The instant Arthur entered Alfred's home and wandered up the creaking stairs to his (very familiar) room, he knew something was horribly wrong.

Alfred was singing.

Now that in itself isn't entirely what was wrong. But once the lyrics caught onto the British nation's sensitive ears…

"-Fast cars, fast women, and cheap drinks…It feels right. All these asphyxiated, self medicated—"

Actually. What he was singing was the question.

Frowning, the older man strode purposely into the room, crossing his arms and staring down the golden blonde American slumped over his bed with his earphones half plugged in. He cleared his throat to get his attention, furrowing his brows in exasperation.

"I didn't even know 'asphyxiated' was in your dictionary."

"—Catch me on the—Arthur?"

Honestly. I've been standing here for the past half-minute.

"H-How long have you been listening?"

"Long enough to know you're either, a) extremely sex-depraved, b) in need of serious medical attention, or c) selling yourself on the streets to random punks. I'd prefer a, if you don't mind. Much cheaper."

Alfred was promptly pinned against the bed he'd been enjoying his afternoon on.

"…Oh fuck."

"Gladly."

...Don't ask. Just review.

ANDMAYBEI'LLWRITETHERESTOFIT.