Snowy's Battle Fortress

Anons, you’re way too much. Thank you. It means a lot to me. qwq/ I’m humbled you’re still around and reading! Writing USUK is one of my favorite things to do.

Haha, well, he might not have his voice, but he’s still a very expressive butt in a variety of ways. >w<7

You tell me. B)

Ohh, I’m glad! Yeah, I had a ton of fun writing that ‘weird’ sex scene. It’s always great to get to experiment with their anatomy! Yet, it somehow always ends the same way, with things put in other things. >w>b

Awww, thanks, you! It’s always great to see you around. I appreciate it!

>w< <33

Regarding Requests

Arthur's not facing him when Alfred enters through the door, but he turns quickly enough, and Alfred's reminded for not the first time why he finds this whole thing worth it.

"Hey, sweetheart," he greets. Feeling in a particularly good mood, he gives Arthur a quick peck on the cheek.

The merman, who had still appeared agitated, relaxes somewhat, and pens down, 'Thank you.'

"Aww, no insults?" Alfred teases.

Arthur frowns and adds, 'Arse.'

"That's more like it," he says, and then he gives his mer-husband a nice slap on the 'rump', because he can. Arthur squeakily sputters.

"I'll make dinner," Alfred volunteers, wading into the kitchen. The appliance situation is tricky, so they're stuck mostly using a wood stove to cook their meals. At least if the fire falls into the water, it'll just go out, not zap them all.

Arthur has a fondness for fish and chips, so Alfred pulls some frozen stuff out of the secured freezer to heat up. It'd been news to him that the merman could eat human foods. Apparently, the scientists had never bothered to ask.

And watching him swallow fish filets was way less disturbing than watching him swallow a live fish.

Arthur swims in after him, gliding along the top of the water, fluid and elegant.

He's gained weight.

It's a weird thing to notice, but it's not a bad thing. Alfred hadn't realized just how skinny Arthur was until Arthur started eating a similar diet to himself. The merman was slender before, but he'd kind of assumed it was a detail of his nature, not a sign of malnutrition. Now, with just a few pounds, there's a softness and a glow emerging in his skin that wasn't there before, and even his hair is looking a bit more shiny and soft. Clearly, a variety of fats, carbs, and protein has done him some good. Not to mention the vitamins he's on, which he apparently refused to take before back at the aquarium.

Ludwig had said back then, out of earshot of Arthur, that without his voice he had maybe two months to live.

It's been four now.

At first the silence in their flooded home had been kind of overwhelming, the sway of water being one of the most prominent noises if Alfred wasn't talking. But, Alfred's been kind of demanding with the scientists and his budget…

He hears Arthur swim over to a plastic-covered tablet mounted on the wall, the merman fiddling with the device for a minute or so. Then, music starts to play. It's some terrible punk band.

"God, you have the worst taste," Alfred complains, glancing back to find Arthur half-lying on their kitchen table and smirking at him, which means he clearly chose it on purpose.

Who knew a merman would absolutely love songs about anarchy, nihilism, and government dissolution? It's not even new stuff, some of it's just old stuff about hating your parents and wanting to get a tattoo.

"Pffft," Alfred laughs to himself. He talks out loud a lot lately, for both their sake. "Merman with a tattoo."

He hears an abrupt splash and turns away from the wood stove to see Arthur's underwater and swimming towards him. His husband pops up again at his side, hair wet, and eyes puppy-dog wide.

It takes Alfred a moment, but then he gets it. "No, no way— we're not getting you a tattoo."

Arthur's face just screams but moooooooom.

"Why would you even— no, what would it even be a tattoo of?" Alfred says, gesturing out the silliness of this with his spatula. "A fish?"

The merman scowls briefly and then shakes his head. He turns, relocates his whiteboard and extremely durable pen from underwater, and resurfaces in order to write out, 'A dolphin.'

"You're kidding," Alfred says.

Arthur erases it and writes, 'Yes.'

Alfred exhales relief and turns to flip the filets. The smell of cooking food is a nice change from the smell of half-flooded house.

Arthur tugs at his rubber pants.

Turning, Alfred sees that the merman has written, 'I want a mark like the one on your face.'

"Oh… that mate mark thing?" Alfred asks. The three black lines are still there, just as crisp as when Arthur first made them. He's not sure how it works and neither are the scientists, but they're having a field day running experiments on it.

Arthur doesn't erase his desire, instead just writing under it, 'Yes.'

"Does it, uh… count if it's not a mer bite?" Alfred asks him. "Is it just the appearance of it that's important?"

His husband hesitates at that, looking visibly unsure, which confirms Alfred's suspicions that the bite is more than just a visible mark. He'd had that thought before and it'd stuck with him, but it's hard to pinpoint why he feels that way.

Although, now he thinks he might have pointed out something sort of unkind, because obviously Alfred's never going to be able to bite him the same way Arthur did.

Moreover, he hates when Arthur looks all dejected like that.

Alfred carefully, quietly, places down the spatula before tackling his lover into the water.

Arthur's not expecting it—and why would he when Alfred tries to avoid getting wet most days—so there's no resistance as they tumble back into the water together, Alfred wrapping his legs around Arthur's wriggling body and pinning him close, roughhousing together briefly, even if it means that he’s soaked now and his rubber pants are full of water.

The merman has become more sensitive to his need for air, so it's Arthur who pulls them back up, allowing Alfred to suck in a needed lungful.

There's some annoyance, yeah, but the vivid, dancing green of Arthur's eyes tells Alfred that he enjoys this. You can never go wrong with physical contact between lovers.

It also looks like he's laughing a bit, with how he's shaking, so Alfred turns playfully angry. "Are you laughing at me? Are you laughing at me?"

Arthur starts shaking more, telltale.

So, like any good human of the house, he uses his nimble fingers to tickle him.

Arthur is insanely ticklish—Alfred doesn't know how or why, but his neck is ticklish, his armpits are ticklish, his stomach is ticklish, and his tail is really, really ticklish if you dance your fingers over his scales in the right way. Within ten seconds he has the merman thrashing and splashing, attempting valiantly to squirm out of Alfred's hold. Further, he laughs—loud—the strange dolphin-esque noise that Alfred's grown increasingly fond of.

In Arthur's struggle, he works them closer towards the kitchen table and Alfred bangs his head.

"Ow!" The human complains, alerting Arthur to the pain, which causes the merman to still. Alfred's stopped tickling him, so that helps.

The merman's peering at him, slightly fraught and guilty, like he might have killed Alfred. He has that expression less and less each day, but apparently it’s still a big fear of his. Alfred hasn't yet asked why, but he will one day, when he thinks it might help Arthur to vent it all.

"I'm fine," Alfred tells him with a smile, patting Arthur's head. "And, hey, you know what, maybe I can mark you."

Arthur perks up at that, wide-eyed, and Alfred releases him to wade over and grab something.

Returning, he tells Arthur, "Close your eyes."

Arthur does.

He draws three similar looking lines on Arthur's face with the pen. It won't be permanent, but it'll take a few days to come off at least.

It's clear Arthur's figured it out when he opens his eyes, because he's frowning a little bit, but when he glances down at his reflection in the water and sees the marking his tail begins to wag a little bit, an unconscious act that always gives him away.

Alfred grins.

Then he notices that from all their roughhousing apparently Arthur's now sporting a giant mer-boner.

"Oh my god, you're disgusting," Alfred comments, still not used to his husband's shameless fish erection, nor to the various causes of it. You can't encourage bad behavior, after all. That's animal psych 101, right?

The worst part is that Arthur gives literally zero fucks at this point, because as he's explained more than once, Alfred is his mate and therefore displaying your cock when you're horny is a compliment.

Alfred has no idea how Ludwig could think Arthur would only last two months—he has enough sexual frustration to last him at least ten years, if not longer.

The human starts wading back over towards the stove, before his merman lover can start humping his leg or something.

The fish filets are soggy and soaked. The fire is out. They did this.

Alfred throws up his hands. "I guess we're ordering takeout and having sex!"

From behind, he can hear Arthur's suppressed laughter, this time not suppressed enough to avoid the soft, breathy squeaks he makes when he's giggling.

He flings himself back, his feet catch on something wet and slimy, and he goes down like a sack of potatoes. He's mostly sure he's not concussed or anything, since he hit his shoulder more than his head, but he can't help by lie there in the dark for a moment, hoping beyond hope that if he plays dead then the bogeyman will let him live.

The shower curtain is pulled back by someone who isn't Alfred, the shhhink of metal against metal sending his heart rate soaring. The thing in the tub moves and with it comes the slosh of water, and then there's a splash as it pulls itself up and over the lip of the basin, sliding out onto the tile with a serpentine smoothness.

It sidles up to him and Alfred can barely breath. His eyes are pinched shut and he's sweating.

Someone flicks his cheek with a cool finger.

Alfred frowns and opens his eyes.

It's still hard to see, but Arthur's pale skin seems to glow in the darkness, and the bizarrely illuminated eyes look less evil and more a gentle green up close. The merman is peering down at him, head tilted like a bird's, intrigued.

"Oh— Oh yeah, Arthur," Alfred wheezes, relieved. "Jesus fucking Christ, you scared me. I forgot you were in here."

The silence reminds him that Arthur can't talk, which is awkward. It isn't like he would be able to write in the dark, either. Alfred figures it'd probably be best to get up and turn on the lights, get Arthur put back, and then return to bed, if not for their comfort then at least for his own sanity.

That… doesn't exactly happen.

Arthur shifts and his tail moves to rest over Alfred's legs, heavy dead weight, and suddenly things become really, really awkward when the merman snuggles up to him, pressing flush, cool, wet, inhuman skin flush against Alfred's bare chest. Arthur runs webbed, scaled fingers over his pecks and abs.

"Um…"

He wants to chock this up to simple curiosity, because that seems like the most reasonable thing to do, but Arthur's fingers slide up to his cheek, his palm then cupping the side of Alfred's face.

The merman turns Alfred's head and, when it moves him, Alfred finds colder lips meeting his own.

Arthur's kissing him.

A merman is kissing him.

A very male humanoid sea creature is kissing him.

Alfred's stunned. This is wrong. It must be wrong, right? This can't be right. That would be wrong!

God, though—

This isn't fair. This isn't fair at all. Arthur's gorgeous and he knows that, even if he can't see him clearly in the darkness. Maybe Arthur knows that too. Maybe he realizes how ethereally beautiful he looks underwater, how he's like an ocean nymph, how his tail swaying him along only accentuates the flair of his perfect hips and the line down his back that almost but doesn't quite seam into the line of an ass.

Maybe he knows that his hair looks silken, in and out of water, and his eyes are reflective and bright, wet gemstones that flickers and darken with an endless variety of emotions—

It occurs to Alfred that maybe he's being seduced somehow. Maybe, as he slides his tongue into that strangely cool mouth, tastes salt and something pleasant, navigates around the jut of pointed teeth, that Arthur's doing this to him on purpose.

God, though, Alfred's okay with that.

Arthur doesn't appear to need air—maybe he doesn't breathe the way Alfred does—but Alfred needs it, so he breaks away, face flushed, and feels that damp body against his in a much more suggestive light, which isn't helped by the fact that he has a boner.

"Look," Alfred starts, voice strained, "I- I'm impulsive and this is kind of a lot and if we stay like this, then I don't know what I'm capable of."

He can see a little better now that his sight has adjusted. He can see Arthur's inquisitive head tilt and the half-liddedness of his expressive eyes.

"What I'm trying to say," Alfred manages to get out through the nervous lump in his throat, "is that I'll— I'll wanna go all the way. You get that, right?"

He can feel his heart thud in his ears as he waits for some kind of response, obviously nonverbal, and after a brief pause he feels Arthur's hand take his and guide it somewhere.

That somewhere being…

Oh god.

It takes him a moment to understand what it is that he's feeling, because it honestly seems like Arthur's just pressed his fingers to some of his scales, and while they're really pretty that doesn't exactly come across with touch. But, Arthur's insistent, and he's leading, and then Alfred feels some of those scales give.

It's bizarre and unexpected, but it's like there's this sudden sinking—a divot—before the pad of his index finds a warm, fleshy heat.

This is Arthur's—

Breathe. Breathe.

This is Arthur's… hole. It’s nestled between his hips, a little lower down than where he’d have stuff if he were human. Alfred isn't quite sure he understands how it works or what it is, but this is apparently what Arthur wanted to show him. And maybe Alfred's a pervert or maybe he's some kind of intense fetishist and never knew, but holy fuck does his cock throb, and he can't stop himself. He wants to touch it—touch Arthur there, inside of him.

So, like any red-blooded male with an invitation, he does.

He starts with just one finger, sliding it in, experimental, and is rewarded with Arthur tensing up around him. He'd be concerned, but Arthur presses in closer, wrapping his damp, cool arms around Alfred's neck and resting his face against Alfred's collarbone, so this is probably the right direction to take things.

Wriggling it around inside of the merman, he starts to map the fleshy cavern in his head. There's a smooth part, a rough part, some kind of ribbed part…

It's just one finger, but Arthur is tight, and so it's no surprise when Alfred starts to feel the hot puff of quick exhales against his neck, which means that Arthur must breathe from his mouth and nose at least part of the time.

In his distraction, it takes Alfred a beat to realize that something's pressing against his finger, internally. And it keeps doing that, until—

Until it's coming out of the merman's body.

It's his fucking dick.

Alfred can kind of see it in the muted grey that is a dark bathroom, and god-fucking-damn. It's weird looking, long, and narrow—emphasis on long. It rivals the length of Alfred's forearm, which has serious implications as to what kind of vaginal canal that thing's meant for.

However, despite the arrival of the merman's much-talked-about penis, Alfred's finger is still buried inside of him, and the cavern is still very much accessible, if not all the tighter with a new arrival having sprouted from it.

Alfred slides in a second finger, using his free hand to grip Arthur's cock, sliding his palm up and down it and finding it fascinatingly slimy.

Arthur makes a noise.

It's not quite a vocalization, per se, but it is a sound—it's that squeaking, but softer, continuous, pleasant, and lulling. He's overwhelmed. He's moaning.

"You like that, huh?" Alfred goads a bit, turned on, unable to conceal how massively aroused this whole thing has made him. "You like the feel of human hands on you, don't you?"

The erotic noises pitch briefly as Arthur tenses, body squeezing on Alfred's fingers, a restless kind of squirming beginning to bud in the merman's body. Alfred stretches the entrance to Arthur's body with his fingers, scissoring. The end of Arthur's tail momentarily spasms.

"You want me to put my cock in here, right?" Alfred asks him, but it's knowing, because he does know, because Arthur's losing it with just his fingers. "You wanna be fucked raw on the floor of a human's bathroom?"

Arthur's breathing goes quick, like a rabbit's.

Not wanting to push him over the edge before they have a bit more fun, Alfred retrieves his erection from his pajamas and teases the slit entrance beneath Arthur's protruding length. Arthur both presses in and shrinks away, as if oversensitive.

Alfred gets a good position and starts pushing it in, but once the head sinks completely into that melty abyss, he finds himself slamming the rest down all at once, the sheer tightness and heat leeching into his senses, maddeningly amazing.

Arthur makes a loud, piercing, yowl a of squeak, kind of like a dolphin noise, and Alfred tries not to think about the fact that the rest of the apartment definitely heard that. The idea of the others throwing open the door to find him with his dick buried in the merman's body makes the whole thing feel more erratic and, honestly, deviant, which seems to heighten the intensity of the situation.

"You gotta be quiet, babe," Alfred tells Arthur, graveled teasing, and in the darkness he finds the merman swiveling to look at him, eyes overwhelmed but eager, if not slightly embarrassed.

Alfred just covers Arthur's mouth with his own, not entirely convinced it'll do them any good, and he begins to rock into the merman's body, sliding out and it, until the merman's slit is so swollen and open to him that he can pop his dick out and then slip it inside again with only the thrust of his hips.

Arthur's undeniably tight and undeniably not built for this, and he's crazy loud, squeaking and even semi-mewling into Alfred's mouth. There's a bit of frenzy to it and, at some point, Alfred cuts his tongue on one of the merman's teeth, but that just makes it all the better.

Understandably, Alfred hasn't done this ever and Arthur might not have either, so the edge sweeps in on them faster than the human can adapt to. He starts jerking off Arthur's length more vigorously, hoping they can at least be somewhat close to one another in orgasm timing.

He doesn't expect for Arthur to then, with full body spasms, tail slapping back against the base of the toilet and the side of the tub, come with such force that Alfred subsequently falls down that rabbit hole as well.

It's a good fucking orgasm as he dumps his seed into the questionable hole in Arthur's body, but—

But, Arthur also produces sperm, and that's a factor Alfred hadn't quite expected.

Furthermore, it's a lot.

Arthur's body splatters them with a firehouse of fertile fluids and Alfred can't help the immediate association his brain has between his own orgasm and that, because it's so fucked up, but it's so hot too at the same time, and Alfred struggles not to groan because opening his mouth would definitely mean tasting jizz at this point.

Of course, he loses that battle.

It feels like someone's drained him of his life energy when he falls from that precipice and Arthur's much the same way. They flop limp on the tile, like dead fish, a puddle of tub water and seed around them—mostly seed, in fact. Alfred's bare skin is slick with it, but Arthur’s thoroughly coated too, so at least it’s fair.

"That was… good," Alfred comments, breathless, in that stunned state of aftershock that says more than words could.

Arthur doesn't say anything, of course, but he slides in close, hovering near the side of Alfred's face. It seems like he's going to give the human a cute little kiss on the cheek.

Instead, he bites him.

In the morning, Gilbert and Matthew know.

Oh, they know. They know so hard that there's this silent, focused scrutiny when Alfred wanders into the living room. He's not sure if it was the loud sex, or the late night shower that Arthur let him take, or the fact that he just covered the merman semen with towels and called it a night, but they know. Oh, do they know.

"Congrats on the sex," Gilbert says neutrally, the first one to break the silence. Matthew chokes on air.

"Uh, thanks," Alfred replies, not about to deny the undeniable.

"What happened to your face?" Gil asks, which causes Matthew to immediately examine him more closely as well, like the good brother that he is, even if he's wheezing.

"Arthur nipped me," he admits, "but I'm not sure why."

"... The sex was consensual, ri—,"

"Yeah, it was," Alfred confirms, really not eager for that kind of accusation right now.

"He bit you?" Matthew says, looking at Alfred's cheek. His brother runs a finger over the spot and Alfred flinches away.

"That's sensitive, dude."

"This doesn't look like a bite, Al. It's black—there's no wound."

"What?"

"He's not wrong," Gilbert adds helpfully.

Alfred frowns at that but walks over to the wall-mounted flatscreen and peers at his reflection in the glass. He pokes at the mark and, sure enough, it doesn't seem like a wound. There are three lines, clearly the curve of the merman's teeth, but there's no… indent or broken skin. All that remains are the black, inky lines.

"... Huh," Alfred comments.

"We'll just ask Ludwig when he shows up," Gilbert decides.

"Ludwig's coming?"

"Well, yeah. It's kinda almost noon already and you know they sort of noticed Arthur was gone when they came in. There's security footage and everything."

Alfred stares at him.

Gilbert just has this accepting look on his face as he nibbles his toast. "Dude, I do the dumbest shit when I'm drunk, okay? As much as I want to save Arthur, what can we actually do?"

"We could set him free," Alfred suggests, "just like Free Willy. That was the plan, right?"

Lowering his toast, Gilbert turns somber. "Al, that merman was taken as a baby. He's been in captivity for twenty years. I don't even know if he could survive out there. You take every danger to humans and then you leave him surrounded by them—how's he gonna get through that?"

Alfred doesn't like that answer.

But, what the fuck can he actually say to it? Gilbert's right. Dumping Arthur in the ocean would probably kill him. And what kind of life is there for Arthur in Alfred's bathtub?

He's depressed for a little bit after hearing that. A half hour later, after having time to think, he heads for the bathroom to talk to Arthur about it, but the doorbell rings.

Ludwig's here.

Gilbert lets him in and, surprisingly, the younger German man is alone, no police flanking him this time. He isn't outwardly angry or stern, either, which immediately sets everyone on guard.

The silence as he stands there in the living room, not talking, is so thick you could cut it.

"You aren't going to be arrested," Ludwig finally tells them, which both relieves the room as well as rouses suspicion, because there's still gotta be a punishment, right?

"So, what is going to happen to us?" Gilbert asks, ready to make the plunge.

"Nothing," Ludwig says.

"Bullshit—,"

"I'm serious," Ludwig cuts in, frowning now, which is nice because when he doesn't look tense it's somehow more intimidating.

"We stole an exhibit," Alfred chimes in, because he knows Ludwig hasn't conveniently forgotten about that.

Ludwig sighs and looks at him, but then stops. After a long moment, in which the German man stares at him as if he's never seen him before, he says, "... What is that on your face?"

Alfred immediately realizes he means the mark and turns slightly so that he can't see it as clearly. "O- oh, you know, I got bit so, uh—,"

Ludwig stalks forward like a bull and grabs Alfred's jaw with a hold that Alfred thinks is stronger than Ludwig realizes, which seems to be where Gil got his strength from. He turns Alfred's face and prods at the mark.

"Ow! Watch it! That's—,"

"A breeding mark," Ludwig comments quietly.

Alfred begins to sweat, because that sounds a lot like a hickey, which makes his role in this really uncomfortably obvious.

Ludwig backs off, but he's staring at him with actual, open shock. "You mated with him."

"Well, I mean, he started it—,"

"No," Ludwig stops him, "I mean you…"

"Merpeople mate for life," Gilbert supplies.

"Yes," Ludwig confirms. "It isn't a matter of the sex… it's…"

"The merman claimed Alfred as his husband?" Matthew asks, with a voice that sounds vaguely like he kind of just wants to be included in this whole discussion. There is some concern, too, though.

"In a way," Ludwig admits.

"What does this mean?" Gilbert asks, inching in closer now that his brother is distracted enough that he trusts imminent punishment isn't on its way.

"Arranged mateships have been attempted in captivity, but have never actually been performed. A merperson, as far as our records go, has never performed the mark with a human, in the wild or otherwise. Alfred would be the first known instance of the phenomenon."

"Cool," Gil says. "So, you can just study Al now. Everyone's happy. Look, we did a good thing."

Ludwig scowls at him, but the expression slips away after a moment and gives over to resignation. "You're not wrong."

Ludwig looks at Alfred—specifically at his cheek.

"Under normal circumstances, you would all be arrested and the charges against you would be severe, however…"

A pause.

"The specimen is nearing the end of its captive lifespan."

Alfred feels his throat tighten up at that, because that sounds pretty damn bad.

"And?" Gilbert asks.

"The surgery that was performed on him was not signed off on by myself, but by a higher up," Ludwig tells them. "That surgery cuts down on a mer specimen's lifespan immensely. The researchers are unconcerned by this; a few are eager to perform an autopsy. I can't agree with their methods."

There isn't really much to say to that. The room is speechless.

"However, there is a study that they would be willing to do instead," Ludwig continues uncomfortably.

"What is it?" Alfred asks, feeling mostly dread.

Ludwig looks at him, still openly weirded out by the mark on Alfred's face. "... A cohabitation project for the remainder of its lifespan, to see if merpersons and humans could live in the same environment. Normally, it would be a difficult thing to sell, but as he's claimed you as his mate…"

"I could do that!" Alfred says, surprising even himself.

"Al, are you sure?" Matthew asks, now very, very worried.

"Yeah!"

"He could still drown you."

"Then I'll drown for science! It'll be cool."

"It is unlikely a merman would drown its mate," Ludwig says. Then he hesitates. "It may do so by accident, however…"

"See!" Matthew balks.

"It's fine, it's fine!" Alfred waves off, dismissing his brother.

They watch him as if he's gone nuts and might come down from it at any second. Alfred can't completely blame them. He'd probably be the same way, too, if he were anyone else.

But, the memory of a dark bathroom, of messy mer-hands finding the whiteboard and scrawling on it lazily, contentedly, in the dead of night, keeps sitting active in his mind, playing over and over again, even down to their panted breaths.

'I could love you.'

It'd been a messy sentence, the merman's coordination off, but it was wholly legible.

Arthur had kissed him before he could respond back then, as if not wanting him to say a word in return. And that was fair. Alfred doesn't necessarily love him yet—it's not something you say lightly.

But, he wants to.

And he'll do anything to make that happen, even if it means a sacrifice or two along the way.

Besides, they’re already gay married anyway.

.

END

Matthew glances at them from the driver's seat with that same expression of disgust and annoyance, which is totally unfair, because when Mattie drinks he becomes a hundred times worse than anything they could ever hope to be.

They pull out of the parking lot, the sun setting soon, the world in twilight, and it would be sort of magical if Alfred wasn't squished up against the window with Gilbert next to him on the truck's long front seat, the white-haired deviant playing air guitar to a station he insisted Matthew turn on, Alfred's brother repeatedly telling Gil to shut up and watch his flailing or they're all gonna die.

A quick stop at Gilbert's house has him running in and then, five minutes later, running back out again. The maniac dives into the truck, straight onto Alfred's lap, and starts yelling, "Drive, drive, drive!"

Matthew does, nearly having a heart attack. When questioned, Gilbert admits that his brother wasn't actually home, but he thought it would be funny to do that anyway.

"We gotta wait until nine," Gilbert tells the car.

"Why?" Matthew asks, extremely suspicious at this point.

"Because."

And that's that.

At around nine fifteen they creep up on the aquarium, Gilbert instructing Matthew to park near an employee entrance in the back and then telling him to wait for them. Normally, Matthew would be against letting two drunks wander into a closed aquarium, but he's pissed off by this point so all he says is, "Don't you two fucking drown or something. I'll kill you both."

Alfred's never been to the aquarium this late, so when he and Gilbert walk in together he's kind of expecting something more. Instead, it's pretty much the same, but some of the tank lights are off or set to a night lighting. The eeriness of hearing nothing but sloshing water noises, though, is super creepy.

In the back, they climb up to the ledge overlooking Arthur's tank, and Alfred sees something he's never seen before.

Arthur's sleeping.

It's kind of weird, really. The merman is curled up sort of like a snake and he's tucked his body into a crevice where two panels of the tank meet, nearest the public facing area, as if trying to be as far away from the lingering, late employees as possible.

"Yo, Arthur!" Gilbert yells, before proceeding to kick the empty fish bucket sitting near the ledge into the water.

That wakes him up.

Arthur startles, thoroughly disoriented, and does this kind of panic wriggle swim as if to get away from the source, which only has him clinging to a side wall. When the merman notices the bucket, he visibly calms some, but his expression remains wild-eyed and frenzied.

"Cool, he's up. I'm gonna go get the cherry picker. You find some kinda cart or something," Gilbert says, and then he climbs down.

Alfred follows after, aware that Arthur's watching them through the back glass. The merman's tank lighting is this dim, night mode, so Arthur's eyes reflect the minimal light like a cat's, which is really freaky and not something Alfred thought merman did. It kind of makes him look like a monster, from far off, which, Alfred supposes, he kind of is.

In one of the merchandise storage rooms he finds a dolly and starts wheeling it out, when a tarp catches his eye. He grabs that, too. It just seems like a good idea.

Returning to the tank, Alfred's kind of surprised when Gilbert's already got the cherry picker positioned and the weird sling thing lowered into the water, Arthur half in it. He's not exactly sure how the other human managed to convince him to leave, but there really isn't time to ask questions.

Gilbert lifts Arthur up, out of the water, and it occurs to Alfred that securing the merman probably would have been a good idea, because his large tail starts to drag him out and Arthur clings to the sling from the other end with white-knuckled terror. When Gilbert gets the merman to ground level, Arthur slides onto the concrete floor with a wet thump.

"Help me lift him," Gilbert says, hopping out of the still-running cherry picker.

Alfred helps hoist him up, taking the tail end where Gil takes the human half. "Holy shit, he's heavy."

"Dude," Gilbert says, the word strained with the effort he's putting into carrying him, "that's rude."

They place him on the cart and Gil starts wrapping a very confused and worried looking Arthur up in the tarp. Then, with the speed of heroes, they wheel him out of the building, Alfred having to hold up the end of Arthur's tail because it's long as hell and letting it drag on the floor would just be mean.

Exiting the building, the two of them are quick to pick up the tarp and dump Arthur in the back. Gilbert has to push his tail in, so it doesn't stick up over the side.

When they hop into the carriage like thieves, Gil says, "Now is the time to drive, drive, drive!"

Matthew's a let down, because he just sits there stiffly, staring straight ahead, his face schooled into this very careful look of strained patience and restrained fury. "... What's in the back of my truck?" The words are cool, calm, and terrifying.

"I know I fuck up on the reg'," Gilbert starts, like a man giving a speech, "and I'm doing it again now. But, trust me. And if we all get out of this alive, I will happily suck your dick."

Matthew just looks at them. He just looks. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't approve. But, sometimes it's hard to go against someone important to you and also your brother at the same time.

With a look like he's going to regret this, which he probably will, Matthew starts the truck and pulls out of the lot. They go back to the apartment.

When they get there and Matthew gets out of the truck and finally sees their haul, he promptly loses his shit, volume kept deliberately low and hushed as he says, "You stole a mermaid?"

"Chill, dude, it's a merman," Gilbert says as he unhooks the hatch of the truck to slide him out.

"You— You stole an exhibit! You're going to go to jail— oh god, I'm going to jail—,"

Gilbert cuts Matthew off with his mouth, which is gross, and Alfred ignores it in favor of trying to get Arthur out of the back of the truck. He's not really sure if mermen can breath air and the creature's looking a little sick. "Hey, Gil, let's get him upstairs."

The guy in question detaches from Alfred's brother to say, "Yeah, okay. Mattie, go put water in the tub."

"Isn't he saltwater?" Matthew says quietly, sounding in shock now.

"I dunno, but he needs water," Gilbert dismisses, and Matthew retreats back into the building while Gil helps Alfred with the fish. "Al, grab under his arms—I'll get the tail this time."

"Uh, okay," Alfred agrees. He wraps his arms around Arthur's chest from the back. The best grip he can have is to hold him flush against his chest, basically…

Basically, hugging him from behind.

Alfred's kind of really drunk and so the trip upstairs is both the longest and shortest thing he's ever experienced. Arthur's skin is soft. Really soft. He's weirdly warm. He's comfortable. He's slight, if you ignore the tail. The gills or whatever on his neck flutter. His hair glows under the light. He smells like fish and the ocean and crystal waters and warm sunshine.

Alfred wants desperately to kiss him.

They get Arthur into their second story apartment, lucky enough not to meet any other tenants on the way, and get him settled in the bathtub. He looks ridiculous, his tail sticking out and lying on the tiled floor. Distantly, Alfred wonders how any of them will manage to use the bathroom with Arthur in here. Or bathe, for that matter.

"Hey, dude, how do you feel?" Gilbert asks Arthur, probably because Arthur looks sort of dazed.

The merman must forget himself, because he goes to speak and just…

He just squeaks.

A flush of embarrassment colors Arthur's face when it happens and he closes his mouth. And then, weirdly enough, Arthur looks at him—Alfred.

Which, results in everyone looking at him.

"A- Al, are you okay?" Matthew asks, concerned, which is disorienting because he was still furious not too long ago. Something must be wrong.

"You're crying," Gilbert pipes up, realizing that Alfred doesn't get it.

Startled, Alfred touches his own face only to find out that, yeah, he is. "O- oh, I— oh."

He leaves the room.

Someone follows him, which he assumes is Matthew until he hears Gilbert's voice saying, "Hey, man, it's nothing to be ashamed about."

Why run away if you're just gonna be pursued? Alfred stops in the hall. "I don't know why, I'm—," his voice fucking cracks.

"It's okay," Gilbert says, like he’s soothing a jumpy deer, and, surprisingly, the words are kind of helpful. "It's upsetting. I'm upset, Matt's gonna be upset—we're all upset. It's super fucked up, what happened, and no one's gonna think otherwise. And we're all probably gonna go to prison or something."

"You're not crying, though," Alfred says, subdued now, even if he's pretty sure his eyes are still watering like crazy.

"Yeah, well, I'm not—,"

Gilbert cuts off abruptly. Alfred looks at him. "Not what?"

Sucking in a breath between his teeth, Gil drags a hand through his hair, as if steeling himself. "Uh, well… Okay. Look, I'm drunk, so I'll be real with you here."

Alfred isn't sure what he's going for, but it's making him tense.

"We get it, okay? We all know. You like guys. It's fine. No one's judging you for it—,"

"I don't—," Alfred starts, feeling a distinct sort of panic rise in his chest.

"Yeah," Gilbert cuts back in, grabbing his arm in a rough way that he'd better never do to Matthew, "you do."

Alfred's speechless. What do you even say to something as ridiculous as that?

Gilbert releases his arm and steps back. "The fetish-y part is you liking Arthur, but—,"

"I do not—,"

"—I'm not gonna judge that, either, okay?"

Alfred's fists are clenched, his teeth are clenched, and he can feel the fight or flight under his skin, tickling his senses.

Gilbert's just watching him with a wholly misplaced expression of sincerity and maturity that really shouldn't be on a face like his. "You can like dudes, you can like fish dudes, hell— you can even like wrongfully mute fish dudes— just…"

For a moment, even Gilbert struggles. And then:

"Just… don't take it out on Arthur, okay?"

Alfred isn't sure what that means, but the conversation ends all the same.

He realizes it quickly enough, however, when it occurs to him that Arthur's in his house, in his tub, and immediately part of his brain defaults to avoiding him. When Gilbert passes out on the couch, exhausted and intoxicated, Matthew starts looking at Alfred as if Alfred's the one responsible for the merman. Which, he kind of is.

With a lot of reluctance, Alfred awkwardly lets himself into the occupied bathroom.

Arthur's there, wide awake and uncomfortable looking, but he doesn't seem entirely unhappy, either, and his expression turns to one of curiosity when Alfred enters.

"Uh, hey," Alfred says. Then, "I mean, not like you can respond, but… yeah."

He shuts the door behind him; Matthew doesn't need to hear him being an idiot. He sits down on the closed toilet, which is a bit close to Arthur for his liking, but whatever.

"So, um… I found out that they did this," he gestures to Arthur, "to you because of, uh… being scared of you or something. I don't know— mermaid songs, right? Maybe it's bullshit, but humans are stupid. You probably know that."

Arthur doesn't seem to be reacting to him other than watching him with intense interest.

"Gilbert and I busted you out of there, before they could do anything worse… I guess he already told you or, well, you're smart, so you know…"

Jesus, one-sided conversations are awkward.

"I feel like I should come clean about something, while we're here," Alfred continues.

Oh God, no. It's the alcohol.

"I like you."

Fuck his life.

"I like you a lot."

Why can't he shut up?

"You know, like… more than friends…"

Word vomit everywhere.

"Not that we were ever really friends, but yeah."

Ugh. Smooth.

"And you probably think I'm, like, a creep or something, but I didn't free you to, you know, fuck you or anything." Alfred can't stop himself at this point. The honesty train has no brakes. "I just— I don't want them to hurt you anymore. And I tried to not feel things for you—I really did."

Having been staring down at his own hands, Alfred glances at the merman's face and finds Arthur's brows are furrowed and his expression is incredulous. He looks perplexed.

"I mean, I know about the myths that merpeople are seductive and stuff, so if you did that, then okay, and if you liked me, that would be cool, and we could probably work something out somehow, but putting you in my bathtub wasn't about trying to get to bone you, so, like, I'll totally respect it if you reject me, because to be honest I would reject me too. I'm a mess."

Arthur just sits there for a moment, not saying anything because, well, he can't say anything ever again, but his face is contemplative. After a moment, he points to Alfred and then points to his own tail.

"Yeah, that's kind of, sort of, an obstacle in this whole me liking you thi—,"

Arthur shakes his head, putting a hand up to stop Alfred's verbal diarrhea.

Then, Arthur's scales start to shudder and shake, the tiny gem-like things shifting and then flattening, the sight traveling up his tail like a wave. For a second, Alfred wonders if he'll grow human legs, like in the movies.

Instead, something else happens.

On the bend of his tail where it props up out of the tub, on full display for Alfred, letters appear, created from scales raised to create a lighter patterning next to their counterparts.

The letters say:

UR N IDIOT

Alfred gawks, staring at it. Finally, he manages an, "Um."

And then it occurs to him that if the merman can magically spell things out with his tail, then he can spell, which means he can write, which means he can communicate.

"I'll be right back," Alfred says, leaving the room only to return with the whiteboard Matthew had stuck onto the fridge to keep track of the shopping list with. He also, naturally, erases the shopping list. Matthew can make a new one.

He hands Arthur the board and the pen. Arthur immediately understands, because he uncaps the pen and writes something.

In very lovely handwriting, he pens his message and then turns the board around so Alfred can see it.

'They did this to me because I was going to drown you, but you're cute, so I've changed my mind now.'

Arthur's smiling at him disarmingly when Alfred looks up at his face and Alfred can't tell if this is a joke or not, because if it is then it's not a very funny one. But, at the same time, he can't really blame Arthur. What kind of demon creature like him wouldn't want to take out his imprisonment on a captor?

Either way, Alfred finally rouses from his temporary stupor with, "... Thanks?"

Also, Arthur called him cute. That's worth something, right?

But, he can't help the sensation that the merman's lying to him in order to make him not feel as bad. Whether or not that's true, he'll probably never know.

Arthur erases the board with the eraser on the back of the pen and then writes something else.

'You're kind of a wimp, aren't you?'

He's included a sad face with tears coming off of it.

"Rude," Alfred says, but it's kind of a laughed word, too, because Arthur just looks so thoroughly smug right now, insulting him like this, that it's kind of a relief. It's a far cry from the dead-eyed appearance he'd had before, floating around in his tank, after the surgery. "You're, like, a total dick, aren't you?"

More words: 'At least I have the decency to keep it in my body.'

"Ha," Alfred says. He's relieved, a little bit. He's lighter. This is good.

Sure, he's kidnapped a merman from an aquarium, admitted he's sort of attracted to it to not only the merman himself, but to a friend as well, and if he wasn't already overwhelmed by the idea that everyone apparently thinks he's gay—which he can't possibly be, maybe bisexual, maybe—then he would be by the fact that they're all going to get arrested for this.

But, still, there's something really nice about this, as temporary as it might be.

Arthur erases the board and writes something new, which snaps Alfred out of his own musings.

'I want some fish.'

It's a simple request and, unfortunately, one that Alfred can't fulfill. "Uhh… we don't actually have any here. I didn't really think that far ahead."

Arthur whips the board around, erases the words hastily, and writes with vicious, agitated jabs. When he turns it around again, it says:

'FU CKE R'

This time, Alfred laughs.

.

It's obviously some kind of research room, but it almost gives him the vibe of one of those detective offices. All it would need is some red string going from pictures to news articles to complete the look.

The science guys won't be in for a while, what with it being a Sunday, so Alfred takes his time to look around, because he's pretty damn good at being nosy and this is a prime opportunity to get some info he might not be able to find anywhere else. Sure, the internet's a good source, but it's kinda failed him. And who knows? Maybe he'll dig up some funny dirt like merman sex tapes. Alfred laughs to himself at the idea that maybe the merman was once used as a breeding stud or something.

Mostly, a lot of the stuff is boring. It kind of makes Alfred think of going through someone's marital home to try to see if they're cheating on their spouse and instead just finding dirty dishes and some laundry that needs to be folded.

There are test tubes with gunk in them, a bag with scales, some books. It's really, really boring shit. Maybe if Alfred was balls deep in this kind of thing, he'd enjoy it a lot more. He's sure there's potential to all this. But, as an outsider, it's kind of looking like a lot of paperwork and reading and maybe even a bit of dicking around when things are particularly slow. Alfred's not even able to stay on a TV channel through commercials—how could he possibly have the patience to sit and watch a fish all day?

Two things stick out to him, though.

The first is a computer screen mounted on the wall, which, naturally, Alfred turns on, because, you know… mer porn is a possibility. Even if he doesn't want to watch a fish dick another fish, he's prepared to at least know it exists.

Instead, the screen just shows the merman's tank, which is suitably less interesting, but… is kind of creepy. There is sound, but the camera's underwater and doesn't show much of the surface. From the angle, it looks like it must be hidden behind a grate on the side furthest from the feeding ledge. Alfred breathes a sigh of relief on that one.

The merman's on the screen, floating around, swimming, same old stuff. But, from underwater, it's a lot better view than at a distance and through the back wall. The fish guy clearly doesn't know or understand that there's a camera, so when it swims by it’s only a couple feet from it. The glimmer of green scales in high definition is sort of mesmerizing, he'll give it that.

Alfred leaves the TV on and goes about searching the place some more, which leads him to the second thing that catches his attention.

It's a pocketbook, kind of thick, sort of bible-looking, but its cover is old and faded brown, with whimsical designing on it. There's a picture of a mermaid on it and the gold-colored text clearly reads Mermaid Songs and Other Dangers of the Sea.

It'd look like a fairy tale book for kids if it weren't clearly so old.

Alfred's compelled to pick it up, though, because he’d never really thought about songs when he was doing his online searches. Who the fuck would think of that? Singing fish? It's really stupid sounding.

He thumbs through it a bit before shoving the book into his pocket.

It's a rare day when he wants to read something, but he kinda wants to look at this thing more closely when he hasn't just been handling all of the aquarium's garbage. He can return it later. Scientists lose things all the time so they probably won't even notice.

When Alfred finally gets home later that day, giving a half-greeting to his brother with whom he shares an apartment, he retreats to the bathroom and starts to undress for a shower when the book falls out of his pocket.

"Oh yeah," Alfred says, snagging it up off the floor and checking it to make sure it didn't land in any water. Knowing how old this thing is, it could just fall apart.

Naturally, he does what any man does in the bathroom with a book, and sits on the mighty porcelain throne as he thumbs through the text. He has to be here anyway, he may as well make use of his time.

Half an hour later, Alfred's forgotten why he even came into the room, pants still around his ankles where he sits, and Matthew's banging on the door asking him how much longer he's going to be. Alfred finishes up, washes his hands like a decent human being, and retreats back to his room, his intent to shower forgotten.

The book is… really something.

It doesn't just talk about mermaids singing—it talks about them talking, too. It goes on about how they would coerce sailors to do things, mislead them, or give them terrible directions. It implies some wacky stuff about mind control. It details mermaids seducing people and drowning them.

It says that the only way to combat the power of a merperson is to take away its ability to vocalize.

That's what they did.

That's why they did it.

All because of some fucking fifty year old piece of shit written by some guy in England and probably designed for little kids to think they're educated or something.

Yeah, okay, Alfred thought it was kind of mean, but he'd assumed it was a thing they had to do. And maybe he's still not wrong. Maybe they had to do it because the merman was actually dangerous. Maybe the merman had intentions of drowning Alfred or someone else and it was all only a matter of time…

But, still…

It's a fish and Alfred hasn't forgotten that. It's not like he's found out the police de-voiced little Timmy down the street or something. The fish is people-like, but it's still a fish, and if they had to do this for human safety, then that's kind of par for the course.

But, still…

It… bothers him.

Alfred doesn't have much time to think about it because there's a knock at his bedroom door and when he opens it Matthew's there, looking visibly stressed. "Uh… Al, there're some people here to see you…"

People, Alfred finds out, means a cop, his boss, and some really pissed off looking guy who Alfred suspects is a scientist.

The cop practically lets himself into their apartment, which is likely illegal, the scientist with him, while Ludwig stands at their front entrance appearing calmly angry.

"What's this about?" Alfred asks, taken aback. He wasn't even given an explanation—the second they saw him inside they just started to act. The cop and other guy have disappeared somewhere, but Ludwig sort of has Alfred's attention.

"You're being terminated from your position," Ludwig says, looking reluctant to be anything other than official about this, "for theft."

"Wha—,"

The cop returns with the scientist and Alfred instantly realizes that this is all about the book he took, because the scientist is clutching it like it's his fucking child or something.

The next ten minutes the cop goes on about charges against him and it's a lot to process all at once and then the group leaves all together, the book with them. Alfred slowly shuts the door, stunned.

Matthew, who observed the whole thing, hovers nearby, not entirely knowing what to say.

It's an awkward night. Matthew asks if he wants him to order a pizza, but Alfred declines it. He's not really all that hungry.

The next day, Gilbert shows up at his apartment with a twelve pack of beer. Matthew isn't around, which is usually the main reason Gilbert stops by, so Alfred's kind of surprised when it's him the guy wants to see.

Also, three in the afternoon is pretty early for alcohol, but Alfred doesn't object when he's handed one.

"So, they fired you too."

"Figured you already knew about it if you're giving me free beer," Alfred admits.

"Shit, the whole aquarium knows. But, nah— I overheard Luddy talking on the phone to someone, so I did some poking around with the guys after that. Lots of rumors floating around about you."

"I stole a book from one of the back rooms," Alfred admits. "I was gonna return it. I just wanted to read it first."

"Yeah, that sounds about right," Gilbert concedes. "It's actually believable."

"What are other people saying?"

"Normal shit—you showed your dick to a kiddie tour group, you were masturbating an otter, and that kind of stuff. They smear you pretty good when you get kicked out." "Jesus Christ," Alfred exhales. And then, because he needs it, he takes a long gulp of his beer. After that, he looks at Gilbert in a new light. "So, I'm guessing you weren't doing cocaine in the bathroom or whatever? No one really believe it, by the way."

"Fuck no," Gilbert says, but he grins a little at the idea, like he's proud of being known for being a badass or something. "All I did was crack a couple jokes with Arthur. I have no idea how the fuck they found out about it."

"Arthur?"

"The merman."

Alfred's stupidly slow with processing this. "... It has a name?"

Gilbert gives him a look like he's an idiot, which is actually especially insulting somehow coming from someone like him. "Uh… yeah? Duh? You never asked him? I heard from the guys that you said you were talking to him. I mean, obviously they don't know he actually talks back, but, you know."

"No, of course I didn't ask," Alfred balks. "It's just a fish! Fish don't normally have people names!"

"You really think it's just a fish?" Gilbert says.

It's a question that renders Alfred speechless, because he doesn't quite have an answer for it.

Gilbert leaves it alone, just humming in thought as he takes a swig of his beer. If anyone else saw them, they'd just see two guys shooting the shit, sprawled out on a sofa with room temperature brew in their hands, the afternoon sun shining in through the sliding glass door.

"So, you said you told jokes to… Arthur?" Alfred says, uncomfortable with using the name, but curious nonetheless.

"Yeah. It started when I accidentally hit him in the face with a fish. He bitched me out and I laughed my fucking ass off. I made of game of trying to hit him with them and he hated it, but I know he loved it—he once reeled back with his tail and slapped one back at me like it was a baseball. He's a good guy."

Alfred shifts uncomfortably, Gilbert's way of speaking surreal. If he didn't know better, he'd think his friend was talking about some dude from college, not a fish.

After a long pause, Alfred says the only thing he can think of to say:

"They took out his vocal cords."

Gilbert, mid-gulp, actually chokes on his beer.

The German then proceeds to half-cough and half-swear as he gets it down, but there's a redness to his face that Alfred thinks has nothing to do with the beer. When he's coherent, if a little raspy, an expression of fury, clear as day, is set deep into his face. "Are you fucking with me?"

"No," Alfred says. And it's at this point he realizes that he's just numb. Gilbert's reaction seems about right, but he isn't feeling it—he isn't feeling anything. It's kind of weird.

Gilbert stands up and starts pacing, swearing, switching between English and German as he makes circles around the living room. After a minute, he returns to the sofa and downs the rest of his beer, angry. He then opens another one.

"It's bullshit," Gilbert says eventually, vehement. "It's such fucking bullshit."

Alfred stares down at his beer, realizing that he and Gilbert are probably the reason they gutted Arthur's ability to speak. He also realizes that Gilbert probably understood that the moment he told him what happened.

"Do you think it was inhumane?" Alfred asks him.

Gilbert looks at him like Alfred's on fire. "Are you shitting me? Inhumane? The whole thing about that guy is fucking cruel. How would you like being kidnapped from your family and stuck in a glass box and then fucking turned mute. Like, fuck, Al— I'm pretty sure if they did that to a person they'd get life in prison."

"Yeah, but we also neuter animals," Alfred says, a little defensive. "And we mute dogs too."

Again, Gilbert just gives him this look, and Alfred cringes.

"Alright, alright— look, I'm not supporting it, okay? I think it's—,"

Alfred hesitates.

He realizes that he honestly doesn't want to talk about it at all.

Something on his face must give him away, because Gilbert's ire cools tremendously and then Gilbert's patting him on the shoulder. "I think I get it."

They have about a beer each in silence. Alfred doesn't know why, but he gets the weird impression that Gilbert's found some sort of camaraderie in him over this, which doesn't make sense, because clearly Gilbert's a hundred times more upset than he is.

Or, at least, Alfred thinks so. He’s not sure. He doesn’t want to think about it.

They talk a little more about Arthur, Alfred tells him the conversations he had with him, Gilbert laughs a bit in a nostalgic kind of way—"Yeah, he can't stand being insulted."—and then they kind of shoot the shit for real, for a bit.

When they're both drunk, Gilbert says, "We should rescue him. Like Free Willy. We should Free Arthur."

Alfred's logic is just as inebriated, because he responds, "That'd be pretty cool. I always wanted to be in a movie."

"We should do it," Gilbert says again. "I got a friend with a truck. We could totally do it."

"You mean Matthew's truck?"

"Yeah," Gilbert says, "Matthew's. He's my friend."

It's six now. The aquarium's already closed. In a few hours, no one would even be there. "We don't have keys,” Alfred points out.

"Ludwig always has keys," Gilbert tells him.

It's kind of a funny idea. Alfred muses on the idea of having Arthur wrapped up and thrown into the back of a truck. Maybe they'd have to spray him with water to keep his body wet, like in the movies featuring whales.

"I guess stealing him would be better than leaving him there to be neutered or something," Alfred thinks aloud.

Gilbert stands up, swaying a little, and his pose is absolutely heroic. "We have to save him," he says. "We have to save his balls."

Alfred laughs, because somehow it feels like everything always comes back to Arthur's genitalia, but then he stops laughing when he realizes that Gilbert's got his phone out and is calling someone.

That someone promptly answers and Gilbert speaks:

"Mattie, honey, I'm gonna need you to do me a solid. Get your ass home and bring the truck."

.

After a few hesitant seconds, the merman takes the fish with its hand—hands which Alfred's noted it makes a point of not using very often—and Alfred ignores the way webbed fingers brush against his gloved ones as it takes it. From what he can see, the skin of the merman's hands are sort of ribbed like scales or sandpaper, so even though the merman's hold is lax, the fish can't wriggle free.

"Why?" The merman asks him, suspicious about this exchange.

"Well, I mean, if you're smart then you would probably appreciate being given your food rather than having it thrown at you, right?" Alfred explains. "I wouldn't want to go into a restaurant only to have a waiter throw my spaghetti at me."

The merman makes a face like it's Alfred who's speaking the foreign language now, but he seems to accept it because the expression passes and the merman just holds the fish over itself before sliding it down its creepy fucking gullet.

Alfred must be making a horrible face, because the merman looks at him and suddenly goes annoyed. "Oh, like how you eat is any better."

The defensiveness throws Alfred off guard. "What? Dude. That is so fucked up, you can't even compare it."

"As opposed to you lot, who wetten your meal into a soupy mass before swallowing?" The merman challenges. "I would look barbaric if I ate like that."

For a moment, Alfred imagines the merman chewing a fish, all the blood and gore, in horrible merman teeth, fish flesh crunched up and leaking into the water because of course this would be underwater…

Yeah, no. No.

"Point taken," Alfred concedes, a little sick to his stomach.

The merman must not expect the concession, because its self-righteousness lingers for a second before puttering out, the fish guy just idling there, his big fish butt wiggling under the water a bit to keep him afloat. "Well, alright then."

Alfred hands him another fish, but despite the fact that the merman takes it he isn't sure what to say to him. Eventually, the fish are all gone and they go their separate ways.

The next day, Alfred's told, "Don't feed the merman today."

This time it's before Alfred's loaded any buckets, so he's much less annoyed. "Uh, why?"

Ludwig's expression is unconcerned. "The specialists are going to run an exam on it, so it can't be fed prior."

"Gotcha," Alfred accepts.

At lunch time, while Alfred's eating his sandwich with his coworkers, he notices the merman giving him pointed and agitated looks through the back glass, as if silently asking why he hasn't had any food yet today. Alfred just shrugs when Tony and Francis aren't looking, which seems to sate the merman's need to communicate with him. It doesn't look at him again.

The next day, a Monday, the merman's exhibit is closed off, fliers plastered all over to let the public know just like when a zoo has to temporarily block off the main panda exhibit. People will still show up having not read a single sign, but at least the aquarium tried.

When Alfred passes by the merman tank, it's empty, which would be kind of alarming if he didn't already know what was up. It looks really dead and stale inside, without anything floating around in it.

It's the end of the day when Alfred tells his friends, "Well, I'm gonna go clock out. See you guys later."

"You're not staying?" Antonio asks him, surprised.

"Staying for what?" Alfred questions.

"They are going to release the merman back into his tank," Francis cuts in.

"So?"

"It's kind of interesting, isn't it?" "Not really," Alfred says, frowning.

But, peer pressure is peer pressure, so Alfred finds himself lingering another half hour until he's told the merman's being brought back in. He and his friends sit on the metal bench, out of the way, and pretend like they're totally not spying on the whole thing.

The scientist guys are pretty freaky, when they show up. Alfred's first thought is that they look like bad guys in a movie—big white coats, white rubber gloves, white boots, face masks on, the works. They all seem to know what it is that they're doing and they all talk in clipped, vague sentences. They're nothing like the friendly guys who come in to do exams on the dolphins and stuff.

A cherry picker looking thing comes in hauling a sling which must have the merman in it because there's a big floppy tail draped over the side and it's pretty distinct. They lower the creature into the water and let the sling sit on the surface, talking to each other about water acclimation or something.

When they release the sling, the merman slides into the water. It's the moment of interest, but… nothing really happens.

The merman just kind of sinks down to the bottom and sits there. From where Alfred's sitting, all he can tell is that it looks a little drugged and there are weird bandages or something around its neck.

Alfred leans into Antonio, "What kind of exam did they do on it, anyway?"

"I don't know," Antonio admits.

"It is likely a routine medical exam," Francis muses, "or perhaps some kind of test for a study."

"Huh." And that's really all Alfred can add to that.

The next day, Alfred's tasked with feeding the merman once they close up, so he decides to just ask it himself during after hours.

Sitting on the ledge again, Alfred waits for the merman to come up to him. When it doesn't seem interested, he splashes the water a bit, which gets its attention.

It slowly rises and breaks the surface of the water, but its expression up close is kind of haunting. It looks like a guy who hasn't slept in three days due to the stress of a midterm or something, which Alfred would recognize because he's been that guy a lot.

"Hey dude, you hungry?" Alfred even picks up the best looking fish and holds it out for it, kind of feeling bad for the thing.

The merman shakes its head.

"Nah man, it's cool, we can feed you again."

The merman just repeats the motion and points at its own throat, where the bandages are.

"Yeah," Alfred says, "what'd they do to you anyway? I was gonna ask."

Strangely, the merman looks at him with his weird sort of disbelief, as if it thought he would already know and is surprised that he doesn't. Worse, there's pain in the look, which has Alfred's heart rate picking up a little. The merman’s expression is like a kicked puppy’s and Alfred's weak for that shit.

"What?"

The merman just points at his throat again, the gesture meaningful.

"Look, I know your throat probably hurts, but—,"

The fish guy just gives him this look and opens his mouth. Alfred braces himself for a barrage of insults, prepared to be told off in that voice again, but instead all he gets are these… squeaks.

The squeaks are unnatural and screechy, but they're not exactly speech or anything—no, they're more like someone's tightening something and occasionally the metal gives this weak little noise of resistance.

But, further, it kind of reminds Alfred of a video of a debarked dog he once saw.

"You—… You can't talk?"

The merman stops what it was doing and nods.

"Is it like temporary or—,"

The merman abruptly shakes its head.

"So, what? Are you telling me they took your vocal cords? Is that even possible?"

The merman just looks at him.

It's so utterly expressive that Alfred's kind of stunned. It says a lot, without words.

'I don't know.'

'It hurts.'

'I'm sorry I can't answer you.'

'I hate this.'

'I want to die.'

Alfred doesn't get it. He doesn't know why this has happened. He guesses there's gotta be a really good reason for it, right? Like, maybe the merman was infected with something and they saved its life? Maybe it was some weird fishy disease? So, it really sucks, but it had to be done. Still, that's probably not gonna cheer this guy up, just like you wouldn't be able to cheer up a cat for a while after you chop its balls off.

"Can you eat?" Alfred asks it.

The merman looks unsure, which is probably pain related. Alfred grabs the smallest fish, only like a third the size of the others, and holds it out for him. The merman takes it.

After a minute of hesitance, the merman swallows it— and yeah, that must fucking hurt, because it gives this little suppressed mewl of pain. Alfred gets the impression it would probably never let him see it make a noise like that if it had a choice.

"I'll be right back," Alfred tells it. He takes the bucket back to the fish room, dumps them out, and then snags a dozen of the small fish that are supposed to go to the penguins. He's not sure what type they are, but maybe the merman will eat them.

Returning, he shows the merman the bucket. Its expression brightens a little and Alfred hands him a fish. This time, it swallows without a problem, so Alfred hands them over until there aren't any left.

"I know they're smaller, so if they didn't fill you up I can get more—,"

The merman shakes its head no, so Alfred takes that as it declining the offer.

"I dunno why they did that operation on you," Alfred admits, mostly because he feels a bit guilty, even though he wasn't involved. He doesn't really want to leave until he has some okay that the merman doesn't resent him personally. "I can ask them, but, I think it's kind of sad. You were a dick, but you had a cool voice."

The expression on the merman's face is torn between several emotions, which is probably a good reaction for Alfred's style of blundering rambling.

"Um, I wouldn't have done the operation on you, if I was one of them, anyway. But, since they did it, I guess there's not much we can do. Still, you're really smart for a fish, so I bet you could learn sign language."

This is so fucking stupid, but the merman seems attentive, so Alfred continues on.

"Like, uh… this one," Alfred makes the OK symbol with his fingers. "This means everything is good and everyone is fine."

The merman squints at it for a moment before attempting to shape its hand the way Alfred has his. It takes a few glances, but the merman gets it, even if it looks really weird with his webbed fingers.

"Yeah, just like that!" Alfred says, encouragingly. "See, so, it's not all bad."

The merman clearly isn't convinced, but he does seem strangely fascinated by the hand symbol.

"And, uh… while we're here," Alfred says, "I looked up merman anatomy and you do have a penis, so I'm sorry I said you didn't have one. In my defense, though, you're basically keeping it inside your butthole, so it's not my fault I thought you didn't have any junk at all."

The stare he gets for that apology tells Alfred that, somewhere along the line, he fucked it up.

And then the merman flips him off—something Alfred did not teach it—and dives back under the water in an insulted huff.

It's kind of a fucked up situation to laugh in, but Alfred does a little bit, because a childish part of his brain tells him that he just got flipped off by a fish and that's something that not very many people can say has happened to them.

In the tank, the merman swims around in pissy circles, looking prepared to ignore Alfred until he goes away.

Alfred lets him be, but the exchange does leave him feeling a little lighter.

It's obvious the merman will be a natural at learning new ways to communicate.

.

Francis just sighs and his expression slips back into a smile as he shrugs in a way that just screams oh you.

"It may not be human, but it could use a shirt," Antonio adds helpfully. "Mermaids are supposed to cover their chests."

"Ah, but the merman is male, not female," Francis replies.

"Maybe, but it's still naked," Antonio points out. "The least they could do is put it in a shirt."

Alfred tunes out the conversation in favor of watching the merman float around his tank, the mer-creature dragging its tail through the sand and creating a foggy cloud that has the water going murky. If it keeps doing that, it might make it gross enough that he can hide in it. Francis is right, the not feeding it thing has pissed it off.

Francis and Antonio are having some kind of conversation about what kind of dick mermen have or something—Alfred doesn't really care—so he takes Francis' bread bun and shoves himself up off of the metal bench he was sitting on. Walking over to the tank, he chucks the bun up over the side, where it lands in the merman's water with a wet plop.

The bread bun floats there.

This catches the attention of the merman, who turns with such sudden and precise speed that it's just a tiny bit impressive, albeit the motion is one hundred percent fish. When the merman spots the baked good, his eyes narrow.

Alfred's somewhat awed by the way it darts up to the top in an instant. He's suitably less awed when it throws the bun right back out and the soggy thing hits Alfred in the chest, splashing him with a generous amount of grody tank water in the same go.

From behind, Alfred can hear Francis and Antonio laughing at him. Wet, he stalks off.

The merman isn't really his favorite exhibit. If Alfred had to pick, he'd definitely choose the octopus or the sharks. Mermen, though? Really overrated. Mermaids are only cool because they have huge tits, so what's the point of a male one? It's just some scrawny, fish-brained guy with scales. That's not cool at all. It's dorky.

The bread incident doesn't do much to endear him to the creature, so Alfred takes out his irritation on it by only feeding it half its fish for a couple of days. He can tell it's smart enough to notice, because on the third day it decides to just ignore the fish as if they aren't even there, swimming around in its tank.

Which, subsequently, means that Alfred has to spend the next hour or so trying to snag the fish back up with a net on a stick, because bossman tells him that the fish can't just stay in there until merman eats it. They don't want to have to start throwing fish feed into the tank too. Blah, blah, delicate exhibit, blah, blah…

Alfred has every fish back in the bucket… except one.

He slowly inches the net closer to the fish, hoping the technique he's honed over the last hour will pay off, when he hears something break the surface of the water.

The merman's popped up to observe him, looking really freaky with its hair plastered wet to its head instead of being all floaty like it is underwater. Alfred only glances at the merman, but that's all it takes for the fish to slip away, Alfred's opportunity to catch it slipping away with it.

"Motherfucker—!" Alfred bites under his breath, more than pissed off now. He jabs a finger at the merman, who's just placidly watching him. "Can't you, I don't know, eat that thing or something so I can clock out already? I don’t get paid for this shit, man."

The merman blinks, but it's this fucked up, secondary eyelid blinking that goes across its eyes horizontally and doesn't involve its humanoid eyelids. And then, bewilderingly, the merman gives him this spiteful little grin.

"Fucker."

And then it slips back into the water with a plop, as if it hadn't just uttered a human word. And, no, it doesn't eat the fish, but Alfred decides fuck it and leaves.

The next day, Alfred comes into work with important questions.

"Tony, are mermaids like parrots or something?"

Antonio looks amused. "What do you mean?"

"Can they, like, mimic words? You know, how some birds can sing pop tunes and shit in the voice and everything?"

"Hm… no, I don’t think so. Why?"

"I heard the merman speak last night," Alfred admits, hoping this won't land him on some kind of slab of science for 'speaks asshole merman'. He's not ready to be autopsied. He likes his bodily functioning.

"What did it say?" Antonio asks him.

"It called me a fucker," Alfred admits.

Antonio pats his shoulder, like a true friend with bad news. "You need to get more sleep at night, is what I think."

Francis doesn't believe him either, but he's definitely tickled by the story. Alfred can't stand it.

He didn't take over Gilbert's unpaid internship just so they could gossip around the place that Alfred's hallucinating insults from an aquatic mammal. Sure, Alfred's struggling to believe it himself, but he damn well knew what he heard.

"I know you can talk," Alfred informs the merman one day during a feeding, just so there aren't any misunderstandings.

It's an unusual day in that the merman has come up to the surface to catch the fish out of the air and swallow them whole before they can touch the water. If it weren't after hours, the public would probably get a kick out of it.

The merman doesn't say anything. It just keeps shoving fish down its internally spiked throat.

Alfred reconsiders his approach.

"You know you have a fat ass, right?" Alfred tells it. He's not really sure how to insult fish, but he may as well go for the butt. Fish can have butt self-consciousness, right? Everyone does. "Like, if you put on a dress and asked me, I'd say it was the fattest ass."

The merman just looks at him, but there's this disgruntled glimmer about its eyes that speaks of understanding him.

"And, also, like, you have no muscles at all—you're all skin and bones. Fish bones. Which is worse than human bones, 'cause they're not as strong. Do you even lift?"

Yeah, this is stupid. And it's probably all being captured on some camera somewhere. Maybe even observation scientists are seeing this live. Eugh.

"So, yeah, chew on that," Alfred finishes powerfully, feeling kind of emasculated now that he's resorted to calling out a fish on its body image.

"Do you never tire of hearing yourself speak?" The fish says back in a dry, British-accented voice.

Alfred just stands there, gawking, as the merman stares up at him stone-faced. "You spoke?"

"Yes," the fish confirms for him.

"Am I being Punk'd?" Alfred asks the air, suspicious.

"Are you what?"

"I'm definitely being Punk'd," Alfred decides.

And he goes home.

After not sleeping well, it's natural he come in to find himself staring down at the same blue waters with the same half-man creature inside of it. This time, however, it's during open hours.

"C'mon, bubble butt. Lunchtime." It's worth a try.

The merman doesn't even appear to notice him and the public can't hear him. In fact, the merman is suspiciously fishlike and that's only further proven when Alfred tosses a fish in and the merman swerves around to snag it in the water like it's some kind of unseeing dolphin.

After hours, however, is a whole 'nother story.

"Bubble butt? Really?"

Alfred nearly drops the bucket of dinnertime fish in surprise. "You spoke!"

The merman gives him this pained look, up there with that of 'humiliated parent'. "You're a touch on the strange side, aren't you?"

"You're a talking fish!"

"I'm not a fish," the merman disagrees, sounding irritable.

Oh, so that's what gets to it. "You totally are a fish, dude. You don't even have a dick."

The merman balks at him, gaping stupidly, at a loss for words, which means Alfred's won. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me," Alfred delights, and dumps the dinnertime fish all in at once before leaving, because he's not about to mess up this victory with putting his foot in his mouth.

The next day, it occurs to Alfred that he's not being Punk'd.

He's genuinely talking to one of the exhibits. And it talks back.

.

It mounts, without permission, angry at one moment—he was a privateer for God's sake, he was the fury of the ocean—and despairing the next—has he really come so far that the flame of his passion has been replaced by a wet wick?

Elders are unappreciated, as China will be the first to mutter when slighted, but England agrees with him wholeheartedly. Everything that made the island nation an icon of strength and power has faded. And what exists now? Tanned images on a beach? America grinning broadly into a camera next to Seychelles? How? Why?

It hits when England's phone lights up in the hotel room as he's ironing out paperwork details and he opens it up only to find yet another app is alerting his attention to the fact that he's been left out. What a nice dinner; what a nice restaurant. How many nations are there? The alcohol flows like water and England can't recall even being considered for such a festivity.

His patience is like a teacher snapping a pencil in the solitude of one's office.

Worse, however, is that he's already accepted this fate on some level. Even his ire is wilted and bent with fatigue.

His lives, but for what? For whom?

He prepares his bags, showers, and retires to bed for the night. He returns home on his prearranged flight the next day, quiet with his own thoughts. Returning to his country, he recalls the acquaintance-like farewells he'd been given as the nations adjourned their talks.

'I don't want this anymore,' England thinks upon entering his home, dissatisfied.

His phone alerts him to the fact that America has apparently arranged a post-meeting vacation. Two or three nations of interest have tagged along with him to a theme park.

Is he envious? He must be. Is he jealous? Likely so.

England feels himself harden a little. 'I don't want this anymore.' It's a resounding thought, like the sound inside of a drum.

The fae greet him and he is polite with their delicate feelings, but bitterness and sluggish resentment has him excusing himself before long. Retreating into his basement, he thumbs through volumes of spell books, musing upon the wild idea of escaping his situation with magic. But, that's a fool's thought. No one who can so be entrusted with spells would ever seek to abuse them in such a careless manner.

Twenty minutes of cathartic what could be later and he's back at the stairs, one step upon the very bottom one, when he hears something fall behind him.

Turning, he eyes the volume which dares to slide off a shelf, and after a moment squints at the dusty cover. Approaching, he hunches down to pull it up to his eyes, rotating it, unable to recognize this particular book. The cover is leather, old, with engraving decorations so intricate it's difficult to conceive of how it's lasted so well without his tending to it. Pulling back the latch, he flips through the pages. They're dusty and aged, but seem much more pristine than they should be. The binding is still strong.

It must be a powerful magic that's kept it in such good condition.

From the corner of his eye, a curl of magic flits into the air, twists, and disappears.

England frowns, on alert, now realizing that the potency of this book mustn't be underestimated. It likely hasn't been opened for hundreds of years.

The book won't let him close it.

His fingers refuse to obey and, instead, they turn the pages, his eyes compelled to absorb the text within, much of which he doesn't understand. He can feel the magic inside of him, searching for something, plucking at his wants and desires.

He turns a page, an illustration of a seraphim detailed in gorgeous ink on one side, and although the text speaks of things that hold no interest to him, the power of that figure catches his eyes, and the magic inside of him suddenly surges to action, having found what it was looking for. It forces him to flip to a specific section further in, it coerces his mouth to speak the words, and even though England knows this to be the act of a cursed tome, there remains inside him a seed of understanding and doubt, as if he's choosing to do this. The conflict is enough that he can't regain control of himself before the last word of the spell is spoken.

England's botched spells in the past, but this one has not failed, likely due to borrowing power that clearly belongs to the book. The world around him flashes and then settles, just as it was, but now his eyes can see the magic and power that inhabit the air, rather than merely feeling it, and the light that's chained him to this book is the purest of whites and the darkest of blacks.

The book was imbued with the most radical sides of human consciousness. It contains a soul. Or, possibly, several.

Slowly, uncertain, England puts the book back on the shelf. The ribbons of power that had curled up his wrist and arm release and unfurl, like fabric, and retreat back into the pages that spawned them. The book has accomplished what it wanted.

The doorbell rings from upstairs, faint, and it's just surreal enough that England stares off into the air for a long moment before registering that as a sign of normalcy.

He turns to dart up the basement stairs, but the displacement of air behind him alarms him and he jumps, twists, and notices, for the first time, the angelic wings that have sprang up from his back, which sit in the air oblivious to their own abnormality.

England has choice words for that, but right now someone's at the door. He goes upstairs, unwilling to acknowledge the appendages.

Opening the door, a fellow with a brown envelope—clearly a postman—looks up. England's braced himself for the disbelief of humans, but instead the individual blinks and tips his head, looks around the foyer, and just as England is about to speak he says, "Hello?"

"Yes," England tells him, a tad curt. "You're delivering something, then?" It's impolite, but he'd rather not have his front door open when he's… like this. Whatever 'this' is.

The postman doesn't even appear to hear him, instead looking around again, as if he might find the owner of the house to be elsewhere entirely.

It's easy to realize that the human cannot see or hear him, but it's hard to come to terms with that fact.

England snags the envelope from him and slams the door.

.

It's four days before England leaves his home.

He can touch objects, like a ghost, but the fae that live alongside him are unable to see his presence, and when he moves about without their sight it scares them. They've taken to hiding in the flower garden, like spooked deer.

England can see himself in reflections, even if others don't see him. He is by no means a seraphim, like the image, or, if he is one, he only seems to have one set of wings at any given time. It took him far too long to notice, but the clothing he wears is something of elaborate robe, hardly noticeable, as if the cloth floats just over his skin rather than touching him.

England will be damned if he's dead, however. That simply won't do.

Despite this, leaving home isn't an act of seeking aid. England is sure this is reversible, yet, since it has been done, why not explore a little? Perhaps he can fly. Perhaps he can find the other nations and watch them, unseen, as a pseudo-angelic force? Perhaps he has some amount of power to direct his magic more easily? When he was young, spells gone awry were a chance for exploration. Why must that change now that he's older?

He's been handed an adventure beyond what one can capture and place on the internet. He can't possibly turn away from something so intriguing.

People, motives, emotions, goodness, ill-intent, all swirl around in an overload of colour, trailing behind humans like ribbons, some beautiful, some ugly, patterning the air and earth until it fades with the removal of their presence. Souls imprint themselves in pockets, colouring shops by shopkeepers and the windows of homes by residents.

England spends three days exploring London as such, then further out, mapping in his mind every city, entertained by how his own presence leaves a white trail that persists even when other colours crowd in around it. He likely should have been more mindful to the fact that he's been leaving a trail, but without hunger or sleep being a necessity, he’d never lingered in one spot long enough for it to become a concern.

"Hey."

England hears the voice distinctly. It cuts through the chatter of humans, the noise of colour, and when he turns he jolts slightly at the sight of darkness.

He'd never seen, until now, a dark that was as dark as his own light is bright. Now, however, someone stands before him, emanating it.

"You can see me?" England says, unable to help but ask the obvious.

The being moves and, he finally sees it more clearly, it's obviously demonic. Leathery wings, dark clothes, pitch hair, cold eyes. Were England more sensible, he'd run, but he's struck, and he freezes completely still upon a dreadful realization.

The demonic entity is the spitting image of America.

There must be so much to this interaction that England can't fathom, as the demon's face flickers through a couple of very slight emotions. The nation has the distinct impression that this entity is not prone to expressing anything all that often.

"I've been looking for you," the demon admits, but there's a graveled depth to the words that reaches downwards, like shadows in the cradle of a cave. "I never stopped."

"Well, er, that's fine, but I don't—,"

"You don't remember," the America-look-alike interrupts, "but that's fine. I still love you."

England can't process this.

There's too much of his mind that sees America in this person, even as he shouldn't, and he's not unaware of the fact that perhaps this creature is some manner of siren, showing him things that are enticing and all imagination. True, he and the real America have never been… involved. The intimacy of lovers is something he's only entertained briefly, before realizing that it would certainly never come to be and he was foolish for thinking so. But, to have this dropped on him suddenly, during these circumstances, from a voice that sounds far too familiar…

He's given little choice in the matter, for the entity steps forward and kisses him.

It's by no means an innocent kiss, either.

England stumbles back into a building with the force of it, humans who can't see them stepping around as if they can sense their presence without acknowledging that it's there.

He can't recall the last time he was kissed in such a way, so it could be the lack of recent experience, but he suspects it isn't—no, the kiss is deeper than the press of lips on lips. There's emotion within it and not merely through expressiveness.

England crumples under the weight of it and all he can think is, 'How am I so bloody weak?'

It's an impassioned kiss from a stranger that looks like the person he loves. Such traps have been warned about for thousands of years. And yet, he hadn't realized how easily ensnared he would become; it hadn't even occurred to him until they touched.

The demon, or devil, or some such creature, tongues the cavern of England's mouth and the nation shudders, heat pooling and soaking through him. The wings he bears quiver, pressed up against a shop window. There's a dangerous urge in his mind to submit to the darker entity, to give himself up, to roll over like a puppy with its stomach in the air.

And, bizarrely, there's a happiness inside of him. There's glee over the shameless presentation of his value.

When the creature pulls back, his eyes are expressive ice.

"What's your name?" England asks, voice barely there.

"Lucifer," the creature answers.

The Devil.

The Devil.

England is by no means a divine creature, he's no angel, he has no place in this hierarchy or with these beings. He's a nation… and he should act as one, no matter what magic has thrust him into a situation beyond the making of human hands.

Further, he's extremely familiar with religion. There's something to be said, if the soul of a nation itself succumbs to the wiles of The Devil.

Yet, there's something in unreadable eyes that causes England to hesitate. It takes him a moment to put it into words, but then it's there.

"... You believe I'm going to reject you." It's not a question.

Lucifer, if that's even his name, looks less than surprised by his deduction. "Of course."

"Why?"

"You did so the first time, too."

England frowns up at him, "I am not who you think I am."

'Lucifer' doesn't answer that.

"What are you after, kissing me like this?" He asks, noting that Lucifer has his hands very carefully placed on England's arms, not holding or restraining, just there. There's darkness in his touch, from his fingertips.

"Is it too much to ask that I want to touch the one I love?" Lucifer speaks suddenly, surprising England with the seriousness of his words. "I show restraint in not undressing you this instant and having you upon the sidewalk. And your wings speak to me, open to me—you need me as much as I need you. You're mine. I would be a fool to allow you to walk free again, so that you may fall at the hands of someone unworthy to even kneel before you."

As a nation, England has heard flattering words of powerful praise before, but he's never felt it to be quite this absurd.

Regardless, it is flattering.

Briefly, his mind flickers to too many memories of checking his phone, of seeing the genuine America enjoying his life, happy, without a thought of England.

How can that possibly compare to this lookalike, who has sought someone like England endlessly? It's an obsessiveness that reminds him too much of himself, after the Revolutionary War.

England's lips perk. "You aim to take me to Hell, then?"

Lucifer does actually look surprised this time, then resigned. "... Yes."

"Can I return, if I so desired?"

A pause of thought. Then, "You may."

"Alright," England agrees. "It seems about time that I visit someplace warm myself."

He's entertaining this idea. He's entertaining stepping into Hell, as if to mimic Persephone. Is he an utter fool? Absolutely.

But, what else is there? Paperwork? Politics? War? He isn't dead, his nation will not blink at his absence. Who knows? It's surely possible that no one even notices he's gone. And then what? What would the value of his life be? He could be gone a full five years and they would likely just be grateful to have escaped his 'intolerable demeanor'.

Maybe this is for the best. Were there not versions in which Persephone found true happiness in such an in-between arrangement, walking earth and the underworld with the seasons?

It isn't as though America loves him back.

England should indulge himself in this one and only chance, if he can't possibly place his feelings with the origin of his desires.

His silence causes Lucifer to grow quiet and expectant, uncertain as to what England is thinking. England pats the Devil's shoulder reassuringly, finding it bewildering to even be in the position to do so.

"Let us be off, then. But, I will warn you, I would sincerely appreciate some wining and dining before you even consider just having your way with me. I am a gentleman, after all."

It tickles something inside of him when mischief lights in those brilliant blue eyes, Lucifer's lip quirking in an engaged smirk. It's enthralling.

Arthur sinks to his knees and swallows nothing. Maybe he'll die from the smoke before the dragon can get to him?

"Arthuuur!"

Arthur's gaze snaps to Alfred, the yell angry, not fearful, and he sees the man glaring at him, as if urging him to run, to take the semi-clear exit behind him before it's entirely blocked, and Arthur doesn't understand how Alfred thinks he can just do that. He can't.

So what if he lives if everything he cares about is dead and he did nothing? He couldn't go on like that!

The dragon seems to regain focus on Alfred as it suddenly presses its foot down and the shield collides with Alfred's chest, pinning him underneath, and Arthur thinks how absolutely morbid and unsuited it would be if the man was killed by the very object meant to protect him.

Alfred can't call out anymore. Arthur's not even sure he can breathe.

He can't—… He can't just sit here. He can't.

Arthur's not thinking. It's hasty and mindless. But, he grabs the dagger from his pocket—a weak little thing that's honestly not worth the coin with which he bought it—and he shoves up the sleeve of his robe. In a single motion, he slashes the blade across his arm and tries not to think about the pain, even as he gags on it. The wound surges up blood and he doesn't think about how deep or long it is, just feels glad that he achieved what he wanted.

Placing his hand over it, he coats his fingers and bends forward, like a willow tree, quickly scrawling a circle around himself. The red liquid is frustratingly difficult to work with, breaking lines where he least needs it to, and the letters he writes end up impossibly imprecise. But, he has to try.

He can't look up or pay attention to anything but this, but time is limited, and his heart pounds furiously in his chest as he draws his circle, the organ jolting with each beat.

He finishes it.

The incantation can't be spoken quick enough and he rushes through it, breathless, until he comes to the spell's end, and all the world erupts in starlit light.

...

The next thing he knows, someone is calling him an idiot.

"I can't believe you—…"

The voice is distressed.

"That was so stupid. That was so stupid."

It's Alfred's.

"I swear if you're dead for real, I'll kill you. I really will, Artie."

Alfred might be crying. It's hard to tell.

"Don't think I won't drag your dead ass around the world until we find a healer—don't think for one second you're getting out of this."

Yes, he definitely is. Arthur feels his body being shook, as if Alfred's trying to make him come to his senses, despite being dead. It's sort of silly and a bit annoying.

"I'm gonna make you take up a physical profession, like archery— summoning fucking demons. You know they could've taken your soul right? Goddamn it, Artie…"

Heh. Yeah. He did that.

"Your soul better be in there."

It is.

"I swear to the gods!"

It's okay, Alfred. It is.

"Damn it. Now I have to make sure wolves don't eat you."

That'd be nice.

"Ugh! You're such a dick."

Arthur wonders if his punishment for that stunt is going to be having to listen to Alfred complain for the next two months or so.

"And I'm gonna have to bathe your body, too, you know. You’re totally covered in your own blood. It’s gross."

… No, that's it. That's the punishment right there.

Arthur's never saving Alfred again.

Alfred leaves him to it as he goes to shower off the smell of work.

Twenty minutes later, he exits the bathroom in a bathrobe and is surprised to hear the kettle going off in the kitchen, but when the whistling suddenly trails off into silence he finds himself growing more curious. Peeking in, he struggles to suppress a laugh.

Arthur's stood near the counter, Alfred's gift already being put to good use. The 'snuggie' is a happy green, with long sleeves, and rabbit ears extending from the top. It's supposed to be cute.

And, surprisingly, it actually is.

Arthur's completely draped in the thing, small, omega frame encompassed by the soft fabric, and Alfred fathoms that such a loose blanket-like garment probably has the same comfort properties a nest would, only more mobile.

Naturally, the alpha interrupts his boyfriend's little tea-making session by coming up behind him and pulling Arthur back against his body, feeling the omega's form. His hands grip hipbones before sliding inwards, massaging Arthur's inner thigh just inches away from the omega's pelvis.

"A- Alfred—!" Ninety percent scandalized, ten percent flustered.

"Mmm, someone looks cozy," Alfred comments, nuzzling into the fabric of blanket that covers Arthur's neck. He hears the omega's breath hitch.

"Knock it off," Arthur scolds, "I'm ill."

"You're assuming I want sex," Alfred bemoans, like it's some horrendous accusation.

His boyfriend turns and gives him the most pointed look.

Alfred just grins, shameless.

When Arthur sniffles, however, Alfred slides his hands back, gives the omega's butt a nice, good squeeze, and then moves up to massage his shoulders. "How about you finish up making your tea and I'll give you a back rub back at the couch?"

"... Okay," Arthur agrees, sounding openly weary now. Alfred would volunteer to make his tea, too, if he didn't know exactly how picky the omega was about it, so instead he waits for him to finish and they walk back together, Alfred in a bathrobe and Arthur in his snuggie.

They cuddle up in Arthur's little couch nest, the omega sip sip sipping the hot drink and making nearly sexual noises of enjoyment as Alfred gently massages out the knots in his back.

Alfred may or may not have popped a boner at that, but Arthur never looks, so it's his little secret.

Alpha senses keen, Alfred chooses the exact right moment to take Arthur's tea away from the omega, because Arthur’s eyelids start to droop, slow, body lulled by sheer relaxation, and then he's swept away by sleep, leaning against Alfred as the alpha tries to slide the cup onto the side table without waking his boyfriend up.

Wrapping an arm around the comfy, green bunny, Alfred settles in, flicks the TV back on with the remote, and promptly changes the soap opera to football.