Kiss. It. Better.
Title: "Kiss. It. Better."
Genre: Romance/Fluff.
Word Count: 1186
Rating/Warnings: PG13 for cursing. UST. UST everywhere.
Summary: Arthur is called by Alfred in the middle of the night, asking for help. Go, go Arthur!
Written for Day 2- First Aid.
'Hello. You have reached the mobile device of Arthur Kirkland, English Gentleman. I offer you my apologies, as I cannot come to the phone at the moment. Please feel free to leave a message, and I will try to get back to you as soon as possible. Unless you are Alfred F. Jones or Francis Bonnefoy. In which case, stop calling me. Thank you.”
“Artie! Holy crap! This is freaking important man, pick up your phone! Come on!”
Arthur groaned and picked up his phone to face the glowing blue screen, which was much too bright for his liking right now. Those letters danced across the screen in an animation that 'the hero' had set for him to play each time he called, because simple text 'wasn't awesome enough'. Bollocks. It was fine the way it was.
His eyes darted to the side to catch a look at the time. It was three. Three in the bloody morning. That idiot knew very well that they had a meeting the next morning. He scoffed and slipped his phone back under the pillow. No way was he going to answer at this time of night.
Ring. Ring.
'Come on Artie! Pick up! This is serious!' A distressed American voice came from the other line.
Hah. Nope. If Alfred really needed his help, he could come over and get him himself. Their hotel rooms were right next to each other, after all. Which was a bit odd, considering how he had specifically requested to NOT be next to him. Not that he didn't love the bumbling idiot with all of his heart (You didn't hear it from him...), but Alfred was loud. Did he say loud? He meant jet engine loud. Up all hours of the night, blasting his music. It was slightly better with the sound proof walls, but he had somehow figured out a way to get his noise through them anyway.
Ring. Ring.
'The phone! The phone is ringing! Da dada daaaa! Wonder p-' Oh, that was it.
“What the bloody hell do you think you're doing, calling me at three in the morning?” Arthur snarled into the receiver. Git had absolutely NO manners. A painful whimper came from the other end.
'I'm sorry, Art... but see, I need your help.' Alfred barely muttered. If Arthur were speaking with him face to face, he was sure that the boy would have dark red cheeks. He nearly stuttered.
“Alright. Did you twist your ankle? Because that's the only reason I can think of that you wouldn't just get up and walk two feet to my room to ask me that.” Damn Americans, was this normal in his land? Calling people in the middle of the night? If so, he would have to make a point not to visit there quite so often. A high pitched whine came from the other end as he winced.
'No! But I did hurt myself...' Alfred said quickly. The Englishman paused for a moment and slowly nodded his head.
“Great, what did you do this time?” He sighed. Knowing him, he probably got stuck between the mattress and bedframe. Again.
'I-It hurts...' He whined. Arthur grumbled under his breath. That was no help at all. He quickly pushed away any and all sexual thoughts that might have popped up.
“Alfred, if you expect me to help you, you have to tell me what hurts.” He sighed, rubbing his forehead with his palm. When he was met with only silence in reply, he huffed and tried rephrasing his question. “How badly does it hurt?”
'Really, really badly!'
“Worse than a broken wrist?”
'Yes! Come on man, I'm bleeding! Help meeee!' Alfred yelled. The Englishman slowly stood up and hung up the phone. Alfred wouldn't lie about bleeding... right? Shit, what did he do?! Arthur threw on his coat and slippers before slipping on some trousers and stepping outside his room. He hesitated a moment before reaching his hand toward the knob. What if this was just some kind of trick? He quickly struck the idea of bolting down the hall and out of the hotel, though as appealing as it sounded.
Opening the door,- Really, he hadn't even bothered to lock it?- the metal smashed against something hard, which he was assuming was Alfred's suitcase.
“Alfred! Are you okay?” Arthur looked around and noticed a shivering lump on top of the bed.
“A-Artie! There you are!” Said 'lump'-Which turned out to be Alfred. Who knew?- got up and immediately threw himself upon the smaller nation. “I really, really need you to help me! I'm seriously bleeding!”
Arthur pushed him away gently. After all, he didn't want to cause more damage to this injury of his.
“Where exactly is your wound now, Alfred?”
His lower lip quivering, the American held up one finger silently. A small, barely noticeable slash graced upon his index finger.
A paper cut.
A paper cut.
“That's a bloody paper cut, idiot!” He exclaimed and wriggled out of the American's arms, ready to stomp out the door. No way was he going to stick around and help him out because of a bloody paper cut!
“Wait! Artie! Don't go, I need a band aid! Or plaster, whatever you call them! Do you have one...?” Alfred asked, giving puppy dog eyes. Oh god, not the puppy dog eyes... Arthur huffed and removed a band-aid from his jacket. It was just a paper cut. There was no need to cry and call for help. And here he was, thinking he was the hero! Tch.
Alfred whimpered as Arthur gently spread the band-aid over his cut and wrapped it around his finger with ease. God, what kind of grown man required his former guardian to apply a plaster to his own finger? After finishing wrapping it around, he stepped back. There, done and done. Now to get back to his own room and sle-
“Okay, okay, good! Now, kiss it better!” Alfred grinned, holding up his finger. Wait, what? No. No, he was just teasing. Definitely.
“Stop teasing, I need to sleep. Good night.” He turned to walk away, but was pulled back by a strong arm.
“Kiss it better!” Dear lord, he couldn't be serious.
“No, let me go!”
“Kiss. It. Better.” With every word, Alfred pushed the finger tip a bit closer to Arthur's mouth. Damn git... just get it over with. Quickly, he pressed his lips to the top of Alfred's index finger and looked away almost immediately. A light pink blush dusted his cheeks, but as long as he couldn't see, it would be fine, right?
The American beamed, and Arthur tried his best to ignore it, but just ended up struggling in his grip until he could get free and slam the door shut behind him.
Alfred was left alone in his room with a sigh. He brought the newly bandaged finger up to his lips and smiled, picking up the documents next to him.
“Thank you, Mr. Document.”
Genre: Romance/Fluff.
Word Count: 1186
Rating/Warnings: PG13 for cursing. UST. UST everywhere.
Summary: Arthur is called by Alfred in the middle of the night, asking for help. Go, go Arthur!
Written for Day 2- First Aid.
'Hello. You have reached the mobile device of Arthur Kirkland, English Gentleman. I offer you my apologies, as I cannot come to the phone at the moment. Please feel free to leave a message, and I will try to get back to you as soon as possible. Unless you are Alfred F. Jones or Francis Bonnefoy. In which case, stop calling me. Thank you.”
“Artie! Holy crap! This is freaking important man, pick up your phone! Come on!”
Arthur groaned and picked up his phone to face the glowing blue screen, which was much too bright for his liking right now. Those letters danced across the screen in an animation that 'the hero' had set for him to play each time he called, because simple text 'wasn't awesome enough'. Bollocks. It was fine the way it was.
His eyes darted to the side to catch a look at the time. It was three. Three in the bloody morning. That idiot knew very well that they had a meeting the next morning. He scoffed and slipped his phone back under the pillow. No way was he going to answer at this time of night.
Ring. Ring.
'Come on Artie! Pick up! This is serious!' A distressed American voice came from the other line.
Hah. Nope. If Alfred really needed his help, he could come over and get him himself. Their hotel rooms were right next to each other, after all. Which was a bit odd, considering how he had specifically requested to NOT be next to him. Not that he didn't love the bumbling idiot with all of his heart (You didn't hear it from him...), but Alfred was loud. Did he say loud? He meant jet engine loud. Up all hours of the night, blasting his music. It was slightly better with the sound proof walls, but he had somehow figured out a way to get his noise through them anyway.
Ring. Ring.
'The phone! The phone is ringing! Da dada daaaa! Wonder p-' Oh, that was it.
“What the bloody hell do you think you're doing, calling me at three in the morning?” Arthur snarled into the receiver. Git had absolutely NO manners. A painful whimper came from the other end.
'I'm sorry, Art... but see, I need your help.' Alfred barely muttered. If Arthur were speaking with him face to face, he was sure that the boy would have dark red cheeks. He nearly stuttered.
“Alright. Did you twist your ankle? Because that's the only reason I can think of that you wouldn't just get up and walk two feet to my room to ask me that.” Damn Americans, was this normal in his land? Calling people in the middle of the night? If so, he would have to make a point not to visit there quite so often. A high pitched whine came from the other end as he winced.
'No! But I did hurt myself...' Alfred said quickly. The Englishman paused for a moment and slowly nodded his head.
“Great, what did you do this time?” He sighed. Knowing him, he probably got stuck between the mattress and bedframe. Again.
'I-It hurts...' He whined. Arthur grumbled under his breath. That was no help at all. He quickly pushed away any and all sexual thoughts that might have popped up.
“Alfred, if you expect me to help you, you have to tell me what hurts.” He sighed, rubbing his forehead with his palm. When he was met with only silence in reply, he huffed and tried rephrasing his question. “How badly does it hurt?”
'Really, really badly!'
“Worse than a broken wrist?”
'Yes! Come on man, I'm bleeding! Help meeee!' Alfred yelled. The Englishman slowly stood up and hung up the phone. Alfred wouldn't lie about bleeding... right? Shit, what did he do?! Arthur threw on his coat and slippers before slipping on some trousers and stepping outside his room. He hesitated a moment before reaching his hand toward the knob. What if this was just some kind of trick? He quickly struck the idea of bolting down the hall and out of the hotel, though as appealing as it sounded.
Opening the door,- Really, he hadn't even bothered to lock it?- the metal smashed against something hard, which he was assuming was Alfred's suitcase.
“Alfred! Are you okay?” Arthur looked around and noticed a shivering lump on top of the bed.
“A-Artie! There you are!” Said 'lump'-Which turned out to be Alfred. Who knew?- got up and immediately threw himself upon the smaller nation. “I really, really need you to help me! I'm seriously bleeding!”
Arthur pushed him away gently. After all, he didn't want to cause more damage to this injury of his.
“Where exactly is your wound now, Alfred?”
His lower lip quivering, the American held up one finger silently. A small, barely noticeable slash graced upon his index finger.
A paper cut.
A paper cut.
“That's a bloody paper cut, idiot!” He exclaimed and wriggled out of the American's arms, ready to stomp out the door. No way was he going to stick around and help him out because of a bloody paper cut!
“Wait! Artie! Don't go, I need a band aid! Or plaster, whatever you call them! Do you have one...?” Alfred asked, giving puppy dog eyes. Oh god, not the puppy dog eyes... Arthur huffed and removed a band-aid from his jacket. It was just a paper cut. There was no need to cry and call for help. And here he was, thinking he was the hero! Tch.
Alfred whimpered as Arthur gently spread the band-aid over his cut and wrapped it around his finger with ease. God, what kind of grown man required his former guardian to apply a plaster to his own finger? After finishing wrapping it around, he stepped back. There, done and done. Now to get back to his own room and sle-
“Okay, okay, good! Now, kiss it better!” Alfred grinned, holding up his finger. Wait, what? No. No, he was just teasing. Definitely.
“Stop teasing, I need to sleep. Good night.” He turned to walk away, but was pulled back by a strong arm.
“Kiss it better!” Dear lord, he couldn't be serious.
“No, let me go!”
“Kiss. It. Better.” With every word, Alfred pushed the finger tip a bit closer to Arthur's mouth. Damn git... just get it over with. Quickly, he pressed his lips to the top of Alfred's index finger and looked away almost immediately. A light pink blush dusted his cheeks, but as long as he couldn't see, it would be fine, right?
The American beamed, and Arthur tried his best to ignore it, but just ended up struggling in his grip until he could get free and slam the door shut behind him.
Alfred was left alone in his room with a sigh. He brought the newly bandaged finger up to his lips and smiled, picking up the documents next to him.
“Thank you, Mr. Document.”