Chapter Text
“What in heaven’s name are you doing here?” Arthur asked, looking startled to see Alfred standing there in his house, dripping with the rainwater from the outside, his hair plastered to his forehead. The door swung shut behind him. He stood there, dripping.
Alfred didn’t say anything right away, because he found that capturing words was a bit too difficult in the given situation. But he refused to slant his eyes away. He believed it had to be a good sign, if Arthur was not reaching for his musket or any kind of weapon, upon seeing his enemy—his rebellious colony—standing in his front room as if he belonged there.
“I’m visiting you,” Alfred said, tried to stay calm and keep the waver from his voice.
Arthur’s eyes narrowed at him, and he walked steadily around the room, a seemingly absently-guided perimeter that Alfred knew was perfectly strategic, Arthur’s way of taking Alfred in without having to come close. Alfred had always been able to see through this, whenever Arthur attempted diplomacy, attempted schooled distance.
Alfred held strong. He knew what he had to do, and he didn’t like it. It hadn’t necessarily been his idea, but it had spawned from his people, with strategic advice from Francis, Gilbert, and Antonio. To keep the enemy close. There were still ties of kinship between Alfred and Arthur, they argued, and that was something that should be exploited. To learn the colonizer’s weaknesses, his strategies. Secretly, Alfred doubted the validity and possible success of such a plan, but he was never one to back down from a challenge. And he would do everything he could, in the end, to win this fight and be free of Arthur—even if that meant flocking to Arthur’s side. If only for the time being, he silently reminded himself.
“Visiting,” Arthur repeated, at last, weighing the word. Alfred almost cringed.
The room was unnaturally silent, and Arthur came to a stop in front of Alfred, but with a respectable distance between them.
“Yes,” Alfred said, trying to stay calm.
“Are you forgetting that you have seen fit to break away from me, my dear lad?” Arthur murmured, regarding him with cool neutrality.
“I haven’t forgotten,” Alfred said.
“So I suppose this visit is not because you have decided to return to me.”
“No,” Alfred agreed. He took a step forward, and watched Arthur’s shoulders stiffen. “But regardless of a fight or a battle or a war, I can still visit my brother if I see fit, can’t I?”
The word brother almost choked on his tongue. How he loathed to speak it, how he loathed to reestablish that tie to Arthur. He reminded himself, quietly in the back of his mind, that he did not have to mean the words he said. He only had to make sure Arthur believed it.
Alfred continued to walk towards Arthur. Arthur’s eyes narrowed further.
Alfred paused a short distance in front of him, staring at his enemy’s face. Enemy. That was all Arthur was and all he ever would be, for Alfred. The trick, now, Francis had outlined in full, with strategic insights from Antonio, and muffled curses from Gilbert, was to make Arthur believe that Alfred believed these things. To keep Arthur close, to fool him, to bring him so close that it would be child’s play to break him. The moment that Arthur let his guard down, the moment that he provided Alfred the opening—that would be the finishing blow, the only way to break Arthur’s stronghold, the only way for such a shattering moment to hum in the veins of all of Arthur’s soldiers—to ensure, above all else, that Alfred would be free.
Alfred was willing to do anything, for a chance at that.
Arthur, meanwhile, was watching him very closely, his expression betraying nothing as he watched Alfred approach.
“Alfred,” Arthur said, abruptly, the single name somehow incredibly halting.
Alfred did freeze, staring at Arthur.
“Yes?”
Arthur did not say anything for a long moment, simply regarded Alfred’s face, his own eyes narrowed, his lips a flat line. But still he did not move to kick Alfred from the house, or grab his weapon.
Sentimental fool, Alfred could not help but think.
It’d been a simple plan, laid out before Alfred. It’d taken a few months for Alfred to work out the finer details (and, if he was honest, to work up the courage to even attempt something like this). Alfred was one to battle in the fields, holding his weapon, tasting blood in the air. Attempting to use feelings was something that Alfred had never considered before, as a detriment or as a weapon. Antonio had argued that Arthur had done it all the time, in the past (and Alfred had not missed the way the Spaniard had suppressed a shiver). Francis confirmed, though, that Arthur could be incredibly brutal, in areas like that—so it was not shameful, to give the man a taste of his own medicine, especially if it meant Alfred would gain the upper hand.
No, Alfred was responsible, now, to keep his enemy close to him. And Alfred would do just that. It was how Francis and Antonio encouraged him to keep his enemy close that caused Alfred a bit of unease (and Gilbert, too, usually spent these meetings muttering in the background about how foolish this entire thing was and how brute strength was favorable).
But Alfred would not back down.
“What is it?” Alfred asked again, because Arthur had still said nothing.
“Why are you here, truly?” Arthur asked.
Alfred did not miss a beat, he just smiled. He took a step towards Arthur, hoping that the fact that he felt disgusted, felt completely loathsome and was actually shaking slightly—hoping none of that could show on his face. He had to rely on Arthur’s sentimentality to disallow him from seeing through Alfred’s plan.
“I wanted to visit you,” Alfred murmured. “Even though we are fighting a war—is it forbidden that I should see you?”
“You never have before,” Arthur said simply.
“I’m tired,” Alfred said. “Not enough to stop this war, but I… wanted to see you. Not England. You, Arthur. Brother.”
He let the last word drop off into a whisper. He suppressed the loathing.
Arthur still seemed stony faced, but there was a brief moment when the corner of his eye shifted—and in that moment, it seemed as if everything was revealed.
“Indeed,” Arthur murmured, sounding disbelieving.
Alfred took that simple exhalation as a good sign, and took another step closer. “Arthur,” he murmured. “Won’t you…”
Arthur remained silent.
Alfred stood in front of him now, their bodies so close—almost touching. It was now or never. Alfred let his eyes flicker to Arthur’s.
“I…” Alfred began, and partly from the act he was trying to do, and partly because he was honestly hesitated, his words trailed off.
“Out with it, boy,” Arthur muttered.
Alfred licked his lips, and took that final step, so that there was no denying that Alfred was too close.
“Won’t you take me, brother?”
“… What?” was Arthur’s hollow, strained response. He betrayed nothing on his face, save for the briefest moment when his expression flickered. It was barely anything. Alfred could only see it because he’d spent decades looking at Arthur and studying his face.
“Take me,” Alfred repeated, calmly, doing his best to mimic Arthur’s own face: stony coolness, nonchalance, there is nothing that I am hiding. “Make me yours again.”
“You… are my brother,” Arthur hissed, and he jerked his eyes away, his face igniting into a red flame.
Ah.
What a fool.
Alfred tipped his chin up, let his eyes fall to half-mast. “Yes,” he breathed, trying to keep the waver from his voice, “so who better for me to give my body to? You own my lands already. I’m trying to earn them back, so why not take what you can spare while you can?”
There was a long pause before Arthur turned his face again. Arthur stared at him, eyes widened and disbelieving. Alfred held his breath—would Arthur believe him? Could he see through Alfred’s lie? Or would his sentimentality blind him to the reality around him? Arthur pressed himself up against the wall, and it was such a rare moment for Arthur to actually appear cornered. But Alfred couldn’t help but think that, yes, he had Arthur cornered, couldn’t help but think that he was the one with the upper hand. That he had Arthur right where he wanted him. Right in the palm of his hand. The way Arthur was staring up at him betrayed everything and nothing—and just enough.
“How could you possibly want such a thing?” Arthur hissed.
Alfred paused. He backed a little away, to give Arthur space. He had to be subtle, he had to be nuanced. He could not be blatant, he could not be forceful in his attempted seduction—god, how he loathed to think the word; and, god, did he not want to think of how his people would behave—oh god, the Puritans, the Quakers! Alfred closed his eyes, and set a steadying hand down on the table, leaning against it calmly, training his eyes on Arthur, keeping his chin tipped slightly forward so the shadows cast slowly across his face in a desirable manner. His hair was soft, and fell in one eye. He watched Arthur.
“How?” Alfred repeated. “Is it so hard to believe?”
Arthur’s lips thinned into a curt line.
Alfred just smiled in reply. “Have you not seen how I’ve grown, Arthur? Have you not seen how I’ve watched you for so many years?”
Arthur didn’t reply right away, but that was fine. Alfred turned away and walked along the table’s length, his fingers dragging across the grain of the wood. He swallowed thickly, recalling the words he’d rehearsed with Francis weeks ago, the words falling onto his tongue like bitter honey.
“I grew, and I would always watch you. You have always been the one that I’ve desired, Arthur,” Alfred murmured. He tipped his chin up, and looked over his shoulder at Arthur. He still hadn’t moved. Alfred smiled, tried to let just a touch of nervousness into his eyes—for sincerity’s sake. “I grew and I changed for you. I tried to deny it… say that the feelings weren’t there… but…”
Here, he paused, at the head of the table, his fingers dragging up the length of a candlestick holder, his eyes on the flickering flame there. Wax drizzled down the length of the candle, and Alfred knew the light was reflecting of his face and shuddering in his eyes—and he could only hope that Arthur did not see through him, did not see straight to his heart and see all the hatred and disgust he felt in that moment. There could be no mistake for his feelings in these moments. He could not delude himself—how could he delude even Arthur, who Antonio always stressed was a master of such wordplay and manipulation? Could Alfred truly go through with it, to let Arthur take him as if he was some kind of spoils of war, as if he was not anything but the expanse of his lands and the taxations of his people?
His eyes flickered up and met Arthur’s across the room. Arthur still hadn’t moved, but he was watching Alfred intently.
Alfred offered a slightly sloppy smile, letting the lights from the candles light up his eyes, to disguise the way they really looked at Arthur. He had to pretend more, he had to try harder. He lowered his eyes, submissiveness, a coy smile still on his lips, as he made his way back towards Arthur. He half expected Arthur to move away, or push Alfred away once he was close. But, no, he just stayed still as Alfred came to a stop in front of him. Alfred lifted his hands, dragging his fingertips over the heavy red wool of Arthur’s jacket.
“Alfred…” Arthur began.
But Alfred just shook his head, his fingers curling into the lapels of Arthur’s jacket, holding tight, his thumbs pressing against the buttons of the jacket. He kept his eyes lowered, smothered the grimace he felt coiling around his spine—painful. This was too painful. But he had to do it. If it meant winning, if it meant being free—he would perform as many sins as he needed.
His thumbs pushed the button out of its hole. He saw Arthur swallow.
“Wait—” he said, quietly. Arthur looked as if he was about to raise his hand, but Alfred grasped it by the wrist before it could move.
Alfred flickered his eyes up as he pushed open the other button. Alfred smiled.
“Don’t you want me?” he asked. “Isn’t that the entire reason why you’re fighting? For a reason to have me all over again—don’t you want me?”
He watched Arthur swallow again, watched the way Arthur stared at him, his eyes flickering over Alfred’s face. Alfred just continued to smile, and brushed the coat aside.
Still locking his eyes on Arthur’s, Alfred slowly lowered himself down onto one knee, his hands dragging down Arthur’s chest, falling to the line of his trousers. His fingers pulled at the knots and buttons holding his trousers up, his eyes never once leaving Arthur. Arthur, for his part, did look as if he wanted to run away, wanted to push Alfred away. And yet he did not. And yet, he let Alfred tug his trousers down, let Alfred’s chilled hand grasp around Arthur’s limp cock, and stroke until it plumped up in his hands.
Disgusting, was all Alfred could think. What a disgusting, sentimental fool.
His fingers dragged over the fiery skin, and Arthur’s expression wavered for half a moment. Then he closed his eyes, and lifted his other hand, pushing at the hair on Alfred’s head, pushing the golden locks away from his forehead. Alfred only smiled.
“You do want me,” Alfred murmured, still smiling. “It’s alright.” Here, he swallowed, and spoke as naturally as before: “I want you, too.”
Something was pressing against his chest. He ignored it. He lowered his eyes as he lowered his mouth onto the head of Arthur’s cock. He sucked, uneasy, unused to doing such things—he only had lackadaisical instructions from Francis and Antonio (who both kept getting distracted trying to describe sex to Alfred by trying to show sex to Alfred; Gilbert spent these meetings muttering about honors of war). Alfred’s movements were clumsy at first, but it didn’t seem as if Arthur was complaining. But he wasn’t encouraging, either. He was deathly silent. Alfred didn’t dare look up again at Arthur as he sucked his cock into his mouth. He tried to relax his throat, but he felt like he was going to choke at any moment. He didn’t try to swallow him, only pressed his tongue against the underside of the hard cock, stroking it with his tongue and sliding his lips over the ridge of the cockhead and down the length. One hand grasped at Arthur’s hip, and the other hand cupped Arthur’s balls, massaging them in his hands as he tried to take in as much of Arthur as he could.
Still, Arthur was quiet. But he could tell that Arthur was enjoying it, because occasionally he jerked his hips. He tried to suppress the movement, and Alfred held onto his hip tightly to keep him stationary as his inexperienced and inexpert mouth moved over the length, his tongue stroking at the thick vein in his cock, swirling around the tip, and hollowing his mouth to capture the hot flesh into the pocket of his cheek, avoiding his teeth as much as possible. His tongue stroked at the flesh and little by little he took more of Arthur into his mouth.
It took a little while, but eventually Alfred felt as if he might actually be enjoying this. If he could ignore that it was Arthur, he could admit to himself there was something exciting about stroking his fingers along the base of a hot cock, his tongue tasting the flesh, his lips pillowing along the cockhead, dusty with blood-flow, and relaxing his throat as much as possible so he could press the cock against the flat of his tongue and try to swallow Arthur. Arthur was too big and Alfred was too inexperienced to take too much, but as he progressed, he was able to swallow more. He curled his tongue along the length of the cock, cradled it in his hands, and curled his lips around the tip, suckling and slurping. Because of Arthur’s silence, he stayed silent, too, even though he wanted to moan as his own cock plumped up in his trousers and strained against the fabric. Eventually one of Alfred’s hands fell down to his own crotch, and rubbed. His hips circled and he writhed against his hand as he rubbed at himself as his mouth copied the movements against Arthur’s own cock.
Arthur’s hands curled into Alfred’s hair, and held him. Alfred, despite his better judgment, let his eyes drift upward towards Arthur’s face again. Arthur was staring down at him, his lips slightly parted, his face flushed, his eyes only and completely on Alfred. Alfred smiled around the cock in his mouth and sucked more into his mouth, feeling a bit of salvia threaten to dribble down his chin. He opened his mouth, let his tongue drag over the tip, before he pulled away from the cock to look properly up at Arthur. As he shifted, the cock dragged across his cheek, just briefly, but Alfred paid it no mind. He was in strange, foreign territory now, but if the way the sweat was shining Arthur’s forehead was any indication, he was doing a good job.
“Arthur,” Alfred murmured, in just the right kind of husky tone that Francis had tried to show him before. His heart thudded against his chest and he suppressed all the feelings roiling in his gut. He couldn’t address them now, didn’t want to address them now. He swallowed thickly. Memories from the years before the war were inexplicably bubbling in his chest—and this was not the time to revisit them. No, it would never be the time again.
Especially when Alfred was determined to make Arthur release in his mouth. Arthur still said nothing, though he at least looked as if he might, and Alfred just fisted his fingers around the cock and pumped a few times before taking it back into his mouth, corkscrewing his head down the length and pulling back up with an audible pop as the cock left his mouth. He continued this, his hand dragging down the cock and Alfred’s mouth following him, swirling his tongue and his lips around and along the length until Arthur, despite himself, let out a tiny gasp and jerked his hips up to meet Alfred’s movements.
Alfred choked but didn’t dare pull his mouth away. He pushed the flat of his tongue against the tip of Arthur’s cockhead, teasing the slit with his tongue and sucking and blowing his hot breath against the feverish skin. Arthur shivered, and Alfred grinned in his triumph before plumping his lips against the length again, dragging slowly down it in feather-light touches that drove Arthur wild—if the ceaseless, jerking thrusts of Arthur’s hips were any indication.
He kissed along the underside, lapping his tongue over the length and leaving bruising, open-mouthed kisses against the hot flesh. Arthur murmured something, but the words were unintelligible as Alfred continued his task, now fully absorbed in getting his goal. Arthur’s hips continued to thrust, and Alfred used both his hands to push Arthur back against the wall. This way, Arthur couldn’t choke him, and Alfred dove into the task of driving the cock hard into his mouth. He bobbed his head, mimicking the movements Arthur’s thrusts had done and took the cock into his mouth, until the cockhead pressed against the resistance of his tongue or the smooth of his cheek. He kept his mouth open, taking the cock into his mouth, tasting the flesh, tasting the thrum of blood.
Soon, though, he felt Arthur tensing up beneath his hands, and he froze, sucking the cockhead into his mouth and staring up at Arthur as Arthur jerked his hips one last time and Alfred could taste the seed filling his mouth. Alfred didn’t take his eyes off Arthur as he sucked it into his mouth. Arthur’s face was completely closed off, his mouth flopped open and his eyes slammed shut as his body shuddered uncontrollably under Alfred’s touches. Alfred sucked it into his mouth and, with only a little bit of disdain, swallowed the seed. It slid down his throat and he felt his entire body burn. The pressure against his trousers was almost painful, but he resisted.
Once he’d had his fill, once he knew that Arthur was completely spent, Alfred pulled his mouth away from Arthur’s cock, and then reverently did the buttons and ties of his trousers. Then, slower still, he did the buttons of Arthur’s jacket and slowly rose to his feet, rose to his full height over Arthur. Arthur stared at him, dazed and only slightly unsure. Alfred smiled again, tried to make it soft even though his lips were red and swollen from the actions. He leaned in, as if to touch his lips to Arthur’s, to kiss him.
Arthur closed his eyes and turned his face away. Alfred didn’t stop moving, though, and just buried his face into Arthur’s hair, nosing at his ear for a moment and trying to suppress the bitter smile curling across his face—
Had he broken Arthur so easily?
His body was begging for attention, but if he’d completed his task—if Arthur had lost all his strength just from that, then he would never have to return again. If Arthur would even refuse to kiss him—
“Goodbye,” Alfred whispered into Arthur’s ear, and then before Arthur could react, Alfred spun around and flew from the house, as if his feet had not even touched the ground.
He ran into the forest, to make his escape. Not that he expected Arthur would follow after him. If that had been all it took for Arthur to break, then Alfred truly was flying—triumphant, victorious. It hadn’t been that degrading, hadn’t been that hard.
He pressed his back up against a tree to catch his breath, his thoughts humming a mile a minute. His cock was still hard, pressing against his trousers. Alfred closed his eyes, pressed a hand to his chest, and then slowly ran it down. He tried to resist, but couldn’t—the pleasure was too great. His hand shoved into his trousers and he fisted his cock, pumping his hand up and down furiously. It was enjoyable—no wonder Arthur had lost control with only Alfred’s mouth—
Alfred wondered what it’d feel like to have Arthur’s mouth around his cock—
He shouldn’t think of such things, it was meant to disgust him. But it didn’t. Instead, he felt a spike of pleasure and no matter how hard he tried to resist the image, all he could see was Arthur on his knees in front of him, sucking Alfred’s cock into his mouth and being able to take all of him, until the cockhead teased at Arthur’s throat.
Alfred came long and hard into his hand, his seed spilling over his fingertips and his body shuddering and shivering. Alfred bit his lip to keep from saying anything, and his body jerked and writhed against his hand.
Once he came down from the pleasure, he stared down at his hand, his expression darkening. He knelt down and rubbed his hand against the grass, to clean his hand off.
“It’s natural,” he whispered, “it’s not that I want him. If you do something like that, your body’s bound to react. No matter how you feel about that person.”
Satisfied with that excuse, Alfred ran more, back towards his own camp, away from Arthur, away from this strategy—he’d been victorious.
---
“I did it!” Alfred announced as he threw the flap of the tent open and saw Gilbert, Antonio, and Francis sitting around and playing some kind of card game. The three men looked up as Alfred bounded into the tent and sat down between Antonio and Gilbert, shoving his elbow into Antonio a little in order to make room for himself.
“So soon?” Francis asked, not looking up from his hand of cards.
“Yeah,” Alfred said, and as the words caught up with him, he blushed furiously. “It wasn’t that bad, I guess.”
“If you’re all going to start talking about this, I’m leaving,” Gilbert announced.
“You will do no such thing,” Francis drawled with an airy little smile. “You are winning, after all.”
Gilbert’s face screwed up into annoyance—and he indeed seemed torn between staying and winning more at the card game, or listening to Alfred talk about cock and Arthur in the same sentence. Eventually his greed ruled out over his annoyance at such war strategies and he threw a couple cards down.
Antonio, cheerful as ever, smiled at Alfred. “That was quick.”
“Yeah, well,” Alfred said, blushing. “Now it’s over and I don’t have to think about it.”
“It truly only took you lying with our dear Angleterre once before he was broken? Tsk,” Francis scoffed, “I hardly believe it.”
“But it’s me,” Alfred said, “He’s bound to be really sentimental and easily broken by stuff like that, right?”
“What exactly did he do that made you so sure he was broken?” Francis asked.
Gilbert muttered something about the proper way to break someone is to cut them in half.
Alfred said, feeling himself grin in his triumph, “He wouldn’t kiss me afterwards.”
Much to his chagrin, however, both Antonio and Francis burst into laughter. Francis threw down a couple of cards, ignored Gilbert’s curse, and said, “Mon cher, that means nothing.”
“Huh?” Alfred asked.
“Arthur wouldn’t deign to kiss anyone he’s using,” Antonio said, and then rubbed self-consciously at his wrists, as if remembering them being shackled. He didn’t notice the way Gilbert was craning his neck so he could see Antonio’s cards. Antonio continued, “No, that does not mean anything.”
“But…”
“Trust us,” Francis said, and also peeked over to see Antonio’s cards once he saw Gilbert doing it. “We have dealt with Arthur much more than you have, in these… contexts.” He laughed, as if this was some great joke, and Antonio muttered something in Spanish as Gilbert rolled his eyes. Francis ignored the other two, and kept his gaze on Alfred. “He could very well be using you in turn, Alfred. You must be careful.”
“But…” Alfred repeated.
“The way to know that Arthur can be broken,” Antonio said, quietly, “is when he lets himself be vulnerable to you. Only then.”
“Vulnerable?” Alfred parroted.
Antonio nodded. “You’ll know it, when you see it. Only then can you do what you set out to do.”
“Tread wisely,” Francis warned, and collected the discarded cards on the table and began to shuffle them, smiling pleasantly. “Arthur is not easily broken. He is astute—he could very well be trying to break you in turn.”
“No way that can happen,” Alfred scoffed. “He’s the emotional old fool. I’m just using him.”
Antonio once again muttered something in Spanish that Alfred did not catch.
Francis only smiled, perhaps a little sad. “We shall see.”