Rating/Warnings: Suitable for all, no warnings.
Summary: Shortfic. Alfred walks in on something he shouldn't, finds out a new thing about Arthur, and comes to a realisation.
‘I want him to always be happy, so I’ll surprise him. He always seems happy when I’m with him.’
Alfred snuck into Arthur’s house using the spare key that the older nation always kept hidden under a plant pot near the back gate. He closed the door silently and toed his shoes off, remembering the scolding from the last time he’d managed to track mud over the carpets. Shoving his hands into his pockets he made his way through the house, pausing by the door to the drawing room as he heard what was most definitely the sound of a guitar being tuned.
‘Arthur plays the guitar..?’ he thought, frowning and moving closer to the door, pushing it open carefully. Arthur had his back to the door, and a slightly battered guitar was cradled in his lap, slim fingers slowly twisting the pegs while each string was plucked. He heard the satisfied sound that Arthur made as he strummed once, before leaning forwards and beginning to play.
Then he started to sing.
“There is something on my mind, and I’m losing concentration,” he sang, the usual husky tone of his singing voice that often grated on Alfred’s ears sending a thrill through him as he realised that Arthur’s voice was, in fact, perfect.
“And I feel it every time you are near me. I could tell you all about your picture at my bedside. I should call you sometime, and talk it over. ‘Cause I get a kick inside, and I feel a tingle too. It just comes from time to time, and it only happens when I think of you.”
Alfred pressed himself against the wall beside the door, one hand against his chest as his heart pounded. He couldn’t help but think that he’d stumbled upon something secret, something sacred, something so much more private than the Englishman’s magic. Something precious. Yet he couldn’t force himself into interrupting, he could only stand there and listen while Arthur played and sang in that voice– that voice that Alfred had always told him was terrible. Then it stopped, and Alfred drew in a slow, steadying breath, about to make his presence known when a second tune filtered through the slightly open door, soft and melancholy.
“The cold north wind they call ‘La Bise’ is swirling round about my knees, trees are crying leaves into the river...”
Biting his lip lightly, Alfred gave in to the temptation and opened the door, unable to hold himself back any longer. Arthur broke into the chorus, and suddenly it was as if every heartbreak that he had ever suffered was poured into his singing, and Alfred had to swallow the lump in his throat.
“Take care, it’s such a lonely sky. They’ll trap your wings, my love, and hold your flight. They’ll build a cage and steal your only sky. Fly away, fly to me, fly when the wind is high. I’m sailing beside you in your lonely sky.”
Arthur’s voice cracked, and he stopped, lifting one hand to his face though Alfred couldn’t see why. He put the guitar to one side and leaned forwards, and made a soft, hiccupping sound that Alfred recognised by experience. The American was beside his lover in an instant, pulling him close, pressing soft kisses to his hair and holding him tightly, feeling unsure fingers curl into the front of his shirt.
‘I want him to always be happy. I want him to sing of happy things, things that make him smile, not sad things that make him cry.’
“Hush.” He lifted Arthur’s face in his hands and pressed the most tender of kisses to his warm lips, holding it until lids slowly closed over confused green eyes and Arthur melted against him.
‘And if he must sing of sad things, then I want to be here to kiss the tears from his cheeks, and make him laugh again.’
D'aww. This actually came to mind when I was listening to Chris de Burgh. Songs used are 'When I Think Of You' and 'Lonely Sky'.