Hello! For those of you that don't follow me on Tumblr, there's been quite an absence of my fics on here, and for that, I'm very sorry! I have been writing, quite a lot actually, but I've been posting all my fics on my Tumblr account and neglecting this one a little! I'm very sorry! If you would like to read more of my fics when I post them, rather than me forgetting to re-upload them here, definitely go check out my Tumblr which is on my profile for you! If you like this fic, Like and Reblog it on Tumblr as well~! All my fics are organised by pairing in the 'Fic Master Collection' link on my blog! Big smooches, and sorry for the delay in fics!

Oh boy, when I get inspired, I get inspired. This is a bitter-sweet snippet (with a happy ending) of something that could have been longer, but I forced it to be a "short" one-shot. This fic was inspired by a little chat about a certain time of night with hindre who probably wasn't expecting this. Regardless, I hope everyone enjoys it, and please read the warnings before reading the fic! Despite the happy ending, I don't want people to be upset by its content. Smooch smooch! Content Warnings: NSFW ending, slurs, homophobia and domestic abuse mentions though nothing descriptive/detailed

The first time that it happened, it had been unexpected, felt like an invasion, an intrusion; a breach of privacy that had shattered the wall that had been silently standing between them, like a mental and emotional blockage holding up illusions. It had been an obstruction to cast a glow on for the projector that played make believe lies of I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay.

Fuck, and he'd believed them all as well.

It had been three in the morning, and he was so damn certain because his phone blared 3 a.m. when he had checked it as he rounded the corner of the shitty downtown neighbourhood, only to catch the kitchen light on and glowing inside of Matthew's home, even from the roadside.

The first time, he had knocked.

Matthew took only a minute to open the door, cautious, the chain of the lock keeping it mostly shut, and violet eyes that were faintly red tinged at the rims peered out, the glow of the streetlight casting an eerie shadow and glow across his face, catching the reflection of tear streaks along pale cheeks.

"Alfred?" he croaked out, clearly surprised at his presence, un-expectant as a frown pushed his eyebrows towards the centre of his brow, "What are you doing here? What time is it?"

"It's three in the mornin'," Alfred muttered, voice hoarse, and he took in a shaky breath, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his bomber's jacket; a thick brown leather trimmed with a black faux-fur collar, "Can I come in?"

Matthew hesitated and flinched—God, he flinched—before nodding, uttering a soft "Wait a second" and shut the door, the clinking of metal falling against cracked timber echoing before the door opened once again, only wider this time, revealing Matthew standing there in red sweatpants and a loose white shirt, licking his upper lip slowly, giving a nod to signal to the American that it was alright to enter.

Alfred did so cautiously, beginning to toe off his sneakers when Matthew shook his head, shutting the door behind him as gingerly as he could, locking it three times—three, Alfred counted; the dead bolt, the chain, and the main lock—and stopped him.

"Keep them on. There's glass on the floor."

"Glass?" Alfred repeated, watching Matthew step away, feet bare despite it, able to see the little pricks of red on the soles of his feet when his foot lifted and curved off of the old linoleum floor, "What happened?"

"Nothing. I just broke some cups," Matthew dismissed, head angled to the ground, shoulders heavy and sagging, and Alfred followed him apprehensively, shadows beneath his own eyes. Looking at Matthew now in the darkness of his own home, with a faint hobble to his gait, he somehow looked different than he did in the park where they met up in the daylight.

"When? Why? You haven't cleaned it up?" he demanded, and Matthew turned sharply as he paused in the kitchen archway, illuminated from behind like a fallen angel against a chaotic war zone, a silhouette of ruins, and Alfred's jaw dropped as he looked past the broken shadow and into the mess of a wrecked kitchen and the remains of smoke still wafting by the ceiling.

"Not now," Matthew hissed, his words a breath and a warning, lips trembling but curled into a snarl, eyes narrow even as tears rolled over bottom lashes and curled over cheeks that had been stained too much with them already, "I don't want to talk about this right now… It's three in the fucking morning, Alfred, don't—"

His voice cracked and his words broke off, biting at his bottom lip, sucking it between his teeth and angling his head to the ceiling, breathing in hard and deep through his nose. It was there with that new viewpoint and lighting that fell on his face that Alfred saw it—the cut on his upper lip which was swollen and puffy, the purple bloomed bruise that splattered milky skin like watercolour paints that had dripped in messy patches along his neck and face, the crack in his round framed glasses that explained so much why Matthew's steps faltered uncertainly, not just because of the cut up soles, and God knows about any other injuries along his thighs or calves or torso that he couldn't see.

"Just don't," Matthew finished, rubbing at his face before dropping his head back down and turned away from him, stepping cautiously into the kitchen, dumping himself in the chair he'd occupied since—how long? Too long, Alfred knew, even without asking. There were signs that the light hadn't only just been flicked on; the chair was probably warm with the heat of Matthew's body with how long it had been sat on, and the table wasn't empty, littered with half eaten snacks and empty bottles and an ash tray half full with the peppers of cigarettes and their corpses.

"I thought you quit smokin'," Alfred muttered, carefully following the Canadian, reaching the table as the packet was grasped at again, trembling fingers with a few cracked nails plucking another cigarette out and drawing it to battered lips.

"And I thought you had better places to be at three in the morning than my place," Matthew retorted easily, lighting the cigarette and taking small puffs, exhaling the smoke in one long and steady stream, "What are you doing up, much less half way across town?"

Blue eyes averted, glancing about the kitchen, scanning over clear signs of a domestic—the cracked crockery, the upturned chairs in the corner, and the drops of red splattered amongst shattered glass that looked as though it had been cracked over the kitchen bench tops purposefully, while some like it had been violently projected against the wall. The old, beaten radio sat crackling softly between them on the table, nestled between bottles of Budweiser and half-eaten packets of Cheezies, antenna crooked and kinked.

"Can I crash on your couch for a while?" he asked softly after a minute's worth of silence, pulling the jacket a little tighter around his body, turning his gaze back to Matthew, "I need somewhere to stay."

Matthew studied him carefully, the cigarette between his lips held by his index and middle fingers, the bruised and bloodied skin along knuckles glowing stark against Matthew's milky white complexion in the light, and he nodded, agreeing to the request, no questions asked.

"Your girlfriend was a bitch anyway," Matthew uttered, lowering his cigarette to tap the ashes into the tray, wiping at some of his tears with the palm of his other hand, sniffling, nose twitching before he rubbed at the wetness beneath it.

"Your boyfriend doesn't exactly have the sun shinin' out of his asshole either y'know," Alfred rebutted, frowning, lips pursing as Matthew shot him a sharp and icy glare before it softened the faintest bit, turning the sour gaze instead to the burning embers at the end of his cigarette.

"We're through… I kicked his ass to the curb," Matthew scoffed, "He got what he deserved."

Alfred's lips pursed, but he chose to not say anything on the matter, simply reaching out to cup Matthew's hand, hurt—so honestly hurt—when the fairer haired blond flinched before he allowed himself to relax at the American's touch.

"I think we should go to sleep," Alfred offered, giving a wary smile, strained, his other hand reaching up to pluck the cigarette from Matthew's lips, grinding it and extinguishing it in the glass, leaving it there amongst fellow rolls of burnt out nicotine, "I'll help you clean up in the mornin'… I'll help you clean everythin'."

Matthew looked up, tears burning at his eyes anew behind his cracked glasses, jaw set tight to try and hold it all in, and in the end, he failed, allowing himself to be pulled up and onto his feet, catching himself against Alfred who wrapped his arms around him, grasping hard to the dirty white of the American's tight polo shirt, burying his face in the strong column of his neck and wept.

Alfred always had been the one to scrape up the mess and help find every piece of his aching, shattered heart. Alfred had always been there, but never at three in the morning to see him fall apart.

That night for the first time, sprawled on the ratty old couch with a meagre sheet offered to keep him warm, Alfred found a longing ache rising, burning sour at the back of his tongue and mouth as it tried to claw its way up; three words too inappropriate for three a.m. for a man so unready to hear them, just as he was unready to say them.

The second time that it happened, it was a week later, and to the sound of the old radio's crackle, bursting loudly with static before hurriedly softening, the music old and instrumental, jerking Alfred from his sleep on the couch with a jolt and a loud, startled snore.

From across the room, his digital alarm clock blared 3 a.m. in saturated red and angled digits, the darkness of the late night broken by the light pouring in from around the corner in the kitchen, stretching long shadows on the faded and worn carpet. Three clinks echoed, something falling against glass, and Alfred pushed himself up slowly with one hand, the other rubbing firmly at his face with his work roughened palm, face scrunching up in displeasure at being woken, but it was for good reason he didn't roll over and simply return to the blank dreamland. Matthew was awake, and it seemed that despite constant reassurance over the past seven days—constant lies from a cracking mask of I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay—the Canadian couldn't in fact sleep at night.

"Did I wake you?"

"Yeah."

There was no point in lying as he entered the kitchen, squinting through the bright light, adjusting his glasses on his nose.

"Sorry."

There was a tremble in Matthew's voice again, something that hadn't left for a while now, as quashed as it had been, but it had returned with a vengeance, drowned only by the sound of splashing liquid.

"Fuck, Mattie, don't do that," Alfred scolded in a grunt, walking over and gently taking hold of Matthew's shaking wrist, lowering the bottle that hovered above the glass, "Where the hell did you get whiskey from?"

"Stole it from my ex," Matthew mumbled more to the glass than to Alfred, staring tiredly at the label, shadows dark beneath his eyes. His hair smelt like smoke. Alfred didn't doubt that his lips probably tasted like ash.

"It's three in the mornin'," Alfred muttered, "I thought you'd be sleepin'."

"And I thought I'd be somewhere else at this point in my life, but here I am in the kitchen of my shitty apartment at three in the fucking morning with a bottle of stolen whiskey, not even close to resembling what I wanted be," Matthew snapped softly, tugging his hand free from Alfred's jerkily and pouring amber liquid until the glass was a quarter full amongst the three ice cubes, lifting it up to his lips and draining it in one mouthful, making a face as it burned its way down his throat, "I'm a fucking wreck."

There was no denying it, and Alfred didn't try to. There was something about the glassiness in Matthew's eyes that made him want to ease the hurt as much as he could, but found himself, for once, unsure of what to say, particularly when conflict bubbled in his gut for wanting to give the other a smack upside the head to snap him out of it just as much as he wanted to soothe.

"My parents' lawyer sent me an email with confirmation… an automated one. One of those shitty 'do not reply to sender' addresses," Matthew started, voice cracking as much as the half-broken radio softly humming in the background, the clink of ice cubes shaking against glass caused by trembling hands adding soft bitter melody to the piano, "They won their case."

Alfred frowned, but chose not to press, leaving it for Matthew to continue if he chose to, seeing the way that fair eyelashes fluttered rapidly when he blinked hard and fast, violet eyes lifting to the ceiling, as though searching for answers or calm or comfort up there, as though the cracked plaster could provide anything.

Not the ceiling, not there, look back down…

"I've been disowned… scratched out of the family tree like I never existed," he whispered, lips curling into a pained smile, "I've been issued with a restraining order… I can't come anywhere near my old home…"

"They were serious?" Alfred asked, anger prickling his tone as he shook his head a little in disbelief, "They can't do that."

"Of course they can! I'm a faggot. They had every right to do so, apparently, because the judge clearly ruled in their favour out of pity for anyone who could have a fag for a son!" he snapped, slamming the glass to the table hard, the ice cubes within echoing like a xylophone with their jingles, and he took in shallow breaths, eyelashes clumping as they grew damp with tears whilst Alfred's hands reached out to steady him by the shoulders, "That's the world we live in, isn't it? That's… That's just how it is… Things were great until they realised I was gay and then… can't have that, eh? Honour roll student, fluent in two languages, never broke the law, I don't have any tattoos or piercings, I'm not an alcoholic and I never did drugs… and I'm scum of the world simply because of who I could fall in love with."

"Mattie, sit down," Alfred insisted softly, grabbing hold tighter as Matthew swayed in his steps to try and distance himself, yanking him back up before he could crumple to the hard floor, grunting as Matthew's hands grasped hard to his sleep shirt, "Fuck, you're drunk, aren't you?"

"It doesn't matter… It doesn't matter anymore, it's three in the morning and I've lost everything. What does it matter?" he groaned, words muffled against Alfred's shoulder, "A straight white man like you wouldn't get it; you've got the power of the world. I had everything to lose from the start and you don't fucking get it."

"Mattie, stop it. Never said I was straight, and you're plastered out of your mind. How did you even make it to the kitchen in this state?" Alfred grumbled, forcing the Canadian into a chair, hands firm on his shoulders and shifting to half straddle him to help keep his head up, "Calm down for a bit, calm, Mattie, deep breaths."

"Alfred, I've been disowned! My birth parents have a restraining order against me! I've been kicked out and live in downtown Shitville of some ghetto neighbourhood where there's gunshots every few fucking days," Matthew shouted, tears rolling down his cheeks, "I have nothing to my name but whatever I could carry on my back and in my arms, and an incomplete university degree I can't even finish now because my parents were paying it for me. Alfred, I could have been someone, and I could have gone anywhere… and now… now…"

Raw and agonised sobs tore from deep in his chest, drowning out the slow melody from behind the whiskey bottle where the radio sat, antenna struggling to pick up signal from any station still broadcasting in the area at three in the morning.

"I'm here for you," Alfred promised, wiping each tear away as it fell, the calluses on his thumb wet and shining, "Mattie, I've always been there for you, and I'll keep helpin' now, okay? I've got you… I always do."

"You don't understand… Your parents can't be ashamed of you, spit at you and say you're nothing to them… They can't say to your face that they never had a son… I hate it… I wish I was just sick. I wish I had a cure… I wish I never opened my mouth and told them."

"It's pretty easy for my parents to say nothin' or be ashamed of me while they're six feet under," Alfred reminded with a frown, silencing the Canadian who seemed to hit realisation like a brick wall going over a hundred miles an hour, "I know you're hurtin' bad, but I'm gonna get you a glass of water first, not whiskey, and some bread, and you're gonna eat it to soak up all that shit inside of you, then you're goin' to bed to sleep."

Making sure that Matthew wouldn't throw up or fall off of the chair, he smoothed long tresses of fair blond back from his pale face, bruises healing an awkward green-yellow colour on his skin, the cut on his upper lip scabbed and no longer swollen, though shadows had deepened beneath his teary violet eyes since the first time catching him in the kitchen still awake at three in the morning. As quick as he could, the glass was cleaned of alcohol and refilled with tap water, a loaf of sliced white bread swiped from the pantry, and a chair pulled up for Alfred to sit himself in before the swaying Canadian. Gently steadying him, he lifted the glass to Matthew's lips, encouraging him to drink a few mouthfuls and then lowered it, plastic rustling as he opened the bread and fished out a slice, gently holding back Matthew's hair to allow him to take a bite easer without getting strands caught in between his lips.

"Little bites, careful," Alfred murmured, shifting his chair closer with jerks of his hips, feet braced on the floor as the legs of the chair scraped the linoleum, thumb briefly stroking over a pale cheek bone, "You'll feel better soon."

Matthew shook his head, eyes having falling shut, jaw working slowly.

"I can't pull myself together," he spoke around the mouthful of bread, "I can't stop breaking down. I've never cried like this, I'm stronger than this, why can't I stop? Why do I care so fucking much?"

"It's because you're drunk, for starters, and alcohol never helps when you're sad to begin with," Alfred replied with a sigh, wiping some crumbs from beneath Matthew's bottom lip, "You've dumped your asshole of a boyfriend, got kicked outta home, got disowned, and got a restrainin' order filed against you. Life is shit, life sucks, but Mattie, drinkin' ain't gonna solve any of that. I'll help you, but you can't try and drown yourself in liquor. Don't be one of those people. It's okay to cry, it doesn't make you weak. I never thought you were."

Swallowing what was in his mouth, Matthew parted his lips, and Alfred fed him more, the hand holding back his hair quickly shifting to his shoulder instead when his body swayed and sagged, cursing softly and pushing him back upright.

"All you need is a good cry, that's all, and then we can work out what needs to be done. It gets better, it will get better."

"It's so easy for you to say that… So easy… You're everything the world loves. You've got no issue with your gender or sexuality—"

"Mattie, you never asked me for starters, and there's more to the world beyond gay and straight," Alfred sighed, frowning, "Now ain't the time for discussin' it; you really need to calm down. You're grievin' and angry, but you can't go redirectin' that anger at everythin' or you're gonna become a bitter, twisted and hateful bit of white trash, and then you'll fit right in the neighbourhood. I don't want that for you. I don't want the kind, gentle, carin' person I grew up with to turn into a drugged up alcoholic dyin' in his own filth."

Violet eyes opened, looking to Alfred with a mouth full of half chewed bread, cheeks bloated and smeared with tears, nose dribbling. There never had been anything pretty about crying, nothing beautiful about getting drunk to the point of losing control with how red the eyes turned and how the body couldn't even perform basic motor functions, and how emotions flew rampant and out of control. Alfred hated seeing this.

"You've only dated girls," Matthew protested softly around the bread, eyebrows knitting in confusion and telltale anger, "You can't say that… Not now… What the hell?"

"Who I've dated ain't important now because you've never met them all, so just eat the bread and sober up. Mattie, lookin' at you like this hurts me, so just take deep breaths and close your eyes, and let me look after you," he huffed, "Christ."

Falling silent, Matthew ate obediently, broken by intervals of water that were drunk in sips, tears wiped away as they fell. Two pieces of bread later, and Matthew's eyes slowly began to regain clarity, agonised and exhausted though they were, and he regained capability to keep himself upright without looking like he would topple sideways. The radio crackled between them, uninterrupted by radio hosts, simply fading from melody to melody, Matthew's attention having drifted occasionally to the music it played, all orchestral with dominant piano and light violins.

"Come on, let's get you to bed now," Alfred murmured, tying up the bread bag's top, leaving it on the table by the ash tray and whiskey, standing up and gently sliding his hands beneath Matthew's arms, lifting him with a little grunt.

"I love this song."

Alfred paused, waiting for Matthew to regain balance on his feet, violet eyes achingly sad and distant, as though seeing something other than the table with the wobbly leg balancing legal poison and cancer sticks and aging bread, listening to the radio like it was an orchestra at a theatre than a battered box with a crooked antenna and a broken speaker. Eyelids lowered a little, and Matthew turned his head away, resting it against Alfred's shoulder, exhaling shakily.

"Put your arms around my neck," Alfred whispered after a brief moment of silence and hesitance, reaching out to twist the dial, the volume growing slowly with the static.

Gently, Alfred guided Matthew's arms to rest on his shoulders where they bent at the elbows, wrapping securely around him while Alfred's own hands slid down to Matthew's hips, holding softly. Gently, to the melody of the piece playing, he began to sway them. Matthew's feet were clumsy, stumbling slightly here and there, but he clung to Alfred, and Alfred in turn made sure that he didn't fall, keeping him tucked close to his strong chest, supporting him physically as much as he was emotionally.

"Have you ever danced to it before?" Alfred asked, his voice a breath, curling against Matthew's ear, hot and tender.

"No," Matthew replied softly, lifting his head to press his heated cheek against Alfred's, his eyes closed, "They only play this song late at night when everyone else is asleep."

"They only play it around three a.m., huh?" Alfred prompted, smiling a little at the soft sound of confirmation by his ear, glad that, at least for now, Matthew was calm, "Didn't know you're awake that often at this time of night."

"And I didn't know you could dance."

"You never asked," Alfred chuckled, gently hitching Matthew up a little bit more when he felt him sag, nose brushing against his ear as he inhaled. He reeked of cigarette smoke and booze, but somewhere beneath it, he could smell the vague and cheap scent of a sweet vanilla and honey.

"I'm asking now, then… Since when could you dance?"

"Since I began wishin' to join you somehow when you played the piano. I'm clumsy with hand eye coordination, so I tried my feet instead."

Matthew lifted his head a little, turning it, their noses brushing and Alfred carefully slid one hand from hip to waist, then moved up to brush a wave of blond from before Matthew's eyes, tucking it behind his ear gently, the backs of his fingers stroking along pale skin.

"How long have you been not-straight?" Matthew questioned, eyes searching Alfred's bright blue, knowing they were so much brighter without the glasses obscuring them.

Alfred hesitated, but then licked his lips slowly, easing his head forward to rest their foreheads together, the piano painting pictures of red and white rose beds and white iron arches beneath canopies of weeping willows around them, the breeze soft and smelling like dew and pollen rather than smoke and alcohol.

"Since I met you," Alfred confessed, his voice dropping, "I've dated a few guys, but I wasn't ever really satisfied with them."

"You weren't ever satisfied with the girls you dated either," Matthew pointed out, swallowing hard, "Your relationships have always been a mess."

"You're one to talk…" Alfred snorted, the hand still cupping the back of Matthew's head sliding down to neck, brushing over a fading bruise, "My exes never tried to choke me."

"You probably never threw a bottle of beer at your exes to deserve a choking."

"That ain't the point," Alfred hissed, frown tugging at his brows, "Why do you have to go for such assholes?"

"I'm lonely. And I couldn't ever have what I wanted so I settled for anything as a distraction," Matthew admitted, his eyes closing, a few stray tears glistening like diamonds as they rolled like rain against a window down his face, "I was mentally cheating on them… I never pictured it was them kissing me, never pictured them fucking me, and a few times too often I moaned the wrong name."

"Who were you picturin'? Whose name did you moan?"

"Yours."

Alfred shifted them, slowly turning their bodies as they swayed, his fingers toying with the fine hair at the nape of Matthew's neck, feeling the way that he shivered against his chest.

"Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"You never asked," Matthew returned, a smile lifting the corners of his lips, a watery chuckle falling from them as he retorted Alfred's line right back to him.

"Touché."

They fell into a mutual silence again, foreheads pressed together, sharing breaths, and swaying to and fro, hands warming the skin beneath where they held. If they kept their eyes closed like this, they could pretend to be anywhere, pretend things weren't this bad, pretend that they'd walked down a different path that wasn't laid with so many patches of quicksand disguised as bridges.

"I need to take you to bed, Mattie."

Matthew nodded, though their slow dance continued, their bodies slotted like perfect puzzle pieces against each other, unable to pull apart.

"Will you stay?"

"Not while you're drunk. I'll be on the couch if you need me."

Their lips brushed as Matthew shifted, but Alfred was quick to pull away this time, halting their bodies and angling his head back, looking apologetically into sad violet eyes.

"Not while you're drunk," he reiterated, voice firm, and he reached out to switch off the radio, the kitchen falling silent once again, "Come on. It's time to go to sleep."

As gently as he could, he lead Matthew out and down the hall, turning the kitchen light off as he passed, each step careful and slow to make sure the other didn't fall, guiding him through the bedroom door and to the cheap king single bed shoved against the wall by the window, sheets messy, the floor leading to it littered with upturned and empty beer bottles.

"Stay," Matthew pleaded again, softly, his body easy to manoeuvre onto the mattress, looking up to Alfred as his legs were pulled up, tucked under the sheets, "Please."

For the second time, three words too inappropriate for three a.m. burned at his throat, having made it to the back of his mouth and soured his tongue, heavy and weighing it down, trying to force their way from his lips.

For the second time, it was too wrong.

For the second time, he held his tongue.

For the second time at three in the morning, he left Matthew alone to sleep in his bed and returned to his place on the ratty couch, regret pulsing in his chest.

The third time that it happened, there was no need to look to his alarm clock to know it was three in the morning, because that song was playing softly again from the radio in the kitchen. It had been three nights since Matthew had gotten drunk; one day he'd spent in bed nursing a hangover, the second where he had avoided Alfred entirely and remained locked in his room trying to come to terms with everything, vent anger and cry as he needed to, and the third day where he'd apologised and looked calmer, more at peace, able to begin to talk about his options, the direction where his life could go.

"There's no point crying and pitying myself forever," he had said quietly, a bittersweet smiling curing his lips as he placed the last bottle of Budweiser he owned in a plastic bag, sealing it and tucking it away and out of sight in the kitchen beneath the sink behind pots and pans. It was best that way, and Alfred had agreed, because then to get to the booze, a lot of noise would be made, and it would alert the American quickly to stop him, to come get him.

The couch dipped, and Alfred cracked his eyes open tiredly, rolling from his side to ease himself half onto his back, craning his head up to look at Matthew as he crawled onto him, hands braced either side of his head, one knee on the couch while the other leg remained stretched out behind him, foot braced on the floor.

"I'm sorry," Matthew whispered, his breath, for once, not wafting with the scent of freshly smoked nicotine, but it caressed him with its undertones with their proximity, "I can't sleep."

Sniffing a little, Alfred yawned, rubbing at his face tiredly.

"It's three a.m."

"I know… Come to bed with me?"

Alfred opened his eyes more, feeling Matthew's other leg settle by his hip, straddling him, hair sliding slowly over his cheeks.

"I'm sober this time," Matthew assured, "I might be able to get to sleep if you were beside me… is… what I was thinking."

Studying Matthew's eyes in the dark, Alfred reached a hand up, breathing in slowly through his nose, exhaling it in a sigh.

"Sleep ain't the only thing you want," Alfred muttered, voice husky with tiredness, still clinging to the last traces of dreamless sleep, "Is it?"

Matthew shook his head, closing his eyes and leaned his face into the broad palm.

"No… But I won't ask for anything else," he promised, "I don't want to ruin this… what we have between us."

"Who said we'd ruin it?" Alfred challenged, observing Matthew's hesitation, insecurity, and he smiled at him uncertainly; lopsided and boyish in charm, brushing his thumb softly over the rise of Matthew's cheek, tucking fair blond waves behind his ear and cupped the back of his head, "What makes you so sure you'd break somethin' you've never touched?"

"It could be fragile."

"It could be as tough as Superman."

"I might be made of Kryptonite."

"You'll never know until it is close enough to touch."

Matthew's breath trembled on the exhale, and Alfred parted his lips to taste it, leaning upwards so that his back curved off of the couch, his other hand rising to cup Matthew's hip, holding him steady.

"So touch me then," Matthew whispered, swallowing hard, dark lighting making it hard to see the blush colouring his cheeks, and Alfred was grateful for the lack of visibility if only because it hid the equally dark one colouring his own face, "I want you to."

Their lips meeting was tentative and soft, a chaste brush, innocent in the way two children would do, and Alfred distinctly recalled how he had wanted to ask Matthew what kissing was like way back when they were barely scraping double digit numbers in age. It was brief, but it sparked like electricity in their mouths, crackling with the raw connection. Alfred was the first to smile, awkward and tentative, his eyes shifting from Matthew's eyes to his lips, and when Matthew finally—finally—smiled, soft and small and sweet like he so loved, he leant in again, connecting their lips with a slightly firmer confidence.

The alarm clock was blaring 03:10 and tinting the scene red, the piano accompanying it from the kitchen to give warmth to the cold hour, but this particular three in the morning didn't feel like it the previous two times Alfred had caught Matthew awake.

The ache in his chest rose again for the third time since he found himself on Matthew's doorstep, the three words on the tip of his tongue now, tasting foul and sweet like nicotine mixed with vanilla, and as he parted his lips to swipe his tongue along the seam of Matthew's, he found that that was exactly what the Canadian tasted like too; cheap cigarettes and vanilla balm.

Parting his lips for Alfred's tongue, his own met it half way where they touched, tasted softly, Matthew's hands lifting to tangle in Alfred's short, dark blond locks, sitting up more for balance and trusting Alfred—relying on him to keep him upright and from falling. Alfred had always been his support beam, and he was clutching to that stability now. They were both afraid, hearts slamming in chests, but it felt so right despite how wrong it all was. Pulling apart, their breaths came hard, wants, needs, and desperations ages old pulsing through their veins.

"Bed," Matthew breathed, a hand reaching out to steady himself on the back of the couch, "Alfred, please. Come to bed with me."

Alfred's arms were strong. They always had been, and Matthew clung to his waist with his thighs as he was lifted, arms looped around his neck, kissing tender sweetness over Alfred's cheeks, accepting the brushes of dry lips mouthing his jaw line. Reaching his room, they fell into the small bed heavily, Alfred crawling on top of him, pulling the blanket over and covering them like a tent as he leaned in, pressing open mouthed kisses to healing skin of his neck.

"I've wanted you for so long," Alfred murmured, his hands tracing up and down Matthew's sides, rubbing at them through the faded white night shirt before his fingers pushed beneath the fabric, sliding skin against skin.

"So why didn't you ask?" Matthew pressed, spreading his legs and allowing Alfred to settle between them easier, a sigh falling from his lips, followed closely by a moan as their hips rolled together.

"I didn't want to be another failed relationship or one night stand."

"Then don't be. Stay."

Lifting his head up, Alfred stared deep into Matthew's eyes, judging, studying, searching, and Matthew offered him a small smile, lips slightly swollen from kisses, breaths falling harder, and seeing this all before him had three words—those three damn words at three in the fucking morning—falling from his lips, unrestrained, heartfelt and honest.

"I love you."

It felt like a burden lifted from his chest, the weight turning from stones to feathers that floated off with every breath, the darkness not so pitch black anymore, and the world not so horrific for just that one moment at three in the morning with the crackle of the radio floating in from the kitchen, playing soft piano melodies like a tender lullaby; the song that they had slow danced to not that long ago to, and the song that they would create another slow and passionate dance for.

Matthew smiled up at him, fingers curling into Alfred's hair, gently guiding him downwards, arching up to meet him in the tender exchange of sweet and sour kisses that lasted the length of a butterfly's wing flutter.

"I love you too, Alfred."

"Love won't make it all better," Alfred warned, nibbling softly at Matthew's bottom lip, catching it before it flew away, "Happily ever after don't cure nothin'. We still gotta work hard."

"I know," Matthew murmured, sliding his legs up higher, curling them over Alfred's hips, "But at least now I have one thing I've always wanted."

"It's three in the fuckin' mornin'," Alfred chuckled, and Matthew found himself laughing too as they rocked together, bodies sliding to fit like perfect puzzle pieces, "I thought you wanted sleep."

"And I thought so too, until you confessed," he admitted, gasping as Alfred bucked against him, "Besides, I can't sleep with you humping me."

"I'm sure you could."

"And I'm sure I don't want to… I'd rather enjoy this."

"Give me your hands."

Pressed into the mattress, their hands held firm on either side of Matthew's head, his hair splayed like a fair coloured halo around him, their cheeks both pink as they began to rut against one another, their lips meeting in brief and chaste kisses. Their fingers squeezed, laced together, soft sounds mingling in the still air between them, sometimes silenced by lips, sometimes rumbling in their chests, and sometimes turning into sharp surprised moans at bursts of pleasure.

"Alfred… So horny," Matthew whispered, his cock throbbing in his underwear, the blankets shifting as Alfred reached down, palming him through the fabric, cupped and squeezed, drawing a deep and hungry moan from the Canadian, "Please… Touch me…"

There was no finesse to it, or time to search for lubricant or lotion as their pants and underwear were yanked down over hips and thighs, the hot, hot velvety flesh of their arousals bumping and pressing together between their hips. The soft, lewd squelch of pre-cum beading at the slit of the bulbous heads and pooling in the foreskin was enough for them to feel satisfied with what they could do for now. Alfred's fingers curled around both their hard arousals, broad palm barely holding them together, and he began to jerk them off in time as he continued to grind down whilst Matthew pressed up, sweat already forming at their hair lines. Bright blue connected with violet, and they smiled tenderly, meeting for another kiss, slow and sweet, Alfred's legs clumsy as he shifted, bracing himself with his forearm on the bed as he pumped their cocks firmly. Matthew's hand slid down to join him, the other remaining laced with the fingers of the hand Alfred was using to keep himself upright.

"You're so wet," Alfred breathed, hand slowing, dragging up, drawing the foreskin tight before his thumb circled the head of Matthew's cock, smearing the pearlescent cum, the dirty sticky sound that echoed between pants only making Matthew's toes curl as he threw his head back, jaw slack in a silent cry, eyes screwed shut tight, "You're so beautiful."

Continuing his assault on the sensitive tip, Matthew began to shake beneath him, the muscles in his thighs twitching, drawing up tighter, closer to his ribs, a sobbed out moan dragging from deep in his chest, fingers clutching hard to Alfred's hand while the other stroked the length of their cocks fast and desperate.

"Please," he gasped out, voice cracking as another sharp sound of pleasure interrupted it, Alfred's thumb unrelenting.

"Do you want it harder?" Alfred asked against Matthew's lips, voice husky and deep, panting hard, drinking in every moment he could, thumb twisting a little, slick with pre-cum and began to wiggle and press against the little hole, "Like this?"

The reaction was instantaneous, and Matthew cried out, bucking sharply, hands jerking as his body arched, heels digging hard into Alfred's lower back, expression twisted in a pained ecstasy. His breaths were ragged and fast, and he looked like he was steadily losing control of his own body, feet beginning to cramp from how curled they were.

"Just like that, huh? It'll make you cum, won't it?"

Matthew nodded hard and fast, lips mouthing words too unintelligible for a response n between long and drawn out moans, whimpered and needy.

Giving Matthew a moment of mercy, Alfred drew attention away from the soft head, grasping them both once again and began to move his hand with fervour, dry humping against him to bring additional friction that they were both craving.

"Alfred… Oh God, Alfred!"

Finally, he was moaning the right man's name, and Matthew's heart sped up, racing as a taut coil began to grow hot and tense in his belly, balls drawing tight and closer to his body.

"Mattie… Fuck, I'm cummin'," Alfred moaned, and their lips collided sloppily, messily, hand slicked with sweat and both of their pre-cum, and though it would have felt so much better if they had taken the time to squirt a bit of lotion into their palms, just each other's hot presence was enough. Their fingers squeezed, and they moaned openly into the late night-early morning still air, drowning out the piano from the kitchen as they hit orgasm close to one another, trembling and splattering Matthew's shirt and abdomen with thick ropes of cum.

The air was thick, heavy with the scent of sex, lingering cigarette smoke that never seemed to leave, and a hot passion. The clock blared almost half past three, and the radio in the kitchen finally connected to a proper broadcast, static fading and smoothing out the melody through the one functioning speaker. Sweat dripped, curled, and soaked into clothes and hair, and they both smiled against each other's lips, breathing far too much carbon dioxide and growing dizzy from it and the exertion.

Three words passed their lips, requited and tender, tasting sweet and flowing easily like water down a mountainside. Dawn would break in hardly an hour, and the summer sun would heat the apartment that was incapable of cooling efficiently, but they were content to curl up together, burning skin pressed to burning skin as they looked into each other's eyes, the contented silence broken by a single chuckle from Alfred, rolling onto his side and pulling Matthew in close, glasses removed and allowing his body to finally relax.

"Let this be the last time I catch you awake at three in the fuckin' mornin'."

Matthew smiled, letting his eyes fall shut and nodded.

"Third time's the charm, eh."