Just as he expects, the first thing Alasdair does when he walks back into the bedroom is click his tongue and run his fingers through his damp hair, giving him a tug to draw him closer. He’s down to his boxers, the first few buttons of his shirt undone.
“You said to shower,” Arthur complains without heat.
“Aye, that I did.” Alasdair’s breath smells like mint, his stubble rough against the bare skin of Arthur’s cheek when he presses a lingering kiss on the corner of his mouth.
Arthur tilts his head when Alasdair tugs on his hair again, lenient under the familiar fractured brown of his eyes.
“Thank you,” he whispers for the second time in only so many hours. For the warmth, for his care. Their lips brush when Alasdair smiles and soften against each other until, easily, he guides them into a slow kiss, mouths parting with a quiet breath.
Arthur lets his eyes slip close and kisses him back, cradling Alasdair’s cheek and slipping a hand under his arm to feel the strength of his back. Hold him close enough to kiss again, soft but insistent when Alasdair tries to put some distance between them. Scotland lets him get away with it for a while longer, gripping his hip and circling his thumb under the waistband of his sweats to make him sigh. Taking advantage of it to suck on his bottom lip and deepen their kiss, taking more of Arthur’s weight when he leans into him reflexively.
“I thought you were tired,” he whispers, amused, finally breaking their kiss to buzz his lips against Arthur’s jaw and trail a line of wet kisses towards his throat.
He has to bow his head to do so and ends up wrapping an arm around Arthur’s waist to urge him a little higher, until Arthur is standing on the balls of his feet and they’re closer in height. Arthur tangles his hands in the thick tangle of Alasdair’s curls, trusting his arms to hold him steady.
A firm tug, and the tie holding his joggers up comes undone, callused fingers making quick work of the waistband, nudging it down his hips. The loose fabric slips easily down his legs and Arthur kicks them away without paying any mind as to where they end up.
(He’ll find them in the morning, curled under the bed next to Alasdair’s shirt. Will throw them into a hamper that is at most an armful of their clothes mixed together and two sets of sheets by the end of the week. The weather will turn, and he’ll have to hang them by the iron grid heater to dry before tucking Alasdair’s shirt underneath and out of sight when he folds the laundry, to keep. Will pretend that he doesn’t notice that a pair of his socks are missing from the drawer when he goes to put the rest of the laundry away. Won’t comment on them when he spots them under the hem of Alasdair’s trousers, letting him make off with the moss-green scarf he wraps around his neck when he sees him off. Only smile to himself and feel like a fool burying his nose in the neck of Alasdair’s awful brown jumper when he wears it on cold mornings well into Spring.)
I’ve never done this afair I don’t think but @rainbowfruitpastilles was very kind to tag me ♥️ ty!
—
“The trick’s in the soil.”
“Is it?” Alasdair asks, popping what’s left of the strawberry in his mouth. Arthur can’t tell whether he seriously wants to know or if he’s looking to badger him.
“The acidity,” England tells him anyway. “They like sunlight and rich soil, and careful pruning. Better to cut the stem than pick the berry from the vine, as some people,” he stresses, “are wont to do.”
Scotland hums, resting his chin against his temple. “Is that so?”
The broad hands that had been holding Arthur’s hips travel up to his waist, rucking up his untucked shirt.
“It is,” Arthur answers, unbothered.
Alasdair slips his fingers under his shirt, trailing a teasing path towards his front and pulling him closer; the breadth of his open hands covers most of his abdomen. “Mind you don’t use the same knife for the garlic as you do for the fruit, aye?”
“Piss off,” Arthur scoffs with a smile. “That was ages ago.”
“Ah, but the taste was really something,” Alasdair continues to rib, nudging Arthur’s neck with his nose until Arthur gives in and tilts his head. It gives Scotland more skin to buzz his lips against as he speaks. “Hard to forget.”
“Or forgive, apparently.” Arthur pauses his work and closes his eyes when Alasdair sucks away the sticky imprint of his lips. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Getting a taste of you,” Scotland answers frankly and moves from his neck to nip at his ear.
For @sea-fiddle something short and sweet — holding hands while walking home from the shops. (And if I get carded every time that I try to buy a painkiller well then, so does Arthur nation or not.)
-- -- --
The couch in the living room is a relic from the seventies. No, by far, the oldest piece of furniture they own, or even the finest. Fact is it is probably the single ugliest thing that has been dragged into this living room, save perhaps Sean on a good Thursday.
(He makes the comparison once, in front of him, and has the stool he is sitting on promptly kicked from underneath him. It’s still sitting out in the garden, missing a leg and waiting to be fitted with a new one. Scotland will find time for it this weekend. Or better yet, let Sean fix it.)
But despite it’s sagging cushions, despite the horrendous floral print and the hideous decorative pillows, it is without a doubt the best couch Alasdair has ever had the pleasure to sit on. He’s fond of the old thing too, and that means that he’s taken good care of it; found the perfect fabric match to patch it up over the years, re-stuffed it. Levelled it back up whenever it’s been broken in during a scrap. He has even come to love the pillows. Garish wee things with the corners torn to bits and restitched because Arthur lets the cat chew on them. Dai embroidered them while he was down with a bout of influenza in the thirties and they had finally found a home in the living room after the last time they cleaned the cellar.
It’s an odd arrangement that they have between them—have had, since they banded up, for convenience at first and now… They have an arrangement, and as a result the house is an amalgamation of their lives, mismatched furniture and all. Clothes, keepsakes, odds and ends. Most of it fair game. But they have unsaid rules and boundaries set out. To keep the peace.
One of them, and a very fair one, he thinks, is that once Alasdair’s settled down on the couch that’s that. He refuses to move, not for grief. If they’re watching a footie match and he’s sprawled on the couch, they can sit on the armrests, pull up a chair. Sit on the ground for all he cares. If Alasdair is feeling generous he might even shuffle over, on caveat. It is not like he minds sharing so much as it is just the principle of the thing.
Which brings them to now.
Alasdair looks up at Arthur from where he is comfortably lying on the couch with his feet propped up on the arm rest.
Arthur shifts his weight from one foot to the other under Alasdair’s impassive glare and repeats what he just said as though there was a chance that Alasdair could have misheard him. “I need you to come to the shop with me.”
“Aye,” he answers slowly, after letting the words hang in the air for a moment. “I heard you fine the first time.”
“Alright then, come on.”
Arthur’s coat is buttoned up from when he walked through the door not five minutes ago. “Didn’t you just come back from the shop?”
England rolls his eyes. “Just throw on a coat.”
Alasdair crosses his arm over the hideous cushion resting on his chest.
“Please.”
Scotland refuses to budge. “There are not enough words to express how much I cannae be arsed to go to the shop, moppy.”
Wales chooses that moment to pop his head into the room. “Is Arthur back?” He smiles when he spots him. “How’s your head, mush?”
Arthur cringes a little. “Better now, ta.”
Dai grimaces in sympathy. “Tea?”
“Yes please, love.” Arthur turns back to Alasdair when Dai disappears down the hall again.
“No.” Alasdair interrupts him before he can ask again.
“Alasdair.”
“No.” He sinks stubbornly deeper into the couch, bending his knees. “Take Dai.”
“Dai is busy. And I’m asking you.” Arthur is starting to sound a little exasperated. “Get up.”
“Who’s getting up?” Sean comes padding in, bare footed and with a sleeve of paracetamol in his hand. “Catch.” He tosses it to Arthur, who grabs it out of the air. “Mind, I think they’ve gone off.”
Arthur turns the packet in his hand to look at it closer under the light and groans, tossing them down on a side table. “Thanks anyway.” The furrow of his brow seems tighter than a minute ago when he glares down at Alasdair. “You know what? Fine. You'll do,” he says to Sean. “Put on your shoes.”
“What for?”
“Going to the shop.” Arthur says, pinching the bridge of his nose and turning to head for the door without waiting for an answer. Ireland shrugs, patting his pockets to check he has his wallet on him before stepping up to follow.
Alasdair groans to himself.
“Wait,” he calls out, bidding a silent, mournful goodbye to his spot on the couch. “Arthur, wait. I’ll go.”
Sean makes a dive for the couch the moment he heaves himself up. “Bring me something back!”
Alasdair at least has the satisfaction of slamming the pillow he was holding on his face before he goes.
-
Alasdair swipes a basket by the door and passes it to Arthur, expecting they’ll end up grabbing a few things on top drinks and whatever’s on the short, cramped list Dai wrote earlier. The first thing Arthur grabs is a packet of painkillers.
They look a right pair, with Arthur in his handsome peacoat and Alasdair in his joggers, Sean’s slippers, and a leather jacket he’s owned since 1983.
While Arthur is busy going on a purposeful track to get milk-eggs-flour-butter, Alasdair wanders about a little aimlessly. Amuses himself by sneaking things into the basket to see when Arthur will notice. A packet of strawberry laces is easy to slip in, light and thin. Chocolate buttons for Sean. He shoots in a cream egg from across the aisle while Arthur is bent over to grab a can of something-or-another and thinks he’s been had for a moment before Arthur just adjusts the handle on his arm and keeps walking.
What gets him caught is the packet of crisps that hits the back of Arthur’s shoulder instead of the basket.
Arthur looks back, startled, and puts it together with a look down at the basket. He shakes his head with a snort and steps into the next aisle before Alasdair can toss another.
He’s glad to see Arthur grabbing the good cider and a pack of beer to go with whatever awful movie they end up watching.
“Give here,” he steps up behind him and takes them from him. “How’s yer head?”
Arthur shrugs. “It’s fine.”
Alasdair hums and presses a quick kiss behind his ear before heading for the till.
The first thing the nice lass at the tills says to them as she’s ringing them up is ”Sorry about that,” as she shoots Arthur a sympathetic smile. It strikes Alasdair as odd, but he doesn’t think much of it, just passes her their things and bags them while Arthur digs for his wallet.
“It happens all the time,” Arthur reassures her, smiling politely the way he does when he’s talking to someone who doesn’t know him any better.
“Is your head a bit better?” she asks next, theme of the night, and that is what brings Alasdair up short, an inkling of something forming at the back of his head.
Arthur is tapping his foot the way he does when he’s been caught in a fib or wants to leave a conversation and cannot. “A bit, yeah.”
“Still not found your ID though?” And oh, oh, if this isnae a hoot.
Arthur’s smile twitches like he can hear what Alasdair is thinking. “‘Fraid not.”
She looks up at Alasdair as she hands him their last bag, smiling a little impishly. “Well that’s alright. Is there anything else I can get for you?”
Alasdair steps subtly closer to Arthur after taking it from her and not-so-subtly nudges his nose against his temple. She looks quickly away smiling still, eyes a little wider.
“Yes, please. A pack of… what is it you’re smoking these days?” Arthur looks over his shoulder to ask him, oblivious.
Alasdair tells her and she rings them up after grabbing a carton from the back shelf. She sees them off with a cheerful little wave and they step out into the chill of the night to a chorus of ‘cheers’ going back and forth.
Arthur seems to be trying to out pace him, walking briskly down the street with the carton of cider under his arm, but Alasdair has longer legs and it only takes him a couple of steps to catch up.
“Arthur...” he starts chuckling.
“Come on, then. Get it out.”
“Did she card ye?”
“Yes,” Arthur grouses. “Yes, she bloody carded me for the fucking paracetamol.”
“How did it feel?”
Arthur’s glare is answer enough. Alasdair laughs a little more at his expense.
“Where’s yer license?”
“London.”
“And you didn’t bring Dai because?” Alasdair pauses. “Didn’t you drive down from London?”
“He’s not got a license, just now,” Arthur answers, conspicuously ignoring his second question.
“And looks a bairn.” Alasdair bumps his shoulder against Arthur teasingly. “Just like you, bonnie lad.”
“Fuck off,” Arthur finally laughs.
They’re walking close enough to each other that their fingers brush lightly. Arthur pulls his hand back, apologising instinctively under his breath and taking a half-step away. Alasdair looks at his profile against the bright streetlights and with a fond shake of his head grabs his hand outright, tugging him closer again. “Do you know what we’re watching?”
Arthur looks at him, a little surprised. “Something god awful,”—there is a small smile playing at the corner of his lips—”I imagine.”
Alasdair hums and gives his hand a squeeze. Considers the centuries when this would have been impossible. Thinks about taking Arthur upstairs, and letting him rest his eyes properly in a dark room; if he’d rather stay with the lot of them, pulling him down to rest his head on his lap while the telly plays in the background so he can run his fingers through his hair—
If he can kick Sean’s arse out of the bloody couch first.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 2/5
Fandom: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: England/Scotland (Hetalia), America/England (Hetalia), India/Wales (Hetalia)
Characters: England (Hetalia), Scotland (Hetalia), America (Hetalia), France (Hetalia)
Additional Tags: Love Confessions, Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings, Possibly Unrequited Love, Established Relationship, no beta we die like men, self-indulgent brilliance
Summary:
The heart hears what it wishes most dearly to hear, and overheard conversations often lead to terrible misunderstandings.
