[Fanfic] Marry Me

[twhitesakura]

Title: Marry Me
Author: twhitesakura 
Recipient: smrtypantz 
Genre: Romance/Humor
Pairings: US/UK, France/Hungary, Hungary/Austria
Rating: PG-13
Summary: AU. Arthur is a foreigner in New York City who’s student visa is about to expire. The only solution to deportation? To marry an American.
Notes: Prompt was England proposing to America. RL or AU. Thanks to Yele for the beta.

It was a Friday night, a slow night at Antonio’s Café, and the last customer of the day had already left with a café con leche. The lights had been dimmed down and the wall murals depicting an idealized life in El Barrio, dancers in sweeping flamenco style, were washed out of their vibrant reds and blacks. In that small space filled with the lingering scent of old coffee grounds, two men were having a discussion: a Spaniard in an apron and a slighter man with a dish rag in his hand.

“It’s not that I don’t want to take you on full time,” the Spanish man said. He wiped his hands on his apron nervously. “But we’re barely making ends meet.”

“Antonio, you’re telling me there’s nothing I can do.”

Antonio paused to look away from his companion. He cast his eyes across the empty tables and chairs, which should have been brimming with yuppies off from work and students hung over from a wild night out, but there was no one.

“Even if I could manage to take you on full time during the recession,” Antonio finally said, “I would have trouble applying for a visa for you. The US government wants specialized workers from foreign places.”

Antonio looked up with a wretched, defeated smile.

“I don’t know if they’ll go for a waiter. I’m sorry, Arthur.”

Saturday. Arthur Kirkland stood by the bridge railing with his feet between the gaps. The winter breeze from the East River was nice, blowing against his long overcoat. He was not alone. He had graduated a year early, but most of his friends were still international students at New York University. They were roaming the Brooklyn Bridge together, celebrating the end of finals. But for Arthur it was only a few months before his student visa expired. Then he would be deported.

“What’s the matter, mon ami?” Francis asked and slung his arm around the shorter Englishman. He ruffled the dirty blond hair affectionately and Arthur glared at him. He had met the Frenchman freshman year. Despite an instant dislike of the tall figure and begrudgingly handsome face and curls, the man still managed to stubbornly wear Arthur down until they were mostly friendly, although occasionally argumentative friends.

“I have to go back to London soon,” Arthur sighed as the rest of their group traveled on unaware, marveling at skyscrapers and the occasional barge. “Although I graduated summa cum laude and could outwit even a frog at Literature, it looks like no one who could hire me and give me a visa is impressed.”

“I’m sorry.” Francis drew back and his playful face suddenly took on a pinched look. A few seconds later, a very familiar mischievous expression, which had caused Arthur plenty of trouble, took its place.

“Why not just get married to an American?”

It was a few weeks after Arthur’s talk with Francis on the bridge and they were meeting at an upscale coffee bar on the Upper East Side. Francis had a surprise, or so he said, when he ushered Arthur into the modernist space, with metal chairs and tables and copies of abstract paintings on its walls. There was a man sitting at a table in front of a copy of a Mondrian. They took the chairs next to him.

“Here’s the one, Arthur,” Francis gestured across the table.

“I’m Al,” The man coughed nervously and held out his hand. Arthur did not shake it.

Alfred F. Jones was a sloppy boy in a grimy sweatshirt, shoes that looked at if they were taped together and even his hair was disheveled, with a flyaway sticking annoyingly from his forehead. It appeared to defy gravity. He slouched in his seat like an ape and his hands were dirty, unlike the pristine lines, walls and floors, of the expensive upscale coffee bar in which they sat.

Arthur turned to his side.

“Is this the best you can do, Francis Bonnefoy?” He hissed in a low voice.

Francis shrugged and stirred his coffee. “My sociology classmate is willing to do it, for a nominal sum and a romantic request.”

Arthur’s eyebrows knitted while Alfred watched their hushed exchange with fascination.

“Man your eyebrows are huge!” Alfred finally exclaimed, leaning across the table to get a better look at Arthur’s face. He adjusted his glasses.

“Is he blind as well as daft?” Arthur hissed again at Francis, but Francis was absorbed in winking flirtatiously at the coffee bar’s hostess who giggled and went to the counter to get him a free refill. It explained how a poor graduate student could indulge so often at what Francis called his favorite spot.

Arthur grumbled to himself, rose abruptly and shoved his chair backwards, making it screech against the well-polished floor. A few snooty patrons shot sneers his way as he walked around the table to stand in front of Alfred. He glared. Then got down on one knee.

“Alfred F. Jones, will you marry me?”

Moving had taken all but five days. Luckily, Alfred’s messiness had driven out his former roommate, a Canadian named Matthew. Arthur was now condemned to a hellish place with mildewed showers, unwashed pots and pans and a sofa that sagged to the left. Their official marriage license was buried under Styrofoam cups on the coffee table. Their trip to Massachusetts, where gay marriage was allowed, had only taken three hours.

Arthur sighed to himself as he dug through the trash and got it out. He’d hide it in the sock drawer of their shared bedroom. It was a one-bedroom apartment and the fold-out couch, which seemed on the verge of collapse, was out of the question for Arthur and probably another factor in Matthew’s hasty retreat. Alfred slept on the bed. Arthur slept on the floor.

There was trash in the den and Arthur began gathering that up into the garbage bag when the bathroom door abruptly banged open.

“Sorry about the mess,” Alfred said sheepishly, coming out from the shower.

Arthur was ambushed, molested by the sight of everything but a tiny towel and to his mortification found the vast expanse of naked golden skin strangely intriguing.

Alfred shook his hair. His Wet. Somehow Attractive. Disheveled. Hair.

Arthur abruptly turned around and hid his blushing face.

“Good god! Put some clothes on man!”

“Why?”

Even though he could not see it, Arthur could somehow feel the lazy American shrug in Alfred’s words.

“Because it’s indecent!” Arthur exclaimed aloud while he wondered how wet disheveled hair was somehow different to Alfred’s regular untidy mop, which he found absolutely disgus---.

“It’s not like I’m turning you on, right?”

Arthur’s brain broke and what resulted was a silence in which only he could hear its cogs grinding to an embarrassingly improbable halt.

Alfred blinked.

“Oooh. You’re really --” Alfred broke off. “I thought it was because Francis said he didn’t know a girl that would touch you with a ten-foot pole after you threw up on Elizaveta from Anthropology when you were drunk that one time.”

Arthur’s mortification was complete.

Alfred laughed and walked toward him, his steps like a lumbering giant’s until shivers ran up and down Arthur’s back at the boy’s proximity.

“Don’t be so tense,” Alfred said brightly and then gingerly hugged him from the back, as if he were soothing a startled animal. His voice dipped low. “Everything will be okay, Artie.”

Arthur froze for a moment, but just as he was about to throw back a retort, the arms left him and Arthur shrugged his shoulders as if getting rid of an itch. The sensation didn’t go away, so he tried again and again until a shout broke through his obsessive compulsive actions.

“I’ll bring back dinner!” Alfred called from their apartment door, his favorite bomber jacket hanging over one shoulder. He had forgotten to pay the gas bill, rendering the stove useless, and they were having Chinese takeout again.

“Don’t forget the toilet paper!” Arthur hollered at the closing door, then went over to the sofa to slump down in its incline.

When had the boy gotten dressed?

“Hi Arthur!” Elizaveta waved brightly from the upscale café.

Arthur groaned, seeing her with Francis at their designated weekly meeting spot. His French friend was playing relationship counselor and making sure he and Alfred were getting along and more importantly, getting to know each other well enough so that the immigration officials wouldn’t find anything amiss when he went with his spouse to get his green card. It was two days after the “Shower Incident” and Arthur was determined that Francis should get no wind of it, self-professed guru of love or not.

“Hello, Elizaveta,” Arthur greeted kindly and nodded his head, not letting his thoughts show. To Francis he shot a glare.

“How’s the love life?” Francis greeted him with a smirk. “Has true love blossomed?”

Elizaveta giggled.

Arthur had no idea why Elizaveta was now dating someone like Francis, but he did note with some satisfaction that the bar’s hostess was growing a veritable thundercloud over her head. There were also some unsavory things going into Francis’ cappuccino behind the counter.

“It’s been swimmingly well,” Arthur sniffed while Elizaveta seemed more than interested in the going-ons of men in the love that dares not speak its name.

Francis diverted her attention by running a hand up her thigh. Arthur could tell because Elizaveta abruptly started making shooing motions with her hands.

“What’s Alfred’s favorite color?” Francis said to Arthur while he nuzzled playfully at her protesting palms.

Arthur smirked and opened his mouth when he realized he did not know, but at that moment, the hostess walked over and spilled the cappuccino in Francis’ lap. Apparently, he deserved worse than a hot drink crammed with salt and maple syrup.

“Oh, so sorry,” the hostess cried, then slammed the cup on the table in front of Francis’s face. The ceramic cup was chipped from the force of her blow. She turned to Elizaveta with a smile, and handed her the red velvet cupcake she had ordered.

A second later, Elizaveta shrieked, dialing an emergency number while trying to fan Francis at the same time. Arthur tried to help her while staring dazedly at the cupcake.

He tried vainly not to think about just desserts.

“My favorite color?” Alfred mumbled around his popcorn the following Saturday morning in their apartment. He was watching Star Trek and Arthur had begrudgingly joined him on their new sofa, which Elizaveta and the rest of their friends had gifted to the newlyweds. It had taken three weeks to ship and although Arthur had pried, the bottom did not come off to reveal a magical fold-out mattress.

“Is it blue?” Arthur asked. They had gotten more comfortable in the apartment with each other, but that was normal, sharing the bathroom and dinning utensils. Now they were sharing favorite movies and shows and at this close range, Arthur could indeed see Alfred’s eyes were a dark blue. It was a very pretty shade from this angle.

Alfred turned until Arthur was no longer seeing the edges of his iris but his full gaze instead.

“Green.” Alfred said simply, only he said it in such a serious way, it made Arthur want to say something in return. Alfred looked back toward the screen and laughed. He made a “V” with his right hand and greeted Spock on the television screen with the traditional Vulcan salute.

Arthur looked down at his own hands. He had clasped them together and they were shaking.

It was lunchtime at the hospital where Francis was staying after the incident at the coffee bar and Arthur was helping Francis by spooning him a piece of Jell-O. As often was the case, their talk turned to Arthur’s sham marriage.

“It’s a bad idea,” Arthur said to Francis as he dug into the Jell-O.

“Ahnn~” Francis meowed piteously until Arthur fed him.

Francis swallowed.

“Starting to find him agreeable?” Francis smirked.

“No! I-” Arthur fumed. “Wait a moment, there’s nothing wrong with your hands. Why am I feeding you?!”

A week later, Arthur and Alfred were curled up on the couch in their apartment and Arthur began his nightly questioning. With only a month left until his official immigration meeting, Arthur had to make sure the immigration officials would see that Alfred was familiar with his husband.

Alfred kept his eyes resolutely on the television screen as he answered Arthur’s prods.

“You like red tea. Your favorite soccer team is Manchester United. You hate basketball. You have a nervous habit of clasping your hands or tugging at your fingers. You hate cologne and you smell simple, like soap and yourself. Is that it?” Alfred said, curling deeper into the couch.

Alfred was wearing a loose t-shirt for pajamas and had a throw pillow clutched protectively across his chest. They were watching a comedy, but Alfred wasn’t laughing.

A dreary Sunday afternoon. Arthur was meeting Elizaveta over tea in a small cozy restaurant which served dumplings and egg tarts. Arthur was feeling contrite, putting so much pressure on Alfred, but he knew things that Arthur had never taught him, like Arthur’s favorite song, his habits, and even his smell. He explained this to Elizaveta.

“I didn’t tell him any of that,” Arthur said.

“He knows you pretty well, maybe too well,” she replied.

There was a brief awkward silence.

“How’s Francis?” Arthur asked.

“He’s doing fine, although he’s lost his favorite coffee bar. I’m dating Roderich now.”

Arthur looked up from his cup of tea, where he was peering at the leaves. Someone told him once that you could read the future in tea leaves. He wished things made sense again.

“The shy music student who plays piano?”

“He’s liked me for three years and I never knew,” Elizaveta looked out at the street. People were bundled, faces hidden, hurrying by through the snow flurries and the only color was her own window reflection, her vibrant auburn hair and Arthur’s concentrated face.

“He gave me my favorite orchids on our first date,” Elizaveta said calmly. “No one else ever did. They only gave me roses.”

Sterile, almost like a doctor’s office. That was what the room felt like to Arthur. White walls, white floor, so it was a shock when the immigration officer came in with a black suit. Arthur squirmed delicately in his chair, a plastic hard-edged thing. He was wearing a conservatively cut suit that his father had given him on Christmas many years ago and Alfred’s hair was combed nicely for once. He didn’t have on a coat, but a neatly pressed dress shirt and slacks that were perfectly creased. The sight somehow made Arthur more uncomfortable than anything else.

“Ah, Mr. Jones and Mr. Jones,” the man quipped as if he found something particularly humorous and held out his hand.

Alfred smiled brightly and shook it warmly while Arthur took it more gingerly, fearing his sweaty palms might give him away.

“No need to be nervous, Mr. Jones,” the man said and it took a moment before Arthur realized he meant him and to smile back. The man riffled through some of his papers on a desk. “Please sit down. We’re just going through procedure, a few simple questions. I see you were married not too long before your current visa expiration.”

Alfred smiled and looked at Arthur lovingly.

“It was either get hitched or he’d move across the Atlantic.”

“Ah, a Londoner?” The man riffled through his stack for a specific file.

Arthur nodded, hoping his precarious smile would somehow stay pasted on instead of slip.

Alfred reached across his seat and laid his hand across Arthur’s.

Arthur let out a breath and sank into his seat as if they were on the couch again and Alfred had touched him while trying to get to their shared bowl of popcorn. During a few thriller movies, Arthur had “accidentally” done the same when Alfred had been ready to jump up out of fright. They shared a look of understanding and did not see the man smile at them from behind his desk.

The man lay down his papers and put his elbows on the table to thread his fingers together.

“So how did you two meet?”

“At school,” Alfred and Arthur both answered at the same time.

“He was a Literature student,” Alfred continued. “He was studying myths and I first saw him at the library, buried under a mountain of books. Everyone else was using their laptops but he was there, all alone in the middle of one of those wide lonely library tables. I was across the room, trying to borrow something and it was taking me a long time to do so because of the long line.”

Arthur held his breath. He had remembered doing that research for his master’s thesis, growing tired at inaccurate entries in the school database and wanting to feel the physical musk of old pages under his fingers.

“I kept seeing him disappear into the aisles, behind shelves to get more, and piling his stacks of books higher and higher until one tower finally teetered. I ran out of line and helped him out of the way before it could fall on his head.”

“And he thanked you?” The man behind the desk encouraged. He had wrinkles around his eyes, laugh lines, and Arthur thought the care behind his words could be genuine.

“Nope!” Alfred laughed. It was a big laugh that shook his whole body. “I was glared at, yelled at, called a git and told to leave. Plus, I later learned he was dating Francis at the time.”

Arthur remembered, but only vaguely. He had been behind on his paper, the deadline was looming and pressure had made him testy and irritable. He only remembered a blurry face that he had shouted at, when he realized one of his schoolmates had unbalanced one of his stacks.

“It wasn’t serious!” Arthur blurted out then abruptly covered his mouth. He drew his hands slowly down and stared at Alfred. “I was just starting to come out to myself and I trusted Francis. It wasn’t that I loved him. Not in that way.”

The man coughed.

“I’m sorry to have brought up old history. I’m sure you got to know each other better after that.”

“That’s right!” Alfred beamed, breaking his and Arthur’s locked gazes. “He’s a neat freak and knows way too much about mythical beasts alike griffiths. He hates runny eggs, is picky about his tea and he snores, a lot!”

“Hey!”

“But I still love him,” Alfred finished.

The man chuckled and abruptly shoved his papers into a clear folder. He rose; Alfred and then Arthur did so belatedly. The man stuck out his hand and took Alfred’s hand. He was wearing a wedding ring.

“I hope you do, for a long time.”

They got two hot dogs from a vendor on the curb after leaving the federal building and headed across the street to a park and some benches where they could sit and chow down. Arthur had not eaten anything for breakfast due to nerves and Alfred had surprisingly taken nothing but a mug of strong coffee, although his plate was normally piled high with pancakes, eggs and bacon.

“You spoke really well in there,” Arthur said once half his hot dog was consumed. He had ketchup and sauerkraut on it. He didn’t like mustard. He looked over and realized Alfred had used the same relishes.

“Thanks.”

“Did you mean what you said back there?” Arthur said, then took a breath. “Do you really love me?”

Alfred shrugged.

Arthur stood up.

“Wait one moment.”

He dashed down the block and discarded his hot dog into the lone trash can, then came back.

“Alfred F. Jones!” Arthur shouted. “Your favorite color is green! Your favorite basketball group is the Knicks! You kick in your sleep! You smell like sweat and oil only because you like fixing old cars and running around like an idiot to get in shape at 5 o’clock in the morning when you think I’m still asleep! You make the perfect pancakes and tea just the way I like it, even though you only drink coffee! When I moved in, you bought an azalea because you felt it would make our place homier, and didn’t mention it was because my mum planted azaleas in our garden before she passed away last year!”

Alfred stood up and dropped his hot dog where he stood. A passerby glared at his littering, but Alfred only had eyes for one person.

“Hey,” he reached out to Arthur, wiping his cheeks as if comforting a child. “Don’t cry. You don’t have to do this.”

“And you,” Arthur sniffled into Alfred’s shoulder, “are an idiot. Because I like you. Casarte con me.”

Alfred blinked and pulled Arthur back until he was at arm’s length.

“Do you realize what you just tried to ask?”

“I asked you to date me,” Arthur sniffled, eyes wide. “I learned Spanish from customers while working at Antonio’s the last six months. Did I say it wrong?”

Alfred laughed and smiled.

“No! Not wrong at all!” He laughed anew, took Arthur back in his arms and began to twirl his protesting form in the snow.

Arthur made one more futile shove when he realized the wetness on his face was from Alfred’s happy tears and not from the falling snowflakes.

“No. Not at all,” Alfred whispered again.

Arthur tilted his head up and kissed him.

Epilogue

In a dimly lit café on Friday.

“They’re in love, Antonio.”

“Are you sure, Francis?”

“As sure as ‘Let’s get married’ are the most beautiful words in the whole world.”

“One day, you’ll find the perfect one to say ‘Te casarías conmigo’ to.”

“It sure isn’t Elizaveta or the hostess. By the way, your coffee tastes like shit.”

A flying dish rag flew into Francis’ face.