He wasn't honest, Arthur. He wasn't exactly what Alfred would call a liar, but he didn't tell the truth. Or at least not the whole truth. Or at least he told a version of things that only he would call truth.

He was a walking dichotomy. He had this habit of building himself up in one breath and knocking himself down in the next. One minute he was a better cook than that idiot frog could ever be, and the next he was so terribly sorry that the scones came out bad, they always seem to end up like that, don't they?

And he always spent so long looking at himself. Turning round and round in front of the full-length mirror on his bathroom door to make sure every stitch of his clothes was in line; smoothing the hair that would never be anything but wild; pushing his fringe down like he could hide the eyebrows that Alfred loved to kiss between. And then someone at some meeting– most often Francis– would make fun of the color of his tie or the minute wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and Arthur would go red and yell and act for all the world like he'd never had a moment of insecurity in his life.

Alfred wasn't all the world, and he spent far too much time with Arthur not to notice. He'd seen every automatic twitch of Arthur's hand toward his face at every jibe at his looks. He'd heard the guilt beneath the words every time Arthur talked about his past (times too rare). He'd heard the sighs at burnt food and crooked needlework. He'd seen and heard and felt acutely every tiny vulnerable thing which Arthur had never, and would never, show anyone else.

But even now, Alfred thought him close to perfect. Arthur stood across the counter from him, cutting a tomato for his salad into even slices. The late afternoon sunlight streaming through the window burned golden on each individual strand of his hair. His eyes glittered like precious gemstones. (Arthur would have called his hair straw instead of gold; compared his eyes to grass rather than emeralds.)

"You're beautiful," said Alfred.

Arthur paused and looked up. His eyebrows were raised. "Where did that come from?"

Alfred shrugged. He propped his chin on his hand and smiled. "Nowhere. Just saying."

Arthur gave a little grin back, but his was more teasing than lovesick. "I'm in an apron and pajama bottoms. I doubt I'm anything approaching attractive right now." He went back to slicing with a shake of his head.

"It's all right, you know," Alfred said quietly, "that you don't like yourself all that much." Arthur's hands stilled. "I'll just love you enough to make up for it until you do."

After a long pause, Arthur let out a short, soft laugh. "That hardly constitutes a healthy relationship, you realize."

"Yeah," Alfred said. "But... we'll work on it." He stretched his arm across the counter top, his palm upturned. Arthur neither looked up nor replied, but he did put his hand in Alfred's and squeeze.

They'd work on a lot of things, together.