[USxUK] My Fair Lady [1/5]
May. 1st, 2011 09:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
blood_wingedOkay, taking the plunge with this. Actually sort of anxious about the reception it's going to get, but hey, if you don't like, don't read.
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Title: My Fair Lady
Genre: Romance
Characters/Pairing(s): USxUK
Rating/Warnings: PG. Genderswap. Arthur cusses a lot.
Summary: Yet another of Arthur's magical mishaps lands him in more trouble than he can handle, with a strange new body to (temporarily) deal with and as if that wasn't enough, he has Alfred hanging around.
*****
This had to be the worst blunder in magic that he had ever managed to achieve. Misreading ‘three drops’ as ‘three cups’ in the abominable handwriting of his youth had caused a chain reaction that he was in no way fast enough to stop. Before he knew it, he was launched across the room and his back hit the wall, a blow to the back of his head rendering him unconscious. When he woke, it was almost dark, and the splitting headache tearing through his skull was a definite competitor against some of his more painful hangovers. The room smelled acrid. Arthur stood, one hand on his head, and took a step forwards, immediately stopping dead in his tracks.
“Oh, no,” he said, his eyes widening and a sickened feeling slipping down into the pit of his stomach. “Oh, dear god, no.”
Arthur ran up the uneven stairs to the kitchen, the strange alteration in his gait making it more difficult than it should have been, and rushed to the bathroom, staring at the sink for several minutes before he dared to look up at the mirror.
“Oh, no,” he said again, lifting a hand to poke at his face. “What..?” It came again, the nausea, this time stronger than before and he dropped to his knees, emptying the meagre contents of his stomach into the toilet, gasping quietly and only able to stand up some minutes later. He pressed the flush and dropped the lid, sitting down on it and pushing his hands into his hair. “Oh, no…”
He got up again, venturing back to the mirror, this time looking himself full in the face. It was a face he recognised but yet one that was unfamiliar. Softer. The line of his jaw had smoothed and any trace of the stubble he might have had since last shaving had gone. His eyes were the same, comfortingly so, though his eyebrows had noticeably thinned and his eyelashes were definitely longer. He pouted at himself, pulled a few faces, then moved his gaze lower. His stomach twisted again but he ignored it this time, letting out a slow breath and sliding his jacket off. There was definitely no way to mistake that swell under his shirt.
“Well…” he muttered, flicking his hair back over his shoulder. “At least my hair grew out nicely…”
A little while after that he found himself at a loss, wandering aimlessly through his house and trying not to catch his reflection in a mirror. Using the bathroom almost made him want to cry, but he had to admit there was something far easier about not having to aim. He didn’t need to go downstairs to work out that he didn’t know the cure for this. It wasn’t something he had ever done before and it could be days, weeks or even months before he managed to turn back. With that in mind, he dialled his office, leaving a message on the voicemail, trying to make his now higher-pitched voice as low and gruff as possible as he informed them that he was unwell and wasn’t sure when he’d be back. It wouldn’t surprise them – with the country working how it was he’d been ill rather a lot lately.
Sleeping was difficult, and foregone in favour of altering a small amount of his clothing to fit until he could figure out some way to fix what he’d done. It was becoming less alarming by the hour. Some small part of him was so used to the strange and extraordinarily that he was simply refusing to panic. He could fix this, it would just take some time, and he had all the time he needed. Arthur sank down a little in his comfiest armchair and put the tips of his fingers to his temples, listening to the gentle pattering of rain starting up against the windows. It was almost soothing, that old and familiar sound, and he dropped a hand over his chest only to immediately lift it, groaning a little at his own surprise. He imagined he’d get used to it, but really, he didn’t want to give it that long.
Pressing his lips together, he got to his feet and changed into the altered clothes, casting a cursory curious look down at himself and immediately looking away. Showering was certainly going to be interesting, he thought, trying to force down the heat he felt racing across his cheeks. The clothes weren’t perfect, but they weren’t bunching and hanging in uncomfortable places. They’d do. A scrap of cloth served as a ribbon to hold his hair back, though a few annoying strands still escaped. He was surprised that none of his friends had come to have a good laugh at him yet, though they probably wouldn’t notice the change. They always said that all humans looked alike.
He fell asleep where he was, sitting slightly awkwardly in a chair in front of the fireplace, woken some hours later by a loud banging. He started, half sitting up and groaning as the memory of what had happened came flooding back to him. That banging came again, seeming like it was rattling the door on its hinges, and he grumbled to himself.
“Alright, alright, hold your horses…” he muttered, straightening his clothes and taking a deep breath. A glance at the clock gave him pause. It was far too late (or early, as the case may have been), for anyone to be visiting-
“Arthur! Are you in?! Open the door you old- er… I mean please, it’s cold!”
That voice. That whining, irritating voice. Arthur felt something cold and uncomfortable curl around his heart. He bit his thumbnail and moved out into the hallway, towards the door, his hand coming to rest on the latch a moment before another series of heavy knocks made him flinch. Doubt made him hesitate, but he had never been one to back down from a challenge. He opened the door, poking his head out, and fixed his eyes on the young man standing on the doorstep, a bag by his feet and a smile on his face, his hair sodden and it seemed even that ridiculous cowlick on his head was wilting.
“I’m a bit wet,” he stated, then his smile faded a fraction and he looked at Arthur a little more closely. “Oi… who are you?”
Arthur had almost forgotten, in that brief moment when he’d seen Alfred stood on the doorstep, that the boy wouldn’t recognise him. He cleared his throat and opened the door a little more. “I’m… Arthur… Arthur’s sister. I’m house-sitting. He isn’t here.”
“Oh.” Alfred’s lower lip stuck out in a pout, then he sighed and picked up his bag, not moving to leave as Arthur had hoped, but stepping forwards, pushing the door open and walking inside. “I can wait, that’s fine.”
He dropped his bag and clapped his hands together, then peeled off his jacket and hung it up. Arthur wrinkled his nose as it dripped on the carpet, soaking the fibres, but he wasn’t about to leave Alfred alone in his house while he was in this state, so he followed the younger man through to the living room and watched him as he set himself up in front of the fire, pulling off his boots and wet socks, leaning forwards to prod the dying embers back to life. Rolling his eyes, Arthur moved down the hall to the airing cupboard and grabbed a towel, returning with it and tossing it at the boy. He caught it without even looking, rubbed it over his hair then looked to the other with a grin.
“Arthur never told me he had a sister,” he said, looking the strange young woman up and down. Arthur bristled a little under the scrutiny and let out a short breath through his nose.
“He doesn’t talk about me very much,” he said, his mind working quickly. “I’m, ah…” Brother, forgive me… “I’m Wales.”
“Wales?” As he’d hoped, Alfred’s expression turned blank. “Pretty sure Arthur told me Wales was a guy…” He shrugged then. “Mustn’t have been listening.”
“There’s a surprise…” Arthur muttered as Alfred turned away from him, feeling ready enough to fall to the floor in relief that his lie had been successful. He glanced over his shoulder, considering locking himself up in his study for the rest of the foreseeable future, and when he checked back he had to resist the urge to jump back a foot or so upon finding the American brat stood right in front of him, peering down at him.
“Alfred, don’t sneak up on me like that!” he snapped. Alfred blinked, and Arthur cleared his throat quietly, rubbing the back of his neck and almost tangling his fingers up in his hair. It occurred to him to wonder why women felt such a need to have long hair, it felt so terribly cumbersome.
“Well that’s not fair!” Alfred protested. “You know my name but you never told me yours.”
“Ah…” He found his mind blank for one terrifying moment before it settled on a name. “Ariah.” It wasn’t a name he would have chosen, but it would do. A moniker meaning ‘lion’ seemed rather fitting after all. “My name is Ariah.”
“Ariah, huh…” Alfred appeared to have put on his best, disarming grin and Arthur wasn’t sure if it was being female or simply the charming nature of it but he felt his knees go momentarily weak. “Pretty name.”
“Um… thank you,” he mumbled, frowning a little, folding his arms over his chest and once again almost flinching at the action. “Are you going to be staying long?”
“Trying to get rid of me already?” The American laughed and shook his head, his hair springing back from being plastered against his head now that it was beginning to dry. “You’re just like Arthur, he never seems to want me around either.” Arthur opened his mouth to protest, then snapped it shut again, and Alfred shrugged. “Not that I like being around the old man anyway, but y’know.” It took Arthur several moments to realise that the young man hadn’t actually answered the question, by which time he had crossed the room and sat down again, leaning close to the fire and rubbing his hands together. Scowling a little, Arthur tapped his fingertips against his elbows and tolerated the silence in the room for some minutes before he cleared his throat, drawing Alfred’s attention.
“Are you staying long?” Arthur repeated. Alfred shrugged.
“When’s Arthur coming back?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then there’s your answer, I guess.”
He almost threw up his hands in despair right there and then. It seemed that Alfred was naturally infuriating and he didn’t just save it all for Arthur as the English nation had so long believed. Arthur left the boy by himself and moved to the kitchen, dropping heavily into a chair and looking over to the door that led down to the basement. It was going to be more difficult now, if Alfred was so insistent upon staying, but if he knew him as well as he thought he did, he would become bored soon enough and go home. Arthur would simply have to grit his teeth and bear this indignity until then. He stood, walking over to the basement door, his fingers barely on the door handle before he was stopped again.
“Oi, you can’t go in there.” Alfred was stood, leaning against the archway leading into the kitchen, looking at Arthur over the top of his glasses with one eyebrow faintly raised. “No one can go in there.”
“And how would you know?” Arthur demanded, frowning. That grin was on the American’s face again and he closed the distance between them, ushering Arthur back, putting himself between the girl and the door.
“Arthur doesn’t let anyone down there. Even if you’re his sister you shouldn’t. He’ll just get mad and yell at you, and even if you don’t move anything, he’ll know.”
He couldn’t argue with that. Alfred had been in trouble for sneaking into the basement enough times to know. The American would have to be allowed to win this round, and Arthur retreated, leaning on the back of a chair for a moment before he changed his mind about sitting and decided on making some tea instead, pulling a teapot and cup down from a cupboard, along with a tin of his favourite tea. He could feel Alfred’s eyes on his back. Even when the boy wasn’t saying anything he was the most frustrating person that Arthur had ever had the misfortune of dealing with.
“So you’re Arthur’s sister, huh,” Alfred said, scraping a chair across the kitchen floor and sitting down, resting his elbows on the table. “Maybe you can tell me something.”
“What’s that?”
“Arthur, he’s always so grouchy, and he never comes to my birthday parties. Why?”
It wasn’t the kind of question Arthur had expected, and he paused to look back at the boy. Alfred looked oddly despondent, his chin resting on one hand, the other picking at a knot in the table. Arthur shook his head and turned back to his tea, opening the tin.
“It’s hard to be reminded,” he said, and somehow using a voice that wasn’t his own made those words easier to say. He heard Alfred move and shifted the teapot around a bit, then turned the kettle on. The American snorted.
“That old thing? We fought, I won. Dude needs to deal and move on.”
In the middle of taking the lid off the teapot, Arthur slammed the delicate china hard enough against the counter to break it in two, almost cutting his palm open in the process. “The war was never the issue!” he retorted, facing Alfred and seeing the surprise on his face. “He knows you won. He’s come to terms with that. Losing you, not losing to you, that’s what he hasn’t moved past.”
Alfred blinked. He took off his glasses and cleaned them with the hem of his shirt, sliding them back on and clasping his hands in front of him, a tiny frown line appearing between his eyebrows. “Oh,” he let out finally, and Arthur turned away from him again, but his hands were shaking. “He… talks about me a lot, huh?” Arthur wasn’t sure what that tone was, and he didn’t really want to look at him again to find out.
“More than you know,” he muttered instead.
“Why to you?”
“There is nobody else.” It almost hurt to say it but he knew it was true. He had never spoken to anyone about how he felt, not on this topic, aside from the verbal arguments he would have with himself, usually after some altercation with the American at a meeting that never failed to rile him up. Alfred’s chair scraped back again, and he heard the light steps as the boy crossed to him, feeling his presence like a tangible pressure against his back as one hand came around and touched his fingers.
“Sit down, I’ll make this.”
“You can make tea?” He couldn’t hide his surprise, glancing up and finding the others face far too close for comfort. “I… Arthur never mentioned that.”
“Arthur doesn’t know everything about me.” Alfred puffed himself up a little, moving Arthur’s hand off the tin of tea and turning him around. “Go and sit.”
He did sit, and watched with growing astonishment as Alfred replaced the teapot with one that didn’t have a broken lid, measured two cups worth of tea leaves into the pot and poured boiling water over it, checking his watch and bringing everything over to the table, letting the tea steep for just the right amount of time before he poured it, sliding a cup over to Arthur with a grin. “Don’t tell him, okay? Our secret.”
Arthur didn’t reply, but nodded and picked up his cup, taking a small sip and exhaling slowly. It seemed that he was safe, for now at least, but he had no idea how long he could keep up this subterfuge. He was a good liar, he’d always been a good liar, but it was rather difficult to deny a lie when you were caught in the middle of it. That was a lesson he’d learned a long time ago.
“So, uh, where’s he gone, anyway?” Alfred asked over the top of his cup, he was slurping, but Arthur was more focused on the fact that he was actually drinking tea.
“Um. Business trip.”
“Sounds like Arthur. Always doing something…”
“Mm.”
Perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad, after all. Maybe he could even have a little fun.
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| Chapter Two |>
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Title: My Fair Lady
Genre: Romance
Characters/Pairing(s): USxUK
Rating/Warnings: PG. Genderswap. Arthur cusses a lot.
Summary: Yet another of Arthur's magical mishaps lands him in more trouble than he can handle, with a strange new body to (temporarily) deal with and as if that wasn't enough, he has Alfred hanging around.
*****
This had to be the worst blunder in magic that he had ever managed to achieve. Misreading ‘three drops’ as ‘three cups’ in the abominable handwriting of his youth had caused a chain reaction that he was in no way fast enough to stop. Before he knew it, he was launched across the room and his back hit the wall, a blow to the back of his head rendering him unconscious. When he woke, it was almost dark, and the splitting headache tearing through his skull was a definite competitor against some of his more painful hangovers. The room smelled acrid. Arthur stood, one hand on his head, and took a step forwards, immediately stopping dead in his tracks.
“Oh, no,” he said, his eyes widening and a sickened feeling slipping down into the pit of his stomach. “Oh, dear god, no.”
Arthur ran up the uneven stairs to the kitchen, the strange alteration in his gait making it more difficult than it should have been, and rushed to the bathroom, staring at the sink for several minutes before he dared to look up at the mirror.
“Oh, no,” he said again, lifting a hand to poke at his face. “What..?” It came again, the nausea, this time stronger than before and he dropped to his knees, emptying the meagre contents of his stomach into the toilet, gasping quietly and only able to stand up some minutes later. He pressed the flush and dropped the lid, sitting down on it and pushing his hands into his hair. “Oh, no…”
He got up again, venturing back to the mirror, this time looking himself full in the face. It was a face he recognised but yet one that was unfamiliar. Softer. The line of his jaw had smoothed and any trace of the stubble he might have had since last shaving had gone. His eyes were the same, comfortingly so, though his eyebrows had noticeably thinned and his eyelashes were definitely longer. He pouted at himself, pulled a few faces, then moved his gaze lower. His stomach twisted again but he ignored it this time, letting out a slow breath and sliding his jacket off. There was definitely no way to mistake that swell under his shirt.
“Well…” he muttered, flicking his hair back over his shoulder. “At least my hair grew out nicely…”
A little while after that he found himself at a loss, wandering aimlessly through his house and trying not to catch his reflection in a mirror. Using the bathroom almost made him want to cry, but he had to admit there was something far easier about not having to aim. He didn’t need to go downstairs to work out that he didn’t know the cure for this. It wasn’t something he had ever done before and it could be days, weeks or even months before he managed to turn back. With that in mind, he dialled his office, leaving a message on the voicemail, trying to make his now higher-pitched voice as low and gruff as possible as he informed them that he was unwell and wasn’t sure when he’d be back. It wouldn’t surprise them – with the country working how it was he’d been ill rather a lot lately.
Sleeping was difficult, and foregone in favour of altering a small amount of his clothing to fit until he could figure out some way to fix what he’d done. It was becoming less alarming by the hour. Some small part of him was so used to the strange and extraordinarily that he was simply refusing to panic. He could fix this, it would just take some time, and he had all the time he needed. Arthur sank down a little in his comfiest armchair and put the tips of his fingers to his temples, listening to the gentle pattering of rain starting up against the windows. It was almost soothing, that old and familiar sound, and he dropped a hand over his chest only to immediately lift it, groaning a little at his own surprise. He imagined he’d get used to it, but really, he didn’t want to give it that long.
Pressing his lips together, he got to his feet and changed into the altered clothes, casting a cursory curious look down at himself and immediately looking away. Showering was certainly going to be interesting, he thought, trying to force down the heat he felt racing across his cheeks. The clothes weren’t perfect, but they weren’t bunching and hanging in uncomfortable places. They’d do. A scrap of cloth served as a ribbon to hold his hair back, though a few annoying strands still escaped. He was surprised that none of his friends had come to have a good laugh at him yet, though they probably wouldn’t notice the change. They always said that all humans looked alike.
He fell asleep where he was, sitting slightly awkwardly in a chair in front of the fireplace, woken some hours later by a loud banging. He started, half sitting up and groaning as the memory of what had happened came flooding back to him. That banging came again, seeming like it was rattling the door on its hinges, and he grumbled to himself.
“Alright, alright, hold your horses…” he muttered, straightening his clothes and taking a deep breath. A glance at the clock gave him pause. It was far too late (or early, as the case may have been), for anyone to be visiting-
“Arthur! Are you in?! Open the door you old- er… I mean please, it’s cold!”
That voice. That whining, irritating voice. Arthur felt something cold and uncomfortable curl around his heart. He bit his thumbnail and moved out into the hallway, towards the door, his hand coming to rest on the latch a moment before another series of heavy knocks made him flinch. Doubt made him hesitate, but he had never been one to back down from a challenge. He opened the door, poking his head out, and fixed his eyes on the young man standing on the doorstep, a bag by his feet and a smile on his face, his hair sodden and it seemed even that ridiculous cowlick on his head was wilting.
“I’m a bit wet,” he stated, then his smile faded a fraction and he looked at Arthur a little more closely. “Oi… who are you?”
Arthur had almost forgotten, in that brief moment when he’d seen Alfred stood on the doorstep, that the boy wouldn’t recognise him. He cleared his throat and opened the door a little more. “I’m… Arthur… Arthur’s sister. I’m house-sitting. He isn’t here.”
“Oh.” Alfred’s lower lip stuck out in a pout, then he sighed and picked up his bag, not moving to leave as Arthur had hoped, but stepping forwards, pushing the door open and walking inside. “I can wait, that’s fine.”
He dropped his bag and clapped his hands together, then peeled off his jacket and hung it up. Arthur wrinkled his nose as it dripped on the carpet, soaking the fibres, but he wasn’t about to leave Alfred alone in his house while he was in this state, so he followed the younger man through to the living room and watched him as he set himself up in front of the fire, pulling off his boots and wet socks, leaning forwards to prod the dying embers back to life. Rolling his eyes, Arthur moved down the hall to the airing cupboard and grabbed a towel, returning with it and tossing it at the boy. He caught it without even looking, rubbed it over his hair then looked to the other with a grin.
“Arthur never told me he had a sister,” he said, looking the strange young woman up and down. Arthur bristled a little under the scrutiny and let out a short breath through his nose.
“He doesn’t talk about me very much,” he said, his mind working quickly. “I’m, ah…” Brother, forgive me… “I’m Wales.”
“Wales?” As he’d hoped, Alfred’s expression turned blank. “Pretty sure Arthur told me Wales was a guy…” He shrugged then. “Mustn’t have been listening.”
“There’s a surprise…” Arthur muttered as Alfred turned away from him, feeling ready enough to fall to the floor in relief that his lie had been successful. He glanced over his shoulder, considering locking himself up in his study for the rest of the foreseeable future, and when he checked back he had to resist the urge to jump back a foot or so upon finding the American brat stood right in front of him, peering down at him.
“Alfred, don’t sneak up on me like that!” he snapped. Alfred blinked, and Arthur cleared his throat quietly, rubbing the back of his neck and almost tangling his fingers up in his hair. It occurred to him to wonder why women felt such a need to have long hair, it felt so terribly cumbersome.
“Well that’s not fair!” Alfred protested. “You know my name but you never told me yours.”
“Ah…” He found his mind blank for one terrifying moment before it settled on a name. “Ariah.” It wasn’t a name he would have chosen, but it would do. A moniker meaning ‘lion’ seemed rather fitting after all. “My name is Ariah.”
“Ariah, huh…” Alfred appeared to have put on his best, disarming grin and Arthur wasn’t sure if it was being female or simply the charming nature of it but he felt his knees go momentarily weak. “Pretty name.”
“Um… thank you,” he mumbled, frowning a little, folding his arms over his chest and once again almost flinching at the action. “Are you going to be staying long?”
“Trying to get rid of me already?” The American laughed and shook his head, his hair springing back from being plastered against his head now that it was beginning to dry. “You’re just like Arthur, he never seems to want me around either.” Arthur opened his mouth to protest, then snapped it shut again, and Alfred shrugged. “Not that I like being around the old man anyway, but y’know.” It took Arthur several moments to realise that the young man hadn’t actually answered the question, by which time he had crossed the room and sat down again, leaning close to the fire and rubbing his hands together. Scowling a little, Arthur tapped his fingertips against his elbows and tolerated the silence in the room for some minutes before he cleared his throat, drawing Alfred’s attention.
“Are you staying long?” Arthur repeated. Alfred shrugged.
“When’s Arthur coming back?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then there’s your answer, I guess.”
He almost threw up his hands in despair right there and then. It seemed that Alfred was naturally infuriating and he didn’t just save it all for Arthur as the English nation had so long believed. Arthur left the boy by himself and moved to the kitchen, dropping heavily into a chair and looking over to the door that led down to the basement. It was going to be more difficult now, if Alfred was so insistent upon staying, but if he knew him as well as he thought he did, he would become bored soon enough and go home. Arthur would simply have to grit his teeth and bear this indignity until then. He stood, walking over to the basement door, his fingers barely on the door handle before he was stopped again.
“Oi, you can’t go in there.” Alfred was stood, leaning against the archway leading into the kitchen, looking at Arthur over the top of his glasses with one eyebrow faintly raised. “No one can go in there.”
“And how would you know?” Arthur demanded, frowning. That grin was on the American’s face again and he closed the distance between them, ushering Arthur back, putting himself between the girl and the door.
“Arthur doesn’t let anyone down there. Even if you’re his sister you shouldn’t. He’ll just get mad and yell at you, and even if you don’t move anything, he’ll know.”
He couldn’t argue with that. Alfred had been in trouble for sneaking into the basement enough times to know. The American would have to be allowed to win this round, and Arthur retreated, leaning on the back of a chair for a moment before he changed his mind about sitting and decided on making some tea instead, pulling a teapot and cup down from a cupboard, along with a tin of his favourite tea. He could feel Alfred’s eyes on his back. Even when the boy wasn’t saying anything he was the most frustrating person that Arthur had ever had the misfortune of dealing with.
“So you’re Arthur’s sister, huh,” Alfred said, scraping a chair across the kitchen floor and sitting down, resting his elbows on the table. “Maybe you can tell me something.”
“What’s that?”
“Arthur, he’s always so grouchy, and he never comes to my birthday parties. Why?”
It wasn’t the kind of question Arthur had expected, and he paused to look back at the boy. Alfred looked oddly despondent, his chin resting on one hand, the other picking at a knot in the table. Arthur shook his head and turned back to his tea, opening the tin.
“It’s hard to be reminded,” he said, and somehow using a voice that wasn’t his own made those words easier to say. He heard Alfred move and shifted the teapot around a bit, then turned the kettle on. The American snorted.
“That old thing? We fought, I won. Dude needs to deal and move on.”
In the middle of taking the lid off the teapot, Arthur slammed the delicate china hard enough against the counter to break it in two, almost cutting his palm open in the process. “The war was never the issue!” he retorted, facing Alfred and seeing the surprise on his face. “He knows you won. He’s come to terms with that. Losing you, not losing to you, that’s what he hasn’t moved past.”
Alfred blinked. He took off his glasses and cleaned them with the hem of his shirt, sliding them back on and clasping his hands in front of him, a tiny frown line appearing between his eyebrows. “Oh,” he let out finally, and Arthur turned away from him again, but his hands were shaking. “He… talks about me a lot, huh?” Arthur wasn’t sure what that tone was, and he didn’t really want to look at him again to find out.
“More than you know,” he muttered instead.
“Why to you?”
“There is nobody else.” It almost hurt to say it but he knew it was true. He had never spoken to anyone about how he felt, not on this topic, aside from the verbal arguments he would have with himself, usually after some altercation with the American at a meeting that never failed to rile him up. Alfred’s chair scraped back again, and he heard the light steps as the boy crossed to him, feeling his presence like a tangible pressure against his back as one hand came around and touched his fingers.
“Sit down, I’ll make this.”
“You can make tea?” He couldn’t hide his surprise, glancing up and finding the others face far too close for comfort. “I… Arthur never mentioned that.”
“Arthur doesn’t know everything about me.” Alfred puffed himself up a little, moving Arthur’s hand off the tin of tea and turning him around. “Go and sit.”
He did sit, and watched with growing astonishment as Alfred replaced the teapot with one that didn’t have a broken lid, measured two cups worth of tea leaves into the pot and poured boiling water over it, checking his watch and bringing everything over to the table, letting the tea steep for just the right amount of time before he poured it, sliding a cup over to Arthur with a grin. “Don’t tell him, okay? Our secret.”
Arthur didn’t reply, but nodded and picked up his cup, taking a small sip and exhaling slowly. It seemed that he was safe, for now at least, but he had no idea how long he could keep up this subterfuge. He was a good liar, he’d always been a good liar, but it was rather difficult to deny a lie when you were caught in the middle of it. That was a lesson he’d learned a long time ago.
“So, uh, where’s he gone, anyway?” Alfred asked over the top of his cup, he was slurping, but Arthur was more focused on the fact that he was actually drinking tea.
“Um. Business trip.”
“Sounds like Arthur. Always doing something…”
“Mm.”
Perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad, after all. Maybe he could even have a little fun.
----
| Chapter Two |>
