“Alfred, are you even paying attention?

Alfred snapped his head up, eyes away from the doodles he’d
shamelessly and blatantly been doodling on the front of the world
meeting notes. Ludwig or Yao or someone had just finished
talking about something, but Alfred had long since blocked them
out, ignored them. The entire thing was boring, anyway.

“No,” he said, because there was no point in lying if he’d been

caught red-handed.

Arthur’s face huffed up in that way that it always did when he

was about ready to explode, to shout obscenities at Alfred. Alfred
was used to this. He knew he’d get a scolding after the meeting
was over, and then Alfred would just kiss him and Arthur would
forget all about it as Alfred took him to bed and had his wicked
way with him. Arthur was easy to read like that, and, despite his
protests, incredibly easy to distract. Especially when said
distraction was sex.

They’d come a long way, really.

But now was not the time to be musing, because apparently

Alfred had drifted off, complete with glazed over eyes, while
Arthur was shouting instructions at him. And now that it was
clear he hadn’t heard a single word, Arthur took it upon himself
to slap at Alfred’s head with the bundle of papers he held in his
hand, shouting things like egotistical little bastard—!

Well, whatever. Alfred deflected the blows, and promised to pay

more attention.

So naturally when attention was off him, he went back to

doodling. He glanced up every now and then to stare at Arthur,
who looked incredibly pissy and unattractive today. But that was
just as well, because Alfred liked him anyway, somewhat
inexplicably.
Or perhaps not so inexplicably. They’d come a long way, from
kin to enemies to I couldn’t care less what he does so shut up
and stop talking about him to allies to friends to—

Perhaps the “shut up and stop talking about him”-ness lasted a

bit longer than the friendship and the allied forces had. But it was
a progression that Alfred thought of often. Especially now that he
was in a position that left him rather vulnerable to Arthur,
something he’d promised to himself he’d never do. And lately
he’d had thoughts of letting things drift, perhaps let himself
become closer, more open—vulnerable.

Fifty years ago, he never would have let himself think that way.
Fifty years ago, he wouldn’t think he’d be in a relationship with
Arthur, or that he’d be fantasying about letting go of all his
control and letting Arthur have his wicked way with him.

He hadn’t thought of it often, back then—hadn’t allowed himself

to think it. He’d assumed it would pass, believed that the fleeting
images he remembered, just before he awoke fully, were simple
tricks his sleepy mind played on him. But when he first thought
about it, fleetingly and without paying attention to it, he
dominated Arthur completely. In his fantasies, he pushed Arthur
down, dragged himself on top of him—kept him there, held him
as he pounded into him and made Arthur scream his name.
Completely and utterly dominant, completely in control—no
matter how unrealistic his vision might have been, at times, it
was always the same: never let anyone make him feel, even for
a moment, that he was not the one in control.

When it started, it’d been completely physical at first. Their past

emotional baggage was enough reason for Alfred to completely
avoid inciting any kind of emotional memories, or even hint at
something in the past. It was all behind them, even if Arthur’s
yearly drunken ramblings in July were anything but “letting it go”.
In the end, it was easier just to let things stand, and Alfred,
above all else, told himself there was no emotional attachment to
Arthur, and that the fleeting thoughts he had about him, bent
over, spread out, or panting out his name, was purely on the
physical, carnal belief that Arthur would look hot begging for him.
And above all else, he hadn’t trusted himself, and hadn’t trusted
Arthur—everything that was left lurking, left unsaid behind eyes
and smiles and scathing criticisms of his latest plans. Alfred
knew, immediately, that Arthur was far from the kind of person
he would ever want to be with, even disregarding their mutual
pasts. And, most of all, he did not want Arthur to have control
over him, ever again, in any kind of way.

But in the corners of his mind (perhaps, the corners of his heart)
he was willing to admit that he did find Arthur attractive—
occasionally, provided it was the right kind of light, Arthur was
wearing the right kind of clothes, and most importantly of all he
wasn’t saying shit that put Alfred and his masterful plans down.
He was attractive, kind of, and that was the end of it. Lust
happened, and it happened a lot to Alfred—who was he to deny
that the others like him had their attractive perks about them?
His brother was a boob man, and Alfred, well, he just liked a
pretty face, and provided Arthur tilted his head just right, he had
a very pretty face. It was the eyebrows, really, that made it
difficult at times—but sometimes those were “charming”, at least.
Arthur had a nice cut to his jaw, smooth features with just the
right cut of roughness, hinting at a strength he did not flaunt or
display. But Alfred didn’t have to admit to anything else beyond
feeling attracted—lust happened every day, and it was merely an
appreciation of another’s body, and nothing to do with respect,
affection, and least of all love.

The meeting ended and the nations shuffled their papers.

Someone went about waking Herakles up—why didn’t he get shit
for not paying attention during meetings?—and someone else
was tasked with making sure Francis kept his pants on. The
room was emptying out quickly, as it always did, which always
led Alfred to believe that everyone hated these meetings but they
apparently were more masochistic than he was and forced
themselves to pay attention.

Arthur was standing behind his shoulder now, as if waiting for

him. He could feel him there, just as he could always feel Arthur
when he was nearby. The other nation touched his shoulder,
leaned down so they were eye-to-eye, and he was frowning.

“Done doodling, I do so hope,” he said, in that wonderful accent

of his and Alfred absorbed the sound.

He swiveled in his chair and grinned up at Arthur. “Yep!”

The corner of Arthur’s mouth twitched, but he did not dare smile
as Alfred stretched out his legs, let his arms hang down and then
lifted them above his head as he stretched, long and languid. He
could feel Arthur’s eyes on him, and he prolonged the stretch, let
his back curl and a small, contented sigh escape his parted lips
before he stood up, grinning and pushing his glasses up the
bridge of his nose.

Arthur’s face was flushed, and he looked away when their eyes
locked.

“Like what you see?” Alfred asked, grinning cheekily.

Arthur made a soft sound in the back of his throat, adjusted his
tie, and seized his briefcase. “Shut the fuck up and come here.”

He grabbed Alfred by his tie and started dragging. Alfred

laughed, let himself be dragged, but eventually reclaimed his tie.
He slung an arm over Arthur’s shoulder and stayed like that until
they reached the exit of the building and Arthur elbowed him in
the side as he hailed a taxi.

“Going back to my place?” Alfred asked, still grinning, as they

climbed into the taxi together.
“Yes,” Arthur said, no hesitation, and there was really no reason
to argue. Alfred’s grin only widened and they passed the taxi ride
in silence. When they pulled up to Alfred’s home, Alfred threw
some bills to the driver, told him to keep the change, and the two
men in suits walked up, calmly, to Alfred’s home.

Once the door shut behind them, however, the briefcases fell to
the ground, and their arms were around one another, mouths
pressed together as if they hadn’t seen one another in years.
Alfred wasn’t sure who initiated the contact, didn’t care, as he
pressed down on Arthur and Arthur responded, dragging Alfred
close as Arthur leaned up against the wall for support.

And, as always, Alfred dragged Arthur upstairs, losing clothing

along the way. As always, Alfred pressed Arthur down,
dominated him, kissed him. Their bodies came together, as they
always did, as if they were made to fit together—and such a
horribly sappy observation was what made long nights without
Arthur seem easier, when all Alfred had were images and his
hand for company.

But somehow, even though the reality reflected, somewhat, the

fantasies Alfred used to have, it was different. When the
fantasies first started, Alfred had always been the one in
control—

It came back to an issue of control. Alfred hadn’t wanted to feel

as if he didn’t have control, over himself, over others—losing
control of himself had led to worse things in his past. And as no
one—nation or human—could control and hold his lands so, too,
could no one hold him down, control him and make him
surrender. Alfred—the United States—did not surrender, did not
relinquish control of himself, especially to someone like Arthur.
Not to someone who’d done so before, and had refused to let go
until it was pried from his rain-drenched hands.
Alfred wasn’t sure, then, why the fantasies changed when they
did. Alfred went years denying his attraction to Arthur, buried it
beneath his customary smile and bravado. It was after the great
wars, after fighting together for the first time, that Alfred quietly
admitted to himself that he found Arthur attractive—and that was
when the fantasies began. He would wake up in the morning,
strained against his pants, with images of Arthur moaning,
wanton, calling and reaching for Alfred as Alfred dominated him,
forced him into submission, had him crying out for surrender. He
had the control, and Arthur was his to control. In these fantasies,
Arthur would not often act like himself, and Alfred liked to
pretend he could be anyone. But it was always Arthur who
appeared—when Alfred’s hand stroked himself, leaning against
the wall of the shower, or when he woke in the morning after a
dream that refused to stay.

He should have been utterly in control at all times, but the wars
changed things. Their governments worked closely together, and
Arthur was no longer a fleeting thought as he recalled his past,
nor was he a neutral party, or someone across the Atlantic. He
was right there, frowning and lecturing and occasionally smiling,
perhaps, rarer still, laughing. Friendly meetings passed in
waves—reassurances, collaborations, visits to bars, slaps on the
back—

When they had fought together, in the world wars, they were
equals—regardless of policy, regardless of attitudes within their
separate nations. Pressed back to back, sweat dripping into their
eyes, the taste of salt and grit on their tongues. It changed
things, then. Equal. In that way, so slowly, Alfred found himself
submitting to Arthur.

So Alfred did understand why the fantasies changed—because

things had changed. They were equal, strong, relying on one
another. Whether it be fighting the axis powers, or, years later,
scraped out on a desert, tasting the sun-bleached wasteland and
understanding that there were worst things than sunburns. Alfred
knew he couldn’t survive without relying on others, without
trusting others. And there was no one he trusted to fight
alongside more than Arthur, who watched his back, poised on a
sand dune, looking for snipers through the binoculars, not
moving until long after the sun had gone down and the back of
his neck was burnt fiery red. There was no one he trusted more,
no one who would fight with him and fight for him, who would
remember to somehow bake him a cake in the middle of
operations and then give him the kick to the face as a present
when Alfred insulted the cake’s appearance and taste.

If anyone asked them, there was nothing—denial, scoffing,

perhaps even raucous laughter at such an absurd idea. Matthew
had his own ideas, Francis had lewd theories. But the world wars
changed things, and the passage of time ushered it further. The
turn of the century opened Alfred’s eyes to that, and he
understood, without a doubt, that Arthur was one of the people—
not nations, but people—closest to him, and to whom he had
placed his trust.

The fantasies happened more frequently—perhaps once a week

instead of every once in a while, sometimes as much as twice a
week. And this trust Alfred had in Arthur was reflected in those
fantasies. No longer did Alfred shove Arthur down and have his
way with him, regardless of what the fantasy Arthur wanted or
said. It was Arthur who initiated the pursuit, pining Alfred to a
wall and dominating in the foreplay—kissing him in just the right
ways, stroking him the ways that Alfred liked. He would almost
tease him, smile at him that way that he so rarely did, only in rare
moments of vulnerability. But here it did not seem like
vulnerability, but confidence, and it sent Alfred into an aroused
frenzy. He would take over, in the end—and that was how all his
fantasies ended, with Arthur controlling up until the moment
Alfred eventually grabbed back, yanked him around, and
recaptured the upper hand.

In reality, their relationship remained the same. Arthur wasn’t

ever afraid to call Alfred out on his shit, and Alfred was always
there to regain the upper hand as best he could, and the two of
them fought each other. It seemed as if they had reached a
plateau, where there was so much left unsaid but nothing ever
was said. And it was with one blinding realization over a
particular argument (over whether Alfred’s version of the
television show Big Brother was better than Arthur’s) that Alfred
realized that he wanted Arthur, not just for physical reasons but
because Arthur drove him crazy and he couldn’t imagine loving
anyone else.

And Alfred had so much he could say, and never did. He

slammed his way home, shoved himself up against the wall and
the fantasies overpowered him. Instead of letting Arthur control
him for a moment only to seize the upper hand, in these
fantasies now it was Arthur who approached him, who controlled
him. In these fantasies, Alfred and Arthur did not dance around
each other, did not seem to get closer only to run away—here, it
seemed as if Arthur made a move and stuck with it, instead of
backing away, instead of denying and pretending there was
nothing. He pushed Alfred onto the bed as though he knew
exactly what he wanted and there was nothing that would stop
him. In these fantasies, Arthur’s selfish honesty made Alfred’s
heart almost stop.

Alfred just wanted the confrontation, wanted the resolution to

something that was definitely between them but not said. He did
not want Arthur to take a step towards him, flow to him as if he
might actually do it for once, only to float away from him, to run
away.

He wanted Arthur, and he wanted Arthur to take what he wanted.

So long as what he wanted was Alfred in turn. He didn’t want to
have to ask Arthur, he wanted Arthur to take. He wanted to trust
himself to Arthur, let Arthur have him and not abuse that trust,
abuse the power that Alfred would place with him. It was hard, to
always be in control, and for once he wanted to be able to
submit, wanted to be able to have someone do what they
pleased with him, and then still love him in the morning—still
want and need him. He wanted to believe that it would be okay,
to let his guard down—he wanted to know it would be okay, if it
was Arthur.

One day, it happened.

There was no alcohol involved. There was nothing dramatic.

There were no meaningful looks, no tearful confessions. There
was just Arthur and there was just Alfred.

Arthur had missed his flight, and Alfred had let him stay the
night. They’d stayed in Alfred’s home, and Arthur settled himself
for a night on the couch, flipping the television on and remarking
upon American television commercials that always seemed so
foreign to him.

Alfred had stood in the doorway, watched Arthur until Arthur had
felt the gaze on him and turned to look at him over his shoulder,
the glow from the television backlighting him in a way that, had it
been a movie, would have been horribly dramatic. The way it
was lighting Arthur, though, only made him look kind of green
and his face gaunt and shallow.

Alfred, coffee cup in hand, had lifted it to his mouth to drink and
around the lip of it had said the most unromantic and completely
not dramatic confession ever: “Ya know, if we slept together
that’d be totally cool with me.”

Easy to write off as a joke, but he was deadly serious. He’d

thought, at the time—why had it taken him so long to just say it,
and since when did he keep things to himself?

And Arthur had not looked shocked, had not burst into tears or
laughed or even smiled. In fact, he’d remained completely stone-
faced as he turned back to the television and flipped the
television off. He stood up, threw the blanket behind him, and
took the mug from his hand when he approached him, finally
reached him, looked him eye-to-eye in perfect understanding of
what Alfred said and did not say, still.

“Okay,” was all he’d said before he’d kissed Alfred.

But despite this resolution, it was not Arthur who shoved Alfred
to the wall, but rather it was Alfred who had led Arthur upstairs,
stripped him of his clothing, and slept with him until they’d both
fallen asleep exhausted.

As time went on, nothing really changed between them, except

that in addition to bitching to each other and fighting along each
other, there were kisses of good luck, and cupping each other’s
cheeks after a long absence neither wanted to admit bothered
them. They were together, in a manner of words, but things were
still left unsaid. But every world meeting after that, Arthur stayed
with Alfred—in fact, sometimes Arthur stayed with Alfred when
there wasn’t a world meeting. Alfred would stay with Arthur, too,
when he was in England.

Later, Alfred began to understand why it was that Arthur never

took control, always let Alfred set the pace, let Alfred strip him,
kiss him, and have him. Arthur surrendered to him, but not
without a fight—not without criticizing Alfred’s every move, not
without tugging on his hair when it looked too messy, and then
there’d be that one moment when Arthur would give him a quiet
smile just before he reached his climax, head tilting back or to
the side or forward as he breathed out Alfred’s name in a way
that was far too intimate.

He understood why it was always Arthur. Because he, too,

understood the control issue. He, too, understood the emotional
baggage they did not acknowledge, understood Alfred’s need for
control and to have control of himself—to not surrender or submit
to anyone, especially Arthur.
What Arthur did not understand, and what Alfred never
explained, was that Arthur would be the only one to whom Alfred
would submit. Arthur believed that Alfred would run away, would
push Arthur away. What he failed to realize was that Alfred was
waiting for him, wanting him, patient as he could be.

“Your head is in the clouds today, lad,” Arthur said, and his
words snapped Alfred from his thoughts. He blinked down at
Arthur, lying sprawled out on the bed, tie undone and hanging
around his neck, hair in his eyes.

“I guess so,” he said.

Arthur sighed, pushed himself up into a seated position, fingers

carding through Alfred’s hair affectionately. “Anything on your
mind? Policy and whatnot?”

“Naw,” Alfred said, closing his eyes and just focusing on the feel
of Arthur’s fingers in his hair.

If he never said anything, how was Arthur to know? If Arthur

never said anything, how was Alfred to resolve it?

But hadn’t that been the issue in the first place? Hadn’t it taken a
cup of coffee, depression medication commercials, and a ratty
old blanket for Alfred to finally say enough, I want you?

“Then what is it?” Arthur asked, brow furrowing in confusion.

Alfred tilted his head, watched Arthur’s features. He’d already

memorized them, already knew how to map his fingers across
his face and know the direct path to every touch that would send
Arthur’s heart pounding. He could find Arthur in the dark, find his
mouth, his lips, his tongue—he didn’t even have to blink to know
how to make Arthur beg for mercy, to make Arthur completely
his.
And Alfred knew, in turn, that he had completely fallen—and he
would relinquish all his control, surrender completely with just the
sound of his name on Arthur’s tongue. That was all it took, that
was all it would ever take.

So as he leaned in to kiss Arthur yet again, he made no sound

as he rolled over, pulling Arthur on top of him. Arthur pulled away
from the kiss, stared at him, frowning.

“Please,” he said, and choked, paused—he never said please,

he always just took. But he did not want to take, not this time. He
wanted to be the one taken—far away, far, far, far, until he was
falling, falling completely and out of control. “Arthur, I—”

He waited, patient, hoping that Arthur would understand. Arthur’s

hands clutched at Alfred’s, and did not tremble, though it looked
as if he might blow away, a skeleton of a leaf on the autumn
breeze.

“Arthur, I…”

He rolled his hips, upward, pressed up against Arthur. His fingers

worked at Arthur’s belt buckle, tugged and pulled. Dragged him
closer—watched Arthur’s mouth part, his eyelids flutter. Watch
understanding dawn.

“Alfred—”

And so much was in that simple word, that simple name. There
was the slightest tremble, the quietest of hesitations before it
seemed as if doors had been flung open, and Arthur clutched at
him, peeling his clothing away and his skin burned with each one
of Arthur’s touches, simple grazes of his fingertips. Arthur said
no more, and no more needed to be said.

“Is it okay?” Arthur asked, hushed, poised over him, hand

dragging down Alfred’s heaving, bare chest.

Alfred just nodded, mouth parted. “Please… Arthur.”

Something shifted in Arthur’s eyes—something he so rarely

wanted to say, so rarely wanted to show.

“You’re the only one I…”

“… I know, Alfred. I know,” Arthur breathed, stole away Alfred’s

words. It was just as well, because Alfred wasn’t sure if he’d be
able to say it—you’re the only one I want, you’re the only one
who can do this. Don’t break me, don’t hurt me.

Instead of saying those words, Alfred grabbed at the headboard,

arched his back as Arthur kissed down his chest, nuzzled at his
flushed skin, hands clenching his hips, thumbs mapping out the
jut of his hipbone before digging into the soft flesh there, pulling
down his pants and his boxers and leaving him completely naked
and at Arthur’s mercy.

But there was no hesitation, no feelings of embarrassment or

ambivalence or shame. He was Arthur’s, and there was no
sacrifice to do so, to admit to being so. Arthur was his, and he
was Arthur’s.

Arthur’s hand splayed over his stomach as his kissing went

further down, following the lines of his muscles.

Hot breath wafted across his skin, and the hair on the back of
Alfred’s neck stood up. Alfred clenched his eyes shut, but quickly
decided it was not enough—he had to watch him, had to see
only Arthur. He stared at him, and those burning green eyes
stared back, flickering across his face for any sign of denial, of
backing away and reclaiming his control. His hands clenched the
headboard, though, refused to release, refused to pull away.
There was a flurry of movement, of shared looks, of hesitation on
Arthur’s part. He prepared him, spread him, pushed him closer
and closer to the edge. Alfred was suffocating, feeling Arthur’s
chest press against his as he pushed inside him, hot breath
wafting still, brushing across his cheek, nose in his hair.

Arthur made a small noise, a soft gasp, a moan that sounded like
Alfred’s name and it sent a jolt of pleasure up Alfred’s spine that
distracted him from the pain of being penetrated. He could not
focus on the pain when it was Arthur over him and in him.

He’d never felt this before, but it was okay if it was Arthur. Arthur,
who peppered his face with kisses, stroked his hair, assured him
and asked for reassurance in turn. His body remained stiff,
waiting for Alfred’s consent. Arthur’s hands snaked down and
wrapped around Alfred’s erection, stroking clumsily and
tentatively before he worked up the proper rhythm, moving in
time with his own thrusts.

Alfred panted, made noises he never thought possible. His entire

body was on fire.

And Arthur smiled at him, a smile he’d never seen before, a

smile he could not place. Arthur was happy—Alfred was happy.
The hands that mapped his body, the thrusts that jarred his
muscles and sent his words into incoherency—they were
products of happiness, of the trust they shared. And that was
something that Alfred never wanted to take away from Arthur,
something he was more than happy to give.

And that was all he could care about—because even if sex was
good, it wasn’t the most important to Alfred. It didn’t matter at all
when he could stare up at Arthur’s face, watched the way his jaw
twitched as he bit his lip, watched the way the sweat collected on
his brow, watched the way his eyes did not stray from Alfred,
ever. It was good, it would always be good, as long as he was
with someone he gave a damn about—and damn it all to high
heaven, he loved Arthur. That busy-body, self-important, elitist,
prudent little bastard had become the person most important to
him, and he loved him for all his faults. He loved him, loved him
more than he could say despite never wanting to, despite
wanting to avoid him above all others.

It seemed as if time stilled, but really it was not long at all,

because Alfred could never last long, and he felt his body tense
up around Arthur, and his body spill over onto Arthur’s hand
around his erection. His breathing hitched, he gasped out
Arthur’s name—and then the world blacked out for just a
moment.

When he came to, Arthur was staring at him, expression soft.

Alfred blinked at him and Arthur leaned in, kissed his forehead.

“Alfred…” he said, and with one final thrust he came with a quiet
moan, holding himself taut for a moment before, slowly, the
tension sank from his bones, and he fell to earth, fell to Alfred—
and Alfred was there to catch him.

And Arthur breathed out, kissed his available skin, tasted the
sweat and the smell of sex on the air.

“Oh,” Alfred said, softly, stroked Arthur’s hair. “Ha ha. Wow.”

“Alfred,” Arthur said, equally as quiet, expression still soft when

he pulled away to look down at him, brush the hair from his
forehead.

This was what love was, for them—completely unsaid, except in

the smallest ways. Unstated, unsaid, but undeniably there. He
could never not know, never not realize, even if he spent his
entire life without words. Arthur stroked his face, the backs of his
fingers curling along his feverish skin. There were no words of
explanation for why the sudden change, for why, suddenly,
Alfred threw down the last of his defenses, unsealed the final
wall for Arthur to slip inside and be able to do to Alfred what
Alfred has never let anyone else do. But there were no words
needed, because the actions spoke loud and clear.

Arthur kissed him, and Alfred felt himself sinking, knew that he
would always surrender to Arthur, so long as he was there to
meet him at the end of the road.

They slept together, their limbs entwined in a way that would

never be comfortable, but was the most satisfying feeling in the
world, when waking up to someone right there, heartbeats in
time and in tune.

Alfred’s fingers will be cramped in the morning, from spending

the entire night curled around Arthur’s—but that, too, is the most
satisfying of all.

When their relationship first began, Arthur told himself he

wouldn’t let himself get too close, that he would remain in control
of himself and the course of the relationship. And nothing Alfred
did would disrupt that mindset. He, of course, did not discuss this
with Alfred, because such insecurities and fears were best left
unsaid, and Arthur didn’t know what would be worse: that Alfred
should laugh and dismiss his fears, or that Alfred would be
devastated. So it was far superior a path to let the boy remain in
ignorance, to let him run up to Arthur after world meetings, acting
as if they hadn’t seen each other all day. Alfred, far more than
any person or nation he’d been with, was an eager partner.
Eager, and surprisingly tender and timid when it came down to it.

Whereas in the beginning Arthur guarded himself, Alfred threw

himself right in, gave away himself. The bravado would chip
away piece by piece, and as Arthur would thrust into Alfred,
Alfred would whisper words that were perfectly gentle and
achingly vanilla. It disarmed Arthur in such a way that he didn’t
know what to do with himself, or with his partner.
“You’re so brave,” Arthur had told him one day, as his fingers
mapped Alfred’s face.

Alfred had just looked at him, perplexed, and said, with no hint of
joking or shame: “Why would I be scared if I’m with you?”

And that had been that. It’d taken all of Arthur’s self-control not to
break down into tears. But that was the heart of it, wasn’t it?
Arthur did not let himself go, even when Alfred demonstrated
time and again that he himself had already fallen, had already
attached himself to Arthur—hook, line, and sinker. But Alfred
was freedom—when he did things, he did them completely. He
was the endless sky, the shifting ocean, the birds that flew as
they saw fit. Arthur, in comparison, felt completely anchored,
completely stone-footed—sinking, sinking, sinking under
everything, unable to break free. Completely and utterly terrified
that the moment he let go was the moment it all ended.

Bravery, courage—how easy it would be to just fall, and be

caught again. Alfred loved him, he could see it in his eyes every
time he woke up and Alfred was cuddled up next to him, or
playing x-box in the bed but paused it so he could kiss Arthur
good morning, or was just there, mapping his face or his hair
with gentle shifting fingers. And his voice in the dim morning
light, a soft, sweet honeyed voice soured only by morning breath
and the prolonged absence of Arthur’s mouth. Alfred, over the
course of knowing him, had become everything for Arthur, and it
scared Arthur, made him fear for Alfred, for who wants such an
expectation heaved onto his shoulders?

But for all the little hugs, the sweet kisses, the quiet, bashful I
love yous, Arthur found himself steadily falling. He knew in his
heart that he loved Alfred in turn, knew that Alfred’s affections
were earnest and genuine, not created from a malicious joke,
and he knew that, with no politics screened between them, if
Alfred were to choose to leave him, it would not be through
painful war or because of national goals—no, if Alfred were to
leave him, it would be as simple as I don’t love you anymore.

So with an aching heart, the day Alfred came to visit him in

London, still bright-eyed despite a seven hour flight across the
Atlantic and smiling only at Arthur, Arthur cupped his cheeks and
kissed him right in the airport. Alfred’s bags fell to the ground as
Alfred scooped him up, clenching him tight, and kissing him as if
he were starved for air. What Alfred lacked in finesse he made
up for in enthusiasm. And the boy had endless bounds of
enthusiasm.

Arthur would have gladly kept kissing Alfred, except someone

had to drive the two of them back to Arthur’s home, with the
creaky staircase and the abundant garden that Alfred always
pretended was too girly for him to like.

That marked the turning point. That night, instead of pushing

Alfred to his back and driving in to him, he mounted Alfred and
rode him. It’d been the first time for Alfred, who’d made far too
many noises that Arthur quickly became addicted to. He took
that small step, told himself he was still in control. Told himself
he wasn’t that vulnerable, like this. Reminded himself it
was okay to be vulnerable, because Alfred wasn’t about to take
advantage of him. The boy, despite everything, was too genuine,
too heroic, too courteous to ever take advantage of anyone,
especially Arthur—Arthur who, Alfred says, had always been the
person most important to Alfred. Arthur, whom Alfred had loved
for two hundred years, sometimes without even realizing it. And
even knowing all that, just looking at Alfred’s face was enough
for Arthur to know for certain that no matter what, Alfred would
never willingly hurt him.

So in the end, it was Arthur’s issues, not Alfred, never Alfred. But
as the fear subsided, he recognized that he’d enjoyed it all. In his
way, he’d given himself over to Alfred’s control. It was his way,
for while he could see this as Alfred taking control of him, the
opposite was never a means to control Alfred, merely to
demonstrate to Alfred just how much he loved and wanted him,
how much he wanted Alfred to feel good, to show him, without
words, the way he felt. When he dominated Alfred, it was not as
a means to control Alfred, but to take care of Alfred. Arthur knew,
in his heart, that he would never have Alfred again—and that did
not cause him unhappiness.

In the week that Alfred visited Arthur in London, they didn’t really
have sex. They shared Arthur’s bed, legs curled together,
Alfred’s chilled feet sliding up Arthur’s calves for some kind of
warmth. They spent time together. But it wasn’t until the evening
before Alfred was to leave for a ten o’ clock flight back to
Washington that Alfred initiated the sex, and Arthur fell onto his
back, pulling Alfred on top of him, letting the boy take control, to
have him—and Arthur, for the first time in his entire existence,
gave himself completely to another person. To Alfred. And Alfred
loved him, though his movements were jerky at best, and painful
at worst. But he moved as carefully as possible, caring for
Arthur, enthusiastic to learn, to map every moment that Arthur
enjoyed.

And at first, Arthur believed he would hate it, hate the fact that
his pleasure would be so dependent on another. He believed
that it would be too painful, both physically and emotionally. He
feared for the moment when there was nothing else to protect his
heart from Alfred. But by letting go, by letting Alfred hold him
close, he sealed that distance. And not only did the full trust
make him feel good, having Alfred with him was even better.
Love was not just about receiving, but giving as well—and on
that last night, Arthur finally fully accepted Alfred’s love, and fully
gave his in turn.

---
“Hey, hon,” Alfred murmured when Arthur opened his eyes.
Alfred was on his side, head held up by one hand, arm bent at
the elbow.

“Good morning,” Arthur said, a yawn working its way between

the words.

Alfred’s hand fell away and he flopped onto the mattress. Arthur
sighed as the boy pulled Arthur into his arms.

“Mmm, good morning,” Alfred said against his neck, and Arthur
could feel the curve of his smile. Arthur nuzzled against him,
nose in Alfred’s soft golden hair.

Arthur had flown in the night before, and as was the case when
one visited the other’s country, Arthur was staying in Alfred’s
home for the week and a half he was there in the country. It’d
been close to a month since they’d seen each other last, but
aside from a flurry of kisses that lasted quite some time, Arthur
had been too jetlagged the night before to do much of anything
else other than kiss, then sleep.

Morning now, Arthur still felt as bit groggy, but part of that came
from waking up in a bed different from his own, but still just as
familiar. Alfred held him until he felt a bit more awake, signaled
by Arthur stroking the other nation’s hair with gentle, wakeful
ease. Arthur kissed his forehead as Alfred slowly untangled
himself from Arthur’s limbs. Smiling that dopey, lopsided smile of
his, Arthur felt hopeless, felt himself smile back in that
inexplicably love-struck way of his. If Alfred ever noticed how
hopelessly Arthur loved him, he never let on, always seemed to
brighten up whenever Arthur told him, as if every time it was a
miraculous surprise that Alfred always needed to celebrate.
Usually such a celebration consisted of Alfred kissing every
available inch of Arthur’s skin, punctuated by a litany of frenzied I
love you, Arthurs. all of numerous pitches, and paces, and
places—and it was enough to make Arthur’s chest ache. But a
good ache, a familiar ache.

He preferred it that way, with Alfred pushing him down, as he

was now, kissing him and smiling at him as he peeled away the
fabric of his clothes, stripped him and left him bare, for Alfred’s
eyes only.

“Missed you,” Alfred said as he kissed at Arthur’s neck, fingers

pulling at his pajama bottoms.

“I missed you, too,” Arthur replied, smiling.

“Can I keep going, then?” Alfred asked—as if the answer could

possibly be no, as if Arthur could possibly push Alfred away
when he was all he could possibly want.

Arthur nodded and closed his eyes, let Alfred kiss down his body
and felt selfish—that he should be the one Alfred gave his love
to, that he should have Alfred all to himself…

That Alfred would want him…

Arthur sighed, “I love you.”

Alfred perked up, and sure enough—there was the way his eyes
lit up, his face flushed with happiness. He pushed up and took
Arthur’s mouth with his, mumbling out a quiet I love you in reply,
never once removing his mouth from Arthur’s.

It was these moments that made Arthur sure that, yes, he would
always give himself to Alfred, and he’d been a fool to worry, a
fool to feel that icy grip of hesitation. There was no hesitation
now—he would always think of Alfred, the first thing he thought
of when he woke in the morning, and the last before he slept.
When he went away, Alfred took Arthur’s heart with him. And
maybe, once, that would have scared him. But here it only made
his stomach flop, and his hold on Alfred all the tighter.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Alfred said, as he always said
just before he smeared the lube across his fingers and prepared
Arthur.

Arthur nodded, sighed as he pulled Alfred’s shirt off from his

body, tossing it aside as Alfred rubbed his hands together,
spreading the lube to coat his fingers quite liberally. One hand
gripped Arthur’s hip while the other one pushed between Arthur’s
legs. Arthur spread them as a clumsy finger pressed to the tight
ring of muscles and then slipped inside. Arthur bit back a small
cry, his body tight and Alfred slipping inside him up to the
knuckle. He breathed out through his nose, jaw clenched, as
Alfred slipped in another finger.

Alfred did his best, but he was still clumsy, still inexperienced.
What he knew now he’d learned from observation of the few
times Arthur had prepared Alfred—and also porn. And if there
was one thing porn was not good for, it was being a teacher of
such things. But Arthur bit his tongue, let Alfred do as he
should—the more he did it, the more confident he became, and
that was what was important.

Alfred, as always, pulled his fingers away before Arthur was

properly stretched, but since he rubbed the lube over his cock, it
was never too bad. Alfred pushed into him and Arthur’s body
tensed up from the pain of Alfred’s cockhead pushing inside him.
Arthur always focused on Alfred’s face, tensed in determination,
face closed off, jaw clenched, biting his lip. Arthur stroked his
face, watched Alfred’s eyes flicker back into reality, looking at
Arthur. Arthur smiled and Alfred kissed his fingertips as he
pushed into Arthur until he was seated quite snuggly.

“Alfred…” Arthur breathed, body still tensed. This was not the
moment he loved, but Alfred’s face was worth it, worth waiting
until he could relax—Alfred was not the best partner Arthur had
ever had, but he was the one Arthur cared for the most, the only
one who could see Arthur so vulnerable, even if the boy didn’t
realize that to be the case.

Today, though—today did not go as it was meant to. As Alfred

thrust into him and Arthur waited for the moment the pain
evaporated into pleasure, he felt a whimper bubbling in the back
of his throat. He tried to contain it, tried to push it away, but he
couldn’t.

“Fuck,” he hissed out, a small whimper.

Alfred froze instantly. “Arthur?”

Arthur shook his head, rolled his hips. “Don’t you—don’t you
fucking stop now.”

“Huh? But I—”

“I love the way you move,” Arthur hissed. “Don’t stop—keep

going. Fucking move.”

Alfred stared at him, bit his lip—it’d been the first time Arthur had
ever been commanding during sex, ever said anything other than
Alfred’s name, or moaning. But he listened—and he did not stop.
But there was something different in his eyes, something
thoughtful.

Once they were finished, slumped against one another, sated,

Alfred still looked thoughtful.

Arthur stroked his face. “What is it, darling?”

“Nothing,” Alfred said, looking embarrassed now. He coughed,

discreetly, and snuggled up close to Arthur, nosing at his ear and
into his hair, letting out a quiet sigh. “Damn, you’re hot.”

“Oh, hush.” Arthur felt his face turn red.

Alfred curled closer to him, slid one leg over Arthur’s hip and
kept them pressed together. Alfred nuzzled against his neck in a
way that was nothing but purely affectionate and it made Arthur’s
face color even further. Tentatively, stoically, he nuzzled back,
kissing at Alfred’s temple with ridiculous tenderness he never
believed he could be capable of again.

“If there’s something on your mind,” Arthur murmured quietly in

Alfred’s ear, “you should say so, my dear lad.”

Alfred shook his head, and bit at his lip. “It’s kinda
embarrassing.”

“I promise not to laugh?” Arthur asked.

Alfred chewed on the inside of his cheek, sighed, and nuzzled

into Arthur, burying his face in his neck. He stayed like that, and
occasionally placed a tiny kiss (and it tickled, a bit, but it was
also a nice, familiar movement). Alfred stayed like that, long
enough that Arthur was fairly certain Alfred was either going to
avoid answering or he was going to just fall asleep and forget
about it.

But then, unexpectedly, Alfred said, “I like it when you talk dirty
to me.”

“Huh?” was Arthur’s intelligent response.

“When I stopped—I’d thought I’d hurt you. I liked it when you

were all demanding. And stuff.”

Arthur pulled back to stare at Alfred, but Alfred was not looking at
him. His gaze was somewhere off into the middle distance, his
cheeks the brightest red he’d ever seen them.

“That was hardly taking dirty,” Arthur decided on.

“You said you wouldn’t laugh,” the boy said with a pout.

Arthur smiled and stroked his knuckles against Alfred’s cheek.

“I’m not.”

Alfred grunted, still pouting and blushing. Arthur couldn’t help but
smile as he leaned down, kissing at his forehead.

“I’m not sure if I’d pegged you the kind to like that kind of thing,”
Arthur admitted.

Alfred shrugged one shoulder, eyelids fluttering when Arthur

kissed his forehead again, lower this time, closer to his nose. “It
just… I dunno. I like it. You used to get really pissed off at me
and stuff before we… um, got together. But after that, you kind
of—I dunno. Got quiet.”

Arthur froze.

But Alfred didn’t seem to notice, as he leaned up and met

Arthur’s slackened mouth. He kissed him for a moment before
pulling away, giving him that shaky smile of his that Arthur
secretly adored. “You don’t usually say anything when we sleep
together. But I like to know how you feel—seems more honest
that way.”

Arthur swallowed the thick lump lodged in his throat, and settled
back down to Alfred’s side, pressing a haphazard kiss to his
throat, feeling his racing pulse—was he nervous?—and feeling
himself relaxing, despite everything. Despite everything, he felt
safe and at peace when he was with Alfred. He wasn’t sure
when that became a reality, but it was what it was.

“… I’ll remember that for next time,” Arthur finally said.

And Alfred just beamed.

---

It’d been the first time their strictly vanilla sex had been anything
other than such. And soon it began to appear Arthur didn’t talk
dirty to Alfred every time, only occasionally, so it wouldn’t
become the norm—so the novelty would not wear off. Some of
the things Arthur said made Alfred blush and fumble, and Arthur
took pride in being able to do so, strived to do so.

And this way, Arthur could channel any pain he felt into words,
instead of leaving it tensed throughout his body. He thrilled in
watching Alfred almost lose control, the way his thrusts would
rock Arthur’s body just a little bit harder, when Arthur said the
right things. Alfred oftentimes resisted it, tried to keep his body in
check—he tried so hard to make sure Arthur was not in pain. As
time went on, the boy became less awkward, though still
remained clumsy.

But eventually, Alfred realized he, rather consistently, hurt Arthur

during sex. For the months they were together, Arthur had been
able to hide it, and when the pain became too much at times,
Arthur would just push Alfred back and straddle him, riding him
until the pain subsided and he could just focus on the way
Alfred’s face continually shifted and tensed in pleasure.

All things considered, Arthur was fairly pleased with the way he
could hide it from Alfred for so long without him ever noticing.
Partially it was just because Alfred was unobservant of such
things, and especially during sex, when Arthur, at this point,
knew all the ways to drive Alfred wild. But all things had to come
to an end, and perhaps Arthur had written off Alfred’s
observations, especially when it came to someone like Arthur,
someone he loved. He’d watched the way Arthur tensed up for
months, and, finally, stopped:
“Am I hurting you?” he asked, his voice breathless, his eyes
wide.

“Who said you should stop?” Arthur snapped.

“Arthur. Am I hurting you?” Alfred stared at him with such

intensity that Arthur fumbled, lost his footing in the foundation of
his control. He could feel it slowly slip away, feel his body shake
for half a moment. Alfred continued to stare at him, unrelenting.

Finally, Arthur had to slant his eyes away. “… It’s fine.”

The look Alfred gave him was heartbreaking—he was stricken,

completely beside himself.

“You have to tell me these things! How can I make it feel good if
all I do is hurt you?”

“It goes away eventually—”

“‘Eventually’? You mean this has happened before?”

“Well…”

“Arthur!” Alfred reeled back, and the sudden loss of warmth, the
sudden loss of having Alfred in him and over him and with him
was so completely jarring that Arthur sat up, trying to pull Alfred
back to him. But Alfred grabbed his wrists, and glared at him, his
expression still completely devastated and hurt. “Arthur!”

Arthur cringed. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Idiot!” Alfred shouted. He shook Arthur’s wrists. “How am I

supposed to make you feel good if you’re hurt? Of course I’d
worry, no matter what—Arthur! I can’t believe you!”
Arthur looked away.

Alfred grasped his chin and forced him to look again. “From now
on, tell me if I’m doing something wrong. Teach me so I can be
the best. Okay?”

“Alfred…”

“Okay?”

“… Okay.”

And thus began Alfred’s reeducation, when it came to sexual

prowess. At first Arthur took it slow, not wishing to bruise Alfred’s
ego. But once the floodgates were open, Arthur had to let it all
out—

Alfred took it rather well, even asked questions.

At one point he’d even asked, “Do you want to top from now on?”

Arthur jolted at the question—it’d been one he’d wondered at

before, why it was he didn’t take over again. Didn’t regain some
control of himself. But despite the pleasure he received from the
dominate positions, despite knowing that Alfred was willing, for
him—

The true pleasure he felt was when Alfred was over him. Arthur
couldn’t explain why, when Alfred lacked true experience, had
only a bit of talent, and oftentimes hurt him or was clumsy or
couldn’t adequately make Arthur come. But those things didn’t
matter to Arthur, in the end. What mattered as not the act itself,
but being there with Alfred—that was what caused him the most
pleasure: that Alfred would want him, care for him, think of him.
And when he got it right—he saw stars, he went to mush, he
blacked out and awoke happily in Alfred’s arms.
Alfred was what mattered.

But since Arthur had no way to articulate that, he merely said,

“There’s only one way you’ll learn and then you’ll make anyone’s
heart go aflutter.”

“Yours is the only one I care about.” Alfred said, without missing
a moment, perfectly serious.

Arthur didn’t say that his heart already did, every time.

---

“Oh fuck—!” Arthur hissed, eyes clenching shut, “fuck fuck fuck.”

“Yeah,” Alfred panted, thrusting against him, “what do you

need?”

“Your—ah,” Arthur cried out as Alfred struck his prostate. “Your

cock, always your cock—oh, Alfred.”

“Yeah, baby,” Alfred gasped, almost losing control as one

particularly hard thrust rocked Arthur’s entire body. “I’m here,
baby.”

“You could—ah—stand to go a little faster, really.”

Alfred obeyed him.

“Harder!”

Alfred obeyed him.

“Yes, yes, yes—!”

There’d been a time when the two of them had been quiet during
sex—now that time was long past, and Arthur felt no restrain in
saying when something was good, or something was bad.

“Ugh—god—shouldn’t you be kissing me by now?”

“Coming, babe,” Alfred said and pressed up close, holding

Arthur’s ankle up in one hand as he captured Arthur’s chin in the
other, pulling him up to kiss him, capturing his mouth and
swallowing his moans and gasps and yes, Alfred!s.

His body responded to Alfred, let Alfred take him and have him—
and he willingly gave himself over, delirious in love.