Doorstep Lovers

'We're hollow like the bottles that we drain
You drape your wrists over the steering wheel
Pulses can drive from here
We might be hollow, but we're brave'
- 400 Lux, Lorde

The motorway sloped upwards and, in the blunt darkness, the roads and bridges and cars merged together. Ahead of them was star-studded tar and forgetfulness. Alfred drove like a shiny-eyed boy in his first race car and he laughed for no reason. Arthur's open palm grappled at the impalpable wind through the car window. They went so fast that Arthur couldn't close his hand against the stampede of air outside.

The two debated the advantages of stopping by a drive-through; Arthur came out triumphant but found himself with a handful of salt-encrusted chips not too long after.

By the time midnight sailed along, four zeroes turning over in the dashboard clock, they were ten minutes away from home. At the last junction, the traffic lights thwarted them and as the car hummed, stationary, at a red light, Arthur looked over at Alfred.

And it was in that moment that a thought sunk inside of him much like a pebble meanders to the bed of a pond.

Alfred wasn't just his best friend; he hadn't been that for a long time. He made Arthur more content than any other could, too content. The American was Arthur's adventure, his edge of the world, his home. He was much more than a friend to Arthur.

He was much heavier in his seat for the rest of the journey. The moment popped, soap-bubble delicate, and by the time Alfred reached their dorm building, Arthur itched to be away from Alfred's company for the first time in a long time.

"Come on, Artie!" Alfred shouted breezily. He swung his keys around his index finger and whistled an 80's rock song as he made his way to their dorms.

Arthur held back, walking behind Alfred with confession in every step he took.

How long had withheld this feeling from himself? Hiding it throughout his body; in the pores of his skin, the backs of his eyes and the space under his fingernails.

I'm in love with my best friend. I'm in love with Alfred. Oh god.

Alfred bid him goodnight, Arthur returned the well-wishing.

Entering his dorm, Arthur thought of all the times Alfred wouldn't steal kisses when the lights were on red, when no one was looking or when Arthur wasn't feeling well. He slammed the door behind him.

-/-

Francis fancied Arthur a rather tragic character, cultivated from the pages of a dog-eared Austen novel, and so Francis took the Englishman under his wing. An act of martyrdom, of course.

"You're not a project, Arthur! I simply cannot stand to see you miserably pining after that American any longer," the man claimed.

"I am not pining!" the smaller man's voice piqued and fellow customers of the Mediterranean themed café spared him glances. His cheeks lit up like Christmas lights and Arthur suddenly became very interested in his slice-of-life novel which was actually duller than celebrity gossip or those shooting games Alfred insisted on playing. "Alfred is my best friend and he's straight as an arrow. It is a platonic relationship–"

"Mutually platonic?" Francis tapped cream into his coffee. The denser liquid clouded until it was stirred. "How long?"

Arthur stared into his acquaintance's coffee for a socially unacceptable amount of time before exhaling into the pages of his book.

"I'm not sure," Arthur professed under his breath. Francis had been sniffing about Arthur's business ever since he'd interacted with Alfred and Arthur in the same environment. What was brightly obvious to Francis was behind several smoke-screens to Arthur's best friend. "It only occurred to me last year but as to how long I've felt this way about… him, I don't know. Perhaps since I was twelve."

How pitiable I am.

Francis sucked on his teaspoon.

"Does it matter?" Arthur groaned. "What good could come from telling him?"

The smile he received was luxurious and Cheshire cat worthy. "You are both as blind as each other," he muttered. "Never mind, mon cher, we'll worry about that later. For now, you try telling him without actually telling him," the Frenchman said, at long last.

-/-

"What on earth are you doing?!"

Everything about the kiss had been premeditated, including Arthur's march in the opposite direction of one Francis Bonnefoy. His lips tingled, not with the precision of the kiss he'd just received but with the riddle that had been mouthed against them. Trust me, said Francis.

Honestly. Arthur slotted the key into his door. The corridor smelt of university students. Empty beer cans and curry-stained Styrofoam and procrastination. It wasn't the most pleasing scent in the world. Who does he think he is? Kissing me like that? For no good reason?

Alfred passed Arthur, carrying plastic grocery bags. He dropped them by his door, and, with a hand in each pocket, he searched for his keys. And that was his greeting to Arthur, wordless and metallic.

It was so unlike Alfred that Arthur considered him an imposter for a moment.

"Hello to you as well," Arthur remarked.

"Hi."

"How are you?" Arthur blinked, the disorientation from Francis' kiss flaking away. Something was off, the air was off and everything about Alfred was off. Worryingly, his eyes were flat and reticent behind his glasses.

"Fine." The American kicked his bags into his dorm, one by one, preferring to play football with cheap bread rolls than make eye contact with Arthur.

"Is something the matter?" the older man asked.

"Nope." The 'p' popped with the exertion of contrived nonchalance.

What is wrong with him?

"Then why are you being short with me?"

"I don't know. Why were you kissing Francis? I guess we just don't tell each other anything anymore," the American countered. He was almost lyrical with his words.

Alfred propped himself against his doorframe, arms crossed and eyebrows quirked. The stance was condemnatory and, despite himself, Arthur bristled.

"I'm sorry?" His hands went to his hips without thought. "For your information, Francis kissed me. I did not want to be kissed by that frog; you know how I feel about him–"

"Yet you guys are dating each other behind my back?"

"…dating behind your back? Are you a complete idiot? We're not dating!"

"If you're not dating then why do you spend almost all your time with him? Ditch me for him? Kiss each other when you think I'm not around?" Alfred's yelling before Arthur's yelling which is something entirely unique for them. Anger swarmed in Alfred with a bee's nest mentality and, having known Alfred since he was six years old, the Englishman had never witnessed anything like it before.

"I've just said, I didn't want to kiss him, he took me by surprise–"

"Yeah, you looked real surprised there. 'Oh no, I'll just stand here and pretend to enjoy him sticking his tongue down my throat.'" The comment was punctuated with an eye roll.

"My, you are being a git tonight. You have absolutely no right! Just because you saw that does not mean you know what's going on! And why does it matter so much to you anyway? You don't seem to have any trouble waking up with some woman in your bed then conveniently forgetting to tell me about it! What does it matter who I kiss and who kisses me?!" Arthur exclaimed.

"You should have told me. I'm your best friend; I'm trying to look out for you! I don't want guys like that kissing you because I know they won't treat you the way you deserve to be treated!"

"Then why don't you kiss me?!"

Arthur bolted and he was behind the security of his door before the question was even fully comprehended by either of them. It was soundless in the corridor, a quiet that he thought was beyond Alfred's capabilities. It made him tremble. His skin was waxy with sweat and his heart seemed to topple over in his chest. He had given the game away.

-/-

Sending Alfred boxes of strawberry fondant chocolates or pushing notes underneath his door were possibly the worst ideas Arthur's ever heard of, especially as 'indirect' declarations of irremediable love. Though Arthur did see an unfortunate amount of sense in Francis' clue trail theory. If Arthur could plant the seeds in Alfred's brain, maybe the American could construe it for himself.

The idea was scrapped not too long after its birth.

Alfred was Arthur's best friend and if he were to find out that Arthur had fallen for him it would devastate their relationship.

And Arthur would rather have Alfred as friend than not have him at all.

However, looking back, it occurred to Arthur that almost every interaction he had had with Alfred had been testimony of his more-than-amicable feelings. Alfred had simply chosen not to see them.

How often had Arthur confessed without confessing? Said without saying?

When they were younger, the two would spend hours upon hours in the park across from their houses. They had a rotting bench and an aged willow that slouched into a finely-leafed canopy. In that place, Arthur convinced Alfred that it was okay for boys to kiss boys. And demonstrated with a peck on the cheek.

On Arthur's 18th birthday, Alfred carried Arthur home on his back. The duo bobbed back and forth, like a kind of hunchbacked being, slurring out their national anthems and tallying the red cars that sped past them. Arthur tipped his head back and the world became dizzying and cluttered and he nearly vomited. He didn't vomit, in the end, and Alfred didn't let him tip his head back again. Instead, the English boy nestled his nose into Alfred's neck and told the American how lovely he was over and over.

They spent an embarrassing number of Valentine's Days together. One was during their first year of university. They gorged on clotted cream rice pudding and Spanish beer and watched various zombie apocalypses films under a duvet each. It was problematic to reassemble masculinity after evenings like those, especially for Alfred who couldn't be convinced there weren't any undead presences in the world and insisted that Arthur share a bed with him since he wasn't permitted to own a gun.

"What kind of country doesn't allow guns, seriously? What if there is a zombie apocalypse, you guys are all gonna die first." It was probable Alfred was sleep-talking. "Nah, I'd be here to protect you, so you guys definitely wouldn't die first."

Arthur entertained with the notion that Alfred visited more England than was strictly necessary because of Arthur. That he chose an English university, the same as Arthur, and had requested their dorms to be neighbouring each other because of Arthur.

-/-

Someone was knocking on his door; no one had ever knocked on Arthur's door that apprehensively. Arthur has long since lost sensation in his fingers out of fretfulness.

It was Alfred, of course, and he was juggling a fidgety bundle of fur. His glasses are askew and there's an artificially-coloured stain on his shirt. He was just Alfred, the boy that had lived next door to Arthur for years upon years, moving back and forth between England and America. They'd seen one another go through puberty; they'd shared their first kiss stories and made mud pies in their back gardens.

It was just Alfred. The love of his life.

"I think Crumpet must have wandered over before, both our doors were open," Alfred explained. Crumpet yowled and executed an ungentlemanly backflip out of Alfred's arms. Alfred's excessively fluffy cat was wearing figures-of-eight into the carpet, waiting for Crumpet's return. "Those two really like each other, huh?" Alfred scrubbed the back of his neck with his hand, a tell-tale that was inexplicably nervous.

"Uh… about what you said before–"

"Alfred, please, forget about it."

"No," Alfred said, a simultaneous reaction.

No. No, it's over. No, we can't be friends anymore. No, I've ruined everything.

"No, I can't forget, Arthur," Alfred asserted. "I don't want to forget. I thought, maybe, I was imagining things, but you've been trying to tell me, right? And I've been a total douchebag." He was watching his hands and Arthur was watching his hands too. "I don't want you to be with anyone else, Artie. I've always hated seeing you with someone else and I never understood why. I don't want you to be with Francis or the guy after him or the guy after him."

Arthur's eyes were trained to Alfred's twisting hands, and his stomach was in a very similar state.

"Arthur." The American's large hands came to support Arthur's jaw, tilting the smaller man's head back. "If I kiss you…," Alfred swallowed. "There's no getting rid of me. I'm gonna be here, kissing you all the time, and you can't get bored of me because I can't lose you. Not you."

"You stupid sod," Arthur's windpipe felt like it was lined with tissue paper. He wouldn't cry, he would not cry. "I've been here, waiting for you to kiss me all the time–"

Arthur wasn't a fan of being interrupted, and it was a becoming a regular occurrence as of late, but being interrupted by Alfred's kiss was something he could maybe let slide.

Dear god, did he owe Francis a thank you?

-/-

When Alfred was two years old, his parents' marriage ended on amicable terms and the once beloveds parted with a handshake. With minds renewed, Alfred's mother remained, contentedly, in the USA while Alfred's father relocated to the cusp of London with the ambition to further the essential Anglo-American partnership within his business.

Hence why Arthur had found himself with new neighbours.

While Alfred's father was a permanent resident, Alfred himself spent the majority of his time with his mother in America. Being schooled there meant that he only stayed with his father during the summer holidays and Christmas.

The first time the two boys met wasn't ideal. Alfred's greeting was no less than a snowball to the face. Arthur thought that the burst of biting cold the boy had delivered would leave him permanently as one of Arthur's blacklisted individuals. Arthur had treated the American with as much frostiness as an English winter could bring.

The summer brought Alfred back to England and the effervescent sunshine along with him. Arthur was in his garden, tending to dusty-pink roses which had seemingly erupted into life upon the arrival of summer, when Alfred called his name tentatively.

"I brought you something from America," he said.

There was a wad of something wrapped in garish orange in Alfred's cupped hands. Hands that were bigger than Arthur's. He had to contend with his mind to stop him softening towards Alfred but the miserable, kicked-puppy look about the other boy had a strange sway over Arthur.

"I know I've already said it but I am sorry about the snowball." Getting bolder, Alfred urged his hands over the fence. "I didn't mean to make you cry."

"I didn't cry!" Arthur squawked, snapping at the knees to stand and shearing a cluster of petals on a rose in the process.

"You totally did cry," Alfred countered with an arc of his lips. "Uh – there's nothing wrong with crying though! I didn't mean to upset you! Please, I reallllly wanna be friends with you."

Arthur's eyes narrowed. "You want to be friends with me?"

"Yeah, of course I do! We're neighbours, aren't we? And you seem really… interesting. Come on; get your presents before I eat them!" Alfred was just about ready to climb over the picket fence.

The gap between them had served as something of a no-man's land and Arthur knew closing the gap would be the acceptance of Alfred's offer of friendship. Deep breath, and Arthur approached the other boy, one step at a time, then peered into his hands, hoping it wasn't a trick and Alfred wasn't about to throw something else in his face.

Emblazoned on the each, individual packets were the words 'Reese's Peanut Butter Cups'.

"You're gonna love them, they're my favourite," Alfred said, tipping them into Arthur's hands excitedly. Their fingers touch for a halved-second. "They're really popular in America but I haven't seen them over here which sucks."

"Ah." Arthur stared at the grinning boy stupidly "Ah, um, thank you."

"You're welcome!" Alfred saluted and laughed, airy and light-hearted. "Friends, then?"

"I'm not a good friend," Arthur retaliated.

"No problem, I'd rather you be my bad friend than not my friend at all."

For some reason, Arthur found difficult to meet Alfred's eyes. It was rather like looking into a kaleidoscope of summertime; spirited and colourful, all flaxen hair, sunny smiles and handfuls of sky for eyes.

They would never get along.

"My name is Alfred Jones, what's your name?"

"Arthur Kirkland! What are you doing with those bloody shears?! Get in this house right now, you could have taken someone's eye out!" His mother's scolding sliced through his thoughts and Arthur jerked away from Alfred. Glancing once more at Alfred, Arthur headed towards the woman towering in the doorway; she stepped out of the way so Arthur could walk under her arm.

"Do you want to come out and play tomorrow, Arthur Kirkland?" the American queried, he sounded playful but Arthur could tell he was being wary of his mother.

A surprising amount of hope swelled in Arthur as he looked up at his mother for permission.

"Fine. But, you need to finish all your chores before you go out, you can't go any further than the park, you need to be back for tea and if you steal the shears again you're not going out again." She took the gardening shears from Arthur's hand and lightly bumped the handle against his head.

"Okay, Alfred Jones."

And Arthur nearly smiled. He didn't have the heart to tell Alfred that couldn't stand peanut butter.

Maybe he wouldn't be such a bad neighbour after all.

This was for the USUK Secret Santa Exchange. I thought I'd post it here too.

Warning: I wrote three separate (and wordy) fics before writing this one, I disliked them all strongly and this one was done at the very last minute. It shows. But, hey, it is what it is. Sorry!

I was inspired by the song 400 Lux by Lorde if anyone needs atmospheric assistance.