Chapter Text
The bell over the door jingled softly as they entered.
It was the sort of place that Arthur liked – small, cozy, and familiar. A diner, nestled between a laundromat and a flower shop, with scuffed linoleum floors, laminated menus, and windows that were perpetually fogged to obscure the world outside. The air was heavy with coffee that had been left too long on a burner, with something fried that lingered on every wall.
Arthur glanced around quickly, then nodded toward a booth near the window, moving Alfred toward it with a hand on his arm.
“This one,” he said, already sliding into the booth himself.
Alfred followed him more slowly, his eyes scanning the booth with a sense of unease. It was a small booth, and he had to turn sideways to fit himself in, the vinyl seat squeaking loudly in protest at his weight. He felt it, of course – felt it at once, the way the table was pressed in too close, the way his stomach touched the edge of the booth before the rest of him followed. He adjusted his position without comment, shifting until he could breathe again.
Arthur noticed, of course. He always did.
He didn't say anything, just reached out and pulled the table fractionally forward, casual and efficient, like he'd done it a hundred times before. Alfred blushed anyway.
“Sorry,” he muttered, though he wasn't really sure why.
Arthur dismissed it with a hand. “You're fine. Menu's the same as always.”
It was true, but Alfred knew what he wanted anyway. He always did.
At the counter, across the diner from them, Ivan stirred his tea.
Arthur saw him half way over.
His back went stiff. His eyes narrowed, not sharply or obviously hostile, but in that brittle way that Alfred had begun to recognize.
The way Arthur got when something went outside the lines he'd drawn.
“Ivan,” Arthur said, already smiling too tightly.
Ivan stood back a proper distance from the table. He did not crowd them. Did not loom. He folded his hands loosely in front of himself and leaned forward slightly.
“England. America.”
Alfred looked up, his burger still clutched in his hand. Grease marked the wrapper beneath it. He swallowed, suddenly aware of the fullness of his own mouth, the slowness of his own movements.
“Hey,” he said.
Ivan smiled.
Not the quick, cutting smile of their meetings. Not the cold, distant smile Arthur probably expected. This one was almost... fond. The kind of smile you gave someone when you pass them on the street.
“I did not know you also came here,” Ivan said. “I come here often.”
Arthur smiled bitterly, a small sound of disdain leaving him. “Of course you do.”
Ivan’s eyes flicked to him and then back to Alfred. He saw the way his hands shook slightly as he held the burger. The way his shoulders were set, tense and alert, as though he expected to be corrected at any moment.
“How have you been?” Ivan asked him.
Alfred hesitated.
It was a small hesitation, almost imperceptible. But it was there. Enough that Ivan saw the way his eyes slid sideways, just for a second, to Arthur.
Arthur felt it like a spark in his blood.
“He’s been busy,” Arthur said quickly. “Aren’t you?”
Alfred nodded. “Yeah. Busy.”
Ivan’s smile never wavered, but there was a change in his eyes. Not suspicion, exactly. Awareness.
“You do not sound busy,” Ivan said softly. “You sound tired.”
Arthur bristled at this. “He’s fine.”
Ivan leaned forward slightly. “I did not say he was not.”
Alfred shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The table dug into his stomach again, and this time Arthur saw it right away.
“Alfred,” Arthur said softly, sharply under his breath. “Your shirt.”
Alfred blushed and fumbled, adjusting the fabric further. His hands were too large, too clumsy. He didn’t like the way it all felt, the way his body wasn’t cooperating quietly.
Arthur let out a sigh, and then immediately changed his demeanor, reaching out to correct the clothing himself. “Sorry. I just don’t want you embarrassing yourself, big guy.”
Ivan’s eyes tracked the motion.
“You are not embarrassed,” Ivan said, his voice smooth and unruffled.
Arthur had stopped moving, had frozen at Ivan’s words.
“I—what?”
Ivan directed his gaze at Alfred when he spoke, rather than Arthur. “You are uncomfortable. That is different.”
Alfred’s throat constricted. He opened his mouth, and then closed it again. His chest was too tight, the air too thick.
“I’m okay,” he said, too quickly.
Arthur smiled and squeezed his shoulder. “See? He’s okay. It's hard to keep that belly tucked in a shirt when your shirt doesn't even fit.”
Ivan didn’t immediately respond. He looked at Arthur instead. Not accusingly. Not angrily. Calculating. As if he were piecing together something that had always been there.
“You joke about his size.” Ivan said. “Is this normal?”
Arthur snorted loudly. “Oh, don’t be so serious. He knows I’m just joking.”
Ivan looked at Alfred again.
Alfred attempted to smile. It didn’t quite work.
Ivan’s gaze shifted into something colder. Something more disappointed.
“Jokes are jokes when both people find them funny,” Ivan said.
Arthur’s jaw clenched. “You’re overanalyzing this.”
“Am I?” Ivan said. His voice didn’t rise. Didn’t change. “Because he isn’t laughing.”
Arthur immediately looked at Alfred with a scrutinizing look. “He doesn't need to laugh, Ivan. I'm not being malicious, he knows that. Right, Alfred?"
Alfred's stomach twisted, feeling nausea fill him. He nodded, not even thinking.
"Yeah," he said. "It's fine, I know he's joking."
Ivan's expression didn't change, but his body language shifted. His shoulders straightened. His stance solidified.
"This is not the America I know," Ivan said.
Arthur stiffened as though he had been hit.
"Oh?" he said. "And what do you know? What's changed, Ivan, huh? Care to explain?"
Ivan didn't rise to the bait. He didn't fall into the trap.
"The America I know takes up space because he wants to," Ivan said. "Not because he is told it is acceptable."
Alfred's hands gripped the burger tightly. Grease oozed between his fingers. His hunger had disappeared.
Arthur laughed again, this time too loudly. "God, you’re unbelievable! Always projecting your nonsense onto everyone you meet!"
Ivan smiled, but this time, it was cold and harsh. He knew what Arthur was doing, and it was repulsing to see.
“You are afraid.” Ivan said in a sickly sweet tone.
Arthur's act slipped for a second.
“Excuse me?”
“You are afraid,” Ivan repeated. “And fear makes people cruel in small ways.”
Arthur stood up suddenly. “We’re done here.”
Ivan didn’t budge. “I did not come to fight.”
"No," Arthur said shakily, his eyes wide with anger. "You came to judge. To mess up a nice lunch with all this... this bullshit."
Ivan shook his head once. "I came because I saw something wrong."
Arthur’s hands were shaking now. Alfred saw it with a sickening twist of dread.
“Alfred,” Arthur said, his voice tight and gentle, “you don’t need to listen to this.”
Alfred looked at Ivan.
Ivan’s eyes locked with his, and for a moment, there was nothing in them at all. No pity, no hunger, just acknowledgment.
“You fought very hard to be independent,” Ivan said softly. “Do not forget that.”
Arthur’s hand closed over his, sounding urgent, “Let’s go.”
Alfred stood up awkwardly, his heart racing, his legs heavy and sluggish. Ivan stepped back to let him out of the booth, watching him with a careful eye.
Their eyes met for a final time.
Ivan didn’t say anything else.
He didn’t need to.
—
Arthur did not let go of Alfred’s hand until they were half a block away.
Not that he let go. More that he relaxed his grip enough to pretend that it was his idea to keep walking close. The night air was cool and sharp against Alfred’s flushed skin. His stomach was heavy and unsettled, uncomfortably empty and nauseous with stress.
Arthur interrupted the silence.
“Did you see the way he looked at your stomach?” Arthur asked suddenly, like he was stunned himself. “It was like he was counting how many pounds you put on!”
Alfred frowned, remembering Ivan's gaze. “He didn’t really—”
“He did,” Arthur said, his voice a little too sharp. He drew a breath and tried to temper his words. “I’ve known Ivan a long time, longer than you have, Alfie. He’s… not subtle. He judges. He always has.”
Alfred’s steps slowed without him even realizing it. Arthur caught the change and adjusted his own pace at once, staying just ahead of Alfred and moving him along like a current.
“He talked to me normally,” Alfred said, his voice very low. “Like he always does.”
Arthur’s chest constricted at that. The panic grew—hot, sudden. Normal. As if that were even permissible.
“That’s the thing,” Arthur said, his voice low, coaxing. “He’s manipulating you. He makes you feel comfortable so you don’t notice what he says until later.”
Alfred’s brow furrowed. He thought about that moment. Ivan’s smile. The way he’d looked at Alfred’s face, not his body. The way his voice hadn’t changed.
“I didn’t feel judged.”
Arthur stopped walking.
Alfred almost ran into him.
Arthur turned slowly. Eyes shining in the streetlight. Not angry. Not cruel. Scared. In a way that Alfred didn’t yet understand.
“You don’t always feel it right away,” Arthur said. “That’s how it works.”
Arthur stepped closer, hands landing on Alfred’s arms. His grip was possessive and tight.
“You trust me, don’t you?”
Alfred’s hesitation was tiny, but Arthur felt it like a rock in his shoe.
“Of course I do,” Alfred said finally.
Arthur’s shoulders stayed rigid, noticing the uncertainty in Alfred. He smiled stiffly.
“Good,” he said. “Because I’m the one who sees it when you don’t.”
They started walking again.
Alfred’s chest was tight now, though, not with fear exactly, but with something very close to it. He wanted to believe Arthur, had always wanted to believe Arthur. Arthur had been there when no one else had been there. Arthur knew him better than anyone else had ever known him.
Though... Ivan’s words echoed uncomfortably through his mind.
You fought very hard to be independent.
Arthur reached out, placing his hand over the middle of Alfred’s chest, his thumb pressing lightly through the fabric. The sensation was familiar, comforting. Alfred’s breathing caught, despite himself.
“I care for you, Alfred,” Arthur said quietly. “I always have. I cared when no one else did.”
Alfred nodded, even as the disquieting sensation moved further down into his stomach.
—
When they were back inside the flat, Arthur took Alfred to the sofa again without comment. He got water and pressed it into his hands, then knelt to take his shoes off, as if Alfred was already incapable of taking them off himself.
“You didn’t eat much at the diner,” Arthur said in a slight mumble.
“It was kinda hard with you guys arguing.” Alfred replied, half listening.
Arthur’s hands stilled.
“This isn't my fault, Alfred. He approached us. I was trying to protect you.”
Alfred shrugged. “Whatever. I wasn't that hungry anyways.”
Arthur stood up, his gaze not quite reaching his eyes now. “You know not eating makes it worse.”
“I ate,” Alfred replied, a little defensively. “Just… not all of it.”
Arthur moved away, busying himself in the kitchen. “Ivan's the one who ruined your appetite.”
Alfred opened his mouth to deny this, but then closed it again.
No, you did, he said mentally.
Arthur came back with a bowl, steam rising up from it.
“Ramen,” he said. “Easy on your stomach.”
Alfred took it automatically, the heat seeping into his hands, comforting.
Arthur watched as he took his first bite of ramen.
“There,” he said softly. “That’s better.”
Alfred ate his soup slowly, his hunger not being sated by the thin broth and bland noodles, not being filled as he was accustomed to being filled.
Arthur noticed this.
“You can have more later,” he said hastily. “I'll make something proper.”
Alfred nodded.
As he ate, he sat close, too close, really, with one arm draped along the back of the sofa, his hand occasionally brushing against Alfred’s shoulder, his stomach, reassuringly and constant.
And, Alfred found himself leaning into it without thinking. The comfort had been there. The relief had been there.
Arthur was there.
Later that night, Alfred laid there, staring up at the ceiling.
The sound of Arthur’s breathing slowed into sleep beside him.
His stomach growled softly, achingly.
He put a hand down over it, feeling the weight he’d come to rely on.
Usually, the warmth and the mass grounded him. It usually made him feel safe.
Tonight, it didn’t.
Ivan’s smile came back into his head, unwanted. The way Ivan didn't flinch when he saw his size. The way Ivan didn't laugh at Alfred when he'd eat, or tease him when his stomach made noise.
The way Ivan talked to Alfred as if he was the same as he was. Like he was Alfred.
Even if the interaction was brief, even if Alfred didn't reply, Ivan still spoke. He still saw him.
Alfred swallowed hard.
In the darkness, Arthur edged closer, mumbling something incoherent, one arm wrapping possessively around Alfred's tense belly.
Alfred did not move away.
He simply laid there, fully awake, wondering when it had become so difficult to know the difference between being cared for and being kept.
—
Alfred woke up before the alarm went off.
It wasn’t sudden, no jolt, no nightmare that snapped him awake, just a gradual, creeping sense of awareness that something was off in his body, something that wasn’t quite right. His stomach was hollow, not exactly hurting, just... whispering. A low, steady ache, reminding him of his hunger, his thirst, that hadn’t been silenced by sleep the night before.
Arthur’s arm was still around him.
It was heavy, lying across his middle, familiar, confining, and comforting all at the same time. Arthur was sleeping on his side, his face turned towards Alfred’s shoulder, his breathing warm against his chest. Alfred lay there, listening to it, counting the seconds between breaths, like he used to when he was younger and couldn’t sleep, couldn’t turn his brain off.
He didn’t get up right away.
Getting up would mean waking Arthur, waking Arthur would mean questions, and questions would mean explanations he wasn’t sure he was ready to give yet.
His stomach gave a traitorous growl.
Arthur moved immediately.
Not quite awake, but just enough to make his hand clench, his fingers spreading instinctively over Alfred's stomach as if checking that something was still there. Alfred stopped moving altogether.
“Mmf,” Arthur muttered. “What's wrong?”
“Nothing,” Alfred replied hastily. Too hastily. “Just...thirsty.”
Arthur's eyes opened a little, but he didn't lift his head off the pillow. His hand, however, moved slowly, deliberately, pressing against Alfred's stomach. Not unpleasantly. Familiarly. Measuringly.
“You didn't eat...” Arthur began, his voice low and troubled.
The words didn't sound like an accusation, though. They sounded like concern. And that, somehow, made Alfred feel even worse.
“I wasn't hungry,” Alfred repeated, even though it sounded even more false in the dark.
Arthur didn't say anything else for a moment, and Alfred could feel the tension building in his chest before Arthur went on.
“You always say that when something's wrong.”
Alfred swallowed. “I'm fine, Artie.”
Arthur took a breath through his nose, which caused him to wake up finally. He shifted, sitting up slightly, with his arm still caging Alfred in place.
“You woke up hungry.”
Alfred didn’t say anything.
Arthur’s hand stopped moving.
The silence between them was awkward.
“I can make you something. It’s not hard. You don’t even have to get up.”
There it was. The offer that wasn’t quite an offer.
“I don’t wanna be a hassle.”
Arthur’s jaw clenched. “You’re not.”
“I’m okay,” Alfred said, even though his stomach was suddenly twisting again, this time more sharply. “Really.”
Arthur’s hand left him. For a second, Alfred felt exposed without it.
Then Arthur sat up all the way.
“You think I don’t notice?” Arthur asked, his voice low. “You think I don’t see when you’re uncomfortable?”
“That’s not—”
“I’m trying to help you,” Arthur said, his voice a little sharper now. “And you keep pushing me away.”
The words fell heavily. Alfred pushed himself up onto his elbows, his heart racing.
“I’m not pushing you away,” Alfred said, his voice small. “I just—”
“Just what?” Arthur snapped, then caught himself. He rubbed a hand over his face, his breathing a little uneven. “You think you know better?”
Alfred winced.
Arthur saw that.
And instantly, his expression changed. The sharpness left him, and in its place, a softer expression, a little desperate, appeared.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur said. “I didn’t mean to raise my voice. I just— I don’t want you hurting yourself because you’re being stubborn.”
Alfred’s chest hurt.
“I’m not trying to,” he whispered.
Arthur leaned in, his lips on Alfred’s temple, lingering a fraction of a second too long.
“You don’t have to be brave all the time,” Arthur whispered, his voice full of emotion. “You don’t have to prove anything. Not to me.”
His hand went back to resting on Alfred’s stomach, but this time, it stayed there, warm and steady. Alfred took a deep, shaky breath, one he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“I’ll get you something,” Arthur said, his voice still low, still full of emotion. “Just a little. So you can sleep.”
Alfred nodded.
He always did.
Arthur got out of bed, moving quietly, but Alfred was lying back against his pillows, staring up at the ceiling, his hunger twisting tighter now that he’d admitted it to himself. His body felt heavy and light at the same time, weighed down by Arthur’s care, empty because of his hunger.
He listened to the sounds from the kitchen, the clink of a spoon, the hum of the kettle, familiar, comforting.
Safe.
When Arthur came back, he had a bowl and a spoon in hand, and steam rose from the bowl in soft curls. He sat on the edge of the bed, taking care not to jostle Alfred, and offered the bowl.
“Here,” he said. “Eat slowly.”
Alfred ate a few bites on his own. The soup was warm and salty, but only just enough to scratch the hunger that lay beneath.
Arthur watched him.
“Open,” Arthur said.
Alfred hesitated.
Arthur smiled. “You’re hungry and tired. I’ll help you.”
The spoon hovered over Alfred’s lips. Alfred’s throat constricted—although not with fear exactly, but with something like it. Nevertheless, he opened his mouth.
The spoon went in. Arthur fed him patiently, taking it one bite at a time, and complimented him when he swallowed, and stroked his thumb over his jaw when soup dripped from his chin. The hunger in his belly never went away; it just went deeper.
“Eat up,” Arthur said when the bowl was empty. “Better.”
Alfred nodded, though his stomach still felt light.
Arthur set the bowl aside and lay back down, pulling Alfred close again, his arm resuming its place like nothing had happened.
Alfred lay awake long after Arthur fell asleep again.
He thought of Ivan again, of the way he’d asked questions instead of answering them, of the space he’d left around Alfred like it belonged to him.
He thought of the diner, of Arthur’s voice, of the way the narrative had shifted so smoothly Alfred hadn’t realized it was happening.
His stomach growled again, softer this time.
Arthur’s arm tightened instinctively.
“Shh,” Arthur murmured in his sleep. “I’ve got you.”
Alfred stared into the dark, the words echoing in his chest.
He wasn’t sure anymore whether that was a promise or a warning.