America x England – White Walls

It was cold, even inside. The temperature, the atmosphere – all of it, cold. It wasn't supposed to be the cheeriest of places anyway, but they could have at least made an effort, for the orphaned children. Their lives hadn't been the happiest so far after all. Or had they? I had no idea whether life with or without parents was better. I supposed, in the end, it depended on the parents at hand.

My hand was warmed as my lover took it between his, twirling his fingers around mine securely as if wrapping me in bubble wrap, protecting me. But what from? It wasn't like the children were going to savagely maul me. I imagined them in leaf skirts, rotating me on a roasting spike above a roaring fire. It made me laugh. He laughed too, though I was sure it wasn't at the same thing, and his blue eyes shone with glee and excitement and something sweet.

We continued following our escort, a woman with dark hair and equally dark eyes, down the cold corridor. The wooden beams creaked overhead, and our feet quietly thudded against the wooden floorboards. All of it was wood. Wood, wood everywhere, but not a drop to drink. So much wood, but was it too much wood or not enough wood? Wood, wood, wood.

We passed a mahogany framed mirror, and I took a glance at our reflections as we passed it. I stared at myself with green eyes, scrutinizing my own messy blonde hair and snow white skin. And then I was gone from my sight. I looked across at my lover, admiring as his soft tan and golden locks shone in the overhanging lights as they buzzed and blinked every now and then. Blink, blink blink. I blinked back at them, curious as to why the bulbs didn't just die already. Why did they fight for their life? They had a sad existence anyway, in this cold, wooden corridor.

The woman stopped at a door near the end of the corridor and rummaged around in her skirt pocket for a set of brass keys, and we stopped short of her. I looked out of the window at the end corridor. I saw trees dancing in the wind and I heard leaves whistling as I felt a draft seep through the wood. I turned back to the woman then, and she was smiling at me. I smiled back, just because. It was polite, wasn't it? But it somehow felt wrong to smile in this building – in the presence of abandoned children. So I didn't smile for long.

I heard muffled shouts bellowing from tiny throats and incomprehensible words being murmured beyond the oak door. High pitched squeals, creaking bed springs, banging and crying and the pitter-patter of little feet which I and my lover had discussed with such overzealous enthusiasm not long ago.

There was a resounding click as the woman unlocked the door, and she turned to us with that weary smile plaguing her face once again. "Alfred, Arthur, take your time, and be gentle." I nodded, and saw Alfred nod from the corner of my eye too. That was all the confirmation that the woman needed, and she stepped to the side as Alfred and I pushed the door ajar, and the sounds of young life was maximised.

I looked around at it all in amazement. Countless bunk beds, some occupied by boys and girls jumping on them, uncaring for the consequences, and toys scattered all across the dirty brown carpet. Alfred led me across to a bench in the corner of the room, and I continued to stare at the children as they ran up and down the aisle of beds, yelling and singing to one another, like a swarm of birds twittering and flittering about carelessly, just doing what suited them.

I sat down beside Alfred on the bench, looking behind myself as I did at the small library they had going on behind the bench. The bindings of the books were battered and tattered, and a few of the children had scrawled silly scribbles across a few of the covers. Some of the books were cello taped, and others were a lost cause, like a soldier who had fought their best in the battle but were too wounded to go on as they slowly slipped away.

I looked at Alfred and noticed that he had been staring at me from behind his silver framed glasses. He grinned at me lopsidedly, but I knew when his grins were forced. I clenched his hand in reassurance, telling him that I was with him and we were going to make the right choice together. He dropped the fake grin then, determination blazing on his face instead, and he looked straight ahead at the children. I followed his gaze.

This moment had come. It was time to choose. I had anticipated and dreaded this day for a few months now, looking forward to the prospect of raising a child and yet fearing choosing a child whose personality rubbed me the wrong way as I fumbled with the tassels on my throw pillows and fingered the satin on my quilts. I knew Alfred felt the same. Whenever he had spoken of this he had done so with a thrilling passion in his tone, but I had seen him gazing listlessly out of the window of the child's room we had prepared when he thought I was busy making tea or sorting through the post or sweeping the floor or doing anything which didn't involve him.

My mind wandered back to the child's room. We had argued and agonized over the colour of the walls, unsure whether to go for blue or pink, yellow or green, red or purple. In the end, after much bickering and many visits to the paint aisle of B&Q, we had both agreed on white. As we painted the walls white together, we discussed how our child would create many drawings and paintings, and how we would hang such masterpieces on these very walls, for all the colour we needed in this room was that of our child's creativity. This room was a blank canvas for it to express itself, and we honestly couldn't wait to see the many things it would say without words.

I was dragged back to our current situation as I noticed a child looking over at us from a small group of friends. Her friends were trying to grab her attention, pleading for her to continue the game, but her gaze was fixed on us. I turned to see that Alfred had his eyes set on the same girl, and I smiled as I turned back to look at her again, ushering her over without vocals. She continued to gaze silently at us for a while, and we gazed back. It was as if Alfred and I were members of the bird watching committee, and we had our eyes on a rare breed. We were as captivated with her as she was us. And then she got up, straightened out her denim skirt, and warily headed towards us.

We never lost eye contact with her as she approached, her green eyes darting between us, enthralled and scared in the same instant. She stopped a few feet in front of us, and we continued not to say anything. We all just shared looks for a while, but then Alfred decided to share something more. He slowly offered forward his hand, and I chortled quietly as it reminded me of a tortoise's head emerging from its shell. The girl backed away, fear flickering across her face, but Alfred held his hand out anyway, staring right at her. I was almost jealous, having to share his azure eyes with another, for I wanted to keep the looks of endearment which crossed them for my own. It was selfish of me, but those eyes had loved me first. My heart knotted in my chest, but I smiled anyway.

The girl looked from the hand up to my smile, and then back to Alfred. And then she reached out her own hand and placed it in his. Her hand was so small and delicate in his, and her fingers were red with the cold. She shivered as the warmth of his hand affected hers, but she didn't flinch away. She kept it there. She looked at me again, and I nodded my head wordlessly to calm the frightened thing. Both she and I had our hands in Alfred's, connected, and that sent a warm burst through my veins. Alfred slowly closed his hand around hers, shaking it very lightly in greeting.

"Hi, darling." he cooed in an almost whisper, with the pure gentleness of such a kind whisper making my heart flip in my chest, "I'm Alfred. What's your name?"

She tugged nervously at a lock of her golden hair, as if trying to cover her whole face with it, "…Monica…"

Alfred smiled warmly, "That's a pretty name, Monica." She smiled and half-giggled then, her cheeks pinking.

"Thanks."

Alfred looked away from Monica for a moment, giving me a look to urge me on. I nodded, swallowing my own nerves (could children smell fear?) and extending my shaking hand. Monica eyed me warily, but I did my best to maintain my nicest smile.

"A…Ar-Arthur…" I licked my dry lips, "My name is Arthur." She seemed suspicious after my stuttering and shaky voice, but she eventually took my hand anyway. I imitated Alfred, closing my fingers around hers and almost forgetting how a handshake worked in the midst of my worry (Could children sense fear?). She didn't seem to mind though, half-smiling back at me. We all held hands for a moment more, not shaking them or opening or closing them, but just looking at them and wondering whether they felt right in each other. And they did. Her tiny cold hands resting in my palm, safe and warming in my grasp, felt so natural and, dare I say it, perfect, although I hardly believed anything could be perfect. This certainly could.

I let go as my palms began to sweat, Alfred following suit, and we were silent with each other again. Monica rubbed her feet against the floorboards, as if drawing an invisible picture with her toes. I wondered if this made her creative. I wondered if this meant she was happy to draw lots and lots of colourful pictures to hang on a white wall. I wondered if she'd want to call those white walls her own and trace invisible pictures on them.

She cleared her throat then, looking up, her attention darting from Alfred to me, "Um, do you like cars?"

I just smiled, because I didn't much care for cars but didn't want for her to know it when she was looking at me so expectantly, but Alfred not only smiled but nodded his head, "Yeah, I love cars. What kind of cars do you like?"

Monica hummed as she thought, continuing to draw that invisible picture, and I so wished it was visible just so that I could see the patterns and rhythms she came up with. "Red ones."

Alfred beamed at her, "Red is cool, isn't it?" she nodded, and I began to see the fear dissolving on her face, "I like blue cars myself."

"Is that so?" she murmured to herself more than us, and she stopped drawing. She seemed to be deep in thought for a moment, but then she quickly spun round and charged off back to her group of friends. I spun my head round to look at Alfred, and found that he was already looking at me. We smiled brightly at each other, and I felt him squeeze my hand. I squeezed his back, dimples forming on my cheeks and my heart stuttering as we came closer to making this kind of choice together. Our intense gaze broke as Monica came running back to us, this time with no hesitance, and this time with a red car and a blue car in her tiny grasp.

She offered the blue car to Alfred, joy flashing in her eyes, and Alfred accepted gratefully. "Thank you, Monica."

Monica shook her head and went closer to Alfred. He leant back as she rested the red car on his knee and began zooming it up and down his thigh. "You be the robber and I'll be the police officer, kay?" I half expected Alfred to whine and say "But I'm meant to be the hero". I was quite taken aback though as he just nodded his head and joined her in zooming the cars over his legs.

I watched the game for a while, as the cars roamed the imaginary streets and roads they had made out of Alfred's legs, listening as they made silly sound effects and Monica made threats to catch Alfred in a deep voice, with Alfred putting on a high-pitched voice to exclaim that she'd never catch him. I tittered as they crashed into each other a few times, sometimes on purpose and sometimes accidentally, and I anticipated the conclusion of the game at the same time as never wanting for the fun to end. It ended though with Alfred zooming his car along Monica's arm, across her shoulder and up her neck to skid to a halt on her nose. She giggled and swatted it away, jumping from foot to foot with excitement. And then she had turned and gone again, full of energy and joy.

I leant against Alfred's shoulder, sighing contentedly, "You'll make a great father."

Alfred leant his head against the top of mine, nuzzling and breathing in the scent of my shampoo, "Do you really think so?"

"I know so."

He planted a tender kiss on the crown of my head, "Thanks. You'll be a great mother."

I laughed, swatting at him half-heartedly, "Piss off, I'm not a woman." We silenced our laughter as Monica came back, this time with a plush toy in tow. Upon closer inspection, it was a unicorn. I beamed at her and the fluffy, plump unicorn with its button eyes and cotton smile.

"Do you like unicorns?" she asked, now separating mine and Alfred's hands as she hopped up in between us and squeezed into the narrow space.

Alfred chuckled, "That's Arthur's area." Monica looked up at my hopefully, and I laughed at the eagerness in her grass-green orbs.

"Yes, I love unicorns." I admitted, taking the plush unicorn's soft hoof and shaking it in greeting as I had done with her, "They're very cute."

Monica smiled a winning smile, and I faltered as it reminded me of Alfred's. The way her cheeks stretched wide until they threatened to engulf her bright eyes, revealing two sets of pearly whites, made it feel as if I were looking at a younger version of Alfred for a split second. "Vincent says thank you, he thinks you're cute too."

I got over my shock at seeing that winning smile on a face other than Alfred's and went to adjust the red plastic headband perched on Monica's head, "This little fellow is called Vincent then, hmm? My, that's quite a fine name."

"Isn't it though?" Monica smiled, swinging her legs on the bench and looking into Vincent's black button eyes, "He's a thousand years old, and he likes eating cake. But he doesn't get to eat much cake here." she looked back up at me, "Do you get to eat lots of cake?"

"Oh, yes." I assured her, "It may sound greedy, but I eat it every other day."

Monica gazed at me in awe, "Wow, you're so lucky!"

I laughed, for I found the amazement evident in her face to be so endearing. She then got up on her knees and turned to eye up the battered books behind us. I watched as her fingers traced the cello taped bindings and she murmured book titles too quietly for me to hear. I continued to watch as she found the book she was searching for, and her face lit up. She tugged at it, pulling it from the other cluster of books which fell upon each other as Alice in Wonderland was wrenched away. She turned back round again, plopping herself comfortably onto the bench and placing the book in my lap, swinging her legs and clutching Vincent.

"Do you want me to read this to you?" I asked, picking the book off from my lap and dusting off the cover.

"Yeah, it's full of magic and stuff, like Vincent."

I nodded and carefully turned to the first page, fearing that I would tear the fragile book apart otherwise. I cleared my throat and began, with Monica and even Alfred listening intently, "Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, 'and what is the use of a book,' thought Alice, 'without pictures or conversation?'…"

I barely noticed time passing as I recited paragraphs from Lewis Carroll's work and turned the yellowing pages, or as I felt Alfred's large hand slither behind Monica to go and stroke my hair, or as Monica continued to swing her legs, gasping and cheering at different points of the story, but a lot of time must have passed as the woman peered through the door and informed us that our time was up. Both Alfred and I frowned as we had to leave Monica, and even she lacked a smile on her face as she watched us get up and start to head off.

"Are you leaving me?" my heart clenched in my chest as she said those words, with her lips wobbling and her hands hugging Vincent tightly to the extent where I was glad he weren't alive, otherwise he could have been choked. Luckily, Alfred answered her for me.

"Yeah, we have to go home now. But would you like to see us again?"

Monica jumped off of the bench, dropping the battered book and the battered unicorn toy as she ran towards us. She almost knocked Alfred off balance as she hugged his legs, burying her face into his jeans. My heart throbbed as I felt her hand reach out and clench some of the fabric of my trousers tightly. "Please come back soon, okay?" she begged, "I'll be good, so come back." Alfred bent over slightly to pat her head, but I didn't want to touch her, fearing that the last touch would be the goodbye touch.

"Then we'll see you soon." Monica smiled at that, although her eyes seemed wetter than before. She rubbed furiously at them as she let go and we headed towards the door. I kept my gaze locked on her as we left. The other children could kick and scream and shout and run and play as loudly and as they wanted, but I wasn't taking my focus away from the small girl with the tousled, shoulder-length golden hair and dazzling green eyes. Even as we passed through the oak door and she was no longer in my sights I could still see her image in my memories.

I remembered her silently for our first few steps through the cold, wooden corridor again, this time not looking at the mirror as we passed for fear that I'd see sorrow etched into my face, causing me to feel even sadder. I wanted to lie to myself and pretend that I was putting on a brave face. I was roused from my thoughts by Alfred putting pressure on my hand, and I briskly looked up at him, startled, for I had almost forgotten he was even there.

"So," he smiled, "what do you think?"

I wished I could have just shrugged my shoulders and drawled "Not much" indifferently, successfully masking my desperation for a certain child which had brought out the fatherly side in Alfred and showed me her one thousand year old friend made of cotton and caused my heart to do more flips and tricks than a performing seal. But I couldn't.

"I want her." I confessed, my heart thudding and my veins pulsating as I nervously spoke, "She's perfect. You may tell me there's no such thing as perfect, but she certainly is, and nothing can change my mind about that, Alfred F. Jones."

Alfred F. Jones just chortled, "Don't get so defensive – I was going to agree with you. Monica was great."

I paused, shocked by how he had just agreed like that, so perhaps Monica really was the perfect one if we both had our hearts set on her, "Really?"

"Really." Alfred nodded. I had to refrain from skipping like my heart as we ventured down the corridor, towards the office of the woman where we would assuredly sign the papers to say yes, we do in fact want for Monica to be our own, thank you very much. I smiled at the mere thought of scribbling Arthur Kirkland-Jones beside Alfred F. Kirkland-Jones, and maybe dotting the 'i' in Kirkland with a love heart or a smiley face in my high spirits, silly as it sounds – anything to express my joy.

"Good." I smiled, and we left it at that agreement as we went to ponder our new life with our new daughter, Monica.

Picking up Monica was a sad and happy time. It was sad to see how little luggage of hers I had to load into the car. She really didn't have a lot here, did she? As bad as it sounded, it made me want to spoil her. Not spoil her rotten or anything like that – I wouldn't stand for that kind of behaviour – but more just give her everything she's ever wanted and could never have.

I stretched out my aching back as I glanced at the girl I had been taken with as she waved madly at her orphan friends who were hanging out of the windows and doors, waving back with equal enthusiasm. Alfred laughed as he struggled to balance her on his hip, what with all her jostling about. I laughed too, happy to finally be taking her home with us. It would be sad for her to leave her friends, but she could make new ones. I hoped she would enjoy going to school, more like me and less like her father. I just hoped that she wouldn't get any problems for having same-sex parents. But if she did, I'd hope for her to have spunky attitude like Alfred and say "Yeah? What of it?" to anyone who mentioned her parents' sexual tendencies. And if that was too much to hope for then I would gladly send Alfred in to kick the arses of any pricks which intended to make our daughter's life hell.

I smiled to myself at that. Our daughter. We had a daughter. And we were happy. As we were planning for this I couldn't help thinking to myself, what if it's not what we dreamed it would be? What if everything goes pear-shaped? My worries disappeared as we reached this stage however. We had a daughter. We were strapping her into the car seat as she nuzzled Vincent in her arms. We had her, and that's all there was to it. Parents – no matter their gender or age or whatever else mattered – were all going to go through tough times with their children – rebellious phases, misunderstandings – so I didn't need to worry about them. They'd come, and Alfred and I would sort them out with Monica, because that's what it meant to be supportive parents – to be a supportive family.

I buckled myself in to the passenger seat, slamming my door in synchronisation with Alfred, and he looked up and beamed at me as he buckled himself in too. He then directed that beam at Monica in the back seat, and she returned it without missing a beat.

"Are you ready to see your new home, Monica?"

"As I'll ever be!" she cried, swinging her short legs. I felt myself radiate as I imagined being there for her as those legs of her grew – as all of her grew – and helping her along all the way to the fullest. I would have been lying if I said I wasn't excited, and as I looked at the glow in Alfred's sun-kissed face I knew that he would be too. All other emotions besides anticipation and excitement were drowned out by the revving of the car as we took our daughter to our home to live our family life.

I was sewing the buttons on one of Monica's dresses when she bounded up to me. She was always so energetic, which meant she constantly got missing buttons and broken zips and holes in her clothes after a fun time running around in our garden, but I was happy to mend her clothes, because it was one of those things that a parent did, and I was honoured to experience it; and because I was happier when she played out in the garden than when she slobbed about on the games consoles with her father.

"Mommy, mommy! Look!" I used to cringe when called mommy. Alfred had coerced her into calling me that, and at first I had been appalled. But then I just shrugged and decided that it was less complicating for her to have a mother and a father than two fathers.

I obediently looked up from my job of sewing and smiled at the sight before me – Monica, with her cheeks and hands smeared by paints of all colours, holding up a painting for me to see. I could identify rolling green fields surrounding a lopsided house crowded by rows and rows of flowers, and some purple sticks which I couldn't quite make out, not that I'd let her know. "Why, that's lovely, poppet. Another one for the wall, hmm?"

She nodded her head briskly, and I chortled as I put the sewing job to rest on the table and headed to the drawer to fetch some blu-tack to stick it to the wall, as I always did (this much was evident from the vastly running out supply of blu-tack in the drawer). After that we headed upstairs, with me striding reservedly and her practically skipping up the stairs, were it not for my reprimanding her for doing so, in case she fell and broke her bloody neck. She ignored my scolding though as she scampered the rest of the stairs to the door before them. I followed her into the room, sighing contentedly as I took it all in.

There was a sweet bed in the corner by the window overlooking the garden, covered by throw pillows with unicorn designs (which I had embroidered for her) and a surplus of plush toys. Despite being the most battered out of the bunch, Vincent remained her favourite, and I had always seen her clutching him close to her heart whenever I went to kiss her goodnight with Alfred. In the other corner of the room was an overflowing bookcase, filled with stories of dragons and knights, princesses and witches, fairies and unicorns, all of which I would read to her again and again as we sat on the rather abused beanbags whenever I found the time and it was too rainy for her to play outside. In another corner was a mirror and a chest of drawers, and she enjoyed playing dress up in front of that mirror for hours, and Alfred and I enjoyed watching the outfits and stories for them that she came up with. Yes, upon first glance it could be seen as a rather girly room, but just head to her toy chest and inside you would find toy guns and cars, courtesy of Alfred, and I would try not to get a headache as father and daughter thundered around the entire house playing snipers, although I couldn't help but snicker when they played cops and robbers, as it reminded me of their very first game together. Another thing they did together was read the superhero comic books Monica had stashed under her bed. I once told her that her bed would be balancing on the mountains of comic books if she kept stuffing them all under there and never threw any away, but she, and ashamedly Alfred, had protested, because of something about the copies being precious and yadda-yadda-yadda, I wasn't really listening.

What I really loved about the room though were the walls. You almost couldn't tell they were white anymore for all the paintings and drawings and posters that had been stuck upon them. It was just how I always dreamed, with walls covered by our child's creative juices (although the superhero posters weren't a part of my imaginings. They were, however, a part of Alfred's, or so he told me). I found an empty square on the wall (although that was becoming hard to do) and pinned her newest masterpiece to it with the blu-tack. I then stepped back, with Monica beside me, hugging my leg, and leant down to stroke her golden locks as we gazed at it together.

"You're quite the artist, aren't you, poppet?" I sighed happily as she rubbed her face into my knee.

"She totally gets that from me." a familiar voice yawned. I looked up and smirked as Alfred stepped into the room, still wearing his boxer shorts, with his glasses upside down on the bridge of his nose. I took them off of him and put them back on the right way, earning a tired smile from his lips.

"Have you finally decided to get up? It's already afternoon, you know."

Alfred laughed lightly as he stretched, "Sorry. I just got tired from my late night watching X-men with Monica."

"Yes, about that," I crossed my arms and furrowed my brow at him, "are those films even appropriate for her? And, furthermore, she shouldn't be staying up so late – she's a child; she needs her rest."

Alfred cricked his neck and gestured to her, "Look at her! She's fine; she's unaffected; she's a total champ!" I felt Monica nodding her head in agreement against my leg, but I was too weary to argue. I was able to argue with Alfred, once upon a time. But now Monica was here, and she took after her father so much, and it was as if I had two of them to argue with now, and I just couldn't bear it as much as I used to. I felt like I was letting them get away with murder sometimes, but, honestly, could anyone say no to two winning smiles or two kicked-puppy looks? No, which is why they often got ice-cream for dinner at the weekends, much to my disdain.

Alfred came closer now, noticing the new addition to the wall and leaning in to get a good look. "What's with the purple trees?"

"They're not trees!" Monica whined, slapping at her father's bare shoulder, "Look closer! There's you, there's mommy, and there's me in the middle! We're all holding hands by our house, see?"

"Oh, yeah!" Alfred smiled, standing up straight again, "I see it now!" I guessed that he probably didn't, but I kept the thought to myself as he wrapped his arm around my waist and gave me his good morning (or more like good afternoon) kisses on my cheek, my forehead, and the corner of my upturned lips.

"No fair!" Monica cried, "I want some too!" Alfred laughed as he picked her up with one arm, still holding me with the other (he still has that kind of strength in just one arm?) and brought her face to his to give her a set of good morning kisses too. He wasn't trying to be one of those "Oh, ha, look at us, we're so happy that we greet each other like this after waking up" kind of families, but he didn't really need to try. We were happy. We were happy as we all gazed at Monica's new painting of us being a happy family on her vibrant wall. I leant my head into the crook of Alfred's neck, and he leant his head onto mine as Monica wrapped her arms around his neck, comfortably. We were happy in our family, and come rain or snow nothing would change that.

Author's notes: This idea came to me at the strangest time. I woke up at around 5am or something like that one night with the hugest urge to write a story where Alfred and Arthur adopt a child. So at God knows what hour I switched on my laptop, turned on Microsoft Word and pumped out a majority of this baby. And then I went back to sleep when I was content. Weird. Anyway, I just finished the last part now, and I hope you find it as adorable as I did whilst thinking it up and writing it.
Whoof, this is my first time writing Arthur in first-person. Why did I even do that? I don't know, I just did. I think it's because I was reading Kevin Brooks before writing this. If you don't know Kevin Brooks, look him up. He's a bloody amazing author!
Thank goodness for pie1313 though. I was actually thinking of writing mpreg at one point! Mpreg! What the actual fuck? No offence to any mpreg fans, but it doesn't work! There's no egg! There's no womb! Where's the baby going to come out of? Why did I want to write mpreg? I don't know, but thankfully Pie gave me an e-slap-in-the-face and told me to make them adopt or something if I wanted them to have a child so badly. So this is Pie's influence again. Thank her, guys. She saves all our butts. Especially mine.
Critique is welcomed, comments are appreciated!
Thank you and enjoy!

Disclaimer: Alfred and Arthur belong to Hidekaz Himaruya.

AnorexicWalrus~