from Elizabeta (In a relationship, huh? Am I invited this time?), and he deletes it with a shudder and a distinct lack of reply before moving onto the next. It’s from his English professor, and, as he skims over it for potentially important information, a few key words pop out at him. Disappointed and very are a couple, then missing assignments, failing, and no choice… Alfred suddenly feels slightly ill, and he reads through the message three more times trying to find better news that simply isn’t there. Missing assignments…? Well, there had been that one paper he’d forgotten, that’s true, and there might have been some short stories he was supposed to read, and… and… but he’s just been so distracted…
As Alfred realizes just how many calculus tests and business quizzes and homework assignments he’s failed, he begins to finally understand just how in trouble he is.
But there’s a sudden knock at the front door, so Alfred does his best to forget about it for the time being, putting his phone on silent and tossing it into his bedroom before going to answer the door… and, at the sight of Arthur, standing there with a bottle of wine and his perfect little half-grin, Alfred finds that, really, it’s not so hard to smile back convincingly.
Despite the sort of amazing way the evening has gone so far, Alfred hasn’t been able to really appreciate his successful cooking venture, the movie they popped in the DVD player, the now-empty bottle of wine on the coffee table in front of them, or even Arthur’s arm stretched over his shoulders (though he’d actually had to slump down in his seat on the couch a little to make that happen). The initial boost in his mood just from Arthur being within touching distance had lasted through the first half of dinner, but once Arthur had asked him how school was going, he’d started thinking about it again, and he hasn’t been able to shake that nagging, uncomfortable weight since.
It was supposed to be easier this time around… He’s taken the classes before, sure, but… then again, it’s been years, and he’s always been more of a cram-the-night-before-and-pass-the-test-but-not-learn-a-damn-thing kind of guy. What he really can’t understand is how he’s let it get this bad without noticing… And now he has no idea what he’s going to do to fix it. He supposes he could email the professor back and see if there’s any kind of extra credit thing he could do to help make up his grade… but what if the professor’s not feeling generous? And what about all his other classes? He’s going to have to look into those and see if he’s failing them just as badly, too…
And, God… if he fails them, he’ll have to pay for them all over again. It was hard enough making it through school the first time, and now he’s been spending all kinds of money he hadn’t spent before, taking Arthur out, buying new clothes just to impress him… not to mention the cash he wasted at 1607, just sitting there for days, drinking and waiting for Arthur to show. He hates the very idea of it, but he might even wind up having to call his father to beg-
“Something the matter?” Arthur asks quietly, and Alfred notices how tense he’s gotten, his hands clenched into fists at his sides and jaw set.
He immediately tries to loosen himself back up, shaking his head and relaxing back into Arthur’s shoulder. “Nah,” he lies. “It’s cool.”
Arthur lets it go, attention going back to the movie, and Alfred’s a little shocked to see how far they are into it. Last he remembered, they were in the central, everything-is-happy-fun-times stage of the story, and now they’re already coming up on the climax. He must have been spaced out for a good half-hour…
But he’s not going to think about it anymore, he decides, since Arthur doesn’t need to worry about any of that, so he settles in and lets the soft rise and fall of Arthur’s chest calm him. It does the trick for a few moments, but then Arthur moves around and starts combing his fingers through the hair at the back of Alfred’s head, and that does the job way better. Combined with the wine and the steady breeze from the ceiling fan, it doesn’t take long before he forgets the movie altogether and nuzzles his face into Arthur’s neck, thinking that he could probably fall asleep this way, if it weren’t for the idea of him sitting here snuggling with Arthur making him giddy.
Arthur shifts again, pressing his cheek to the top of his head and dropping his arm back to Alfred’s shoulders, and Alfred nudges his face a little further into Arthur’s collar, breathing in the smell of his aftershave and feeling the faint throb of his pulse at the tip of his nose… And then it hits him, suddenly sinking in for the first time in the two months since he’s been back.
Arthur is alive, breathing, and somehow his. He still doesn’t understand how it happened or why, but now, after those torturous years of trying to cope with what he’d done and wondering how on earth he was going to make it through the rest of his life alone… it doesn’t matter anymore, because here Arthur sits, heart beating strong and steady against his shoulder and breath stirring his hair.
Without thinking, Alfred presses his lips to Arthur’s throat, just over the pulse point, as if he’s thanking it for existing in the first place. He’s a little surprised at the way his heartbeat speeds up at the contact, Arthur’s arm tightening around him, so he does it again, and, again, there’s a little flutter in his heart rate, a squeeze of his fingers around Alfred’s bicep… so he does it once more, closing his eyes and pressing harder, parting his lips against Arthur’s neck and letting his teeth graze over the skin lightly, and this time, he feels the vibration of Arthur’s vocal cords as he quietly mutters, “Christ, Alfred,” and turns to kiss him.
It’s soft and slow and so, so good, and Alfred lets Arthur take over, content to lose himself in the feel of Arthur’s lips on his, his breath against his cheek, his fingers brushing over his jawline and pausing at a little patch of stubble he must have missed shaving that morning… And he doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this, but, as Arthur tilts his head to deepen the kiss and grabs ahold of Alfred’s useless hands to guide them to his waist, he thinks that he’d go through all of that pain and heartbreak again in a second if it meant having Arthur next to him for just a moment more.
It takes a little while for it to occur to him that he should probably be doing something besides just sitting here letting Arthur kiss the sense out of him, but once it does, he quickly lets his hands wander over Arthur’s back and sides, feeling every rib and lean muscle under his fingertips, and thoroughly enjoying the little noises Arthur makes against his mouth as he does so. It had started out soft and affectionate, but it’s rapidly turning into something more as the kisses grow more demanding and breathing becomes more difficult. As the pace picks up, Arthur suddenly moves to straddle him, and (in between thinking that his brain may actually, literally implode and noticing that same weird, almost-bitter taste on Arthur’s tongue again) Alfred vaguely wonders where this whole thing is going.
His answer comes when one of Arthur’s hands takes a detour from its previous path (up his arm, over his shoulder, across his chest, then back the way it came) and eagerly slides down his stomach, and Alfred is pretty sure he understands exactly where Arthur intends for things to go.
But what shocks him more than Arthur being so proactive in getting there, though, is a sudden revelation that leaves him more than a little dumbfounded:
He’s not ready for this.
Physically? Oh, absolutely. But mentally, emotionally-
“Shit,” he gasps as Arthur palms him through his jeans, the sensation making a very persuasive argument for just letting Arthur have what Arthur wants, but… but he just can’t… and then Arthur moves his mouth to Alfred’s neck, all lips and tongue and teeth, and he can’t help the muffled, throaty noise he lets out… so Arthur presses harder with the heel of his hand, and, good God, it’s fucking fantastic-but it’s just too soon…
The fly of his jeans is opened while he hesitates, but before Arthur can do anything else to change his mind on the subject, he rallies up what little is left of his self-control and pries his hands out of their death grip on Arthur’s hips, moving them to his shoulders and shoving him back as gently as he can. It’s apparently a little rougher and a little more abrupt than he’d meant, though, because Arthur swears and latches onto his forearms like he’ll tip backwards into the coffee table (but Heaven help him, he would never drop Arthur).
“The hell-” he starts, but Alfred cuts him off with a pleading look.
“Wait,” he breathes raggedly. “Please, just wait a sec…”
Arthur’s expression goes from angry to confused, but he doesn’t say a word, apparently waiting on Alfred to explain himself. The problem with that, of course, is how he’s going to go about doing it.
“Sorry,” he starts, easing his grasp on Arthur’s shoulders and rubbing them apologetically. “It’s just… things are moving kinda fast, y’know?”
Arthur stares, but then says quietly and in a too-level voice, “You said I had nothing to worry about… that I wasn’t putting you off or being too forward.”
“That-that was over a kiss on the cheek, Arthur!”
Alfred tries to tone down the growing tension with a nervous laugh attached, but Arthur doesn’t smile and say, Oh, you’re right, luv. Silly me. Let’s take this slow and fall in love properly. He only sits up straighter and continues in that unnerving, even tone, “What was tonight all about, then? The romantic evening in, the nice dinner, the kissing on the couch…?”
Alfred lets his hands fall to his side, trying to think of an answer. He really hadn’t thought that far ahead while making plans… “I don’t know… I just wanted to spend some time with you, I guess… I’m sorry if I-”
But Arthur cuts him off, the volume of his voice rising and his posture going even more rigid as he asks, “If you what?” and despite the dim lighting from the TV, Alfred can see his ears and cheeks going red. Shit… If Arthur had been that flustered over that stupid little peck on the cheek, he should have known that this would embarrass the hell out of him.
“Gah, I don’t know… but I’m really sorry-”
“Have I done something to offend you?”
“What?! No! You’re freaking perfect-”
“Are you just not attracted to me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! If you’d just let me expl-”
“What’s the issue, then?” Arthur demands, and it’s all Alfred can do to keep from grabbing him and shaking him in frustration.
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you!”
“Well I wish you would,” Arthur interjects.
Alfred has never ever had a negative thought about Arthur, but he’s not about to start now, so he takes a deep breath and speaks as calmly as he can.
“Look,” he starts, trying to keep his growing ang-frustration (he’s not mad, he’s not mad, he shouldn’t be mad) in check, and Arthur finally gets out of his lap to sit gingerly on the edge of the cushion beside him. “I just don’t want to rush into anything, alright? I’m sorry I didn’t figure that out sooner, and I’m sorry for leading you on or whatever, but I just don’t want to mess things up between us.”
Arthur scoffs, muttering irritably, “Yes, well, there’s no risk of that now, is there,” and crossing his arms.
Alfred ignores the sarcasm and presses on, still sort of winging it and trying to figure it out for himself as he goes. “Seriously, Arthur,” he says, gesturing for emphasis, “you have no idea how much I’d love to just… let this go where it will, but… but I’ve done that before, damnit, and it’s just… I kinda want to wait, y’know? I don’t want to make a mistake… N-not that it would necessarily be a mistake…”
The glare he receives could be a little deserved, he supposes, and he groans in frustration and cautiously rests a hand on Arthur’s knee. When he’s certain he’ll get it back in one piece, he squeezes reassuringly and continues, “I lo-like you, like, a freaking ton, alright? I like what we’ve got here. And I don’t want this to just be some… I dunno… some quick fuck on the couch. When we get to that point-not fucking on the couch, though I’d totally be up for that eventually-” Arthur glares a little harder, so Alfred moves on “-anyway, I want it to actually… well, mean something, y’know?”
He doesn’t notice his particular choice of words at first, but the way Arthur suddenly looks away, apparently finding the hand on his knee particularly interesting, draws his attention to what he said. He doesn’t know if he’s done well or messed up, though, so he keeps quiet for the moment, letting the forgotten movie’s DVD menu music loop through its cycle a few times.
Finally, Arthur puts a hand on top of his, but before Alfred can get his hopes up, his hand is delicately removed from Arthur’s leg and deposited back into his own lap. He starts to feel sick again, not because he regrets what he said (the general gist of it-he wishes he’d left out the part about the fucking on the couch), but because he doesn’t. He knows in his gut it was the right thing, but even though he listened to his conscience, it’s still turned out badly.
“I believe I understand what you’re trying to say,” Arthur says quietly, “but I would appreciate some time to think on it. It’s not something I’ve heard much of, after all.”
Alfred nods, keeping his mouth firmly shut, and Arthur nods as well, standing up slowly and straightening his shirt. He doesn’t say anything else; he only leaves a hesitant kiss on the top of Alfred’s head and finds his own way out, and as soon as the door closes behind him, Alfred immediately wishes he’d offered to drive him home, or at least walked him down to the bus stop at the corner, since he probably would have refused the ride.
It’s too late though, and he hopes intensely it’s the only thing past fixing.
A/N: What I said earlier about ending things on a high note? Yeah. Oops…?
As many of you have predicted, we are now coming out of the central, everything-is-happy-fun-times stage of the story and into the inevitable drama. I want you all to keep in the back of your mind, however, that the ending is scheduled to be a happy one. It’s just going to take some doing to get there.
Also, I meant what I said about work-appropriateness earlier, so consider yourself spoiled when I say that they’ll get over this little speed bump.
Last but most certainly not least, THANK YOU to everyone for reading and being patient with me. I love you all.
Author: 9mm_meg
Characters/Pairings: USUK
Rating: M overall, R this chapter
Warnings: language, intense making out and things that go with it
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: Alright. This is late. I know. Like, twice-as-long late. I’M SORRY.
Also, I’ve got good news, and I’ve got bad news. We’ll go bad news first ‘cause I like to end it on a high note. Just how I roll.
BAD NEWS: I do a whole lot of writing at work, and apparently, I didn’t realize just how much. A lot of this chapter happened on my iPad during my lunch breaks, but I can’t really guarantee that will work all the time. And the thing is, if I can’t write at work, it takes me waaaaay longer, and as it’s officially no longer appropriate for me to work on this particular story at work, future chapters are probably gonna take longer.
GOOD NEWS: It’s officially no longer appropriate for me to work on this particular story at work.
(elbowelbowwinkwink)
In the four years after Alfred had finally come to terms with how he felt about the man he’d accidentally killed, he’d taken up quite a few hobbies in an attempt to keep his hands and mind occupied. If he wasn’t rock climbing, hacking gaming systems, modeling for an art class at his university, or any one of the dozens of other things he did outside of work and Skyping Matthew (who had moved back to Montreal once Alfred had finally started showing signs of a recovery), it was all too easy for him to fall into thoughts of how things might have been, what he could have done differently… and every time he did, it ended poorly with either a call to his brother, a long, expensive trip to the White Hart, or both.
The decision was made fairly early on that he would eventually make it over to the UK to visit Arthur’s grave, but he took his time in saving up for it and making plans, staying busy with finishing school, getting into a professional career, and, at the same time, focusing on his long series of extracurricular activities. Matthew (and the therapist he’d finally gone to talk to a few times) agreed that it was better that way, that spreading out his focus would help him keep a solid grasp on his emotional stability. So he did.
And then, once he felt he was ready, he politely ignored both of them and their emphatic suggestions to not go through with it, and took a week of vacation in February 2015.
He’d known then that it was the right thing to do, and now, two months later (actual duration-wise), he still thinks of it with a rather told-you-so sort of attitude. Of course, neither one of them could have predicted the outcome of his trip across the Atlantic (though they’d warned him of several things: nervous breakdown, suicide, transference of his emotional/romantic attentions to Rhys Kirkland as a substitute for his brother, etc), so he supposes he can’t really fault them for trying to look out for him.
But Alfred is still grateful for the opportunity to get a grip on his sanity… as well as certain other benefits from his formerly busy lifestyle.
Tonight in particular, he’s thankful for the six months of cooking lessons.
His veal Marengo is simmering away on the stove (after a trip to the grocery store that left his wallet considerably lighter), a bowl of sliced strawberries coated in sugar and white balsamic vinegar is chilling in the fridge, and he’s chopping up a handful of arugula for the salad, wondering how he ever lived with such a crappy chef’s knife. Arthur’s due to arrive in about-he pulls his phone out to check the time-five minutes, so he’s doing good schedule-wise… and oh hey, look. He’s got emails.
The first is a Facebook message from Elizabeta (In a relationship, huh? Am I invited this time?), and he deletes it with a shudder and a distinct lack of reply before moving onto the next. It’s from his English professor, and, as he skims over it for potentially important information, a few key words pop out at him. Disappointed and very are a couple, then missing assignments, failing, and no choice… Alfred suddenly feels slightly ill, and he reads through the message three more times trying to find better news that simply isn’t there. Missing assignments…? Well, there had been that one paper he’d forgotten, that’s true, and there might have been some short stories he was supposed to read, and… and… but he’s just been so distracted…
As Alfred realizes just how many calculus tests and business quizzes and homework assignments he’s failed, he begins to finally understand just how in trouble he is.
But there’s a sudden knock at the front door, so Alfred does his best to forget about it for the time being, putting his phone on silent and tossing it into his bedroom before going to answer the door… and, at the sight of Arthur, standing there with a bottle of wine and his perfect little half-grin, Alfred finds that, really, it’s not so hard to smile back convincingly.
Despite the sort of amazing way the evening has gone so far, Alfred hasn’t been able to really appreciate his successful cooking venture, the movie they popped in the DVD player, the now-empty bottle of wine on the coffee table in front of them, or even Arthur’s arm stretched over his shoulders (though he’d actually had to slump down in his seat on the couch a little to make that happen). The initial boost in his mood just from Arthur being within touching distance had lasted through the first half of dinner, but once Arthur had asked him how school was going, he’d started thinking about it again, and he hasn’t been able to shake that nagging, uncomfortable weight since.
It was supposed to be easier this time around… He’s taken the classes before, sure, but… then again, it’s been years, and he’s always been more of a cram-the-night-before-and-pass-the-test-but-not-learn-a-damn-thing kind of guy. What he really can’t understand is how he’s let it get this bad without noticing… And now he has no idea what he’s going to do to fix it. He supposes he could email the professor back and see if there’s any kind of extra credit thing he could do to help make up his grade… but what if the professor’s not feeling generous? And what about all his other classes? He’s going to have to look into those and see if he’s failing them just as badly, too…
And, God… if he fails them, he’ll have to pay for them all over again. It was hard enough making it through school the first time, and now he’s been spending all kinds of money he hadn’t spent before, taking Arthur out, buying new clothes just to impress him… not to mention the cash he wasted at 1607, just sitting there for days, drinking and waiting for Arthur to show. He hates the very idea of it, but he might even wind up having to call his father to beg-
“Something the matter?” Arthur asks quietly, and Alfred notices how tense he’s gotten, his hands clenched into fists at his sides and jaw set.
He immediately tries to loosen himself back up, shaking his head and relaxing back into Arthur’s shoulder. “Nah,” he lies. “It’s cool.”
Arthur lets it go, attention going back to the movie, and Alfred’s a little shocked to see how far they are into it. Last he remembered, they were in the central, everything-is-happy-fun-times stage of the story, and now they’re already coming up on the climax. He must have been spaced out for a good half-hour…
But he’s not going to think about it anymore, he decides, since Arthur doesn’t need to worry about any of that, so he settles in and lets the soft rise and fall of Arthur’s chest calm him. It does the trick for a few moments, but then Arthur moves around and starts combing his fingers through the hair at the back of Alfred’s head, and that does the job way better. Combined with the wine and the steady breeze from the ceiling fan, it doesn’t take long before he forgets the movie altogether and nuzzles his face into Arthur’s neck, thinking that he could probably fall asleep this way, if it weren’t for the idea of him sitting here snuggling with Arthur making him giddy.
Arthur shifts again, pressing his cheek to the top of his head and dropping his arm back to Alfred’s shoulders, and Alfred nudges his face a little further into Arthur’s collar, breathing in the smell of his aftershave and feeling the faint throb of his pulse at the tip of his nose… And then it hits him, suddenly sinking in for the first time in the two months since he’s been back.
Arthur is alive, breathing, and somehow his. He still doesn’t understand how it happened or why, but now, after those torturous years of trying to cope with what he’d done and wondering how on earth he was going to make it through the rest of his life alone… it doesn’t matter anymore, because here Arthur sits, heart beating strong and steady against his shoulder and breath stirring his hair.
Without thinking, Alfred presses his lips to Arthur’s throat, just over the pulse point, as if he’s thanking it for existing in the first place. He’s a little surprised at the way his heartbeat speeds up at the contact, Arthur’s arm tightening around him, so he does it again, and, again, there’s a little flutter in his heart rate, a squeeze of his fingers around Alfred’s bicep… so he does it once more, closing his eyes and pressing harder, parting his lips against Arthur’s neck and letting his teeth graze over the skin lightly, and this time, he feels the vibration of Arthur’s vocal cords as he quietly mutters, “Christ, Alfred,” and turns to kiss him.
It’s soft and slow and so, so good, and Alfred lets Arthur take over, content to lose himself in the feel of Arthur’s lips on his, his breath against his cheek, his fingers brushing over his jawline and pausing at a little patch of stubble he must have missed shaving that morning… And he doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this, but, as Arthur tilts his head to deepen the kiss and grabs ahold of Alfred’s useless hands to guide them to his waist, he thinks that he’d go through all of that pain and heartbreak again in a second if it meant having Arthur next to him for just a moment more.
It takes a little while for it to occur to him that he should probably be doing something besides just sitting here letting Arthur kiss the sense out of him, but once it does, he quickly lets his hands wander over Arthur’s back and sides, feeling every rib and lean muscle under his fingertips, and thoroughly enjoying the little noises Arthur makes against his mouth as he does so. It had started out soft and affectionate, but it’s rapidly turning into something more as the kisses grow more demanding and breathing becomes more difficult. As the pace picks up, Arthur suddenly moves to straddle him, and (in between thinking that his brain may actually, literally implode and noticing that same weird, almost-bitter taste on Arthur’s tongue again) Alfred vaguely wonders where this whole thing is going.
His answer comes when one of Arthur’s hands takes a detour from its previous path (up his arm, over his shoulder, across his chest, then back the way it came) and eagerly slides down his stomach, and Alfred is pretty sure he understands exactly where Arthur intends for things to go.
But what shocks him more than Arthur being so proactive in getting there, though, is a sudden revelation that leaves him more than a little dumbfounded:
He’s not ready for this.
Physically? Oh, absolutely. But mentally, emotionally-
“Shit,” he gasps as Arthur palms him through his jeans, the sensation making a very persuasive argument for just letting Arthur have what Arthur wants, but… but he just can’t… and then Arthur moves his mouth to Alfred’s neck, all lips and tongue and teeth, and he can’t help the muffled, throaty noise he lets out… so Arthur presses harder with the heel of his hand, and, good God, it’s fucking fantastic-but it’s just too soon…
The fly of his jeans is opened while he hesitates, but before Arthur can do anything else to change his mind on the subject, he rallies up what little is left of his self-control and pries his hands out of their death grip on Arthur’s hips, moving them to his shoulders and shoving him back as gently as he can. It’s apparently a little rougher and a little more abrupt than he’d meant, though, because Arthur swears and latches onto his forearms like he’ll tip backwards into the coffee table (but Heaven help him, he would never drop Arthur).
“The hell-” he starts, but Alfred cuts him off with a pleading look.
“Wait,” he breathes raggedly. “Please, just wait a sec…”
Arthur’s expression goes from angry to confused, but he doesn’t say a word, apparently waiting on Alfred to explain himself. The problem with that, of course, is how he’s going to go about doing it.
“Sorry,” he starts, easing his grasp on Arthur’s shoulders and rubbing them apologetically. “It’s just… things are moving kinda fast, y’know?”
Arthur stares, but then says quietly and in a too-level voice, “You said I had nothing to worry about… that I wasn’t putting you off or being too forward.”
“That-that was over a kiss on the cheek, Arthur!”
Alfred tries to tone down the growing tension with a nervous laugh attached, but Arthur doesn’t smile and say, Oh, you’re right, luv. Silly me. Let’s take this slow and fall in love properly. He only sits up straighter and continues in that unnerving, even tone, “What was tonight all about, then? The romantic evening in, the nice dinner, the kissing on the couch…?”
Alfred lets his hands fall to his side, trying to think of an answer. He really hadn’t thought that far ahead while making plans… “I don’t know… I just wanted to spend some time with you, I guess… I’m sorry if I-”
But Arthur cuts him off, the volume of his voice rising and his posture going even more rigid as he asks, “If you what?” and despite the dim lighting from the TV, Alfred can see his ears and cheeks going red. Shit… If Arthur had been that flustered over that stupid little peck on the cheek, he should have known that this would embarrass the hell out of him.
“Gah, I don’t know… but I’m really sorry-”
“Have I done something to offend you?”
“What?! No! You’re freaking perfect-”
“Are you just not attracted to me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! If you’d just let me expl-”
“What’s the issue, then?” Arthur demands, and it’s all Alfred can do to keep from grabbing him and shaking him in frustration.
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you!”
“Well I wish you would,” Arthur interjects.
Alfred has never ever had a negative thought about Arthur, but he’s not about to start now, so he takes a deep breath and speaks as calmly as he can.
“Look,” he starts, trying to keep his growing ang-frustration (he’s not mad, he’s not mad, he shouldn’t be mad) in check, and Arthur finally gets out of his lap to sit gingerly on the edge of the cushion beside him. “I just don’t want to rush into anything, alright? I’m sorry I didn’t figure that out sooner, and I’m sorry for leading you on or whatever, but I just don’t want to mess things up between us.”
Arthur scoffs, muttering irritably, “Yes, well, there’s no risk of that now, is there,” and crossing his arms.
Alfred ignores the sarcasm and presses on, still sort of winging it and trying to figure it out for himself as he goes. “Seriously, Arthur,” he says, gesturing for emphasis, “you have no idea how much I’d love to just… let this go where it will, but… but I’ve done that before, damnit, and it’s just… I kinda want to wait, y’know? I don’t want to make a mistake… N-not that it would necessarily be a mistake…”
The glare he receives could be a little deserved, he supposes, and he groans in frustration and cautiously rests a hand on Arthur’s knee. When he’s certain he’ll get it back in one piece, he squeezes reassuringly and continues, “I lo-like you, like, a freaking ton, alright? I like what we’ve got here. And I don’t want this to just be some… I dunno… some quick fuck on the couch. When we get to that point-not fucking on the couch, though I’d totally be up for that eventually-” Arthur glares a little harder, so Alfred moves on “-anyway, I want it to actually… well, mean something, y’know?”
He doesn’t notice his particular choice of words at first, but the way Arthur suddenly looks away, apparently finding the hand on his knee particularly interesting, draws his attention to what he said. He doesn’t know if he’s done well or messed up, though, so he keeps quiet for the moment, letting the forgotten movie’s DVD menu music loop through its cycle a few times.
Finally, Arthur puts a hand on top of his, but before Alfred can get his hopes up, his hand is delicately removed from Arthur’s leg and deposited back into his own lap. He starts to feel sick again, not because he regrets what he said (the general gist of it-he wishes he’d left out the part about the fucking on the couch), but because he doesn’t. He knows in his gut it was the right thing, but even though he listened to his conscience, it’s still turned out badly.
“I believe I understand what you’re trying to say,” Arthur says quietly, “but I would appreciate some time to think on it. It’s not something I’ve heard much of, after all.”
Alfred nods, keeping his mouth firmly shut, and Arthur nods as well, standing up slowly and straightening his shirt. He doesn’t say anything else; he only leaves a hesitant kiss on the top of Alfred’s head and finds his own way out, and as soon as the door closes behind him, Alfred immediately wishes he’d offered to drive him home, or at least walked him down to the bus stop at the corner, since he probably would have refused the ride.
It’s too late though, and he hopes intensely it’s the only thing past fixing.
A/N: What I said earlier about ending things on a high note? Yeah. Oops…?
As many of you have predicted, we are now coming out of the central, everything-is-happy-fun-times stage of the story and into the inevitable drama. I want you all to keep in the back of your mind, however, that the ending is scheduled to be a happy one. It’s just going to take some doing to get there.
Also, I meant what I said about work-appropriateness earlier, so consider yourself spoiled when I say that they’ll get over this little speed bump.
Last but most certainly not least, THANK YOU to everyone for reading and being patient with me. I love you all.