week o28 - Gossip - Kings
Title: Kings
Rating: G
Characters: Arthur, Alfred...I'd say some Alfred/Arthur there, but then it is very, very faint. xD;
Summary: Tales of Kings and Wars, and Alfreds skepticism of Arthurs fables. However, sometimes, Alfred can go just a little too far. And when the damage is done and bleeding, the wound left is not easily fixed.
Words: 1159
Notes: Set very early 1950s/very late 1940s, post war, thus Arthur lives in a newly built Apartment Complex. My only note is that when they determined the 'first' language of America, it was very nearly german, and if I remember correctly, it should have been, since there was a German majority? That, and the name King Arthur is pretty much all you need to know. There is a rough old TV/Radio reference, but apart from the Chassis radio in the 1940s, it is just an old TV.
I am surprisingly sort of happy with this one. It is complete. c: I need to write more of these two. xD
His eyes were glued to the screen, the flash of color painting his skin in the dark tones, intermitted with the flashes of silver from the funny, crouched little box. Not as big as his, of course; too rustic, more like an old chassis' radio with a pane of glass through it. However, for what it could have been, too Arthur it clearly was something else. Something out of this world. There was a glimmer in his eyes, until Alfred could almost swear that the muted, darkened green seemed to dance with them. Almost cute… the gleeful tweak of his all too serious lips, completely breaking the usually self-held image of strong propriety, the old man almost young again, turned into a child.
He laughed, he couldn’t help it, although his hand fisted into his mouth in an attempt to smother it, but it was too late; the hand that had clutched the pillow dropped immediately, shocked eyes focusing hastily on the form leaning casually against the doorframe, and the dark brows came down in rough anger.
“Alfred. You do know how to knock, don’t you? Or have you forgotten every lesson I’ve taught you?” Arthurs lips curled thinly around the words, eyes scanning the American in the vain hope of judging how long he had been standing there, for he would just stand there, wouldn’t he? The other mans lips twitched, Alfred, in all his subtlety, appearing to be hiding a smile, and he was hit by another wave of irritated embarrassment, jesus. “You’re here now, so bloody well get it over with. What do you want?”
“…you really do enjoy those fables about your formation, don’t you, Arthur?” Alfred titled himself off of the doorframe, rolling to his feet almost idly as blue stared on the edge of wistful at the spot beside Arthur on the sofa. “But you never want to listen to my stories about how I became independent.” His arm dropped down heavily on the back of the worn cushion, and Arthur made a point not it look at it, eyes narrowing, fingers pressing perhaps a little too hard at the buttons of the remote. “You aren’t fair, old man-“
Arthur reached his hand out, to stop the American from where he had leaned towards the cushion until he nearly blocked the screen of the TV, furious green focusing briefly on the blue before Arthur took a deep breath, and transferred his grip to the mans shoulders. The blue opened a little wide, startled as the American blinked, before falling into that sheepish half smile that he’d always had as a boy, and Arthur moved him to the side, taking a breath through his teeth. Arthur just needed to calm down, and the air whistled through his teeth, and he felt his eyes glancing around the room as he searched for an answer.
“…there is nothing similar between the legends of Arthur, and your… tales of blue coats. My tales actually involve some chivalry.”
Arthur turned away slightly from the American on his sofa, as the gaze regarded him quietly, almost contemplative, and as the silence continued, the blush rose again in Arthurs cheeks, as he couldn’t forget old grudges, could he? There was a short, abrupt laugh from behind him, before the heavy hand thumped onto his shoulder, and Arthur winced slightly, before the voice was in his ear- “you still aren’t caught up on all that, are you? That was years ago- no hard feelings now. Besides! If I hadn’t rebelled, Francis would have had me anyway, so you lost nothing!” Arthur blinked, and he had the urge to look back under that grip and meet the American under the guided pull of that hand, although that would have been stupid, and irresponsible, giving that boy any sort of power that way, as god knows what he could do with it- “Don’t worry so much! Besides, I already knew your secret years ago; Matthew told me, that Francis told him, that an old Italian guy with a beard had told him that you were obsessed with your tales about this guy! He said that you even took his name in lieu of the actual man! Can you believe that gossip? There is no way there is any lick of truth in there, Arthur-“
The American broke off, voice ending oddly on the last syllable somehow. Arthur... didn't know, and didn't care for the reason why. He'd stopped talking, that was always a good thing. His fingers flexed minutely against the corded veins of the sofa lining, and Arthur appreciated the texture; practical, and still with that element of comfort. As it should be.
"Ah... Ah, uh, Arthur... Wha-"
Arthur glanced up, meeting the weak smile of the American, the fuller lips as they down turned slightly, not a trait that had been inherited from him, of course not; nor the deep blue of the irises, speaking more of his germanic descent, Ludwig's influence, of course.
"...Arthur-"
"Ah, Alfred. I think it is time for you to go." The American blinked as Arthurs voice broke his, the American still hovering hesitantly, unsure of what he was seeing and what to do, were those tears on Arthurs face? Before Arthurs hand came to a rest on the handle of the door, and Alfred turned towards the open door, staring from the englishman to the hall, the black railing of the newly built apartment complex, or 'flats', glistening weakly under the gleam of the overhead lighting. The black was barely visible, the clouds and the ground overlayed with snow, and Alfred glanced back at Arthur again. The englishmans face was blank, and he wasn't even impatient?
The American took a step forward into the doorway, before turning around abruptly, one hand grabbing the older mans cheek firmly as he wiped at the glistening streaks with the other, staring incredulously at the tears on his palm before staring back at the Englishman, blue eyes widening with confused shock. "Arthur, what?!"
Arthur leaned back in one swift move, taking a step back into the house, into the warmth, fingers gripping the edge of the door. "Good bye, Alfred."
The door slammed shut, the ricocheting bang echoing into the frozen clouds, and Alfred was left staring at the chipped wood.
Rating: G
Characters: Arthur, Alfred...I'd say some Alfred/Arthur there, but then it is very, very faint. xD;
Summary: Tales of Kings and Wars, and Alfreds skepticism of Arthurs fables. However, sometimes, Alfred can go just a little too far. And when the damage is done and bleeding, the wound left is not easily fixed.
Words: 1159
Notes: Set very early 1950s/very late 1940s, post war, thus Arthur lives in a newly built Apartment Complex. My only note is that when they determined the 'first' language of America, it was very nearly german, and if I remember correctly, it should have been, since there was a German majority? That, and the name King Arthur is pretty much all you need to know. There is a rough old TV/Radio reference, but apart from the Chassis radio in the 1940s, it is just an old TV.
I am surprisingly sort of happy with this one. It is complete. c: I need to write more of these two. xD
His eyes were glued to the screen, the flash of color painting his skin in the dark tones, intermitted with the flashes of silver from the funny, crouched little box. Not as big as his, of course; too rustic, more like an old chassis' radio with a pane of glass through it. However, for what it could have been, too Arthur it clearly was something else. Something out of this world. There was a glimmer in his eyes, until Alfred could almost swear that the muted, darkened green seemed to dance with them. Almost cute… the gleeful tweak of his all too serious lips, completely breaking the usually self-held image of strong propriety, the old man almost young again, turned into a child.
He laughed, he couldn’t help it, although his hand fisted into his mouth in an attempt to smother it, but it was too late; the hand that had clutched the pillow dropped immediately, shocked eyes focusing hastily on the form leaning casually against the doorframe, and the dark brows came down in rough anger.
“Alfred. You do know how to knock, don’t you? Or have you forgotten every lesson I’ve taught you?” Arthurs lips curled thinly around the words, eyes scanning the American in the vain hope of judging how long he had been standing there, for he would just stand there, wouldn’t he? The other mans lips twitched, Alfred, in all his subtlety, appearing to be hiding a smile, and he was hit by another wave of irritated embarrassment, jesus. “You’re here now, so bloody well get it over with. What do you want?”
“…you really do enjoy those fables about your formation, don’t you, Arthur?” Alfred titled himself off of the doorframe, rolling to his feet almost idly as blue stared on the edge of wistful at the spot beside Arthur on the sofa. “But you never want to listen to my stories about how I became independent.” His arm dropped down heavily on the back of the worn cushion, and Arthur made a point not it look at it, eyes narrowing, fingers pressing perhaps a little too hard at the buttons of the remote. “You aren’t fair, old man-“
Arthur reached his hand out, to stop the American from where he had leaned towards the cushion until he nearly blocked the screen of the TV, furious green focusing briefly on the blue before Arthur took a deep breath, and transferred his grip to the mans shoulders. The blue opened a little wide, startled as the American blinked, before falling into that sheepish half smile that he’d always had as a boy, and Arthur moved him to the side, taking a breath through his teeth. Arthur just needed to calm down, and the air whistled through his teeth, and he felt his eyes glancing around the room as he searched for an answer.
“…there is nothing similar between the legends of Arthur, and your… tales of blue coats. My tales actually involve some chivalry.”
Arthur turned away slightly from the American on his sofa, as the gaze regarded him quietly, almost contemplative, and as the silence continued, the blush rose again in Arthurs cheeks, as he couldn’t forget old grudges, could he? There was a short, abrupt laugh from behind him, before the heavy hand thumped onto his shoulder, and Arthur winced slightly, before the voice was in his ear- “you still aren’t caught up on all that, are you? That was years ago- no hard feelings now. Besides! If I hadn’t rebelled, Francis would have had me anyway, so you lost nothing!” Arthur blinked, and he had the urge to look back under that grip and meet the American under the guided pull of that hand, although that would have been stupid, and irresponsible, giving that boy any sort of power that way, as god knows what he could do with it- “Don’t worry so much! Besides, I already knew your secret years ago; Matthew told me, that Francis told him, that an old Italian guy with a beard had told him that you were obsessed with your tales about this guy! He said that you even took his name in lieu of the actual man! Can you believe that gossip? There is no way there is any lick of truth in there, Arthur-“
The American broke off, voice ending oddly on the last syllable somehow. Arthur... didn't know, and didn't care for the reason why. He'd stopped talking, that was always a good thing. His fingers flexed minutely against the corded veins of the sofa lining, and Arthur appreciated the texture; practical, and still with that element of comfort. As it should be.
"Ah... Ah, uh, Arthur... Wha-"
Arthur glanced up, meeting the weak smile of the American, the fuller lips as they down turned slightly, not a trait that had been inherited from him, of course not; nor the deep blue of the irises, speaking more of his germanic descent, Ludwig's influence, of course.
"...Arthur-"
"Ah, Alfred. I think it is time for you to go." The American blinked as Arthurs voice broke his, the American still hovering hesitantly, unsure of what he was seeing and what to do, were those tears on Arthurs face? Before Arthurs hand came to a rest on the handle of the door, and Alfred turned towards the open door, staring from the englishman to the hall, the black railing of the newly built apartment complex, or 'flats', glistening weakly under the gleam of the overhead lighting. The black was barely visible, the clouds and the ground overlayed with snow, and Alfred glanced back at Arthur again. The englishmans face was blank, and he wasn't even impatient?
The American took a step forward into the doorway, before turning around abruptly, one hand grabbing the older mans cheek firmly as he wiped at the glistening streaks with the other, staring incredulously at the tears on his palm before staring back at the Englishman, blue eyes widening with confused shock. "Arthur, what?!"
Arthur leaned back in one swift move, taking a step back into the house, into the warmth, fingers gripping the edge of the door. "Good bye, Alfred."
The door slammed shut, the ricocheting bang echoing into the frozen clouds, and Alfred was left staring at the chipped wood.