A gift of lolage for Hakuku, who seems to be rather enjoying England's shorts. Uh, but since I'm not sure of the exact reasoning behind Himaruya suddenly coughing up loads of artwork of England in shorts, I just had to make something up. C'est la vie. Haku, you get England's shorts and some brief discussion of their composition (damn you, Rockets, for making me notice how clothes are made!). =)

Srsly, who isn't enjoying England's shorts? If you're not – and have no idea what I'm talking about – Google Images that shit and you'll be enjoying England's shorts soon enough. XD

This is canon-verse with the use of human names, btdubs. Watch out for that and the godawful one-liners from the hero. :D

(And my dreadful pun of a title which I deserve to be shot for, lolololol.)

Short Attention Span

What Alfred really wanted to say was "Nice legs".

Or, rather, he wanted to say it as a joke. Ironically. Mockingly. Laughingly. But no. No. Noooo. Instead his voice, having gone to the bother of hiking halfway up his throat, pitched itself a tent somewhere at the back of his mouth and promptly, sulkily, hid in it, refusing to go on any further after checking the weather on its iPhone and finding that the day ahead, due to unfavourable conditions, was very much ruined.

The metaphor (which he thought was quite a good one and congratulated himself on) wasn't completely redundant; with his words dead and decimated on his tongue, without a way of drawing attention to himself, all he could do was look at Arthur in those shorts. Stare. Gawk. Ogle. Ah, yes, the day ahead was very much ruined due to unfavourable conditions. How unfair.

"What are you staring at?" Arthur asked tersely, not looking at him.

(Tinge of pink on his cheeks, nonetheless. Oho, he knew exactly what he was looking at.)

"Nothing." Alfred averted his gaze very firmly, wiping at his forehead as he turned away to glance about for his spanner. He left a smear of dark engine oil across his brow.

"Good." Arthur swatted at him with a greasy rag. "This Lancaster isn't going to fix itself." He hitched himself up the ladder, leaning towards the plane's cockpit, his legs – his bare legs in those shorts and calf-length socks – level with Alfred's face.

Nice legs. Alfred scowled. Who knew?

(Well, Alfred knew. He'd seen them. Of course he'd seen them. But legs were legs, right? Once Arthur's pants were off, Alfred didn't pay much attention to his legs. There were other things to play with – and besides, legs were only supposed to look good on girls. Pin-up girls with pin-up pins – Katharine Hepburn, Rita Hayworth, Betty Grable, all those lovely lingerie-clad ladies lounging on his locker. But suddenly Arthur – boring, straight-laced, uniform-pressed-to-perfection Arthur Kirkland – was wearing shorts and his legs... Hell. His. Legs. Shorts made them look just that little bit longer, the wiry muscles beneath his skin flexed and flowed, even the way those socks (which were terribly, frumpily old-man-ish – or would have been on their own) clung to the curves of his calves—)

"Alfred!" A rivet hit him on the head and Alfred looked up dazedly, finding Arthur scowling down at him with those impressive eyebrows of his (though the flight cap and goggles overpowered them a bit, actually making them look a bit less impressive than usual).

"What?" Alfred whined at him, rubbing at his skull where the rivet had bounced off.

"Stop staring at my legs and fix that bloody engine!"

Alfred gave a snort, attacking the engine with his spanner as noisily as possible.

"You're full of yourself," he said flatly, pushing up his glasses. "Who says I was staring at your legs?"

"You were making it extremely obvious, love."

Alfred saw no option other than to sulk, which he did as exaggeratedly as he was able.

"So what's with the shorts?" he asked moodily. "Don't tell me the British Army's had a uniform change?" He smirked. "Because seriously, this might win us the war. Ludwig'll be too busy pissing himself laughing at the Boy Scout look to fight back."

Arthur merely rolled his eyes at him.

"While this is military attire," he said, gesturing to the matching khaki short-sleeved shirt, "I haven't had a uniform change. I'm simply wearing this because of the heat. This is the hottest day we've had all summer."

"This is hot for you?" Alfred gave a whistle; he was cool enough himself in his uniform trousers and a white T-shirt, dogtags glinting about his neck. "Gee, you guys sure have it rough. If this is enough to make you sweat, I'd hate to see you over at my place at this time of year!"

"Been there, done that," Arthur replied. "And in eighteenth-century fashion, no less, as I'm sure you'll recall. I can't say I'm in a hurry to relive it."

"Tch, and you were only hanging about in New York and Boston, babe. You'd fry up to nothin' down South."

"Alfred, do your work, please. We need to get this bomber fixed if it's going on the raid to Berlin tomorrow night."

"What, you can't talk and work?"

"You're the one who can't do both," Arthur replied coolly. "Button it."

(Or unbutton it. Which was tempting. The button of the shorts was right there, less than a foot away. He could undo it and pull down the zip, just to be annoying. The shorts wouldn't go anywhere, the belt would still be holding them up, but it would make Arthur yell indignantly, probably kick at him... Oh, wait, yeah, he was on ladder, wasn't he? He might lose his balance and fall. Alfred didn't want that, to be responsible for causing Arthur some kind of massive traumatic injury because he'd also caused him to overreact ridiculously the way he always did. Scratch that. There was other fun to be had with these shorts...)

"Alfred, I don't hear any fixing going on down there," Arthur said warningly from above him. He went up another step on the ladder, his ankles level with Alfred's shoulders.

Alfred banged his spanner against a pipe a few times, scraping it to and fro for good measure; then leaned back, one hand holding onto the bodywork of the plane as he swung and angled himself, tipping his head back so that his dogtags clinked and jingled at the back of his neck, swinging like a pendulum.

Arthur glared over his shoulder right down at him, meeting his gaze. He had a sort of Superman melting-steel-thing going on in his green eyes.

"Are you looking up my shorts?" he asked icily.

"Tryin' to," Alfred corrected. "It's kinda hard to get a good look."

"Why, pray tell, are you trying to get a good look?" Arthur snapped.

"'Cause I reckon you're wearing lacy panties under 'em."

"Alfred, I am going slam my foot right into your face if you don't do your work and leave me alone."

Alfred stuck his tongue out at him but nonetheless swung away and upright again; in the placement they'd been in, Arthur would actually have been in a very good position to plant both heels right into Alfred's eyesockets. Which was, understandably, something that he could live without.

There was a moment's silence between them, during which Alfred adjusted a few nuts and bolts and started to loosen up a damaged valve to replace it; he could hear Arthur working on something overhead, humming a Vera Lynn song to himself, and thought curiously that Arthur hadn't actually denied the accusation that he was wearing lacy panties under those shorts. Incidentally, Alfred had to admit that he'd never seen Arthur wear ladies' underwear before and didn't really expect it from him anyway – but then the same could be said of those damn shorts.

His hand slipped and the spanner went spinning out of his grasp, clattering to the concrete floor several feet below. Alfred didn't even bother looking for it; instead his gaze settled on the culprit for his loss of (laughable in the first place) concentration.

It was official. Those shorts were a major distraction. Their mere presence (on Arthur's ass) was affecting his ability to work.

They would just have to be dealt with.

Alfred hopped onto the ladder and scampered up it before Arthur could react to the sudden shaking; he planted both hands on the seat of those shorts (that vile khaki temptress!) and shoved, sending Arthur toppling head-first into the open cockpit with a strangled string of curse words. He flailed, still screeching that he'd make Alfred rue the day he was born, as Alfred skirted past his bare kicking legs and clambered into the cockpit himself. He righted Arthur, holding him at bay with a laugh as the fuming Brit tried to rip his throat out with his bare hands.

"Hey, hey, settle down, babe," he said warmly, wrestling him easily into submission. "I just want a better look at these shorts of yours."

"A better...?" Arthur tried to shove him off, with little success; he was pinned rather snugly between Alfred and the aircraft's control panel. "Alfred Jones, we have work to do! It's extremely important that we ensure that this aircraft is in working order before the raid tomorrow night!"

"I know," Alfred replied easily, "and we'll get it done, no worries. It's just that I'm kinda distracted right now." He paused, assessing Arthur's half-irate, half-blank expression. "By your shorts," he added (for clarity, of course).

Arthur exhaled deeply through his nose, looking away in disgust.

"You're ridiculous," he said coldly. "As if we have time for this. There's a war on and all you can do is be childish."

"Not childish!" Alfred pouted. He toyed with Arthur's belt. "...They look good on you."

Arthur folded his arms across his chest very rigidly, refusing to meet Alfred's gaze.

"Flattery isn't going to get you anywhere," he said crossly.

Alfred grinned.

"Perhaps not," he conceded, dipping down and pressing a sweet little kiss to Arthur's flushed cheek. "But the truth might."

"Not bloody likely," Arthur muttered, but he shifted under Alfred, squirming a bit.

Alfred noticed it, that tiny wriggle, and seized it about the throat with a confident, dazzling grin.

"You say you're wearing those shorts because you're hot," he said, lowering his voice, injecting into it a little huskiness, a touch of neediness, a spritz of sexual wanting. "I say you're hot because you're wearing them."

Arthur merely shot him an exasperated look that plainly said "Really now?"; Alfred's smile quirked deeper, higher, as he leaned in again, pressing his delighted and devious mouth against Arthur's dour one. He gently brought his hand beneath the curve of Arthur's neck, supporting the back of his head, as his other lingered still and defiantly about the tiny expanse of those shorts. He played with the belt again for a moment before sliding across, hooking his fingers beneath the canvas belt-loops one by one, giving each a little tug. Arthur's arms went around his neck and he pressed the kiss deeper, firmer, opening his mouth more at Arthur's silent demand; they sank a bit when Arthur opened his legs wider to fully accommodate Alfred's weight between them and Alfred had to lift his own hips and keep them there if he wanted to further explore the shorts with his hand. Button, check; heavy metal, identical in feeling to those on their uniform jackets. Zip, check; robust, army duty, could probably keep out a tank. The seams were double-stitched and the pockets were deep (and empty). Ah, and here—

Arthur jumped, twisting away to pant at Alfred's neck for a moment, the colour rising sharply in his pale face.

"Sensitive there, huh?" Alfred smirked. "Must be all that fresh air you're getting."

"Don't be r-ridiculous," Arthur said breathlessly, still sounding much too cross for Alfred's liking. "Of course... I'm going t-to react like that... if you insist on manhandling—ah!"

"Yeah," Alfred agreed cheerfully, pressing his palm against Arthur's crotch and rubbing a few times, feeling the rough material of the shorts chafe against his hand and heat up with the friction. Arthur's bare knees knocked against him as he arched and shuddered, jostling Alfred's ribcage in that way he had come to recognise as a sign he was doing a good job.

"I really, really like these shorts, Artie," he went on conversationally. Both hands went to the garment in question now, spreading first on Arthur's thighs before sliding upwards, letting his fingers catch and tangle in the folded hems, dipping beneath them until his fingertips almost touched his pelvic bone. They traced his underwear and Alfred noted that they at least didn't feel lacy. "I think you should wear them more often."

"Why would I do that?" Arthur asked cynically, propping himself up. "They obviously distract you."

"Who said that?" Alfred chirped, at last going to the belt and deftly unbuckling it.

"You did!" Arthur replied incredulously.

Alfred laughed.

"So I did," he hummed. "Well, nothing for it but to let me get it outta my system, huh?"

Arthur huffed at him.

"Well, you're obviously not going to leave me in peace until you do."

"Oh, blessed martyr Saint Arthur," Alfred mocked. "How good of you to suffer so that I don't have to."

He popped the button with some difficulty; it was stiff because it was new and it hurt his fingers to undo it, which Arthur smirked at. The zip came down easily, though, and Alfred parted the shorts, tugging them down an inch or two to give himself more room to work. Not too far, though; he wanted them on, or as close to on as possible.

"No, really," Alfred went on flatly, making short, rough, uninterested work of his underwear (they weren't panties, lacy or otherwise – they were, conversely, rather boring white military-issue undershorts). "It is good of you to suffer through this for my sake, Arthur. You're such a kind, thoughtful, giving person. The world is a better place for your presence."

Arthur looked at the ceiling of the hangar, frowning irritably.

"You don't have to be a git about it, you know," he said frostily. "It's not as if you're doing me a massive favour."

Alfred exhaled, repositioning himself, and grinned again.

"We'll see if you're still saying that in a minute, huh?"

Arthur's eyebrows knitted together as he scowled down at Alfred.

"I will still be saying that," he said sharply, "because you're the one who can't concen—"

Ah, blessed silence; and the best kind, too (the 'I-have-you-over-one-hell-of-a-barrel' variety, common to the shutus upus family). Arthur didn't finish his snide little remark, interrupting himself with something floundering halfway between a gasp and a grunt, maybe something of a groan thrown in there too, and flopped bonelessly against the bomber's control panel as Alfred went down on him. Aggressive from the offset, taking all of him, Alfred felt the pulse of him against his tongue, the frantic pounding of blood, exhilarated and fearful all at once. He closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling through his nose, getting comfortable with the rhythm, the white noise of how Arthur's body quivered taut and lethal like a bowstring under his mouth. Arthur braced his feet – in ankle-length combat boots, new and greased leather – against the back of the pilot seat, trying to keep his balance as best he could in their awkward position. Alfred (ever so helpfully) held him about his thighs, arms looped under them to support him as they swayed, both of them, Arthur's hips yielding to both jaw and whims; Alfred's hands, still grimy with engine oil, smeared dark streaks, guilty fingerprints, on Arthur's thighs as they slid lower, inching towards the shorts. He grasped a fistful of turned-up hem, one in each hand, as Arthur gasped his name (breathless as he tipped his head back and the leather flight cap, goggles and all, slid off to free his wild, static hair – and speaking of hair, his hands were in Alfred's, tight fingerfuls of gold).

Teeth (be gentle). Tongue (be bold). Breath (be teasing). Alfred looked up briefly, lips still closed about the head, pausing for breath, for assessment; over his glasses, smeared as they were, it was difficult to pick out every detail of Arthur's face but he was close enough (and Arthur close enough) for him to see that his jade eyes had fluttered shut, just the feathery jut of his eyelashes bruising darkly on his pinking cheeks, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. He looked young, suddenly – or younger than he usually did – and he shuddered at the slightest movement of Alfred's skull, gasping shallowly.

Remember to breathe, baby. Can't have you passing out.

Alfred breathed, of course, calm and calculated about it; he swallowed around him, the muscles of his throat wrapping about him, and felt him tense up, felt the arch go into his hips and the small of his back as he pushed himself off the control panel with all the strength he had left. The thick rubber soles of those new boots squealed mercilessly against the leather seat as his feet slipped with the motion and he practically collapsed in Alfred's arms, a small but sensational implosion, as he climaxed. Alfred swallowed his spend and pulled back, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand as Arthur admitted total defeat and lay gasping like a landed fish against the Lancaster's controls. His eyes were still closed and stayed that way even when Alfred leaned up again and kissed him on his sweaty forehead.

"Still... distracted?" Arthur asked, barely audible over his own heavy breathing.

"Hell yeah I am," Alfred replied; he reached down and took the shorts by the belt-loops again, wriggling them down over Arthur's hips. Shimmy, shimmy, shimmy, right down to his knees. "After that," he went on, whispering in Arthur's ear, "I think this is the least you can do, right?"

"I suppose so," Arthur sighed. He lifted his legs, allowing Alfred to get him out of the offending lower-half garment completely. "Oh, but you do have a short attention span, my dear."

He opened his green eyes, smiling—

To find Alfred grinning over him, holding the shorts aloft.

"I dunno," Alfred teased. "I'm pretty good at getting what I want, babe."

And with that, he launched himself over the side of the cockpit, scrambled back down the ladder and ran away with his prize. He had sprinted quite a way across the hangar by the time Arthur realised that he had been robbed of the one thing standing between him and being forced to run around in just his underwear and started screeching shrilly after him to get back here with those this instant or he would string Alfred up with his own innards (to which Alfred's response was another long and ridiculous laugh which he thoroughly enjoyed as he made his getaway – the icing on the cake, so to speak).

Move over, Miss Hayworth; eat your heart out, Miss Perfect-Pins Grable.

These babies were going on his locker.

AND NOBODY ASKED ANY QUESTIONS. XD

The plane mentioned in this is an Avro Lancaster, more commonly known as a Lancaster bomber. They first saw action in WWII in 1942 as part of Royal Air Force squadrons; they were more formidable than the smaller, faster one-seater RAF planes such as the Spitfire and Hurricane.

Betty Grable was the iconic pin-up girl of the war – her legs were considered to be the best in the business and were apparently insured! o.O Her famous bathing-suit pin-up was extremely popular with all Allied soldiers, not just American GIs.

Haku, you get your shorts and I get my 1940s. Everyone's happy! =)

Thank you for reading!

RR xXx

P.S: I figured I'd save this for a post-script since I've already pimped it in the ANs of another fic, but Hakuku and I are working on a doujin, if you're interested in reading it! I wrote the script and Haku is currently slaving over my copious word-vomit providing the beautiful artwork. It's a USUK AU, set in modern day, with fashion designer!Arthur and model!Alfred. It's called Rockets and you can find a link to Haku's accompanying tumblr, 'Rockets Find Planets', on my profile. The blog contains supplementary information and artwork by Haku in addition to links to the first two completed chapters of the doujin. =)