"Out."

"Arthur..."
"Get out," England worked to keep his voice level and brought a hand to his face.
Alfred tried to approach him again, seeking to do anything to sooth the deep set of Arthur's brow, eyes pleading; only to be warned away with an angry, dismissing gesture.
"I've no idea of what you want, Alfred. And I care little to find out," his hand fell away from his face, frustration having overcome anger. "Heaven knows I've more important matters to attend to than whatever whim has brought you here; it suits me to see you gone."
"Okay," Alfred's jaw tightened and he raised his hands in surrender "Okay, but hear me out. Please, hear me out for five minutes, and then I'll go if you want me to g. But listen."

Arthur's scowl was almost mocking.
"And hear what?"
"What you should have heard last night if you had opened the door instead of fucking Scotland!" Alfred's patience frayed and he cringed as soon as the words left his mouth.
England's eyes narrowed dangerously and Alfred cursed himself, expecting to be shoved aside entirely for another 200 years. Playing the last of his hope, he softened his tone.
"Arthur, please, just listen to me," America's hands were clammy.
England sized the young man before him and huffed out a sigh of exasperation. Catching Alfred off guard he lent back on his desk, expectantly crossing his arms.
America felt the words he'd rehearsed on his tongue, but his mouth went dry with the arch of England's eyebrow.
"Well?"
Trying again, Alfred urged himself to speak. Taking a gulp of o air he started to form an explanation, but could only choke on his spit, put off by Arthur's piercing stare. With a click of his tongue, and to America's distress, Arthur reasoned that he had waited enough.
"I bid you a good day, America," pushing away from the desk, Arthur snatched his stack of files and walked past Alfred at a dignified pace.

"Your smile makes my heart race."
Arthur came to an abrupt halt and Alfred took advantage of it, sidestepping in front of him and boldly bracketing England's flabbergasted expression with hands that hovered half-afraid of rejection.
"Your smile makes my heart race," he repeated, softer still. "And I'd like to kiss it every morning," he traced the pad of his thumb over Arthur's pale skin and dropped his eyes to the floor. He squeezed them shut to continue. "I'd like to make sure you get enough sleep and breakfast, and that you never feel lonely; I want to be there when you need someone. I'd like you to teach me how to brew the tea you like and I'd like to show you a thousand things you've never seen," America stopped to catch his breath," I want to find another thousand with you."
He looked up and into Arthur's wide eyes, heartbreakingly earnest.
"I want to make you happy."
Arthur's expression softened and he reached up to cover Alfred's hands with his own; Alfred smiled softly and kept tracing his thumb back and forth until England firmly drew Alfred's hands away, returned them to him in a gesture that said enough for his heart to do a painful jolt and for his throat to tighten.

"I already am happy, Alfred," Arthur's voice was terse but no less kind.

Alfred fidgeted with the calloused hands that were still between his own, gripping them tighter.

"I know, I know. But that's not what I meant-"

"-I know what you meant," Arthur pacified him. "And I thank you. But I cannot welcome your words."

America frowned then and let go of his hands, feeling hurt and resentful all at once.

"You don't believe me," it wasn't a question.

"I do," Arthur responded swiftly, without a trace of evasion. "Do not misinterpret my words."

There was a beat of silence.

"Then why?"

Arthur hesitated before showing the ghost of a smile, (a marvellous little quirk of lips, awkward, hopeful, and abashed in all its contradictory charm). With it came a silent realisation that burnt like bad whiskey down his throat. It helped to sober Alfred and granted him a steady resolve if only for the time being.

"You're happy then?"

"Yes."

"And they…"

"He's horrid."

America found it in him to smile wanly. (He couldn't have bared to hear a name).

"Then it's settled, yeah? You're happy," his voice didn't waver, "and that's what I wanted most of all. So it's okay, yeah? We're okay? Still on for that drink?"

England heart tightened and he wanted to apologise but something in the way Alfred's eyes shone with a recognisable sheen told him it was better to hold his tongue and play along for the sake of the heart he had so unknowingly battered. Taking a step forwards he clapped the young man on the shoulder.

"You're a good man, Alfred Jones," he avowed seriously before breaking into jest. "And it will be my pride to get you pissed."

It was a relief to hear Alfred laugh and have him prattle on about some regard or another with well-known cockiness. Arthur was content enough to listen, snorting and commenting when prompted to reproach too bold statements better suited for someone without an ounce of reason. It was in the midst of this flurry of words that seeked to make light of the situation that they found themselves on the damp pavement of the street.

"February, then," Arthur supplied as his choice of farewell, awkwardly standing at the bottom of the stairs.

"I'll mark my calendar," Alfred displayed every bit of cheek he possessed as he walked backwards to the opposite side of the parking lot. "Wouldn't miss it."

He didn't miss the way England shook his head fondly as he turned to walk the other way, and it hurt tremendously to watch him go.

When he disappeared around the corner, America's smile watered and he bit the back of his hand hard to hold back a curse. The ground beneath him blurred and he stormed away to seek refuge in an alleyway.

He'd been so sure. So very sure, and the disappointment shattered him. He willed the thoughts away; thoughts of England's strength, of Arthur's laugh, and the cruel warmth of his hands on his. Alfred hated himself, hated Arthur's pretty eyes, then despised the way his lower lip trembled and a voice at the back of his head appointed him a coward while demanding that he chase behind England like he had as a child ("Stay, Arthur! Stay!").

There was frustration churning deep in his gut and he could have screamed, wanting nothing more than to punch through the wall and sink to his knees. He would have, no doubt, had a steady hand not taken a hold of his raised fist and kept it over his head.

Alfred sucked in a breath; the strength in his arm lost allowing it to be held up, and turned woeful eyes to meet the light shade of bottle green that unmade him.

"Fuck!" the expression was something between a sob and a laugh.

It was only the last of his pride that held him upright as he let himself be drawn to a secure shoulder and sobbed freely, for all his foolishness and enthusiasm and the pain it brought.

(Ah, yes, he'd forgotten one thing: Arthur always came back when he called; dallied his return to England for another week to spend with him.)

"I can't stay this time," Arthur spoke softly when America felt he'd been crying for too long.

America swallowed.

"I know," there was a brand of relief that came with acceptance that hadn't been there before. "I know."

He'd barely registered parting from Arthur; drew his strength from faulty righteousness. England drove him to the airport, arranged everything so that America's forgotten luggage would be localised and brought to him, and produced a plane ticket with such ease that Alfred was tempted to suggest magic as an explanation to his logical mind.

He seeked refuge in mechanical movements, first turning the cup of steaming coffee that had been placed before him in the terminal cafeteria, then finding patterns in the sea of people that was Heathrow airport on the few weeks just before the holidays. He was brought back to attention by England taking a seat across from him with a questioning brow.

"I'm fine. Yup. Just dandy," he drained the coffee. "Can't wait to drink decent coffee again, though. Might spend some time in Minnesota to clear up, then fly up to Mattie's place for New Year's."

Arthur nodded and grunted his approval.

"Off you go, then."

Alfred whined as he stood but headed to his boarding gate at a calm pace, without turning to say goodbye.

The moment his head hit the back of the seat (mumbled a sleepy 'thank you' to the kind fight attendant who passed him a pillow and one to a left behind England) he dozed off to a dreamless sleep.

Arthur, on his part, meandered a while longer in the halls of Heathrow, contented to watch and listen until the sky outside turned dark and it was far to late to return home anything but empty handed and drained of patience and motivation.

Walking through the door to his living room, shoving both his coat and briefcase on the couch, and making a quick pit stop to the kitchen to grab a beer, was as much work as he was bound to get done, he decided, before shoving Scotland from his preferred spot on the couch and falling back to the cushions.

"Wales stole your book," Alasdair informed still flicking through the channels on the television and foolishly attempting to snatch the beer from Arthur's hand.

"And if you think you can steal my beer you can fuck off and find another place to sleep tonight," Alasdair pulled back his hand and let Arthur take a swing.

"Fair enough," he stretched his hands over his head and fixed his eyes thoughtfully on Arthur's profile, lit by the ghastly blue light from movie playing on the screen.

He let him be for the first few minutes then slowly drew him towards him, so that Arthur's back was resting half on his chest and his head could lean on his shoulder. Arthur took another drag from his beer and shifted to kick off his shoes without complaint. Alasdair didn't feel the need to ask and kept silent, feeling sated and at ease where he was until the wee hours of the morning, when the air chilled and England shook him awake to take him to bed.

I'm so sorry for taking ages.

Last chapter was edited a little, but nothing changes too much. (Wales declines Scotland's offer and he stays home to wait. He would have gotten in the way a bit if he'd gone to London.)

I think this is a wrap up for Bowmore 12, but I might continue writing about this story line later on. I've quite a few other things I wish to write first.

The 30 day porn challenge is gonna be updated next (on tumblr), so cheers until then!

-HyfrydCymru