I have been spamming this affiliation for about a year now, so forgive me if I presume that you perhaps know what Rockets is. Either way, as a reminder: Rockets is the doujin that I scripted for the wonderful Hakuku, who drew an entire eight chapters of it, complete with coloured title pages. It's USUK/UKUS and is a modern day AU in which Arthur is a struggling fashion designer trying to complete a project for Paris Fashion Week - however, he's stranded in New York and needs a model, pronto. And that's where Alfred F. Jones, a college student working part-time at Abercrombie and Fitch, comes in. Things happen - a whole 165 pages of stuff, in fact! - and the doujin ends; and then, because we're so nice, this happens! Yay!

If you have not read Rockets, need to catch up with it or simply want to read it again, here it is: h t t p : / / h u k a k a . l i v e j o u r n a l . c o m / 1 4 8 9 5 . h t m l (Apologies for the spaces - you know what FFNet is like!)

However, I am sure most of you were directed here by Haku herself, in which case I'm sure you will know that this is a Rockets supplement, a little something extra to detail the aftermath of the doujin and (hopefully) answer a few questions! It is set mostly after Rockets but overlaps with the final airport scene a little bit. I really hope you all enjoy it! :3

IN CASE ANYONE DID NOT READ THESE NOTES (I don't mean to hammer the point home but I know some of you are guilty of ignoring ANs, especially long boring ones like these): This is NOT Rockets. It is not the original script, which was posted by Haku elsewhere, or another adaptation of the original doujin storyline. It is an extra story set after the doujin. If you have never come across Rockets before, please please please read the doujinshi first! Thank you!

...Thanks also to Haku for letting me get off scott-free with writing this, lololol~

Rockets: Mouse Made

Alfred had never been to a party like this.

Oh, he'd been to party-parties – the kid kind with games and balloons and pizza and a cake with Spider-Man on it; and he'd tagged along to the odd high school house party too, often not exactly officially invited, but he'd never gotten drunk and made out on the couch with a girl whose name he didn't know, instead clutching a Coke in the corner and vainly hoping that someone, anyone, might want to talk about Xbox games.

This, of course, was an entirely different ballgame. This was a serious party, professional and glittering, bursting at the brim with people who were very rich and probably famous (Alfred still didn't know all that much about fashion and didn't try to pretend that he knew who all these people were, not even people he'd met like Francis and Feliks and Elizaveta and Roderich). The place was glossy, classy, high-polished wood and gleaming marble with a milky glow, chandeliers sparkling like stars in the ether ceiling and couches of plush leather settled like sleeping beasts in the corners of the room. The drinks flowed fast and free, sloshed across the bar or handed out by waitresses in slinky numbers – and the place was talk, all talk, nobody danced although music played, all anyone wanted to do was talk—

Not that anyone wanted to talk about Xbox games here, either. Alfred, feeling terribly out of his depth, sat alone at the back of the room with an untouched glass of complimentary champagne. He had had an audience before, gaggles of modelling agents swarming around him promising that a contract with them would make him a household name (and he had a pocketful of business cards to show for it), but as the night had worn on, interest in him had begun to peter out. He was, after all, more or less a nobody, a pretty face with little to back him up – and Alfred didn't know how to talk to these people, didn't know what they wanted to hear. There was a language here, one that he was not well acquainted with because this was not his world at all.

This was Arthur's world, one that he had finally been granted access to after all his hard, deserving work; and although Alfred was happy for him, pleased that his collection had been a success, that he had at last gotten his due, he couldn't help but feel rather abandoned as he sat by himself. Arthur had long since been spirited away by other designers and critics and photographers and fashion writers and, though their gazes had met across the room a number of times, Arthur making eyes that he was trying to get back to him, it had been almost two hours since they had last been in each other's company. Alfred sighed, glumly thinking that this was probably something he was going to have to get used to, having to share Arthur with people who were suddenly interested in his work – that was, if Arthur even showed any interest in him anymore. After all, Alfred wasn't really a model and Arthur, with this collection under his belt, was finally a real designer with a reputation; there was a chance that their working relationship would end after tonight. Yes, Arthur would go back to Britain after this, perhaps to set up his own label in London, and Alfred...

...Alfred would return to New York and go back to college and get on with his boring life (sans obscure British fashion designer to pester after class).

He sighed again, beginning to feel rather miserable, and got up. He was tired, jetlagged from the first plane journey he'd ever taken, and thought that he would just call it a night and head up to the room he and Arthur were sharing. There was plenty to be said between them, of course, concerning the future of their fragile, fledgling non-working relationship. He had to know where he stood, if Arthur even wanted him anymore, if work and location was about to divide them for good – but now was not the time. Arthur needed to have the moment he had worked so hard for and Alfred was not about to spoil it for him by clinging to him and demanding his attention. He would go to bed, he thought, and leave it be. This was not his world, after all.

He saw Arthur across the room, sitting at a booth with Francis and another man with startlingly-white hair; he looked a bit cornered, sandwiched in between his two companions, but he had a drink in his hand and was engaged in conversation with them nonetheless. Thinking it would be rude to simply disappear, Alfred crossed the room (a little clumsily, bumping into beautiful women and gorgeous men) and came to the table, putting his hands down on it as he leaned across to speak to Arthur over the noise of the party:

"Hey, Artie, I'm calling it quits for tonight, okay?" he said with a watery smile. "I'm shattered."

Francis spoke to him first, raising his eyebrows:

"Ah, of course," he drawled, "the angel needs his beauty sleep." He turned to the white-haired man. "You see? What did I tell you, Gilbert? Does he not remind you very much of a young Leonardo DiCaprio? The hair, the boyish face... Perhaps he is a little tall but nonetheless I can almost taste the 1990s radiating from him."

Gilbert, handsome with sharp Germanic features and scarlet eyes (they had to be contacts, Alfred thought with a roll of his own baby-blues), shot Alfred up and down with a glance.

"Yeah, he's not bad," he said at length; his accent was thick, clipped, definitely German. He grinned at Alfred, nodding towards Arthur. "A shame that Arthur here is no Kate Winslet, huh?"

"Piss off," Arthur groused, shoving Gilbert in the shoulder; he looked to Alfred. "So soon, Alfred? I've barely seen you all night."

"Well, you've been busy," Alfred said, just the tiniest amount of resentment creeping into his voice. "You don't seem to have had much time for me." He felt bad the moment he'd said it; after he'd just resolved not to be whiny and demanding—

"Not my intention, I assure you." Arthur slurred his words a little there; he waved his hand at Alfred furiously, beckoning. "Please, come and sit. Have a drink with me."

Alfred looked at Francis and Gilbert; both were watching him intently, Gilbert smirking, Francis almost leering.

"Uh, it's... it's okay." Alfred rubbed at his arm. "You seem fine here with Fran—"

"These two were just leaving," Arthur interrupted flatly; he glared at the both of them. "Weren't you?"

Francis leaned back in his seat, arching his back a little as he stretched.

"I suppose that can be arranged, mon ami," he drawled. "Truly, I suppose I must not blame your attitude on your newfound success – you always have bitten the hand that feeds." His smile broadened as he straightened again, looking to Alfred. "Still, it would be wrong of me to deny you. I suppose you've earned a little reward, non? Do come, Gilbert."

He rose gracefully and beckoned. Gilbert grumbled, knocked back the rest of his drink and winched himself out of his perch on Arthur's other flank with a touch less elegance, deliberate; Alfred noted him as he straightened, lithe and powerful, his hands sliding into his pockets with a practiced ease. Francis looped his arm around Gilbert's broad, sloping shoulders and grinned at Alfred.

"Bon soir," he purred; and he winked. He and Gilbert sauntered off, Gilbert cackling with a large hand on Francis' hip.

"His... boyfriend?" Alfred asked of Francis, his tone curious as he found little to do but obediently slide into the booth next to Arthur: he'd gotten him all to himself, after all.

"Fuck-buddies, more like," Arthur said. "Francis is... somewhat polyamorous, we shall say."

Alfred rubbed at the back of his neck, not sure where to look.

"I see. Who... who's the German guy?"

"Gilbert Beilschmidt. He's a male supermodel from somewhere in East Germany – I don't much care to remember. Francis has known him for years and works with him a lot. He was modelling tonight for Roderich Edelstein, though; which makes a change given that Roderich and Elizaveta both despise him." Arthur gave a thoughtful shrug. "Well, still, I suppose that doesn't matter much when you're only interested in his looks. Gilbert is a bloody brilliant model, I'll certainly give him that." He swilled his champagne around his glass, looking at it rather intently. "Francis... actually offered Gilbert to model for my collection but I... I refused." He looked up at Alfred; he had a faint flush of drink in his cheeks, pink and glowing, and he was smiling. "I didn't want Gilbert despite how good he is, despite how well known his name is. I wanted you. I knew you could do it better than him because... because I designed that jacket for you, Alfred."

His heart fluttering, Alfred smiled weakly.

"Arthur," he began; and then he sighed. "L-look, I... This isn't exactly where I wanted to have this conversation but—"

"Oh, please." Arthur headed him off, waving his hand. "No more congratulations – I can't take it anymore. I've never been much good at taking compliments, you know."

"Oh." Alfred blinked, confused. "No, that's not what I... I-I mean, you should be congratulated, you did a fantastic job, Arthur, more than fantastic, actually—"

"Truly," Arthur laughed, "spare me – my head will swell so large that I'll never be able to get out of the door." He scowled suddenly, erratic in his inebriated mood. "But... at least with you I know it's sincere. Some of these people here, honestly! You'd think I fell out of the sky only this morning! I've been slaving away in obscurity for years and none of them took a blind bit of notice, did they?" He reached out to put his hand on top of Alfred's, rubbing at it with his thumb. "But you're sincere, Alfred. You always believed in me."

"Y-yeah, I sure did," Alfred said weakly; he could feel his face heating up at the sensation of Arthur's hand covering his own. "Listen, Arthur, I—"

"You were wonderful, you know," Arthur went on warmly, his voice lowering. "Up there tonight, wearing my jacket. I was... so bleeding proud, you have no idea. Not just of my design being on the runway at long last – but of you, too. You were marvellous. I mean, to have never had any proper training as a model, you certainly stood your ground amongst all of Francis' poncy twigs. Really, it just... having you model the jacket, it couldn't have meant more to me."

Alfred shot him a shy grin.

"It was an honour wearing your jacket, Arthur," he said quietly. "It really was. You're a brilliant designer and you deserve this. I hope... I hope everything goes well for you from here on out." He looked around at the glimmering, heady party, still aware of Arthur's hand upon his own. "I guess you'll have to get used to scenes like this, huh?"

Arthur rolled his jade eyes, reaching for his drink.

"I was done with this party about three hours ago," he confided, taking a sip. "This isn't my sort of thing, to be honest. I don't want to be a designer so I can be a celebrity and spend half my time at non-events like this – I want to work, really. That's all I want. I just want to design and sew and see people wearing my creations. I don't care about this – all the frills that come with the job. I don't care one little bit."

He looked at Alfred again rather intently.

"Did you really want to go back to the room?" he asked. "Because I'd be alright with that. Let's bail out before someone catches us, hmm?"

"O-oh." Alfred blinked, taken aback. "No, I just... I mean, yeah, I'm a little tired but... gosh, I really think you should stay down here. I mean, all these people want to talk to you and—"

"No, I've had enough. I'm tired too – not to mention more than a little tipsy. I think it's time to call it a night."

In spite of himself, Alfred felt his heart lift. Arthur was the toast of the party and yet he didn't want to stay down here – he wanted to go upstairs with Alfred, go back to their room, back to the quiet just-the-two-of-them isolation Alfred was so jealously used to—

Arthur suddenly leaned in and kissed him. Alfred went rather rigid in his seat, shocked; it was not as though he and Arthur hadn't kissed plenty of times but they'd never done it in public, they were just...

Well. It was rather unclear. Ever since that night, that giddy night when Arthur, perhaps about as drunk as he was now, had seized him and kissed him – and they had both given into months of mounting, tantalising tension, hands roaming, lips loosening with bottled truths – they had settled into a cosy routine of greeting and goodbye kisses, perhaps the odd quick clasp of hands or a peck on the cheek from behind or a cuddle up on the sofa—

But nothing more than that. It wasn't even, like, Facebook-official. The relationship wasn't physical and though they were "sort-of-boyfriends", they weren't lovers at all. So this, this was new, this was alarming and exhilarating and different and Alfred, terrified to hope, just didn't know what to do.

Arthur pulled back, smirking mischievously at him. It was an expression that Alfred had never seen on his face before and his stomach knotted itself as he took it in.

"Let's go up to our room," Arthur said again in a low, sweet voice; he squeezed Alfred's hand beneath his own. "Come on, I mean it. Let's get the fuck out of here."

"You... you really don't want to stay?" Alfred asked, finding himself clutching Arthur's hand in return. "This is your night, Arthur."

"No." Arthur shook his head; this was the most incredible party that Alfred had ever seen and Arthur Kirkland, the shining star at its centre, had eyes only for him. "This is our night, love."

—

The door shut behind them, locking safely with a private click, and Alfred found himself pushed against the back of it, Arthur's champagne-sweet mouth dominating his own with determination. He kissed back, his hands on Arthur's shoulders, and for a long moment there was silence between them as they shared everything, even their breath. This was different to all the times they had kissed before – those had been busy-kisses, nestled into the bustle of the day as little more than endearments—

But this, this was languid, isolated, singular; and they were in no hurry, with nothing to interrupt them. They'd never gone much further than Arthur drunkenly playing with his buttons and belt that night but this was an entirely different situation, after all; and although Alfred felt nervous, somewhat cornered, he didn't want to pull away either.

This was their night.

Arthur kissed Alfred's chin, then his jaw and the very front of his throat, his teeth grazing the tense bob of Alfred's Adam's apple; Alfred exhaled with a breathy laugh as their hands clasped and their foreheads pressed together briefly. His glasses were slipping a little.

"Are you drunk?" Arthur asked in a low voice.

"No." Alfred shook his head, their hair mussing at the motion. "No, I'm not. Are... are you?"

"A little bit. Is that alright?" Arthur smiled lazily at him. "You should know that I know what I want best when I'm drunk." He squeezed Alfred's elbows. "But what about you? I can be somewhat... selfish but I would never... never want you to do anything you're not... well, ready for."

Alfred breathed out, looking away. How like Arthur to... well, not ask, exactly, but to proposition, to insist on doing the thing properly.

"I... I want to," Alfred replied, looking at him again, straight into his eyes.

"Are you sure?"

Alfred kissed him; Arthur did not resist, taking Alfred's hands.

"I'm sure," Alfred whispered. "I'm... I'm ready."

Arthur nuzzled the crook of his neck.

"I'll be gentle with you," he promised. He pulled back, still holding Alfred's hands, and led him to the splendid bed, bringing him down with him.

This was very strange, Alfred felt; Arthur, with his clever hands, with his utmost care in dressing, his eye for style and reverence for clothes, was no longer interested in anything of the sort. Ironic, then, that someone who had been striving for years to make a living out of dressing others now reversed his role (on the very night of his success), undressing Alfred quickly, tossing his clothing aside without a second glance at it, and instead worshipping his bare skin, admiring his body not for the shape of it beneath his designs but for what it was.

Alfred clutched at the sheets, his back arching as Arthur's knee pressed against the swell of his crotch. Arthur paused to unknot his own tie and toss it over the side of the bed, his jacket and shirt following. Arthur had been so careful with his suit (designer) all day, distractedly smoothing it down at every given opportunity, but now all he cared about was tearing down the barriers of cloth that separated them.

True to his word, however, Arthur was very gentle with him; the smooth, poised, calculated strokes that Alfred had long seen him administer upon a sketchbook with his pencil, spilling forth his imagination with delicate precision, was in his fingertips now as he touched Alfred, caressed him, readied him. His open-mouthed kisses to Alfred's hot, quivering skin were embroidery, flourishes of brilliant gold and rich scarlet and lush purple, as though he dressed him not in laborious handiwork but instead something more precious. He was one of Arthur's designs now, or one of his fairies from when he was fifteen, something this lonely, hard-working man had poured his heart into. Arthur's every motion, each brush of skin, each flutter of tongue, each whispered word, were new stitches – and he made Alfred feel like the most special person in all the world.

"Alfred, Alfred," Arthur sighed into his ear, "God knows you don't need me to make you beautiful."

Alfred remembered those rockets and planets they had batted about between each other for months (in A+ essays and speeches to the waiting world of fashion). This was just them and everything else fell away – and better still that it was here, a hotel room, without a sewing machine or a book bag in sight, as if they were floating somewhere in the utmost heart of time and space.

It was quiet and lovely, their first and only night, and Alfred knew more than ever that he was in love.

—

Alfred awoke cuddled into Arthur's slender chest; Arthur's arm was thrown over him somewhat possessively and he was still asleep, his thick eyebrows knotted to put a crease in his pale brow. Alfred pulled back a little, turning over to look up at the ceiling. He squinted short-sightedly, of course, and fumbled for his glasses on the bedside table. Slipping them on, he exhaled again and settled, his fingers toying with the soft bedsheets as he glanced around the room. It was a gorgeous room, the kind with velvet curtains and cut-glass chandeliers, marble-topped tables and a soft velour couch and floor-length mirrors and a wide-screen television. The bed was king-sized and had a gold headboard of elaborate metalwork rising over the pillows like a crown. There was a balcony overlooking a spectacular view of downtown Paris, of winter sunlight streaming over little winding clockwork streets and glossy new architecture, the chiffon drapes pulled across just enough to scantily ensure their privacy the night before.

This was ridiculous. Alfred realised it with a dopey grin on his face, chancing another look at Arthur. This was like something out of a movie (and hey, Alfred was doing Film Studies, he knew all about movies and the rose-tinted scenarios they liked to vomit upon the masses). He was a nineteen year old college student who had lived a perfectly normal life in a normal suburb in a normal town as long as he could remember; he was supposed to have dated girls (or boys, whatever) from school, have his first time maybe at a house party (or perhaps, sadly, too young with his first sweetheart, some girl he'd shared a class with in Junior year in high school and gone to the prom with – and at the time they had thought they had loved each other but it had faded over time and eventually they'd gone their separate ways—)

But Alfred had been unpopular due to his silly bragging and geeky interests and none of those things had ever happened to him. It hadn't bothered him all that much, not when he got quiet Kiku Honda as a college room-mate and found someone to play video games with (something he was more interested in than chasing after girls who didn't fancy him anymore once they discovered what a dorky chatterbox he was behind the cute face), but it still followed that this was just... unbelievable. No grungy beds or car back-seats for Alfred F. Jones: He had just had his (frankly awesome) first time in a five-star Parisian hotel with a (now) world-famous fashion designer (who, happily enough, happened to love Alfred just as much as Alfred loved him).

Seriously, his life had gone from Zero to Amazing in less than a year – and to think all he'd had to do was stand around outside Abercrombie and Fitch long enough for Arthur to clock eyes on him and like very much what he saw!

"What are you grinning about?" Arthur asked drowsily; Alfred turned to him, still beaming, and saw that his brilliant green eyes were half-open. He still looked very sleepy but he was smiling himself.

"Everything," Alfred replied, brushing a spike of hair away from Arthur's cheek. "You. You're... you're great."

Arthur gave an amused snort.

"Well, thank you," he said idly. "So are you." He stretched and then yawned. "What time is it?"

"No idea." Alfred tilted his head back to see the digital clock on the bedside. "Ah, just gone nine."

"Splendid." Arthur sat up – then pulled a face as though he wished he hadn't, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. "Oh, bloody hangover..." He winced. "Don't tell anyone, my boy, but I can be a bit of a lightweight sometimes."

Alfred frowned.

"Uh, you... you do remember what we did last night, right?" he asked uncertainly.

"Of course, of course," Arthur said warmly, cracking a pained smile. "I wouldn't forget a marvellous thing like that. No, I just have a splitting headache."

"Shall I get you some water?" Alfred sat up himself, making to get out of bed.

"Oh, it's too late for that." Arthur reached for the bedside phone. "Tell you what. You pop off and have a shower, get dressed, all that. I'm going to call room service and have them bring me up a Bloody Mary to shift this hangover. Then I'll shower and dress too and we'll go out and get breakfast, alright? Don't you ever repeat this to Francis Frogface but French bread is really to die for."

"Uh... o-okay." Alfred merely gave a faint nod, watching Arthur stretch his slim naked body across the bed and begin to dial.

This was just getting more and more surreal – seriously, waking up next to said (now) world-famous fashion designer who, at nine in the morning, was ringing room service in said five-star hotel to order more alcohol to get rid of his champagne-hangover.

And then coffee and croissants and fresh-baked bread for breakfast in the heart of Paris.

Alfred couldn't help it. He palmed his phone on his way to the bathroom (listening to Arthur quite crossly try to make himself understood in loud, clipped English to whoever was on the other side of the line) and, once he was locked into the glass-and-marble palace, quickly logged onto Facebook and promptly put MY LIFE IS SO FUCKING AWESOME RIGHT NOW as his status.

Then he finally did what he'd been waiting to do for months: He changed 'Single' to 'In A Relationship', grinning madly the whole time.

Alfred stepped into the apartment, clutching his case, behind Arthur, who breezed in with an air of satisfied finality. This, of course, was Arthur's home, the London nest he'd had to leave for a year – and he seemed happy to be back.

"Please," Arthur told him warmly, "do make yourself at home – though we shan't be here long. I thought we'd take ten minutes or so to freshen up and then go out for something to eat."

Alfred nodded absently, feeling Arthur pry his case out of his hand.

"Sure thing," he replied, looking around.

Arthur took the cases and bustled off to the bedroom, leaving Alfred alone in the middle of the apartment. It was cosier than the studio apartment Arthur had had in New York, seeming more lived-in despite the year-long absence of its occupant, the shelves crammed with worn, well-loved books and the walls papered with posters much like the scant few on those NYC walls, The Beatles and The Clash and The Rolling Stones, old wartime advice and Lord Kitchener pointing like Uncle Sam, a faded world map in sepia shades and – to Alfred's surprise and amusement – a promotional poster of Pirates of the Caribbean's Jack Sparrow. There was a collection of teapots on a shelf, too, and the red couch was scattered with embroidered pillows in the designs of a crown, a rose and a Welsh corgi.

"I'm sure you'll find this rather cramped after all those months in that place I had over in New York," Arthur said, coming back; he was carrying the newspaper from the airport, scanning over it again. "I work in a studio separate to my living space over here so I don't need much room. I hope you'll be comfortable. We'll be sharing the bed, of course. I wouldn't advise sleeping on that bloody sofa."

"Oh, n-no, that's fine," Alfred replied hurriedly. He nodded towards the newspaper. "You gonna frame that?"

"Hmm?" Arthur folded the paper and tossed it onto the coffee table. "No. It's a pack of lies – but I'm going to hold onto it nonetheless." He held up a few stapled sheets, folded into quarters. "This, however..."

He flipped it open enough for Alfred to see the circled A+ in the top right corner of the front sheet.

"My essay!" Alfred blinked at him in surprise. "You... brought that with you?"

"Naturally." Arthur smiled. "I had it in my breast pocket yesterday for luck."

Alfred shot him a pleased little grin.

"I don't think you needed it," he said softly.

"Me neither." Arthur went to a spare bit of wall and tacked the essay up; it hung small and plain and proud next to the iconic poster for Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. "I had you with me, after all."

"Oh my God." Alfred couldn't help it; he burst out laughing. "You're secretly a romantic! Who'da thought it? I mean, you're so sharp-tongued and cynical, it's the perfect disguise, right?"

"Absolutely," Arthur smirked. "You shouldn't have encouraged me, lad. It's going to be all candle-lit meals, rose petal baths and tender words from now on." He flapped his hand at Alfred. "Now get yourself sorted out so we can go. There's a great pub just at the corner of this street and I've been dying for a beer that doesn't taste like pig's piss since the middle of July."

—

Alfred had never seen Arthur fall upon his food quite so ravenously; he was, in Alfred's experience, a delicate eater, usually opting for light meals which he then proceeded to pick around—

But now, settled in the back of a cosy little pub dimly lit by flickering wall-lamps – light-years away from the trendy delis of NYC and the showbiz bashes of the Parisian fashion world – Alfred was frankly amazed to see Arthur attacking his meal as though he hadn't eaten for days. What he was savouring so – a steak and ale pie with chips, peas and a pint of bitter – seemed rather odd to Alfred, who had been baffled by pretty much the entire menu and had eventually meekly opted for fish and chips because at least he'd heard of it (which was more than he could say for Lancashire Hotpot and Toad-in-the-Hole). The fish and chips, incidentally, were pretty good – but nonetheless his attention was riveted to Arthur's weird behaviour.

"Gosh, you know, if you were hungry," he said faintly, "you shoulda said. I'd have gotten you something with your tea at the airport."

Arthur swallowed and shook his head.

"Oh, it's not that," he said, reaching for his pint. "I've just... missed this. All of this." He gestured around with his fork. "The food, the beer, the atmosphere... So many people will tell you that British food is awful but it's simply not true. It's the best in the world if you ask me." He gave a wistful little smile. "My time with you in New York is the longest I've ever been away from England, you see. I... I missed it."

Alfred met his gaze unhappily.

"You... were homesick?"

"A little bit," Arthur admitted.

"Oh." Alfred looked down again, playing with his beer-battered cod. "I see."

"Oh, don't sulk," Arthur sighed. "It's perfectly reasonable – I was born here, I've lived my entire life here. Of course I missed it. I'm sure, were you to live in another country for a while, there would be things about the United States that you would miss terribly too."

"That's... that's just it." Alfred took a breath, looking up at Arthur again. This was something he had tried to push to the back of his mind, allowing himself to briefly forget it after what had happened between them last night, but he knew now that it could not go unbreached a moment longer. "Arthur, I... I have to ask, you know, about... about us."

Arthur looked at him guardedly, lowering his fork.

"How do you mean, exactly?" he queried.

"I mean... this. Us being from different countries – different continents, even. You were only in New York for this year to work on the project – I guess now you'll... well, come back here to London to set up your own label or whatever. I mean, it makes sense. And I, well..." Alfred rubbed at his arm. "I know I got offered all those modelling contracts but that's not really what I want, I'd rather finish school so I can get my minor in Film Studies. I-I mean, I guess I could maybe get a transfer to a London college but—"

"Out of the question," Arthur interrupted sharply. "Both to transferring and to quitting altogether. I refuse to uproot you. Your life is in New York, Alfred, and it would be horribly selfish of me to make you give it up."

"Then what?" Alfred asked desperately. "I thought... I thought we were... you know, boyfriends, like properly and officially, but I just... don't see how—"

"Well, that's simple," Arthur interrupted lightly. "I'll be returning to New York with you and setting up my label there."

"But..." Alfred floundered. "But you were homesick!"

"Of course," Arthur replied, "but I was hardly miserable." He shrugged, smiling. "Besides, it would only be for a few years. Once you're done with university, we'll be free to move about wherever we like if we want."

"But that isn't fair of me," Alfred protested. "I would be the only reason for you to be in New York."

"Not entirely," Arthur assured him. "Britain is too close to France – I feel that I would be directly competing with Francis if I were to initially set up here. He's been good to me, I suppose, so I ought to show him a little goodwill, don't you think?"

"But—"

"No, I am quite decided. I'll take on the New York scene first and then set my sights on London. All in good time, Alfred."

Alfred smiled weakly at him, relieved and happy; the sudden warm rush of love he felt for Arthur, who was so surprisingly selfless at times, was indescribable.

"Still," he said in a low voice, "you're doing it for me – and don't deny it. If you'd never met me, there's no way in hell you'd be going back to New York."

"Alfred, if I'd never met you, I wouldn't be setting up my own label – because I wouldn't have managed to create such a wonderful collection. It was you, love – you're the one who opened this door for me." Arthur raised his glass towards Alfred with a grin. "And so I must suffer to follow my muse wherever he treads."

Alfred slipped out of bed, reaching for his clothes and blindly pulling them on; they were all over the room, lying crumpled exactly where Arthur had thrown them last night. Jeez, sure it was only an American Eagle Outfitters T-shirt and plain, faded jeans from Walmart but he had books to buy, he didn't have the money be shelling out for Ralph Lauren or whatever!

Sliding on his smeared glasses, he looked at Arthur, almost completely submerged beneath the covers – only his bare, slender arm visible, thrown up over his head – and couldn't help but shoot him a fond smile nonetheless. He leaned over the mattress and planted a light little kiss right between those amazing eyebrows of his, then padded quietly out of the room.

Arthur, he discovered unhappily, did not have a coffeemaker. After some desperate rummaging, he found a sorry-looking jar of Nescafé instant coffee jammed at the back of one of Arthur's cupboards and, not caring that it was very likely to be out of date, made himself a messy mug of the stuff, black. It wasn't great but it soothed the needy pangs and he retreated to the couch with it, elbowing the corgi cushion out of the way as he settled to look out at the London morning.

Arthur's apartment wasn't much to look at, certainly nothing like that gleaming little New York niche of his, but he had a pretty good view; right over to the left Alfred could see (if he remembered his London landmarks correctly) Tower Bridge – and, beyond it, the high grey walls of the Tower of London. The rest of the buildings straddling the Thames at either side were not ones that Alfred knew but he liked the organic up-and-down of them, the mish-mash of centuries contained within their differing architecture (a little like New York City where the very old met the brand spanking new).

This was Arthur's home and even Alfred could feel the pull of it, London's call – and he felt vey humbled and grateful that Arthur was willing to give all this up for him.

The bedroom door opened and Arthur came shuffling out, yawning – and Alfred blinked at him in amusement. His flaxen hair was mussed from sleep and he was wrapped in a fluffy, faded towelling robe, his feet clothed in red carpet slippers.

Alfred had never seen him look quite as... un-put-together as he did at this exact moment.

"What?" Arthur asked grouchily, noticing that Alfred was smirking at him.

"You have no idea how cute you look right now," Alfred replied, grinning.

"Piss off," Arthur groused. "I'm an absolute mess." He tried to smooth his hair down. "Anyway, you should know by now that I'm not much of a morning person so don't push your luck."

"I mean it!" Alfred said earnestly. "And hey, what's a bathrobe and bedhair between boyfriends, right? Even if one is a famous fashion designer."

"Ever optimistic, I see," Arthur noted amusedly. "I wouldn't say I'm quite, ah... world famous yet, my love. It was only one show. I still have quite a lot of work to do to get to that level."

"Okay, well, world-famous-ish, "Alfred corrected. Either way, seriously, laying off the designer threads for two minutes isn't gonna kill you. I mean, I don't think I've ever seen you wear anything less than like... like... well, I don't really know any designers, but you get the point."

"Well, despite the fact that you have actually seen me naked twice now, I feel you should know that this—" He gestured to himself, "—is a very temporary situation. Call me a clothing snob if you like but I do feel that one has a duty to dress oneself well."

"You're a clothing snob, Artie," Alfred teased. "You even threw my poor duds on the floor! I guess American Eagle just isn't good enough for the almighty Arthur Kirkland!"

"Oh, come now," Arthur said breezily, "you were hardly complaining last night."

"W-well, I—"

"But with that said, agreeably American Eagle isn't good enough for me – and especially not on you." He gestured rather exasperatedly at Alfred. "Really, that look doesn't do much for you, the creases aside. It's too... grubby student, if you will."

"I am a grubby student," Alfred said cheerfully. "Seriously, when I order pizza, I don't get a napkin. I just wipe my hands on my shirt. I mean, priorities, man! I got Elites to kill on Halo Reach!"

Arthur scrunched his nose.

"Disgusting."

"Yeah, that's what Kiku says too."

"Well, I've put up with it for almost a year," Arthur said primly, "and I shan't be putting up with it a moment longer. Today, before we do any sightseeing, we're going to buy you some new clothes."

"That sounds boring," Alfred grumbled. "I wanna see the sights, Artie! Nelson's Column, the Tower of London, Buckingham Palace to have tea with the Queen... oh, but don't worry about Big Ben." Alfred grinned again. "I've already seen that."

"Alright, just for that comment, we are definitely going clothes shopping," Arthur said briskly, folding his arms. "And I will purposely make it last for hours."

"Nooooooo! I don't approve of this plan! It sucks!"

"It's happening."

"Meanie! Bully! Tyrant! I'll pour all your tea down the sink!" Alfred wailed. "What do you say to that?"

Arthur, who had been drifting away towards the bedroom again, suddenly stopped dead and shot Alfred a truly terrifying look over his shoulder.

"Somehow," he said archly, "I don't think you've got the guts to do anything quite that dangerous, Alfred."

—

His brain was utterly swimming with brands and buzzwords, names like Ralph Lauren and Ted Baker and Hugo Boss, John Rocha and Julien Macdonald and Alexander McQueen, Ben Sherman and Tommy Hilfiger and Emporio Armani, Barbour and Calvin Klein and Alexander Wang—

"For the last time," Alfred whined, "I have no idea what you're talking about!"

"Well, fortunately for you, I do," Arthur replied shortly; he had several garments slung over his arm and had piled yet more into Alfred's grasp. "And I think you mean who I'm talking about – these are all real designers I'm mentioning. I honestly feel that any brand which a designer has not put their name to – like Diesel or G Star Raw or, indeed, American Eagle – is hardly worth the thread it's stitched with. It doesn't show an awful lot of pride, does it? No, they'd rather just have a flash-sounding name to attract impressionable teenagers in their droves... Now, come along. We've got to see what this all looks like on you."

He beckoned sharply and Alfred had no choice but to follow. Arthur was utterly pristine again, attired impeccably under his double-breasted peacoat, and Alfred really did feel rather grungy and underdressed next to him. In fact, he felt underdressed just being in London; certainly New York City was one of the world's fashion capitals too but that didn't seem to stop New Yorkers from stepping out into the street wearing just about anything that pleased them, sweatpants and all. By contrast, Alfred hadn't seen a single person on the streets of London so far in anything that even resembled sweatpants (and admittedly he had to say the same for Paris). People here were, it seemed, better dressed in most cases – and personally Alfred didn't think it much mattered what you wore as long as you were comfortable but nonetheless he was beginning to feel like he was the biggest slob in the entire city, especially in the presence of primly-preened Arthur.

An hour later and they were still in the spacious fitting room of Selfridge's, Alfred standing in his sixteenth outfit before Arthur's scrutinising gaze.

"No?" Alfred asked wearily, tugging at the shawl collar of the Ted Baker sweater he was wearing; he'd been changing in and out of stuff so much that he was beginning to get rather hot and irritable.

"On second thought," Arthur mused, tapping his chin, "I think that jumper might look better over that other Ralph Lauren shirt—no, Polo, love, not Lauren by Ralph Lauren—no, that one's the Ben Sherma—"

"They all look the same!" Alfred wailed. "Which one do you mean? The one I tried on before this outfit or the one I tried on before that?"

"Look." Arthur grabbed the shirt he meant and put it together with a pair of slim-fit Armani jeans. "Try these with that jumper. Polo Ralph Lauren goes well with Ted Baker."

"I have no idea what looks good with what."

"Then trust me."

"And this is my casual look, right?" Alfred sighed.

"Ah, yes – and I was thinking the Hugo Boss and Calvin Klein combination we tried before for smart-casual and then... hmm, I'm still at a bit of a crossroads with the suits. The Ted Baker Endurance is a lovely fit on you but the colour on the Daniel Hechter... well, I don't like the say it since he's French but that one brings out your colouring better." He hmmed again. "Then again there's the Paul Smith in that wonderful charcoal..."

"I thought that was the Armani?"

"You seem to think that all suits are Armani, you dimwit!" Arthur said crossly. "No, it was definitely Paul Smith. Hang on, I'm going to fetch it." He trotted out of the fitting room, the curtain swishing behind him.

Alfred sighed as he began to undress for the seventeenth time. Apparently getting himself such an amazing boyfriend came with a price after all.

—

"And we're done at long bleeding last," Arthur announced at thirty-seven minutes past four in the afternoon; even he was looking a little frazzled at this point. "So that's four outfits of varying degrees of formality, easily mixed and matched for different looks – and all by designers I approve of – and one very flattering Ted Baker Endurance suit."

He turned to the sales assistant with a smile.

"Could you fetch some scissors, please?" he asked. "He'll be wearing this look out so you can just scan the tags, if that's alright."

The assistant gave a nod and scurried off as Arthur began to gather together the other definite keepers, looping them over his arm.

"Wearing it out, huh?" Alfred said, raising his eyebrows. "Man, I really feel like Cinderella and you're my Fairy Godmother, come to magic me out of my rags and dress me up all nice and pretty for the ball."

"That's exactly right," Arthur replied lightly, holding up Alfred's poor wrinkled old American Eagle T-shirt. "No more rags for you, Cinders. I shan't be seen with you otherwise."

"Oh, gee, thanks." Alfred blinked suddenly. "Wait... you're not paying for all of this, are you?"

"Of course I am," Arthur said. "I'm your Fairy Godmother, aren't I?"

"I can't let you do that!" Alfred yelped. "This has to be like three grand's worth of stuff—"

"Alfred, my payment for the Paris Fashion Week collection – which, as you'll recall, was a rousing success – came from Francis, who, quite frankly, has more money than he knows what to do with." Arthur smiled. "Besides, think of this as my little thank you to you. I do owe that rousing success to you, after all. That and..." He shot the crumpled T-shirt another derisive glance. "...Well, I mean it. I'm really not being seen with you wearing this sort of thing ever again. You're a famous model now, my boy – you're duty-bound to dress sharply from now on."

Alfred sighed; there was no point in arguing, he knew it. Arthur was very, very stubborn, particularly so in his goodwill, apparently.

"Okay, fine," he said as they went to the till laden down with Alfred's new wardrobe. "But to pay you back, I at least get to buy us dinner. And pick the place where we eat."

Arthur shot him a wry smile.

"In that case," he said lightly, "I'm sure you'll want to know that there's a McDonald's on Kensington High Street."

Alfred clapped him on the shoulder.

"Glad we understand each other, babe!" he chirped.

—

It was evening, dark and misty like the sort of mythic London nights in a Sherlock Holmes story, and they stood at the corner of Parliament Street with a sweet old American comfort each – courtesy of Saint Starbuck, Caramel Macchiato and plain old English Breakfast, respectively. They met in the middle with clasped hands as they looked up at the Palace of Westminster and Big Ben in companionable silence, the clock tower lit up gold and with a flare of green to crown it. It was different from the famous image of the landmark by daylight, seeming mightier, ghostlier, and Alfred, who had never seen so much as a Google Images search of Big Ben by night, was glad that he had seen it like this first.

He was happy to have seen a different side of it.

A bus sighed past and stopped at the lights; and it too by night looked different, a gleaming red hunch-backed beast with blacked windows—

And their reflection therein, as stark as if in a mirror.

Alfred smiled and nudged Arthur, nodding towards the bus and their image reflected in it, holding hands in their shared world of new opportunity.

"Hey, Arthur," Alfred whispered low next to Arthur's ear, "we look great together."

...They do look great together, OMG. They're like that one couple that looks so sickeningly perfect together you just want to throw up every time you see them holding hands. XD

So YEAH, that's that... but not quite. Haku has something special to post after this, so head back over to her tumblr!

Again, new to Rockets? You're very late to the party but there's still fun to be had:

Rockets Find Planets, Haku's tumblr: h t t p : / / r o c k e t s . t u m b l r . c o m / t a g g e d / r o c k e t s + d o u j i n s h i (This started life as a companion blog for Rockets (I'm pretty sure it was meant to be from Arthur's POV!) buuuuut it pretty much just spiralled into being Haku's art tumblr. The link (...if you can call it that) takes you straight to the doujin tag list, giving you access to Rockets side artwork, concepts, comments, news on the doujin and also some fanart from other great artists! The super-special thing which follows this will be posted there later today!)

Original fanfic/script version of Rockets: h t t p : / / h u k a k a . l i v e j o u r n a l . c o m / 2 0 2 6 9 . h t m l (You know, in case you were looking for it, tee hee~)

We both really hope everyone liked this! It's been an honour to be a part of this fantastic doujin project, even though it's partly my fault that poor Haku had to break her back over it. She originally didn't want it to be anywhere near as long as it ended up being but my word vomit knows no bounds! But, yes, thank you so so so much to Haku for the opportunity to work with her. I am truly unworthy. T.T

Title is a Cinderella reference, of course!

RR xXx

(lol at quasi-canon Big Ben jokes, amirite?)