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By the time the kettle whistles, Arthur has finished the washing up from supper. He sets the kettle on a tray already laden with cups and biscuits and carries it to the lounge, wondering what he'll find there. Since Arthur declined all help in the kitchen, his guest has been left to his own devices all this while and Arthur can only imagine what Alfred has got up to. When Alfred had shown off his new mobile earlier, he'd seemed disappointed with Arthur's lack of exuberance, so perhaps he's passing the time texting with someone of more electronically-sympathetic orientation, like Kiku.
Upon reaching the open arch into the lounge, though, he sees Alfred bent over something on the coffee table. As Alfred sits back, Arthur recognizes it as a memorabilia box. A very specific memorabilia box. He pauses in the archway, watching with a smile as Alfred takes out another item.
Then, lest Alfred turn and catch him hovering like this, Arthur gives a light cough and enters the room. Alfred glances up with a smile. "I didn't know you kept all this." He gestures expansively with the hand holding a piece of parchment to include all the things he's removed from the box, as well as the box itself.
Setting down the tray, Arthur sits beside Alfred on the sofa. He takes the parchment from Alfred and smiles in fond remembrance at the creature scratchily inked upon it. The quill had been ruined in service of this picture before Arthur had used it even once. Made from the feather of a black swan, that quill had been expensive and at the time Arthur had been angry; now, he wouldn't trade this drawing for the finest painting in the finest museum in Europe.
"Do you think it's a dog?"
He turns to see Alfred's brow knit in concentration as he peers over Arthur's shoulder at the picture. "Horse," Arthur says. "My horse."
"Really?" Alfred doesn't look entirely convinced.
Arthur smiles again. "I recall it very well."
Alfred makes a noncommital sound. Then he points at the shape next to the horse. "Tree?"
Arthur's laughter comes out a snort. "That's me."
"You?" Alfred's nose wrinkles. "Boy, I was a terrible artist, wasn't I? Even for a kid."
Keeping his opinion to himself, Arthur sets the parchment down and leans forward to pour the tea. "Why were you surprised I kept it? Do you think me so unsentimental?"
Alfred shrugs. "I thought maybe you threw out everything when I. You know." Another shrug. "Left." Despite his obvious discomfort, Alfred doesn't look away, as direct and unflinching as ever.
"Certainly not," Arthur says. Then hesitantly he asks, "Is that what you did with everything?" He hands the parchment back to Alfred and fills the other teacup. Despite the sudden and unpleasant tightness in his chest, Arthur puts on a smile and tries for lightness. "Did you chuck more than my tea into that Boston Harbour of yours?"
Alfred doesn't smile. "No. Just the tea, mostly." He doesn't elaborate on the mostly and Arthur lets it alone. He picks up the near teacup and takes a sip, even though he knows it hasn't cooled sufficiently yet.
Expression still serious, Alfred looks down at the picture in his hands. "I have good memories, you know. Of you, I mean."
On the verge of another sip, Arthur pauses. "Do you?"
"Yeah." And now Alfred grins. "A lot of them. Some of them are mixed up in my head and I get them wrong—kind of like thinking that horse was a dog, I guess. Like the other day, Matt and I were talking about when we were little and I said I remembered you breastfeeding me."
The teacup trembles in Arthur's hand, threatening to spill. He lowers it, balancing it on his thigh, using both hands to hold it steady. He can feel the heated porcelain through the fabric of his trousers, but he doesn't flinch from it.
Trading the parchment for a biscuit, Alfred goes on blithely, "Matt said that was stupid. I mean, he said it nicer than that—you know Matt. But he said guys can't do that. Breastfeed. I don't know, I guess I thought maybe it's different for us Nations?" He pops the biscuit into his mouth and glances at Arthur, who remains silent. "But yeah." Alfred swallows the biscuit. "That memory doesn't really make sense." He reaches into the box and pulls out a miniature soldier. "I like it anyhow, though."
Arthur looks at the tiny soldier in Alfred's hand. He could just let it go. He should just let it go.
But this is Alfred. Somehow should rarely has entered into it when it comes to Alfred.
"Teething."
Alfred looks up. "You weren't nursing," Arthur says. "You were teething." He forces himself not to look away.
"On you?" A chuckle rumbles up from Alfred's chest to tumble from the corners of his wide grin.
To conceal the fact that he doesn't share in the hilarity and therefore can't return the smile, Arthur raises his teacup to his lips. "Mm," he confirms from behind the cup. He takes a sip, breathes in the steam. Wonderful stuff, tea. It can always be relied upon to soothe and steady the nerves. Lowering the cup to his lap, he says lightly, conversationally, "You wouldn't take to the traditional teething aids." He even manages a smile now as he goes on diffidently, "So I let you gnaw on me." Then for good measure, he adds, "Now don't let me catch you saying I never did anything for you."
"I never say that." If possible, Alfred's grin widens as his amusement increases. The boy always did like stories featuring himself. "You let me chew on your nipple?"
"Indeed."
As Arthur raises the cup again, Alfred's hand sneaks under his arm and beneath his jacket to tweak Arthur's nipple.
Arthur manages not to gasp aloud, but he does lose his grip on the teacup. Tea splashes out in a darkening stain over the carpet.
Alfred lets out a curse as he bends down to retrieve the teacup. Arthur doesn't look at him when he straightens. "It's not broken, at least. Sorry about the carpet, though. I didn't think you'd react so hard!" In his peripheral vision, Arthur sees Alfred's lopsided grin. "I guess you'll say I wasn't thinking at all, huh?"
Arthur is keenly aware of how all his blood seems to have rushed to his face. Well, not all of it; an uncomfortable amount seems to have made its way to his cock as well. He turns his head away a little more.
"Are you really that mad?" Alfred asks, and Arthur recognizes the plaintive tone so oft heard in Alfred's childhood. "I'll get the carpet cleaned for you. Or replace it or something."
Arthur hardly hears the words; it's the tone, that damned, anxious, sincere tone that makes him turn to Alfred.
He still doesn't say anything, though, which causes Alfred to ask, "What's wrong?" Alfred grins. "That turn you on or something?"
Swallowing hard, Arthur snaps away again; the heat in his face worsens.
Alfred feels cool in contrast when he touches Arthur's face, turns Arthur towards him.
Arthur could close his eyes, but he doesn't. He lets Alfred look into them; he looks back.
Alfred's grin fades. "Oh," he says.
It's a rare thing for Alfred to use understatement, and at any other time, Arthur would comment upon it. At this moment, though, he can't say anything. He can't move. He can't even look away.
Alfred doesn't look away either. There's a hint of a smile at the edges of his mouth. His eyes stay fixed on Arthur's face as he reaches for Arthur and pinches his nipple again.
Arthur's breath hitches, his blush deepens even more. That hint on Alfred's lips blossoms into a full grin. Arthur knows he should push Alfred away.
When Alfred rubs his thumb over Arthur's nipple, flicking it through the shirt with the blunt edge of his nail, Arthur's eyes fall shut, his lips part for a harsh sigh but his jaw clenches, closing his teeth on it before it escapes entirely.
He feels Alfred's next touch from the depths of his balls to the tip of his cock, even though Alfred's hand has not moved from Arthur's nipple. Spikes of self-loathing interrupt the pleasurable sensations. A phantom image of Alfred's grin remains etched on the inside of Arthur's eyelids: he knows Alfred is just teasing. He doesn't mean this as torment; he probably doesn't mean it as anything at all. He can only imagine what he looks like to Alfred now. He'll tell Alfred to leave, he'll think of some excuse later; a bad reaction to the shepherd's pie, maybe.
Eyes still closed, Arthur starts to tell Alfred just that—and finds his words cut off by Alfred's tongue in his mouth.
Alfred seems to pull out of the kiss as soon as he starts it—but no, his mouth is still flush to Arthur's; it's just his tongue that has pulled back. Alfred's lips brush over Arthur's, shaping and reshaping the fit of the kiss. Another wet flash of tongue; and gone again. Arthur sighs into Alfred's mouth, follows his breath with the tip of his tongue, oh, licking at Alfred's teeth—
He jerks himself back. "Alfred—"
"Arthur…" Alfred takes his glasses off and reaches over to drop them on the table. He looks younger without them, his eyes wider and just as blue. "Arthur," he murmurs again, head tilting, face coming closer and closer.
They kiss with their eyes open this time. Or maybe Alfred had his eyes open before too; that would be like Alfred, wouldn't it? It's dizzying, too close to focus properly; the closeness takes his breath away, and Arthur wonders why he's never tried kissing like this before.
It must have hypnotized him, that kiss, because when it breaks Arthur finds himself turned around on the sofa. Alfred wrestles the hem of Arthur's shirt free from his waistband, pushing it up as his hand slips beneath it. Though Alfred's hand had felt cool on his face moments ago, it's warm now as it moves over Arthur's skin. Arthur's cock, sure of Alfred's destination, twitches in anticipation. Alfred kisses him again, and when he rolls Arthur's nipple with his thumb and forefinger, flesh to flesh, Arthur closes his eyes and moans into Alfred's mouth. He feels vibrations along Alfred's tongue as it twines with his, laughter or words or something else.
Other vibrations—new, familiar, his own—ripple through Arthur as Alfred's hand brushes over his cock. Arthur's protest is rendered inarticulate by Alfred's tongue. He reaches down to push Alfred away, but Alfred catches him by the wrist. His grip relaxes just enough to slide up, fingers curving, curled fingertips resting in Arthur's palm as Alfred's covers his knuckles. He holds Arthur's hand like that as he continues kissing Arthur and massaging his nipple.
Then Alfred shifts their hands into his own lap, and Arthur feels heat, the hard heat of Alfred's cock. Alfred sighs into the kiss as Arthur's fingers settle along his length; Arthur swallows that sigh and transmutes it into a deeper moan of his own.
At last Alfred lets the kiss break. He moves his mouth to Arthur's ear and breathily murmurs, "Let's go to your bed."
It's surreal. It's unreal. Arthur pulls back to see if Alfred is having him on, if this is nothing more than a joke gone too far.
Alfred's eyes are bright; bright and clear.
"Alfred…"
"Take me to bed, Arthur," Alfred says. A comely flush colors his face. He smiles. "Your bed."
Arthur fumbles for words. Failing to find any, he touches his lips to Alfred's. He feels Alfred's smile against him, and matches the curve of his own lips to Alfred's.
In the bedroom, they undress—or Arthur does; Alfred seems to have stripped off along the way. Naked, Alfred flops himself onto the bed and stretches out to watch unabashedly as Arthur removes his clothing.
The last time Alfred was in Arthur's bed, he was a child shaken by a nightmare. He doesn't seem to be shaking now. But Arthur feels like he is, himself. He doesn't want this to turn into a nightmare; he doesn't want this to be a dream. He wants—oh, he wants Alfred. But…
"Fuck."
At the softly spoken word, Arthur looks up to find Alfred gazing at him, lazily stroking his cock. The sight makes Arthur's heart skip a beat; he feels the missed heartbeat in his own cock.
Arthur joins Alfred on the bed and is immediately pushed onto his back for another kiss. The kiss after that is not for Arthur's lips but for his nipple: Alfred's tongue swirls soft wet heat 'round it, flicks across with agonizing gentleness—and then, dear God in Heaven, Alfred's teeth bite down. And tug. Arthur feels the tug in his balls; feels a thick spiral of sensation he hasn't felt in ages. Centuries.
He reaches for Alfred—but Alfred catches his hands and pins them to either side of Arthur's head.
Alfred swings his leg over, straddling Arthur without sitting as he holds Arthur's hands to the pillow. "Did you used to have this reaction when I was teething too?" He doesn't wait for the obvious answer but goes on, "Did you jack off?"
There's no note of judgment in Alfred's voice and his expression displays no more than the curious quirk of a brow, but Arthur turns his face to the side anyhow. "I didn't need to."
"It didn't make you want to come?" Then the fingers around Arthur's wrists momentarily tighten as Alfred figures it out: "You came just from that? From me playing with your nipples?" There's a tinge of incredulity to his voice.
It does sound ridiculous when said like that, Arthur must admit. The whole thing—then; now—is absurd, really, isn't it? The fury of Arthur's blush is directed entirely at himself.
"Arthur?"
Alfred deserves a truthful answer, so Arthur nods.
There's no response. Alfred is still holding his hands, still straddling him without touching. Steeling himself, Arthur looks—and is met with a grin so open, so enormous, it coaxes up one corner of Arthur's mouth even as he sighs.
"Can you still come like that?" Alfred asks.
Just because he hasn't doesn't mean he can't. "I don't know," Arthur says.
Alfred cocks his head. His smile glints blue in his eyes. "I want to try, okay?"
Arthur can't deny the thrill that rushes through him. "Yeah," he says, "all right."
With another grin, Alfred lets go and moves to stretch out beside Arthur. Even though his hands are free now, Arthur leaves them where they are. His head sinks deeper into the pillow as Alfred kisses his nipples, one after the other, a feather touch of lips. Now the tip of Alfred's tongue flicks, wet and slow, across one nipple; softly again; and again, so soft and wet and slow. Alfred's lips shift infinitesimally against Arthur's areola as he flicks, and flicks, and flicks. Fine flickerings ride Arthur's blood through his veins, his heart, his cock.
Alfred's lower lip comes off Arthur as he adjusts the angle of his head, opening his mouth wider: the flat of his tongue drags wet heat across Arthur's erect nipple.
"Ah~," Arthur sighs, as softly as fine, shivery flickerings. And, "Ohh~," he moans as Alfred bites down, tugs hard with his teeth and licks softly with his tongue at the same time. "Oh, fuck me," he breathes.
Then he moans inarticulately as Alfred lifts his head. An intense blue glitter captures Arthur's gaze. "Is that what you want?"
Aching with the loss of Alfred's mouth on him, Arthur looks into Alfred's eyes through the haze of his mounting pleasure.
"Do you want that, for me to fuck you? Or do you want this?" He rubs the pad of his thumb back and forth across Arthur's sweetly tormented nipple.
Arthur's inhale meets his exhale and he chokes on his own breath a little.
"Hey now, shh." There's a tenderness to Alfred's smile that Arthur has never quite seen before; it joins the flickerings in his cock, giving them weight, substance.
"This. This, please."
Alfred holds the gaze for another moment, his smile deepening; and then that smile goes down on Arthur's nipple again.
As Alfred tongues Arthur, he reaches up blindly to touch Arthur's lips, which are parted for heavy breaths and sighs; Alfred slips his fingers into Arthur's open mouth, and Arthur doesn't need to be told to suck on them. Arthur feels the thrum of Alfred's moan around his nipple, vibrating down to his cock; suckling Alfred's fingers, Arthur holds his breath and listens to those sweet sighs.
When Alfred moves his fingers, now slick, to toy with Arthur's neglected nipple as he continues to mouth the other, Arthur reaches down.
Quick as anything, Alfred catches his hands again, pins him down once more.
"Let me touch you." Low, raw; it's as if Arthur's very voice is naked. "Just you; just your hair." Arthur hears the undignified pleading undertone in his voice, and it makes his face color. But since it's already out there, he adds, "Please. Please, Alfred."
Hovering above him, Alfred hesitates.
Arthur looks back. He won't say please again.
He doesn't need to; wordlessly, Alfred releases him and returns to nuzzling Arthur's nipple with his tongue and lips. As Arthur pets him, Alfred starts to mouthfuck Arthur's nipple, teeth and tongue and lips and breath. Arthur's fingers tighten in Alfred's hair, the coils of pleasure tighten in his balls, tighter and harder and deeper, and Arthur arches, stretches, everything snaps and recoils and he spills out of himself, Alfred's name spilling from his lips.
Arthur keeps his eyes closed. He can't believe he just—a wave of embarrassment washes over him, strong enough to roll him onto his side.
"Arthur…"
He wonders if he can get away with feigning sleep. He wonders how he'll ever be able to look at Alfred again.
Alfred's leg brushes Arthur's thigh as Alfred climbs over him. The mattress dips as Alfred settles; soft gusts of breath tell Arthur that Alfred is lying face to face with him.
"Arthur." Softer this time.
Even though Arthur knows that Alfred knows he's not asleep, he doesn't open his eyes.
Lips, soft and warm, touch his. There's no prying, but when Arthur feels the mouth against his open, he parts his own lips to dovetail with Alfred's. Arthur inhales reassurance; breathes back into the kiss, into Alfred.
Their gazes meet when they move apart. "You—that was..." Alfred trails off.
"Awesome?" Arthur quirks his brow.
Alfred smiles. "So awesome, I can't even tell you."
Noticing the rhythmic hitch of Alfred's shoulder, Arthur glances down to see Alfred stroking himself. With a flush of guilt for not having thought to offer immediately, Arthur says, "Allow me."
But Alfred shakes his head. "It's okay." He smiles. "I'm pretty close now." Though it can't match the deep flush of his cockhead, Alfred's face colors prettily as his lashes flutter and his head tilts in an arch. With a nudge from Arthur, Alfred goes over onto his back. His hand moves faster. "Close, fuck, oh~," he moans, fist closing over his cockhead on this upstroke. "So close, so close," words and breath quickening to match his strokes, "so fucking close, fucking kiss me, Arthur—kiss me"—and Arthur does—and with an arch, with a soft cry that Arthur swallows down, Alfred comes.
Coming out of the kiss, Arthur props up. Eyes closed, Alfred lets his fingers trail through the come on his belly; his hand rests there as his breathing calms. "I'ma sleep here tonight, okay?" He sighs, sated and content, already slipping down into slumber.
Arthur gets up for a couple of flannels. He tucks one into the curled hand on Alfred's belly. Alfred's hand tightens briefly around the flannel but he makes no other move, so once Arthur is done with himself, he cleans up the slicks of come drying on Alfred's skin. Alfred mumbles something that Arthur decides to take for a "thanks," and turns onto his side.
After turning out the lights, Arthur tucks himself in. As he's drifting off, he hears a soft, sleepy but distinct, "Love you."
"Love you too, my dear Alfred. Love you too."