A/N
Hello, lovely readers! Thank you to all those who reviewed! Sorry I did not respond, I only just saw them! I'm really looking forward to writing this story, so unlike the others, I plan on seeing it through to the end! I am sorry for the delay between chapters, none of this is pre-written, and I don't have a lot of time to write. Without further ado, here is chapter two! Arthur's POV this time.

Arthur woke in a terribly confused state. He was on the sofa, clinging to someone's jacket as a strange... but delicious smell came from the kitchen. His stomach growled angrily, and he slowly rose into a sitting position, blinking in confusion. He didn't know anyone who might stop for a visit- Oh... The previous day's events returned to him in a wave of embarrassment. Without further thought, he slipped off the sofa and wandered over to his tiny excuse for a kitchen.
"Artie!" the young, attractive barista whose name he had forgotten shouted. "I thought you were going to sleep forever!" he teased.

Arthur couldn't quite wrap his mind over what exactly was happening, and blinked at him in confusion, "Why are you still here?"

"You passed out so suddenly, I wanted to stay and make sure you were okay." He beamed at the artist. "You didn't get to enjoy your coffee, so I thought I would make you food... you didn't have much food though, so I had to make do with what you had."

"Don't... you have work?"

"Not at 10:30 at night I don't," he chuckled, "You slept for a long time. I guess it's been a while? You really shouldn't do that to yourself... It's not healthy."
"Who are you to judge my lifestyle choices!?" Arthur snapped, automatically assuming the worst of the man. After all, that was just the sort of person he was used to: someone who pretended to be nice, but really just wanted to "fix" and "help" others... to put them in a box and make them just like everyone else.
Seeming to deflate, the barista frowned and looked down, making Arthur feel just the tiniest bit guilty. "I was just... worried about you. Your paintings are so amazing you can't possibly die before you become famous!" he insisted, his smile coming back too fast. It seemed so natural and happy but... Arthur wasn't sure it truly was.

He sighed and looked down at his feet, and fiddled his hands around, "W-what did you make?"

"Pancakes. You didn't have syrup, so we'll have to use jelly," he bent over and pulled a tray of perfectly round pancakes out of the previously unused oven,
"Find a spot on the table and wait. I'll bring them out to you."

Without questioning it, Arthur obliged. This whole situation was extraordinarily weird, but Arthur had learned that sometimes you just have to accept the strange things life throws at you and move on. He moved his canvases and paints to the corner of the room and sat down on one of the dusty chairs, laying his
head on the table in front of him.

"Are you still tired?" the barista asked, setting a mouth-watering plate of pancakes in front of him, and sitting down across from him.

Arthur blinked and sat up, pulling the plate closer. He picked up the fork that was set on the side of his plate and poked gently at the meal, "It's pretty," he muttered softly, more to himself than the younger man, "The perfect color... and it looks nice with the jam..." he looked up to catch the man smiling in
amusement at his comment, and flushed a pale pink.

"You're a really funny guy. Didya know that, Artie?" the barista picked at his pancakes and looked back up at him, "But it's really cool... I wish I could look at things like that. To me, they're just pancakes with jelly," he took a bite, getting the sticky topping all over his mouth.

Arthur cut himself a nice piece and ate it delicately, "Thanks... Umm, you're American, right? Your accent..."

"Yep!" he declared loudly, causing Arthur to wince. He wasn't used to such exuberance, "I'm going to medical school here in London. I wanted to get away. Home wasn't so great to me, you know? But I like it here for now... I know at some point I am gonna have to go back, but I get to stick around at least until my
program is over."

So he's leaving... Arthur thought, feeling a twinge of sadness for a reason he couldn't understand. "Oh, I see..."

"But at least now I've made a friend! You're such a cool guy. I was looking at some of your paintings while you were sleeping... err, sorry, I hope it wasn't intruding, I just couldn't help it! But seriously, they are way cool. I especially like that one you did of the skyline, umm the sunset one! It's so pretty, even better than the photos I've seen of the one in New York!"

Arthur turned bright red, trying to process everything he had just said, which was difficult, because he was still stuck on "friend". Arthur didn't have any friends, and it wasn't like he was considering this man to be one. He couldn't even remember his name! Besides, he knew that if the man spent much more time with him, he would soon change his mind about wanting to be friends. Arthur wasn't good with people, "...Thanks," was all he could come up with.

Alfred sighed and seemed to grow a lot more serious, picking at his pancakes, "So, hey... This morning... just before you fell asleep... you told me that... that I was your... inspiration?" he muttered quietly. Arthur was perplexed by the sudden switch in his personality. From loud and happy to this quiet, embarrassed almost... worried(?) young man. He was so stunned by it that he almost didn't process the words he said, and when he did, he turned a fuchsia color that matched a splatter of paint on his faded trouser pants.

"D-did I...? Sorry about that... but... I just... when I saw you, the first thing I thought was that... I would love to- love to do a painting of you," he finally admitted, looking away.

Now, it was Alfred's turn to blush, "Whaaat? Me? Why!?"

"...You're beautiful," Arthur admitted, but his words weren't flirty or suggestive in any way, but like a child admire the colors of a flower in their mothers garden. Arthur didn't see human beauty in a sexual way like most did, but as a work of art, waiting to be captured forever in his paints.

He looked back at Alfred, who was blushing all the way up to his ears with an expression that could only be described as adorable. His eyes were wide, his lips were squeezed together tightly, and he was squirming awkwardly, "No one... No one has ever called me that before. I don't think... it's something you're supposed to call a guy!"

Arthur shrugged and went back to eating his pancakes in silence, smearing his jam in spirals on eat bite. The silence continued for several minutes, until almost all of his food was gone.

"You can paint me," Alfred finally said, looking up from his now-empty plate.

"R-really?" Arthur asked, a bubbling excitement swelling in his chest.

"Of course. If I... if I inspire you, then it would be a shame to let that go to waste. Just no nudes or anything, okay?" he teased, and Arthur dropped his fork,
turning red again.

"O-of course not, idiot!" he sputtered, looking everywhere but at him.

"It's Alfred," he teased, "But people mistake me for "idiot" a lot," he chuckled, and stood up, "So... when do you want to do this painting?" he asked, "I'm free tomorrow."

Arthur stood up as well, and grabbed his plate, "Can we... start now?" he asked shyly, not quite wanting to admit how eager he was.
Alfred chuckled. "Right after I wash these dishes." He headed for the kitchen sink.

"Okay... I'll go prepare!" Arthur said, hurrying to his easel in the living room, too giddy to realize he was letting a total stranger do his dishes and how terribly rude that was. He didn't quite like working in the living room; the lighting was all wrong, but for now it was okay. The sun was down, there was a fire, and he really, really didn't want Alfred in his room. He selected a canvas of medium size and a several long, thin paintbrushes, as delicate and brittle as the hands he painted with. He pulled over several boxes of paint and turned on some lamps, before waiting... Alfred seemed to be taking forever (in actuality it was but a few minutes). Arthur tapped his foot and sighed impatiently over and over.

"Someone's impatient," an amused voice teased from behind him. "That eager, huh?" He chuckled, a perfect sound that made Arthur's spine tremble. "Where should I sit?"

Arthur stared dumbly at him for several moments, before blushing and muttering, "Just over on that chair, and hit play on the radio. I work better with music playing." Alfred tapped the button and sat down, and the small apartment was soon filled with delightful classic music. "Can you put one hand over your heart? No, the other one, and straighten your head! Look toward me. Relax! Bloody hell, not that much," Arthur directed the fumbling American, to no avail. He finally stood up and without a second thought, took Alfred's hands and positioned them in the way he wished. Under any other circumstance, this touch would have been embarrassing or at least awkward, but Arthur was in work mode, and right now the only things he could think about were the colors of Alfred's skin, and the way the light played off his glasses and the gold of his hair. It was all so mind-numbingly beautiful.

He didn't waste a second getting paint onto the pure white canvas before him. Peach, white, and gold all blended together under the dance of his brush. The world seemed to melt away, and all he could see was his vision of what he was to create. Song after song played, melding their way into the paints and directed the emotions they created. There was blue now, a deep, shimmering blue that seemed endless, like the depths of the clearest ocean waters. Fields of gold hair made ripples in against a peachy sky, and a subtle white of a perfectly chewed up fingernail was a cloud by the sunset red of his lips.

"Arthur?" A voice finally squeaked.

Arthur did not hear or did not care. He was too lost amongst the paints to return to the harshness of reality just yet.

"Arthur?" the voice squeaked again, like a shove off a cliff back to the cold, dark recesses of the canyon.

"What the hell do you need?" he finally groaned, setting down his paintbrush.

"Um... I think... the sun is coming up. You've been at this for hours. My whole body hurts."

Arthur's eyes grew wide and he looked up at the rays of soft light peeking through his thick, forest green curtains, "Bloody hell..." he muttered his eyes growing wide, "It felt like- It felt like we just started."

"Can I get up?" Alfred asked pitifully.

"Of course! Did... how did... Why did you sit still for that long? You could have told me earlier..." he looked down shamefully, but did not move to help the stiff man whose joints were popping as he moved from the chair.

"You seemed so happy. I didn't want to interrupt you."

"But... you couldn't have been comfortable..." Arthur protested, looking away shamefully, unable to see the adoring gaze Alfred was giving him.

"I'm fine... Hey, can I see the painting?" Alfred got up and strolled over, leaning over Arthur's shoulder to look, "Oh gosh, wow..." he said in awe, staring at the beautiful depiction of himself. It was just a portrait, and only half done, but there was no doubt it was more beautiful than any other painting he had lays eyes on, and not just because it was him. In fact, looking at the picture, it was like he didn't even register it was himself, but instead it was a man who Alfred knew he was very close to... "I'm not that beautiful, Artie" he chuckled, trying to cover up the blush that was tinting the apples of his cheeks.

"Of course you are. Otherwise I wouldn't have painted you that way," Arthur said in an almost-offended tone.

"Oh, it was a compliment," Alfred sighed, but in slight amusement, "It's the most incredible painting I have ever laid eyes upon, and I can't wait to model again so you can finish it," he promised with an honest smile.

Arthur's heart warmed... and he smiled back at the America for the first time since they had met, "Thank you, Alfred. Thank you."