"Why do you stay with me?" he asks, staring down at him, the silk brocade at his throat gleaming in the firelight. He is seated in his favorite, lofty, wing-backed chair, while his personal attendant, his loyal servant, his dear favorite, the unintentional beloved of his heart, kneels before him, busily cleaning up the mess of porcelain on the floor.

Alfred looks up, face guarded for only a moment before a beaming smile touches his lips, his eyes crinkling at the corners. The look on the young man's face is quietly adoring. He says nothing and instead goes back to cleaning the mess, picking up tiny shards and mopping up the spilled tea with his bare hands and a rag. The tea would leave a stain in the expensive carpeting, he was sure.

"Alfed!" His tone is urgent, frustrated.

The only response he receives is silence. He opens his mouth to demand his manservant answer him but is interrupted when the younger man speaks, his words almost inaudible. "I stay with you…"

He stares. He stares so hard he should've been able to see the wistful smile lingering on Alfred's lips, but he doesn't. All he sees are shadows, a bruise, a golden curtain of hair.

"…because I must."

It isn't the answer he was waiting for. That much is made obvious when he abruptly stands up and sweeps the rest of the unfortunate tea set to the floor. Then he leaves, fists clenched, feeling inexplicably angry beyond belief.

Like a storm, he whirls away and thunders up the marble stairs—suit jacket flapping behind him, wispy blonde hair fluttering messily—leaving a mess of broken vases, strewn flowers, and wet puddles in his wake. He quickly crosses the hallway to reach the sanctuary of his bedroom. Once there, he resists the urge to slam the door and instead, falls to his bed in an undignified sprawl.

He is displeased and unhappy. He wants something, yet he knows he cannot have it unless Alfred is willing to give it to him. And he is used to getting what he wants, without question and without much effort, so he does not know how to confront this particular problem. He thinks a bit, idly pondering his predicament until he concludes that in order for him to get what he wants, he will have to set aside his pride and lay himself bare before Alfred. Whether the latter half of his conclusion is to be taken literally or not remains to be seen. Either way, he is not happy with the only solution he has come up with. Surely, there must be another way, he thinks. If only the twit were not so thick!

He suffers a fitful bout of sleep, waking up just before his manservant knocks on his bedroom door to announce that dinner will be served in an hour.

"Come in," he commands, voice still raspy with sleep.

After a bit of hesitation, or so he imagines, Alfred turns the brass doorknob and steps into the room. "Yes, my Lord?" he asks immediately, head bowed, eyes on the polished wood beneath him.

"Dress me."

As Alfred is reluctant to meet his eyes, Arthur takes the opportunity to study him instead.

The dark bruise near the corner of his lips that Arthur himself had inflicted is still painfully visible against his pale skin. His cheeks are hollower than they were weeks ago and Arthur thinks that Alfred is perhaps a bit too lean. But other than those minor differences, the boy is as beautiful and perfect as ever. His golden hair gleams when the firelight hits it, making Arthur ache to run his fingers through the silky strands. His skin is smooth and flawless, flushed at the curve of his cheeks, and Arthur badly wants to touch. Tearing his gaze away, Arthur curses.

This prompts a series of apologies from Alfred, who believes he has done something to discomfit his master. He had been in the process of removing Arthur's silk shirt and his hands are now laid flat across Arthur's chest, quivering slightly as he mumbles "forgive me" and "I'm sorry" in a breathy sigh.

Arthur gives an exasperated sigh of his own as he stares at Alfred's bowed head; that is, until he feels the warm teardrops soaking his shirt. Startled, he draws back, allowing Alfred's hands to slip down his chest until they are pressed precariously against his ribs. Upon gaining his composure again, Arthur tucks his thumb under Alfred's chin and lifts his head, not surprised to see the tears running down his cheeks, but confused as to why they are there.

"What is wrong?" he asks, his tone more biting than he had intended.

Alfred hiccups, his watery, blue eyes regarding Arthur despairingly, hopelessly.

"Tell me what is wrong, Alfred," Arthur demands. "Why are you crying?"

To Arthur's frustration, the young man simply shakes his head and smiles through his tears. Then he moves, deciding once and for all that in order to get Alfred to understand, he will have to be rudely direct. So he kisses him, the hand beneath the other's chin moving to cradle the back of his head. And, oh. The lips beneath his are surprisingly soft and nearly scalding in their heat. Arthur is already addicted to the sensation.

Alfred utters a delayed gasp, which Arthur greedily swallows up.

Then, Arthur is being pushed back against the wall, his initial disappointment giving way to surprise when he realizes Alfred is not pulling away but is instead responding fervently. Large, wandering hands are running up and down his torso and neck, and soft lips are pressing insistently against his lips, sloppy yet endearingly eager.

When Alfred pulls away, looking unsure and embarrassed, Arthur lifts his lips in a reassuring smile, and is rewarded with a chaste peck on the lips.

Then, Alfred looks away and gulps nervously, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

A short silence descends over them, before Arthur deigns to break it with a soft utterance of the boy's name.

"Y-yes?" Alfred asks, his voice tremulous and a tad raspy from arousal.

Arthur lowers his head for a moment, thinking his words through. Then he raises his eyes to meet Alfred's and says clearly yet quietly, "I fancy you. That is to say," Arthur looks away as he clears his throat, "I have been enamored by you since the moment I first saw you step inside this house with that pathetic black eye on your face and that filthy sling about your hunched shoulders and that idiotic smile pasted upon your lips, looking for all the world as though you had just walked out of a brawl victorious, though I know for a fact that you had not. I saw you, you know. We passed by you and that troublesome lot on our way home. If we had known it was you, we probably would have—" Arthur pauses when he realizes he is rambling. "What I mean is…I loved you then and I love you now." Arthur swallows and looks up to see Alfred's enlarged pupils nearly blocking out the blue of his irises.

"Oh," the taller of the two whispers, sounding half in disbelief and half in awe.

"Is that all you have to say?" Arthur asks irritably, feeling his cheeks warm.

"I love you too," Alfred says simply, his eyes conveying the words with a quiet, humble honesty.

Arthur swallows again, lowering his gaze until it was level with Alfred's white, buttoned collar. "Show me."

Alfred tilts his head to the side, regarding Arthur carefully. "Pardon me?"

Arthur bristles, loathe to repeat the needy demand. But he grits his teeth, swallows his pride, and says it anyway. "Show me. Show me how you love me."

"I don't—"

Arthur steps away, pinching one of Alfred's shiny, pink cheeks with a small, pained smile. "Like an elder brother?" He extends an arm to place a hand on Alfred's shoulder and looks at him in the eye, his smile growing into a mocking grin. "Or a dear, old friend, perhaps?" Then he haughtily raises his chin and crosses his arms over his chest, somehow managing to look down at Alfred despite the fact that the other was taller. "Maybe you love me simply for the fact that I am the master who clothes and feeds you."

Alfred frowns. "My Lord, I—"

Like a snake, Arthur glides into Alfred's personal space, reaching down to firmly cup the slight bulge in his breeches. "Or do you love me like this, Alfred?" he breathes, pressing his temple against the other's jaw, the line of his mouth softening into something desperate, sad, and hopeful. "Do you love me as I love you?"

Alfred struggles to choke out a response.

"That is not love. That is lust."

Arthur's venomous, green eyes flash indignantly at the comment. "Shut up."

With a sigh, Francis rolls his eyes and reclines in his chair, idly nursing a glass of wine.