[Fanfiction] An International Affair 2b/?
Second part of Chapter Two:
Clarence House, London
6:55 PM
Feliks and Elizabeta had really outdone themselves.
The small room in a rarely-used wing of the House had been done up tastefully with a blend of artificial and candle light, with enough of the latter to lend the rigid crispness of the white tablecloth an inviting softness. Apart from the single attendant who stood unobtrusively against the wall with orders to serve dinner and then depart, leaving the two to their own devices, the atmosphere of the room was casual. It was a welcome surprise.
Still. Arthur tugged at his shirt, scowling slightly at the unfamiliar tight pull of cloth against his skin. Why those two had gotten the idea to dress him in this ensemble of - he attempted to pull his shirt down further - a flash of skin, gritted teeth. It was practically indecent -
A knock.
He fumbled with the knob, feeling a blush rise (though why Peter never inherited these bloody genes he would never know), and yanked it open.
Alfred stood in the doorway. Hands in his pockets, Arthur distantly noted, Americans were always so atrocious with their manners…the taller man still had jeans on, but they hugged his rather well-defined legs far more closely than before - of course! During the fight, how otherwise could he move those - never mind - a loose, buttoned white collar shirt with a black jacket over it…hair smoothed down, though that lock of hair still defied gravity -
“Like what you see?”
“Wha - ” A hand clutched Arthur’s shoulder before he could make more of an ass out of himself.
“Excuse me, Mr. Jones,” the Russian smiled, gently tightening his grip, “but I need to speak with His Highness for a moment.”
Alfred blinked.
“It shouldn’t be too long. I apologize for interrupting you - ”
The American waved away his words, “Don’t worry!” He plopped himself into one of the chairs, grinning, “I’ll just wait here!” He winked at Arthur.
Arthur turned towards his bodyguard, who closed the door behind them, “Ivan, what is this - ”
Who was suddenly barely a foot away from his face.
“Arthur should be careful, daa?”
“Wha-what do you mean?” Oh gods, he was twisting that pipe -
“Mr. Jones…is very strong, yes?”
“Ivan, he’s hardly going to,” Arthur fumbled for words, hands weaving through each other.
He glanced up; Ivan stared at him, eyes open with some unreadable emotion - “Ivan?” - they snapped shut into their customary half-circles.
A hand rested on Arthur’s shoulder, “Daa, I’ll be just down that hallway just in case~”
The large man strode down the corridor, humming an old Russian lullaby softly to himself. Arthur stared after him for a full minute before shaking himself; he had a guest to tend to. As he strode towards the door, the Russian’s words trickled through his mind - yes, Alfred was strong, and Arthur readily admitted that the odds of fighting him off were rather slim, but really, what kind of man who sang “Kung Fu Fighting” while punching out a street gang (off-key, no less!) - his lips twitched - would ever -
“-orrying, Mattie!”
His hand stopped a few centimeters from the handle. The voice continued, exasperated, “Come on! He’s not going to do anything to me, you kn-”
“…yes. Yes, I know.” A sigh. “I’ll try to - I’ll be back by ten. I know, I know, yes - ”
Alfred flashed a beaming smile at Arthur as the door clicked open, shoving a mobile phone into his back pocket. Arthur took his seat. The server had already placed two steaming plates of roast lamb in front of them. Good service, he noted, he would have to commend them for that. A small noise, Arthur looked up - oh yes - they had better -
Arthur said Grace. As they dug into the meal, Alfred mumbled, “oo ow ee eneezmenna?”
“I beg your pardon?”
He swallowed. “How is Elizabeta? Your cousin?”
“Quite well,” his knife sliced cleanly through the meat, “Why do you inquire, if may I ask?”
“She gave me this.”
A crinkling noise. Arthur looked up to see Alfred pulling a small plastic bag out of his coat pocket, which contained a tube of something and a few packets that…resembled a -
Arthur snatched the condoms from a silently shaking Alfred, two reddish splotches reappearing in his cheeks, and wished fervently for two things: (1) that the ground would swallow him up, and (2) that Elizabeta hadn’t installed hidden cameras somewhere in the room (dammit, he should have checked!).
The table stopped rattling. “Guess she thought that we should be prepared for anything, huh?” That was one way to put it - with the variety of…things in there -
“I apologize for my cousin’s behavior. It was crude and - ”
“Nah,” the American grinned, taking a swig of wine from his glass, “Don’t worry!”
“Still…” Dinner was utterly ruined. He would just have to take solace in returning to those plans with Peter and the nearest rubbish bin again -
Arthur jerked slightly in his seat as a hand reached out to pat his fingers. “She’s just worried, you know!” Alfred continued, smiling softly at him.
“And a fine way to show it - ”
“Mattie does that too.”
Arthur snapped his mouth shut. The American continued, eyes closing slightly, smile growing smaller and wistful, “Just last week, when I was in a bad mood, he served me pancakes for lunch. You know, with maple syrup drizzled all over it? I mean - for lunch? No hamburgers around, with him being all not-American and shi- stuff.” He tightened his grip as Arthur tried to withdraw his hand. “But he’s still a great guy. Has to be, ya know, being my bro and all!”
Suddenly tipping his chair back, Alfred reached over to take Arthur’s other hand, stepping backwards, his eyes and face bright with a smile - “Come on, let’s go look at the stars!”
They ended up two rooms away, sitting near a large patio window - close enough to have a good look out the glass but far enough away so any stray paparazzi couldn’t spot them (getting the attention-drawing American into the House had been a difficult job to say the least; spoiling it now would be rather a waste).
Alfred settled an arm around Arthur. “This might sound kinda weird, but when I was younger, I wanted to be an astronaut.”
Arthur could imagine that - Alfred giving the world a jaunty wave from the moon through the telly - “Why didn’t you?”
He laughed. It was comfortable, and Arthur felt himself leaning closer towards his warmth. “I mean, I could still try out, but where I’m now is just fine, and I’d never had time to travel the ‘round globe before, anyways!”
“What do you do now?”
“I’m a business representative.” He gestured meaninglessly with his free arm. “My boss tells me where I need to meet a client to talk about our next project, and, well...” Shrugging, he twisted around to look at the figure huddled against him. “How about you? If you weren’t a prince, what would you be doing out there? You know, I always pegged you for one of those soccer players, maybe - ”
“A writer.”
Arthur waited for Alfred to interrupt, but the American was quiet. The Briton glanced up to see the taller man gazing back at him patiently (his formidable eyebrows rose - Alfred’s lips twitched up a little at that, but Arthur ignored the movement - he had thought that the loud man would be incapable of doing such). He looked away. Took a slow, deep breath - never had said this out-loud before, not even to his grandmother - he was the prince and duty always came first -
“I wanted to be a writer. I’ve always enjoyed penning whatever stories came into my mind.” It was exhaustive but satisfying, letting out his emotions like that…
“Why don’t you?”
Arthur roused himself from his stupor. “What?”
“I said, why don’t - ”
“I heard you, but politics, and my job.” It would never be possible. Another pipe dream. Books were always controversial, and his life was nothing but for the public.
“How about using a disguise? Like a pseudo - you know, those fake names?”
“Pseudonyms.”
“Yeah, that. I mean, you could totally - ” Arthur had never actually considered anything beyond “no, it couldn’t be that way”…Glancing back at his companion, who was digging in his back pocket - his phone? Arthur flushed; to think he could become so tightly wound up by a stranger who turned out to be Alfred’s own brother -
“Here!” A hard, metallic object roughly the size of his palm - no, not a phone - a watch? Yes - a pocket-watch, with an old and respectable appearance, rather unlike its owner…
Alfred snapped it open, leaning over to show it to Arthur. It had been lovingly cared for, polished, and was ticking solemnly away. The British man squinted. What were those words…no - numbers.
12/9
A date. But why…?
“It’s a promise I made to myself.” Arthur glanced at the American, who was looking directly back at him, “I made it when I was ten - back when my parents divorced.” Courtesy, courtesy - Alfred’s blue, blue gaze halted any offering of sympathies. “To my brother, before we were taken in by different foster families, that even with me in America and him way off in that area up north, that we would each carry out our dreams. No matter what.” He carefully closed Arthur’s fingers around it. “For you.”
“I couldn’t possibly accept - ”
“Think of it as a loan, then. You can give it back once you’ve published your first book.”
“I - Thank you.” Arthur gently closed its lid. Towards his left, the clock mounted on the wall struck ten.
Alfred shook himself, smile appearing back on his face. “Ten already? I hafta…”
“Yes,” Arthur fumbled with his hands, rising from the ground along with his companion, “It is rather late. I’ll call Ivan to help you with…” He winced, reminded of the procedures Alfred had to take to get out of the House. Maybe - if he still wanted to - they might go somewhere less aggravating next time...
“I forgot something.”
“Hmm?” Oh, yes - Alfred’s coat was still hanging in the room where they had dinner - he’d go get it, with it being just a few rooms away. He turned to step around the American, but the taller man tugged him nearer - “What are you do-”
Soft pressure on his mouth.
Alfred released him (he must have imagined the fleeting gentle expression because the blinding grin the American was currently sporting wiped anything else off his brain), “My goodnight kiss, of course!”
Ah.
A low, polite, “Natalia would be more than eager to accompany you back to your hotel, Mr. Jones.” - “Nah, it’s okay! The taxi’s fine, and it’s not too far from the place where I got dropped off earlier” - a hand reaching out to take the proffered coat, turning back for - “See you later, Arthur!” - the door shut.
Arthur touched his lips.
--------------------------------------------------END NOTES--------------------------------------------------
*Clarence House is a royal residence of the British monarchy located in London. It is the official working residence of the current Prince of Wales. The ground floor is open to tourism during the summer.
**Balmoral Castle is a British royal residence in Scotland. It is usually occupied during the summer months of August and September, and is the private residence of the Queen.
(1) Sonata No. 15 “Pastoral” by Ludwig van Beethoven, 1st Movement - Allegro; written at a time when Beethoven was starting to go through angst for his deafness but the piece itself is known for its quiet tranquility
(2) Sonata No. 8 in c minor “Sonata Pathetique” by Ludwig van Beethoven, 1st Movement; known (as the title suggests) for its sad tone
[And yes, I do watch too much FMA.]
Clarence House, London
6:55 PM
Feliks and Elizabeta had really outdone themselves.
The small room in a rarely-used wing of the House had been done up tastefully with a blend of artificial and candle light, with enough of the latter to lend the rigid crispness of the white tablecloth an inviting softness. Apart from the single attendant who stood unobtrusively against the wall with orders to serve dinner and then depart, leaving the two to their own devices, the atmosphere of the room was casual. It was a welcome surprise.
Still. Arthur tugged at his shirt, scowling slightly at the unfamiliar tight pull of cloth against his skin. Why those two had gotten the idea to dress him in this ensemble of - he attempted to pull his shirt down further - a flash of skin, gritted teeth. It was practically indecent -
A knock.
He fumbled with the knob, feeling a blush rise (though why Peter never inherited these bloody genes he would never know), and yanked it open.
Alfred stood in the doorway. Hands in his pockets, Arthur distantly noted, Americans were always so atrocious with their manners…the taller man still had jeans on, but they hugged his rather well-defined legs far more closely than before - of course! During the fight, how otherwise could he move those - never mind - a loose, buttoned white collar shirt with a black jacket over it…hair smoothed down, though that lock of hair still defied gravity -
“Like what you see?”
“Wha - ” A hand clutched Arthur’s shoulder before he could make more of an ass out of himself.
“Excuse me, Mr. Jones,” the Russian smiled, gently tightening his grip, “but I need to speak with His Highness for a moment.”
Alfred blinked.
“It shouldn’t be too long. I apologize for interrupting you - ”
The American waved away his words, “Don’t worry!” He plopped himself into one of the chairs, grinning, “I’ll just wait here!” He winked at Arthur.
Arthur turned towards his bodyguard, who closed the door behind them, “Ivan, what is this - ”
Who was suddenly barely a foot away from his face.
“Arthur should be careful, daa?”
“Wha-what do you mean?” Oh gods, he was twisting that pipe -
“Mr. Jones…is very strong, yes?”
“Ivan, he’s hardly going to,” Arthur fumbled for words, hands weaving through each other.
He glanced up; Ivan stared at him, eyes open with some unreadable emotion - “Ivan?” - they snapped shut into their customary half-circles.
A hand rested on Arthur’s shoulder, “Daa, I’ll be just down that hallway just in case~”
The large man strode down the corridor, humming an old Russian lullaby softly to himself. Arthur stared after him for a full minute before shaking himself; he had a guest to tend to. As he strode towards the door, the Russian’s words trickled through his mind - yes, Alfred was strong, and Arthur readily admitted that the odds of fighting him off were rather slim, but really, what kind of man who sang “Kung Fu Fighting” while punching out a street gang (off-key, no less!) - his lips twitched - would ever -
“-orrying, Mattie!”
His hand stopped a few centimeters from the handle. The voice continued, exasperated, “Come on! He’s not going to do anything to me, you kn-”
“…yes. Yes, I know.” A sigh. “I’ll try to - I’ll be back by ten. I know, I know, yes - ”
Alfred flashed a beaming smile at Arthur as the door clicked open, shoving a mobile phone into his back pocket. Arthur took his seat. The server had already placed two steaming plates of roast lamb in front of them. Good service, he noted, he would have to commend them for that. A small noise, Arthur looked up - oh yes - they had better -
Arthur said Grace. As they dug into the meal, Alfred mumbled, “oo ow ee eneezmenna?”
“I beg your pardon?”
He swallowed. “How is Elizabeta? Your cousin?”
“Quite well,” his knife sliced cleanly through the meat, “Why do you inquire, if may I ask?”
“She gave me this.”
A crinkling noise. Arthur looked up to see Alfred pulling a small plastic bag out of his coat pocket, which contained a tube of something and a few packets that…resembled a -
Arthur snatched the condoms from a silently shaking Alfred, two reddish splotches reappearing in his cheeks, and wished fervently for two things: (1) that the ground would swallow him up, and (2) that Elizabeta hadn’t installed hidden cameras somewhere in the room (dammit, he should have checked!).
The table stopped rattling. “Guess she thought that we should be prepared for anything, huh?” That was one way to put it - with the variety of…things in there -
“I apologize for my cousin’s behavior. It was crude and - ”
“Nah,” the American grinned, taking a swig of wine from his glass, “Don’t worry!”
“Still…” Dinner was utterly ruined. He would just have to take solace in returning to those plans with Peter and the nearest rubbish bin again -
Arthur jerked slightly in his seat as a hand reached out to pat his fingers. “She’s just worried, you know!” Alfred continued, smiling softly at him.
“And a fine way to show it - ”
“Mattie does that too.”
Arthur snapped his mouth shut. The American continued, eyes closing slightly, smile growing smaller and wistful, “Just last week, when I was in a bad mood, he served me pancakes for lunch. You know, with maple syrup drizzled all over it? I mean - for lunch? No hamburgers around, with him being all not-American and shi- stuff.” He tightened his grip as Arthur tried to withdraw his hand. “But he’s still a great guy. Has to be, ya know, being my bro and all!”
Suddenly tipping his chair back, Alfred reached over to take Arthur’s other hand, stepping backwards, his eyes and face bright with a smile - “Come on, let’s go look at the stars!”
They ended up two rooms away, sitting near a large patio window - close enough to have a good look out the glass but far enough away so any stray paparazzi couldn’t spot them (getting the attention-drawing American into the House had been a difficult job to say the least; spoiling it now would be rather a waste).
Alfred settled an arm around Arthur. “This might sound kinda weird, but when I was younger, I wanted to be an astronaut.”
Arthur could imagine that - Alfred giving the world a jaunty wave from the moon through the telly - “Why didn’t you?”
He laughed. It was comfortable, and Arthur felt himself leaning closer towards his warmth. “I mean, I could still try out, but where I’m now is just fine, and I’d never had time to travel the ‘round globe before, anyways!”
“What do you do now?”
“I’m a business representative.” He gestured meaninglessly with his free arm. “My boss tells me where I need to meet a client to talk about our next project, and, well...” Shrugging, he twisted around to look at the figure huddled against him. “How about you? If you weren’t a prince, what would you be doing out there? You know, I always pegged you for one of those soccer players, maybe - ”
“A writer.”
Arthur waited for Alfred to interrupt, but the American was quiet. The Briton glanced up to see the taller man gazing back at him patiently (his formidable eyebrows rose - Alfred’s lips twitched up a little at that, but Arthur ignored the movement - he had thought that the loud man would be incapable of doing such). He looked away. Took a slow, deep breath - never had said this out-loud before, not even to his grandmother - he was the prince and duty always came first -
“I wanted to be a writer. I’ve always enjoyed penning whatever stories came into my mind.” It was exhaustive but satisfying, letting out his emotions like that…
“Why don’t you?”
Arthur roused himself from his stupor. “What?”
“I said, why don’t - ”
“I heard you, but politics, and my job.” It would never be possible. Another pipe dream. Books were always controversial, and his life was nothing but for the public.
“How about using a disguise? Like a pseudo - you know, those fake names?”
“Pseudonyms.”
“Yeah, that. I mean, you could totally - ” Arthur had never actually considered anything beyond “no, it couldn’t be that way”…Glancing back at his companion, who was digging in his back pocket - his phone? Arthur flushed; to think he could become so tightly wound up by a stranger who turned out to be Alfred’s own brother -
“Here!” A hard, metallic object roughly the size of his palm - no, not a phone - a watch? Yes - a pocket-watch, with an old and respectable appearance, rather unlike its owner…
Alfred snapped it open, leaning over to show it to Arthur. It had been lovingly cared for, polished, and was ticking solemnly away. The British man squinted. What were those words…no - numbers.
12/9
A date. But why…?
“It’s a promise I made to myself.” Arthur glanced at the American, who was looking directly back at him, “I made it when I was ten - back when my parents divorced.” Courtesy, courtesy - Alfred’s blue, blue gaze halted any offering of sympathies. “To my brother, before we were taken in by different foster families, that even with me in America and him way off in that area up north, that we would each carry out our dreams. No matter what.” He carefully closed Arthur’s fingers around it. “For you.”
“I couldn’t possibly accept - ”
“Think of it as a loan, then. You can give it back once you’ve published your first book.”
“I - Thank you.” Arthur gently closed its lid. Towards his left, the clock mounted on the wall struck ten.
Alfred shook himself, smile appearing back on his face. “Ten already? I hafta…”
“Yes,” Arthur fumbled with his hands, rising from the ground along with his companion, “It is rather late. I’ll call Ivan to help you with…” He winced, reminded of the procedures Alfred had to take to get out of the House. Maybe - if he still wanted to - they might go somewhere less aggravating next time...
“I forgot something.”
“Hmm?” Oh, yes - Alfred’s coat was still hanging in the room where they had dinner - he’d go get it, with it being just a few rooms away. He turned to step around the American, but the taller man tugged him nearer - “What are you do-”
Soft pressure on his mouth.
Alfred released him (he must have imagined the fleeting gentle expression because the blinding grin the American was currently sporting wiped anything else off his brain), “My goodnight kiss, of course!”
Ah.
A low, polite, “Natalia would be more than eager to accompany you back to your hotel, Mr. Jones.” - “Nah, it’s okay! The taxi’s fine, and it’s not too far from the place where I got dropped off earlier” - a hand reaching out to take the proffered coat, turning back for - “See you later, Arthur!” - the door shut.
Arthur touched his lips.
--------------------------------------------------END NOTES--------------------------------------------------
*Clarence House is a royal residence of the British monarchy located in London. It is the official working residence of the current Prince of Wales. The ground floor is open to tourism during the summer.
**Balmoral Castle is a British royal residence in Scotland. It is usually occupied during the summer months of August and September, and is the private residence of the Queen.
(1) Sonata No. 15 “Pastoral” by Ludwig van Beethoven, 1st Movement - Allegro; written at a time when Beethoven was starting to go through angst for his deafness but the piece itself is known for its quiet tranquility
(2) Sonata No. 8 in c minor “Sonata Pathetique” by Ludwig van Beethoven, 1st Movement; known (as the title suggests) for its sad tone
[And yes, I do watch too much FMA.]