FumblingMusings (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fumblingmusings) wrote2023-12-09 05:13 pm
fumblingmusings) wrote2023-12-09 05:13 pm
Entry tags:
Lukewarm Coffee and Plum Rice Pudding
Arthur’s house is small. It is small, old, and smells of syrup and plums. When Alfred inquires as to why, England gives him a very funny look, as if the other man is as stupid as Arthur’s frequent insults suggest. He simply states that if Alfred cared to look in the kitchen, he would see the vat bubbling away on the hob.
America ponders how he is to do such a thing, considering he is still standing on England’s porch.
Alfred needs a break, and Arthur's door is always open.
Arthur’s house is small. It is small, old, and smells of syrup and plums. When Alfred inquires as to why, England gives him a very funny look, as if the other man is as stupid as Arthur’s frequent insults suggest. He simply states that if Alfred cared to look in the kitchen, he would see the vat bubbling away on the hob.
America ponders how he is to do such a thing, considering he is still standing on England’s porch.
He says as much, and Arthur scrunches his nostrils. There is dirt, America notes, on the bridge of said nose. Most likely mud from the garden (for where else would the plums have come from?), the result of Arthur rubbing his skin, perpetually sniffing as if he has a cold. Alfred suspects it is something akin to hay fever and it would go away if Arthur bothered to take something as simple as an antihistamine. He wouldn’t, of course, because Arthur refuses to take anyone’s advice, no matter its practicality.
Alfred remains under the tiny portico.
“Are you going to let me in? It’s cold.”
“It’s fifteen.”
Alfred nods, as if that number means anything to him. (It does, when he thinks about it for longer than a second. He tries often to not do so).
Still, Arthur steps back, muttering something about making Alfred take off his muddy shoes and leave them at the door. England then disappears down the tight hallway, turning left behind the stairs and returning to his kitchen. The sound of a radio station playing, some odd indie music, seems to be coming from the area.
Alfred follows his nose and ears, and sure enough, a rather large pot is bubbling away, making a sticky sound when Arthur goes to stir. Not burnt. Yet. Arthur lowers the volume of his radio, the announcer declaring it to be one of the multiple BBC channels. There were six?! More?
America drops his weekend bag on the wooden chair sticking out from the round table, then plants himself into the second chair. An excessive amount of crocheted placemats and coasters litter the small surface, and he is unable to help himself from picking one up and inspecting. Perfect, as always.
The silence seems to stretch on. With any other time that Alfred would drop by unannounced, he would be talking Arthur’s ear off. As it is, Arthur notes how utterly melancholic the boy appears to be.
Turning off the heat, Arthur moves the pot to the countertop, pouring the simmering fruit into a large glass bowl. It splatters as he does so, and the contact stings his bare wrists.
His loud, emphatic fuck makes Alfred start, look up from the table and across the cluttered room. Arthur is shaking his arm, as if trying to fling the stinging pain out of his limb.
“Careful,” America says unhelpfully.
The replying glare and bull-like snort are somewhat good-humoured, so Alfred manages a smile.
“Why are you here?” Arthur asks, turning to his sink to cool down the splatter. Alfred watches, quiet.
“Wanted to visit,” Alfred replies. He hears Arthur chuff to himself.
“Wanna coffee?” England asks instead of acknowledging Alfred’s answer.
“Not instant?”
“No. In the French press. I’ll need to microwave it up though.”
America sucks on his tongue, then nods his assent.
“Sure.”
Arthur fills up one of his floral mugs two thirds of the way, then goes to the fridge. He pauses, the door open and his face hidden from view.
“Warm or cold milk?”
“Cold.”
“Weird boy…” but still, Arthur does as bid, pulling out a carton and throwing the mug in the microwave for just over a minute. He returns to his bowl of plums, then inspects Alfred again.
“How long?”
“Huh?”
“How long will you stay?”
“Oh. Until I get found out?”
England’s green eyes spark with glee. “You’re being naughty?”
Alfred’s smile grows, hearing the childish naughtiness that always manages to leak through Arthur’s prim and proper exterior. There was nothing Arthur enjoyed more than a good deception, a practical joke, being a general annoyance. Was it any surprise such traits were also found in Alfred?
When Arthur’s face lit up, when that veneer of bored politeness cracked… Alfred was reminded why people actually tolerated (or worse, loved) Arthur. Alfred would only ever whisper it in the dead of night when he was sure Arthur was not listening. Confessing sincerely and earnestly on how much England had never truly been extracted from America.
More than once, Arthur had in fact, not been asleep, and Alfred had become ashamed to even look the man in the eye for the next three days.
Unabashed openness was a rarity in Arthur too, both in joy, and indeed in love. It was much more his style to simply open his home, offer a drink, and try to be useful. A land of such beautiful words and poets struggles to speak plainly at times, hiding behind inferences, suggestions and looks that Alfred only ever caught in candid photographs or mirror reflections.
Truly, they were as bad as each other. And yet they understood.
“I needed a break,” Alfred finally confesses.
Arthur waves him over, not commenting on his reasoning. “I’m making rice pudding for the plums. You can help. Make yourself useful.”
America could have kissed Arthur. Not for the gift of rice pudding; Alfred feels it is slop - unpleasant in texture and lacking in any flavour - but for Arthur’s immediate understanding. The time of a nation was valuable, and often they were used as endless free labour. It could be physical (Ivan’s railway construction came to mind), but for people like Alfred and Arthur, it was bureaucracy. An office intern with no voice in policy and yet expected to enact decisions to carry them through.
Arthur learned long ago how to bite back; his own workaholic nature would take care of the punishing hours, no effort required from Downing Street whatsoever. Alfred, the perpetual people pleaser, had experienced varied results.
Some years are better than others.
Arthur understands and seems very content - proud even - of his ability to be a bulwark for Alfred. More than once, he has slammed the door shut in the face of some silly-looking man in a suit demanding the world’s superpower to get in the black car.
Arthur knows when not to prod. Some things he will not let drop, badgering and arguing until Alfred cracks. Other times, he will do as he is doing in that moment - hearing the unsaid and knowing exactly what needs to be done.
A distraction, a comfort, an indulgence.
“There’s condensed milk in the pull-out cupboard. Two cans.”
The ping of the microwave leads to Arthur bustling around the tiny kitchen. There is a pile of dishes waiting to be washed in the basin and sticky surfaces of spilt sugar and fruit juice. Arthur hums to himself as he works, matching the quiet radio and its dreamlike rhythms.
Alfred places the cans squarely on the counter, then lays his chin on Arthur’s shoulder, right at the junction of his neck. The warm breath that he exhales visibly causes Arthur to shiver.
Not exactly looking back at America, Arthur raises a hand up to run his fingers through the boy’s golden hair.
“Your coffee’ll get cold,” England gently chides.
Alfred hums, only to wrap his arms around Arthur. England’s cool hands (so perfect for baking those cursed scones) hold on to one of Alfred’s own, the other petting him softly.
“Big baby,” Arthur murmurs right into Alfred’s ear. “Rest up. You’re home now.”
Once, perhaps not too long ago, Alfred would have bitten back an angry and spiteful retort, but now it was not so. Home was an idea, a feeling, many places and many people. His glamorous and large apartment in New York; his ranch in Texas with his wonderful horses; sitting in Montreal with Mattie watching the Canadiens lose to Tampa Bay for the Stanley Cup final (both of them drunk for differing reasons).
Holding on to Arthur like a buoy in the man’s tired and cluttered kitchen, a lukewarm coffee on a dirty counter, an excessive amount of boiled fruit cooling in a bowl.
Home.
America ponders how he is to do such a thing, considering he is still standing on England’s porch.
Alfred needs a break, and Arthur's door is always open.
Arthur’s house is small. It is small, old, and smells of syrup and plums. When Alfred inquires as to why, England gives him a very funny look, as if the other man is as stupid as Arthur’s frequent insults suggest. He simply states that if Alfred cared to look in the kitchen, he would see the vat bubbling away on the hob.
America ponders how he is to do such a thing, considering he is still standing on England’s porch.
He says as much, and Arthur scrunches his nostrils. There is dirt, America notes, on the bridge of said nose. Most likely mud from the garden (for where else would the plums have come from?), the result of Arthur rubbing his skin, perpetually sniffing as if he has a cold. Alfred suspects it is something akin to hay fever and it would go away if Arthur bothered to take something as simple as an antihistamine. He wouldn’t, of course, because Arthur refuses to take anyone’s advice, no matter its practicality.
Alfred remains under the tiny portico.
“Are you going to let me in? It’s cold.”
“It’s fifteen.”
Alfred nods, as if that number means anything to him. (It does, when he thinks about it for longer than a second. He tries often to not do so).
Still, Arthur steps back, muttering something about making Alfred take off his muddy shoes and leave them at the door. England then disappears down the tight hallway, turning left behind the stairs and returning to his kitchen. The sound of a radio station playing, some odd indie music, seems to be coming from the area.
Alfred follows his nose and ears, and sure enough, a rather large pot is bubbling away, making a sticky sound when Arthur goes to stir. Not burnt. Yet. Arthur lowers the volume of his radio, the announcer declaring it to be one of the multiple BBC channels. There were six?! More?
America drops his weekend bag on the wooden chair sticking out from the round table, then plants himself into the second chair. An excessive amount of crocheted placemats and coasters litter the small surface, and he is unable to help himself from picking one up and inspecting. Perfect, as always.
The silence seems to stretch on. With any other time that Alfred would drop by unannounced, he would be talking Arthur’s ear off. As it is, Arthur notes how utterly melancholic the boy appears to be.
Turning off the heat, Arthur moves the pot to the countertop, pouring the simmering fruit into a large glass bowl. It splatters as he does so, and the contact stings his bare wrists.
His loud, emphatic fuck makes Alfred start, look up from the table and across the cluttered room. Arthur is shaking his arm, as if trying to fling the stinging pain out of his limb.
“Careful,” America says unhelpfully.
The replying glare and bull-like snort are somewhat good-humoured, so Alfred manages a smile.
“Why are you here?” Arthur asks, turning to his sink to cool down the splatter. Alfred watches, quiet.
“Wanted to visit,” Alfred replies. He hears Arthur chuff to himself.
“Wanna coffee?” England asks instead of acknowledging Alfred’s answer.
“Not instant?”
“No. In the French press. I’ll need to microwave it up though.”
America sucks on his tongue, then nods his assent.
“Sure.”
Arthur fills up one of his floral mugs two thirds of the way, then goes to the fridge. He pauses, the door open and his face hidden from view.
“Warm or cold milk?”
“Cold.”
“Weird boy…” but still, Arthur does as bid, pulling out a carton and throwing the mug in the microwave for just over a minute. He returns to his bowl of plums, then inspects Alfred again.
“How long?”
“Huh?”
“How long will you stay?”
“Oh. Until I get found out?”
England’s green eyes spark with glee. “You’re being naughty?”
Alfred’s smile grows, hearing the childish naughtiness that always manages to leak through Arthur’s prim and proper exterior. There was nothing Arthur enjoyed more than a good deception, a practical joke, being a general annoyance. Was it any surprise such traits were also found in Alfred?
When Arthur’s face lit up, when that veneer of bored politeness cracked… Alfred was reminded why people actually tolerated (or worse, loved) Arthur. Alfred would only ever whisper it in the dead of night when he was sure Arthur was not listening. Confessing sincerely and earnestly on how much England had never truly been extracted from America.
More than once, Arthur had in fact, not been asleep, and Alfred had become ashamed to even look the man in the eye for the next three days.
Unabashed openness was a rarity in Arthur too, both in joy, and indeed in love. It was much more his style to simply open his home, offer a drink, and try to be useful. A land of such beautiful words and poets struggles to speak plainly at times, hiding behind inferences, suggestions and looks that Alfred only ever caught in candid photographs or mirror reflections.
Truly, they were as bad as each other. And yet they understood.
“I needed a break,” Alfred finally confesses.
Arthur waves him over, not commenting on his reasoning. “I’m making rice pudding for the plums. You can help. Make yourself useful.”
America could have kissed Arthur. Not for the gift of rice pudding; Alfred feels it is slop - unpleasant in texture and lacking in any flavour - but for Arthur’s immediate understanding. The time of a nation was valuable, and often they were used as endless free labour. It could be physical (Ivan’s railway construction came to mind), but for people like Alfred and Arthur, it was bureaucracy. An office intern with no voice in policy and yet expected to enact decisions to carry them through.
Arthur learned long ago how to bite back; his own workaholic nature would take care of the punishing hours, no effort required from Downing Street whatsoever. Alfred, the perpetual people pleaser, had experienced varied results.
Some years are better than others.
Arthur understands and seems very content - proud even - of his ability to be a bulwark for Alfred. More than once, he has slammed the door shut in the face of some silly-looking man in a suit demanding the world’s superpower to get in the black car.
Arthur knows when not to prod. Some things he will not let drop, badgering and arguing until Alfred cracks. Other times, he will do as he is doing in that moment - hearing the unsaid and knowing exactly what needs to be done.
A distraction, a comfort, an indulgence.
“There’s condensed milk in the pull-out cupboard. Two cans.”
The ping of the microwave leads to Arthur bustling around the tiny kitchen. There is a pile of dishes waiting to be washed in the basin and sticky surfaces of spilt sugar and fruit juice. Arthur hums to himself as he works, matching the quiet radio and its dreamlike rhythms.
Alfred places the cans squarely on the counter, then lays his chin on Arthur’s shoulder, right at the junction of his neck. The warm breath that he exhales visibly causes Arthur to shiver.
Not exactly looking back at America, Arthur raises a hand up to run his fingers through the boy’s golden hair.
“Your coffee’ll get cold,” England gently chides.
Alfred hums, only to wrap his arms around Arthur. England’s cool hands (so perfect for baking those cursed scones) hold on to one of Alfred’s own, the other petting him softly.
“Big baby,” Arthur murmurs right into Alfred’s ear. “Rest up. You’re home now.”
Once, perhaps not too long ago, Alfred would have bitten back an angry and spiteful retort, but now it was not so. Home was an idea, a feeling, many places and many people. His glamorous and large apartment in New York; his ranch in Texas with his wonderful horses; sitting in Montreal with Mattie watching the Canadiens lose to Tampa Bay for the Stanley Cup final (both of them drunk for differing reasons).
Holding on to Arthur like a buoy in the man’s tired and cluttered kitchen, a lukewarm coffee on a dirty counter, an excessive amount of boiled fruit cooling in a bowl.
Home.