Fic: The State of Being In Love
Title: The State of Being In Love
Pairing/Characters: America/Canada.
Rating: K+
Key Words: Incest, Stream of Consciousness.
Summary: Nation!verse. Being in love is like being on a constant high, but it is a high Alfred doesn't want to come down from.
* * * * *
The State of Being In Love
* * * * *
Being in love feels like a constant high. Everything Alfred does, every sight he sees and every thought he has, it all comes back to Matt. It as though he cannot get him out of his thoughts, as though Alfred has taken the drug called love and warped his view of the world until it is divided into things that remind him of Matt and things that are inconsequential.
Being in love is like staring at the kitchen table, running his hand over its scarred wooden surface, and wondering what it would be like if that table was their table. What would life be like if he could sit there, day after day, night after night, and instead of the empty wall with the old land line he hasn’t disconnected there is Matt’s face across from him, a face that looks so much like his own and yet is so vastly different?
In the bliss that is love, Alfred believes it to be heaven.
Yet even heaven has its dangerous allure, and as Alfred tears his gaze away from the table to walk over to the fridge he imagines what it would be like to see Matt splayed across the table, face flushed and wanting, his hands grabbing Alfred’s hair as he pulled him closer for a kiss. A bold thought for a man who hasn’t even confessed his affections, but being in love is wanting to give yourself wholly and without reservation.
Alfred shakes his head, the image gone, and pulls a can of soda from the fridge only to think of what Matt’s reaction might be if he came over one afternoon to find his favorite brand tucked inside right next to the milk. Would he even notice? Would he smile, that shy half-quirk to his lips that sends a spread of warmth through Alfred’s chest and makes him want to hand over the world just to see that expression’s completion?
He doesn’t know, has never known. The list with Matt’s favorite cherry flavored cola at the very top sits in his desk, forgotten beneath a pair of hockey tickets and other missed opportunities. It is not that Alfred cannot remember his brother, but rather that the promises he makes him, even if only in secret, slip away from his mind even as he writes them down.
Now that he remembers, though, he begins to wonder, and wondering takes him down to the corner market at three in the morning during the ice cold of winter. He spends the last of his cash, there, a meager four dollars and some change, just so he can buy a case of that soda Matt so loves. Alfred gets home, shivering because in his haste he forgot his coat, only to realize the money he just spent was lunch the next day.
Whoops.
That just means he’ll have to steal from Matt’s plate again.
His never ending smile is fond as he lines the cans of soda in the fridge, one in front of the other, because in his mind he can hear the frustrated little exhale Matt makes when he sees Alfred reaching for his plate, the small sigh he gives when the relinquished food descends into the black hole otherwise known as Alfred’s stomach. Alfred cannot help but smile.
Alfred cannot help but smile because in his brother’s imagined annoyance he is beautiful. There is a fire to those twilit eyes, a wrinkle to that forehead half hidden by wheat-gold hair that brings out all of his brother’s wonderful imperfections. The scar just above one eyebrow, a testament of the sometimes dangerous mischief they got into as children, stands out a stark white line in Matt’s annoyance.
There are other things, too, like the stray few freckles perceptible only in the right lighting map out a faint constellation across his brow, and the way one of his eyebrows doesn’t quite furrow like the other. In these imperfections Alfred finds the most beauty, because in Matt’s physical flaws Alfred sees the most endearing parts of him, the parts that make him Matt and not Canada.
It is the thought of his brother and every aspect of his individuality that makes him more than a representation of his people that makes Alfred smile. His cheeks hurt from the wideness of the gesture, but he never stops smiling because being in love means being so overwhelmed with this feeling of bubbling exuberance that to not smile is to deny ever bit of himself so flooded with emotion.
Alfred wants to etch Matt’s name into the moon, burn it into the mountain side, shout it from the top of hills so that all the world can know that Alfred F. Jones wants to give all the world and himself to Matt Williams. One day, Alfred thinks as he closes the fridge, they will make a movie about his love for Matt, and it will be the movie to end all movies, the epitome of romance and love and all that is good in this world.
In the thoughts of movies Alfred finds thoughts of romance, and at four in the morning he is calling his personal assistant at her home. Yet it is not the sudden need for another jet engine that motivates him, or even a keg of beer to put in supersoakers for the best prank ever. No, what drives him to wake a woman far used to his shenanigans by now is the idea of roses.
Wild roses.
And in a few minutes, the plans are made and his grand gesture set into motion. Alfred does not call Matt, despite the three words that bubble in his throat and threaten to choke him with emotion if he doesn’t blurt them out. Instead he goes into the kitchen, makes popcorn in the microwave, and drizzles some melted caramel over it all just like Matt loves.
Then he waits.
He sits on the sofa, the phone by his side and the bowl of popcorn in his lap, and waits until the sun is high above his house and his patience for all of his and Matt’s favorite movies is exhausted. Alfred waits for that moment his brother wakes up, close to noon and still tired despite a full night’s rest, waits for the moment he slips on his glasses, looks around his room, and sees the display Alfred has ordered for him.
If he tries, he can imagine it in his head. Bouquet after bouquet of wild roses, each a wide array of colors, full and lush in their beauty. Attached to each is a large card, pinned neatly on the front of glass vases, and on each card is a word that is but one piece to a long overdue confession.
“I love you more than I have ever loved anyone before and more than I will ever love again.”
The phone rings, and he picks it up with a smile, knowing who it is without even looking at the caller I.D.
“Hey, Matt. Did you get my surprise?”
Pairing/Characters: America/Canada.
Rating: K+
Key Words: Incest, Stream of Consciousness.
Summary: Nation!verse. Being in love is like being on a constant high, but it is a high Alfred doesn't want to come down from.
* * * * *
The State of Being In Love
* * * * *
Being in love feels like a constant high. Everything Alfred does, every sight he sees and every thought he has, it all comes back to Matt. It as though he cannot get him out of his thoughts, as though Alfred has taken the drug called love and warped his view of the world until it is divided into things that remind him of Matt and things that are inconsequential.
Being in love is like staring at the kitchen table, running his hand over its scarred wooden surface, and wondering what it would be like if that table was their table. What would life be like if he could sit there, day after day, night after night, and instead of the empty wall with the old land line he hasn’t disconnected there is Matt’s face across from him, a face that looks so much like his own and yet is so vastly different?
In the bliss that is love, Alfred believes it to be heaven.
Yet even heaven has its dangerous allure, and as Alfred tears his gaze away from the table to walk over to the fridge he imagines what it would be like to see Matt splayed across the table, face flushed and wanting, his hands grabbing Alfred’s hair as he pulled him closer for a kiss. A bold thought for a man who hasn’t even confessed his affections, but being in love is wanting to give yourself wholly and without reservation.
Alfred shakes his head, the image gone, and pulls a can of soda from the fridge only to think of what Matt’s reaction might be if he came over one afternoon to find his favorite brand tucked inside right next to the milk. Would he even notice? Would he smile, that shy half-quirk to his lips that sends a spread of warmth through Alfred’s chest and makes him want to hand over the world just to see that expression’s completion?
He doesn’t know, has never known. The list with Matt’s favorite cherry flavored cola at the very top sits in his desk, forgotten beneath a pair of hockey tickets and other missed opportunities. It is not that Alfred cannot remember his brother, but rather that the promises he makes him, even if only in secret, slip away from his mind even as he writes them down.
Now that he remembers, though, he begins to wonder, and wondering takes him down to the corner market at three in the morning during the ice cold of winter. He spends the last of his cash, there, a meager four dollars and some change, just so he can buy a case of that soda Matt so loves. Alfred gets home, shivering because in his haste he forgot his coat, only to realize the money he just spent was lunch the next day.
Whoops.
That just means he’ll have to steal from Matt’s plate again.
His never ending smile is fond as he lines the cans of soda in the fridge, one in front of the other, because in his mind he can hear the frustrated little exhale Matt makes when he sees Alfred reaching for his plate, the small sigh he gives when the relinquished food descends into the black hole otherwise known as Alfred’s stomach. Alfred cannot help but smile.
Alfred cannot help but smile because in his brother’s imagined annoyance he is beautiful. There is a fire to those twilit eyes, a wrinkle to that forehead half hidden by wheat-gold hair that brings out all of his brother’s wonderful imperfections. The scar just above one eyebrow, a testament of the sometimes dangerous mischief they got into as children, stands out a stark white line in Matt’s annoyance.
There are other things, too, like the stray few freckles perceptible only in the right lighting map out a faint constellation across his brow, and the way one of his eyebrows doesn’t quite furrow like the other. In these imperfections Alfred finds the most beauty, because in Matt’s physical flaws Alfred sees the most endearing parts of him, the parts that make him Matt and not Canada.
It is the thought of his brother and every aspect of his individuality that makes him more than a representation of his people that makes Alfred smile. His cheeks hurt from the wideness of the gesture, but he never stops smiling because being in love means being so overwhelmed with this feeling of bubbling exuberance that to not smile is to deny ever bit of himself so flooded with emotion.
Alfred wants to etch Matt’s name into the moon, burn it into the mountain side, shout it from the top of hills so that all the world can know that Alfred F. Jones wants to give all the world and himself to Matt Williams. One day, Alfred thinks as he closes the fridge, they will make a movie about his love for Matt, and it will be the movie to end all movies, the epitome of romance and love and all that is good in this world.
In the thoughts of movies Alfred finds thoughts of romance, and at four in the morning he is calling his personal assistant at her home. Yet it is not the sudden need for another jet engine that motivates him, or even a keg of beer to put in supersoakers for the best prank ever. No, what drives him to wake a woman far used to his shenanigans by now is the idea of roses.
Wild roses.
And in a few minutes, the plans are made and his grand gesture set into motion. Alfred does not call Matt, despite the three words that bubble in his throat and threaten to choke him with emotion if he doesn’t blurt them out. Instead he goes into the kitchen, makes popcorn in the microwave, and drizzles some melted caramel over it all just like Matt loves.
Then he waits.
He sits on the sofa, the phone by his side and the bowl of popcorn in his lap, and waits until the sun is high above his house and his patience for all of his and Matt’s favorite movies is exhausted. Alfred waits for that moment his brother wakes up, close to noon and still tired despite a full night’s rest, waits for the moment he slips on his glasses, looks around his room, and sees the display Alfred has ordered for him.
If he tries, he can imagine it in his head. Bouquet after bouquet of wild roses, each a wide array of colors, full and lush in their beauty. Attached to each is a large card, pinned neatly on the front of glass vases, and on each card is a word that is but one piece to a long overdue confession.
“I love you more than I have ever loved anyone before and more than I will ever love again.”
The phone rings, and he picks it up with a smile, knowing who it is without even looking at the caller I.D.
“Hey, Matt. Did you get my surprise?”