Archive of Our Own ^beta

Wind-whipped swirls of snow billowed beyond the windows. It had to be pretty miserable out there, but inside the cozy comfort of Arthur's living room, Alfred could only muster up a mental wince for anyone caught out in the raging snowstorm. There was a controlled disaster strewn across Arthur’s low table: shallow bowls of curry and dahl in shades of orange and yellow, roughly torn nan bread, plates of masala and spiced meats. Alfred has downed three cups of cold chai and the abandoned glasses left circlets of moisture on the table’s surface, the wood worn smooth over the decades (centuries?). 

It was almost a miracle that Arthur didn’t seem to care about the mess. 

Alfred slouched languidly into his seat, his head falling naturally into one of the dips on Arthur's battered old couch. He stared up at the ceiling in a moment of food-coma induced bliss, then tilted his head so his gaze settled on the nation across the low table from him. Arthur felt mellow too; Alfred could tell because of the way light caught in Arthur's eyes, how he sat with the barest hint of a curve in his usually straight-backed posture. 

Arthur turned and their gazes met for one long moment before Alfred tore his eyes away and stared out the window again, his cheeks warm. 

“Crazy weather out there,” Alfred murmured. “Seriously, Europe’s drowning in snow.” 

“Yes,” Arthur said, joining Alfred in staring out the window before his gaze settled back on Alfred. “Are you all right?” 

"Yep," Alfred told him, and it was true, mostly. He was relaxed, well fed, warm and out of the damn cold. He was awake despite the long flight over because it was mid-afternoon back in DC, and Arthur had yet to lecture or yell at him in the hour or so that he had been here. It was as good a visit to Arthur’s place as it ever got.  

—except for the odd electricity that ran just under his skin. His shoulders prickled and he had the incredible urge to check if he had accidentally plugged himself into a power outlet, but that was crazy, right? He wasn't an electrical appliance. 

… right, that was a seriously weird question to ask, even in his own head. 

“That’s good to know.” 

Arthur, on the other hand, didn’t act like he had anything but blood running through his veins (although his blood could be blue; that would suit Arthur). He looked completely at ease sticking his fingers right into the curry and dahl, although now he was back to drinking tea. Alfred didn't know how Arthur could do something like attack his food with all abandonment, foregoing cutlery to go the traditional Indian way of spooning rice and curry with his fingers, then go back to drinking tea with delicate, graceful movements, his hands clean after a quick wash, his control firmly back in place. 

It wasn’t fair. That weird electrical current should be affecting him too. 

“Great!” Alfred said to hide the fact that he had been staring, but it came out loud and the room echoed with his voice. Arthur looked up at him again, his teapot balanced at an angle that should be spilling tea everywhere but somehow didn't (how did he do that?), and Alfred stuffed a piece of nan into his mouth to stop it from running away from him again. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Alfred knew why this felt so surreal, why he had been feeling like there was an undercurrent to everything they said or did. It wasn't like they hadn't seen each other since. And that was all Alfred could call it, since, because they weren't lovers (not yet, his mind and the shiver down his spine helpfully reminded him) and they weren't really a couple – they were just—something more, since— since then.

What did you call it when both sides confessed their feelings but spent the next two months apart as if nothing had changed? 

Sure, there had been world conferences, but with Arthur busy with the EU and Alfred trying to stabilize his economy, they hadn't acted as anything other than close allies and fellow nations. They were closer, exchanging soft brushes and many, many fleeting looks, but sometimes Alfred just wanted to kiss Arthur. He didn't quite dare to, however, not with Arthur sitting there prim and proper and so very serious in his suit, his eyes focused on his notes and his bushy eyebrows crinkled with concentration. 

Arthur’s eyebrows were kind of cute when they were all scrunched up. Like they were now, as Arthur carefully strained tea into his cup before taking an experimental sip of it. And Alfred was still sitting there, watching Arthur pour a cup of tea and buzzing like a dozen bees hummed under his skin. 

… oh fuck it, this was getting ridiculous. 

Alfred bounced to his feet and spent a moment stretching his arms out above his head, then casually slid into the space beside Arthur. “Hey, Arthur!”

Arthur set his teacup down so quickly that it plinked against its saucer. “Hello, Alfred,” he said calmly, then narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing?” 

Alfred shifted until he found a comfortable position that had them seated close together, almost but not quite touching. He arched his back until he felt his spine pop, then slouched back, stretching his arm out across the couch’s back, parallel to Arthur’s shoulders. He grinned into Arthur’s grumpy expression.

This was normal. It was Arthur, and he knew Arthur. 

“I’m sitting. What else does it look like?” 

Arthur simply sniffed and picked up his teacup, surprisingly okay with Alfred’s proximity. Maybe all those years of sneaking up and casually throwing an arm around slim shoulders were finally paying off. “Do you have to squash into my space like that? That hand you’re dangling next to my face had better be clean.” 

His hands weren’t, exactly, but he did wipe them down with a napkin and they’re reasonably curry free. He blew a breath into Arthur’s ear and watched the Briton twitch away from him. “Don’t sweat the small stuff,” Alfred said, and stole Arthur’s cup as added distraction. This close, he could smell the Darjeeling over the acrid spices, fragrant and faintly sweet. It tasted the same on his tongue – nothing like the dark richness of his coffee, but he could see why Arthur liked it so much. Maybe. 

And Arthur apparently liked it enough to elbow Alfred sharply in the ribs to get his tea back. 

“…ow.” 

“Your chai is on the other side of the table,” Arthur said pointedly, primly turning the teacup so he wouldn’t end up sipping from the same spot Alfred drank from. “You made me make a whole pot of it, with ice and the sugar equivalent of a box of candy because the curry’s too spicy for you and you’re too stubborn to stop eating.” 

“Touché.” Alfred eyed his glass and the tempting promise of sugary tea. But he was comfortable, sitting next to Arthur like this, and he wasn't that thirsty. They were back to their usual bantering and Alfred liked bantering with Arthur. He didn’t have to think about that weird buzzing when he teased Arthur. “So, why Indian food? Not that I’m complaining. I just thought you’d drag me out to the pub or something.” 

Arthur snorted. “It was storming even before I picked you up from the airport, and one of my neighbours offered to pack up a bit of each of her curries and other foods for me. Lovely woman, although she thinks I need more meat on my bones. She keeps sending one of her sons up here with curry, or tandoori chicken, or sweet corn in milk.” Arthur’s face softened, his voice going gentle as it always did when he spoke of his people. 

“She’s one of yours?” Alfred asked. 

“British Indian. Yes. I have a sizable population of ethnic Indians, after all.” Arthur chuckled quietly, but the room seemed to ring with his laughter, catching his voice and reverberating with the sound. “And they’ve brought a wealth of culture with them. Their cuisine. Their arts. Bollywood, for one.” 

"Arthur, you're messing up your syllables. It's Hollywood. Y’know, with an ‘H’? Like... hedgehogs, Happy Meals, oh wait, I think you'd like this one—" 

Arthur shot him a focused glare, his eyes slits of green under lowered eyelashes, so Alfred raised his voice and continued on. 

“—hedge witches! Then there’s hydrogen, hemoglobin—” 

“Alfred—“ 

"—and Heathrow!” Alfred finished triumphantly. 

“Shut up, you idiot.” Arthur was still glaring, but he was also kind of smiling, a slow smile that burned like embers, slow to build, but lighting a lingering warmth in Alfred's stomach. “I know you know what Bollywood is. Admit it; their influences have snuck into your film industry. Bollywood movies have given your musical industry a boost, however indirectly. ”

“But we all know they’ve totally been inspired by the real Hollywood.” 

“Just like you keep snitching Kiku’s animation stories and turning them into your blockbusters?”

“It’s not borrowing; it’s appropriation,” Alfred says in his best scholarly voice, then ruined it by sticking his tongue out cheekily at Arthur. “And heck, everyone does it. There’s gotta be a reason why they’ve named their film industry after Hollywood, y’know. American flair makes everything better.” 

Arthur snorted and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “—much different opinion on that.” Then he cleared his throat. “Have you even watched any good Bollywood movies?” 

The quick and dirty answer was that he hadn’t – only in bits and pieces, like on YouTube or occasionally on TV when he visited someone who had the stuff playing in the background. Alfred suspected Arthur wouldn’t be too happy with that answer, so he took a minute to scour his memory. He wasn’t as big into foreign films like Arthur or Matthew were – he couldn’t understand Tamil or Hindi at all. But sometimes he’d hear Indian music in the background of all those calls he placed to Aisha in India for help troubleshooting his network or systems on the rare occasion he didn’t just tinker with the things himself. Surely one of those songs was Bollywood-ish…

Wait, he did know one. 

"Hey, the Pussycat Dolls did one of those Bollywood songs, right? You are my destiny, Jai hooooooo-OW!" 

"The least you could do is give homage to the original song composed by Indian artists, not some American cover," Arthur said, his arm still raised from throwing a small wooden paperweight at Alfred's head. "Oh, stop pouting, it's hardly becoming."

“You liked Slumdog Millionaire!” Alfred complained, backing away just in case Arthur got it into his head to bean Alfred with more flying projectiles. He shoved the paperweight under the couch, then went back to rubbing his head. “And the Dolls did a great job with that cover.” 

“Slumdog Millionaire might be an achingly accurate portrayal of the Indian slums, but it's still a Western production,” Arthur said in a dry voice, crossing his arms across his chest. “Who’s appropriating who now?”

Alfred skipped skillfully past that question. “So maybe I haven’t seen a lot of Bollywood. I mean… baila baila ollie ollie dance around a coconut tree? Really?” Alfred waved his hands in a parody of Bollywood dance. He thought about shaking his head and maybe his hips in tune with his hands, but Arthur was groping around the table and the couch for his missing paperweight, one eyebrow twitching, and Alfred scooted back, further away from the line of fire. His head was still throbbing from the Briton’s earlier throw, thanks. 

“That’s your problem – all the dance numbers in Bollywood movies?” Arthur demanded. “Alfred, you’ve made an industry out of making musical films. You have high school kids prancing around a stage on your silver screens.”

“Hey, I’ve got nothing against dancing and singing in a movie.” Alfred held out his hands in a peace-making gesture. “But Bollywood’s always so, wow, flashy. They’ve got all those crazy colors and the hero will be fighting ten people to get the girl and bam! Suddenly there’s a whole troupe of dancers behind the main leads, and everyone’s gotten changed in two seconds flat. And coconut trees. There are always coconut trees.” 

“Try looking less at the glitz and more at the dance moves next time,” Arthur said with sweet acidity. 

“I would if everything wasn’t so shiny and bright and over the top. It’s more fun to look at those. I guess if it was just the dance on its own, it could be cool. They’ve got some funky technique going on.” 

“What are you, a magpie?” Arthur picked up his tea cup and took a long, considering sip, or would have, if he hadn’t found his cup empty. He gave the cup a look before he busied himself with the teapot. Alfred would call it fidgeting if it was anyone else, but it was Arthur and so he simply appeared inhumanly graceful, even when doing mundane, every day things like making tea. 

This went on for a while, until Arthur mumbled something incomprehensible under the sounds of pouring water. 

“What’s that?” Alfred piped right up, inching closer as Arthur set down the teapot, having filled his cup. Arthur had been normal all night, but maybe the weird buzzing had finally gotten to him too. “Come on, Arthur, you’ve gotta speak up. “ 

“You twerp,” Arthur murmured in the same voice, then said loudly, pulling himself up straight-backed, arms crossed defensively across his chest, “I said, I can show you, if you want. Not a modern Bollywood dance, per say, that’s too flashy for just one performer, but older Bollywood films are based heavily on classical dance styles. I can show you that.”

Alfred was very glad he hadn’t bothered getting his chai earlier, because if he was drinking something, he would have spat it all over Arthur. “You dance Bollywood dance?” 

“No, I mean—” Arthur was blushing, all the way to the tips of his ears; he had to be telling the truth! “It’s Bharatanatyam, one of the Indian classical dance forms. It’s not quite Bollywood—”

“You. Dance. Bollywood.” 

“Stop that. You’re making me crave something harder than tea.”

“… guh.” Alfred couldn’t help staring, trying to picture the nation before him in Bollywood style clothing, moving lithely. He wasn’t sure what the guys did when they dance – those Indian girls were really distracting with their smiles and their fleet-quick hand movements – but he couldn’t stop imagining Arthur doing something similar. 

Something in his expression must have told Arthur that he wasn’t totally opposed to the idea of seeing Arthur dance, because Arthur came forward, his face still pink but with determination written all over it. 

“Let me show you,” Arthur said in a low voice, and his eyes were bright, light flickering off them and catching on the tiniest gradations in the green. Alfred had never noticed just how many shades of green Arthur’s eyes could take on. Not jade, not emerald, not lime – just green, like Arthur’s eyes defined the color itself. 

Was it healthy to want to kiss someone this much? Alfred had kissed a decent number of people over the years, nations and humans alike, but he could never quite get the urge to kiss Arthur out of his head. It tended to crop up at the weirdest times, the first time being right after Arthur had signed the treaty of peace after his independence, and god that had been awkward and really confusing. He’d slipped out into the snow and went running with the horses for a while, in his formal suit and all, until he had forgotten the odd compulsion. It popped right back up decades later, and remained a semi-constant thought at the back of his head. 

But instead of just going ahead and kissing Arthur, Alfred simply said, “Okay.” 

The sudden smile that spread across Arthur’s face just made him look more kissable. 

Damn it. 

They made their way up the stairs, the steps creaking as they passed, Alfred a solid presence at Arthur's back. Arthur ran one hand through his bangs, fingering the short hairs at the back of his neck. The cooler air and the quiet pressed against his skin. 

It was hardly the first time Arthur has had to operate with Alfred at his back. They've manned enough covert operations that they could move almost in synch. At those times, however, Alfred's obnoxious bubbliness shuts down, replaced by a quiet alertness that whispered of danger. 

Alfred’s quiet now too, but it wasn't in face of any impending danger. Alfred simply looked dazed, like his mind was halfway across the world, or perhaps as if he was still stuck on the fact that Arthur practiced a classical Indian dance and had offered to give him a private show of it. 

Arthur could empathize with Alfred. He wasn’t sure what made him volunteer to show Alfred Bharatanatyam either, but the idea had bloomed when Alfred mentioned he wouldn’t mind seeing a dance without the Bollywood glitz. And Arthur found he wanted to show Alfred, hadn’t known he would want the younger nation to know all the pieces of him that badly. 

Alfred had been restless all night, this first time they were alone together outside world politics since they got their feelings out in the open. Arthur had been restless too, but mostly he had been comforted by Alfred’s presence, finally there by his side.

… and it had been amusing, watching Alfred fidget all night, wavering on what he wanted to do. It was one of the reasons why Arthur was so willing to make a potential fool of himself. 

"Here." Arthur said, stopping in front of a nondescript door of dark oak, his voice barely a whisper above the quiet of the air. He shifted the bundle he carried to one arm, then glanced over at Alfred and held his free hand out calmly, although for one moment he sorely missed the leather gloves he so often wore. 

Arthur wondered if he imagined the amused look that flashed over Alfred's face – it was too dark to make out his expression. There was no mistaking that tone of voice, however. 

"Aw, Arthur, if you wanted to hold hands, you could've just said so, y'know? No need to drag me off into a dark corridor for just that." 

Arthur sighed at Alfred's shadowy grin in the darkness. "Idiot," he said, but felt himself relax, and the insult came out almost fond. "I have wards over the door and frame, all right? I can dispel them, but they’re old, weathered spells, and the defenses linger. It’ll be much safer if I bring you through." 

“Huh. What’d you have in there, dead bodies?” This time Arthur didn’t miss the way Alfred eyed the door, as if gauging whether Arthur's magic or his own sheer stubbornness would win out. "Seriously, you need to tone down on all the crazy mystic stuff." 

“Perhaps when the sun combusts,” Arthur agreed, juggling the bundle and unlocking the door. He felt Alfred slip his hand into his. Arthur nudged the door open with his foot and pulled them through. 

They entered a large room with heavy wood flooring, glossily dark in the faint amber light of the small lamp Arthur flicked on. Alfred glanced around curiously, completely unaffected by the protective door wards, although Arthur had felt them thrumming against his skin as they passed over the threshold. 

“I never knew you had a room like this up here,” Alfred said. “Guess this is where you’re going to be dancing?” 

The room was empty save for a heavy stone fireplace and several shelves pushed up against one wall, their ledges bare. Arthur didn’t have a name for this room; he came here when violence sang in his veins, taking his saber along to spar against the rage within his thoughts. Other times, it was his spell room, when the spells called for the delicacy of open space and not the earthier powers that settled in his basement. The air here was still with the memories of gaslights and foggy nights, and full of unspoken potential. It was the only place in Arthur’s house with enough clear space to dance in. 

“Yes,” Arthur said, glancing down at the bundle in his hands, the small player and its speakers atop a roll of unstitched cloth. 

... forget the gloves he missed so much earlier; Bharatanatyam dancers didn't dance in cardigans and trousers. 

“Turn around,” Arthur commanded in the most authoritative voice he could muster. He wasn’t blushing. He wasn’t. 

“Huh? Why?” 

“Because the fireplace is that way, and I need you to start a fire. It’ll help light up the room, and it isn’t exactly comfortably warm in here.” 

“Yeah, but I don’t really have to turn around to do that.” 

One day, Alfred’s inability to belt up and listen to him will drive Arthur into insanity. 

“I need to change.” And right there and then, Arthur decided a little fib never hurt anyone. “And you’re not supposed to watch a Bharatanatyam dancer until they’re on stage. It’s one of their customs.” 

“… oh.” He didn't think that would fool Alfred, but Alfred was already scrambling towards the fireplace, calling over one shoulder, “Oh, okay, just tell me when you’re done!” 

Leaving Arthur there to change into his practice clothes. 

He went through the motions slowly, taking time to fold his clothing before unrolling the length of cloth and wrapping it around his legs and waist, folding pleats into the cloth to make his dhoti. If Aisha were here, she would give him an earful about the importance of costume, a full live ensemble with their cymbals and drums. But practice clothing was good enough for what Arthur was doing tonight – he hadn’t danced in a long time and, well, he wanted to show Alfred a Bharatanatyam dance without the flashiness, didn’t he? 

He finished knotting the dhoti around his waist, moved quickly through a series of stretches, then went to the player to select the song he needed, trying to settle himself into the mindset of a dancer, imagining the dry heat on his skin, the hotter atmosphere that India perpetually was in. 

Dearest Aisha. She was an exotic nation when Arthur had first taken the Asian subcontinent, looking nothing like the light-haired and light-eyed people of Europe. She was pretty, with a petite figure and perfect dark tresses, and Arthur wondered how white laced corsets would look juxtaposed against her dark skin until she tackled him with a flying leap, wrestling him to the ground and avoiding his retaliated attempts to pin her down with all the speed and agility of a wild cat. 

He could still remember Aisha’s lilting voice, the exact words she uttered. “Bharatanatyam cannot be adequately portrayed by men,” she had said, her voice taking on the nuance and inflection of an age long past, and the little bells woven into her bangles and anklets had chimed an underscore to her words. “Except for women, none can practice it properly.” 

And yet she had taught him anyway, her movements smooth and graceful, like music given life. She had danced for him, once, during the years of the British Raj, and she was no less impressive decades later. He couldn’t quite master the fluidity of her movements, but she had smiled impishly at him and informed him he was male and no one could expect males to master the feminine moves and lines, so it was quite all right. And then she laughed and told him to dance before a mirror so he could watch his own dance, although Arthur never did follow her advice. 

Arthur wondered if he should have, as he set the player and speakers on one of the shelves, hitting the play button. He moved to the center of the room, falling into the rhythm of cymbals and soft drum beats and dipped into a crouch, balanced on the tips of his toes, his arms first stretched out for balance, then curling into position. 

He met Alfred’s eyes across the room and wondered what Alfred would see in his dance. The memory of Aisha’s voice coaching him echoed through his head as the female alto voice began singing in Hindi, and then Arthur stopped thinking all together, losing himself to the music. 

It was nothing like what Alfred had expected. 

He had tried really hard not to pay attention to Arthur moving across the room from him, taking his clothes off and doing god knows what, so he hadn’t turned around when music started playing, choosing to stare into the large fire he had built (probably larger than it needed to be). 

And then he had felt a shivery feeling down his back, and had turned to stare right into Arthur’s eyes before the voice started singing and Arthur began moving, undulating one hand across his chest and curling his fingers into elaborate signs and coming to a perfect pause before leaping into action, kicking and jumping in perfect timing to the music and the voice, his hands never halting in their delicate twisting. He simply had to curl his fingers a certain way, and it was a different symbol – sign – whatever they called it. 

Arthur had kept his button down shirt on, although he had rolled up the sleeves and pinned them down so they wouldn’t distract from the elaborate hand gestures. It wasn’t like any dance Alfred had seen before. The closest thing he could think of was tribal dances, but with more flow and progression with each movement. Arthur’s face and entire body was alive with movement, and the flickering light from the fireplace played along Arthur’s skin. The darkness and the fire’s glow painted the Briton’s usual paleness a warm amber and when Arthur moved, it was if flames licked up and down his limbs.

Alfred stared, mesmerized until the very end of the song, the drums and cymbals pattering to an end, and Arthur stepping in time with them before pressing his hands together and dipping into a low bow. He stood there, unmoving but for the way his chest heaved with each deep breath he took, his face serene and staring almost unblinkingly at Alfred. 

Alfred was abruptly aware of the way he shivered, like the electricity had crawled out from his veins and was moving over his skin instead. He opened his mouth to say something – he had no idea what, but he had to say something after something like that— 

The little music player began another song. 

Alfred was going to ignore it, but the beginning instrumentals sound really familiar. In fact, it sounded like the very beginning of the Pussycat Doll’s Jai Ho cover. Alfred’s eyes flicked back to Arthur and Arthur smirked at him, swinging his hips in time to the music, his movements now exaggerated and expansive and more reminiscent of the Bollywood dance Alfred was familiar with. 

The voice when the lyrics started, however, was not Nicole Scherzinger’s throaty purr, but a male Indian voice singing in Hindi, and Alfred’s jaw dropped when Arthur started into the subway dance the Slumdog Millionaire cast had filmed during the credits, except Arthur started laughing so much that he ended up bracing his hands on his knees to stay upright. 

The next thing Alfred knew he was across the room and scooping Arthur up in his arms, pushing him back into the wall and kissing the laugh right off his lips. 

Arthur kissed back immediately, his mouth hot, breathing heavily through his nose. Alfred couldn’t imagine what had taken him this long to do this, because for one, kissing Arthur felt really, really good, especially with the shadow of laughter evident in the curve of Arthur’s lips, and because that damned electricity seemed to have transformed itself into this growing, glowing ball of warmth in the pit of his stomach. 

“Finally,” Arthur murmured, pulling back just enough so he could speak. Alfred could feel the way his lips moved, brushing against his own. Alfred laughed and it came out loud and brash, but Arthur didn't seem to mind. 

“What do you mean, finally? Does that mean you wanted to kiss me too?”

“… idiot.” Arthur’s face was flushed from the dance, but he was glaring in that half-hearted way that meant he was about ready to cave in but had decided to put up a fight for the principle of it anyway. “You liked my dances that much?” 

Alfred nodded, feeling the shiver come back at the memory of it. “That was… just… wow. It was pretty amazing, Arthur.”

“And that’s why you kissed me.” Arthur was smirking again now. 

“I’ve always wanted to. So why didn’t you, if you wanted to kiss me too?” Alfred asked. He was feeling warm and really cozy and he didn’t really care if the roof fell on them right now, because he had Arthur in his arms, and Arthur was smiling. It was there, that illusive smile, under the glare and the smirk. 

“And listen to you whine up and down about being taken advantage of by the world’s number one kisser? Goodness knows you’ve harped about it enough times, although for what reason, I can’t imagine. I don’t go around attacking people with kisses, you know.” But despite his words, Arthur tilted his head forward and began pressing kisses to Alfred’s throat, including a slow, languid one against Alfred’s pulse point. Alfred felt his entire body jolt. 

“And now?” he asked, trying not to speak loudly or move his throat too much; the electric buzz was definitely back – he felt too sensitive, each spot Arthur had kissed burning with the memory of his touch. 

“Now.” Arthur dropped one last kiss just below Alfred’s collar, then pulled back to meet Alfred’s gaze. “Now you’ve made the first move. I didn’t mind waiting, however, if it gave you time to sort things through.” His eyelashes fluttered, as if he wanted to close his eyes but didn’t. “I could wait, if it made you happy.”

“No!” Alfred pulled Arthur tightly against him almost instinctively. “Do you know how much I’ve been wanting to kiss you? Absolutely no more waiting!” 

Arthur pressed one hand against Alfred’s chest, possibly with the intent of pushing away to get some breathing space, but he seemed to change his mind halfway, his fingers curling and catching onto Alfred’s shirt, warm through the fabric. “Relax. I didn’t say I would wait forever, did I? It was only a matter of time before I chased after you myself. But now that you’ve finally gone and kissed me, it doesn’t matter anymore, does it?” He curled forward and dropped a kiss above where his hands were clenched. 

“You should have done that ages ago.” Alfred carded his hands through Arthur’s hair, twisting strands around his fingers and ignoring the fact that they were sweat drenched and matted. He had wanted to do this too, almost as much as wanting to kiss Arthur, and yes, sometimes the elder nation really did have better ideas. 

Arthur laughed. “What do you think this was? Bollywood is all about the hero and the heroine dancing and singing and finally getting together at the end of the film after fighting off scores of Indian mafia and the like.” 

Alfred did an exaggerated survey of the room. “I don’t see any Indian mafia in here.” 

Arthur reached up to untangle one of Alfred’s hands from his hair, lacing their fingers together. The Briton smiled, and like so many of Arthur’s smiles today, it was soft and very, very beautiful. “Bharatanatyam, at its very core, is an act of devotion. To Hindu deities, mainly, but since I am hardly going to give devotion to them…” 

Oh. Oh.

“Any other questions?” Arthur’s eyes were very green from this close, and he hadn’t let go of Alfred’s hand. But that was okay, because Alfred liked holding Arthur’s hand too, liked the way Arthur’s wrist and fingers always looked so delicate until he gripped back, his clasp firm and strong, like a promise.

Alfred couldn’t stop grinning. “Definitely not.” 

“Good.” And Arthur leaned forward to kiss him again.