hetalia_kink

Arthur is madly in love with Alfred and turns bulimic to get Alfred to notice/fall in love with him. Alfred finds out and goes off about how much of an idiot Arthur is for doing such a thing
fluffy comfort-sex is seriously wanted. Also, no mentions of past sex please! <3 Thank you Anons, I hope i'm not asking for too much~!

What are realistic endings!! That aside, I hope you enjoy ;w;

He felt cold.

After lingering another moment at the coat rack, he wrapped a snug red scarf around his neck, burying his chafed skin into the woolly warmth. Sticking his hands into his coat pockets, he began to step down the steps of the great hall. His breath came out as frozen puffs in the air, smoke that followed him to his car.

“Wait up, Arthur,” and his cheeks were suddenly a little warmer. He turned around slightly to see Alfred standing in front of him, face spotted rosy red, eyes bright.

“What do you want?” he asked, flushing slightly. “It’s not like I’m happy to see you here, or anything—“

“Wow, you’re so overdressed.” Alfred pulled playfully at the tip of his scarf, and Arthur felt another rush of heat shoot to his face. In defiance, he yanked back the scarf, and he didn’t dare admit that he was still shivering, even through the layers and layers.

“Shut up, prat. If you don’t have anything to say, then leave me be.” He turned around again, fumbling with his car keys, allowing a secret, green seedling of hope to grow inside him that maybe Alfred would call his name again.

“Come on, don’t be like that,” and the hope blossomed in full to the redness of his cheeks and a slight trembling of fingers through the hefty mittens.

“If you insist,” he said. Look at him, like a schoolgirl in love, shyly turning around and giving him looks out of the corner of his eyes. He couldn’t even look at Alfred directly because his heart would suddenly give a start, and the familiar warmth rushed through him.

“Listen, I was wondering if—“ Alfred leaned forward, breath tickling against his cheek and Arthur felt his face grow warmer still, and then, “Oh, Kiku.”

That was an unexpected end to the sentence.

As he raised his head, he could see the familiar, polite shape of the country walking by, his little dog with bright red booties stomping through the thick snow. When he looked back at Alfred again, the younger man seemed fascinated with the dog and the booties. Arthur bit back a surge of disappointment, and he mock-rolled his eyes in exaggeration before he began to fumble his car keys again, jingling them too loudly to be natural.

“Oh, sorry,” Alfred said, turning his attention back to him, hand still outstretched in a wave to Kiku.

“Pay attention, won’t you?” Arthur said with more irritability than usual. “I don’t really have the time to dilly-dally like this.”

“Yeah, sure.” Alfred huffed into his bare hands, and Arthur didn’t look at him in the eye. “I guess it wasn’t that important.”

The surge of disappointment made him feel as if his heart had been slowly drained of air, collapsing under the immense pressure of hope. But outwardly, he merely shrugged and made some flippant remark about Alfred being stupid, like always, and he was slightly angry, but he merely shook his head and said his farewell to him as he climbed into his car and drove off through the snow, steady on the sanded ice.

He parked a few blocks away to put his head on the steering wheel. He had done it wrong, again, that day! It wasn’t like he liked that stupid prat or anything, it was just that his heart began to beat a little faster and his smile made him feel a little happier and he wanted to be with him all the time and he pounded his head against the steering wheel until a noisy whiteness entered his head.

And a thought struck him, like so many times before, and it entered his head with such a familiarity that it almost hurt as it seeped through his logic and his arguments, settling in like his mind was a couch and it had a good time watching his telly. He pressed his lips against his mittened hands as he stared into the snow that had begun to pile up again on his warm car.

He needed to be thinner.

--

It was hard to tell when the thought first came to him. After a while, it just seemed natural. Even in his most muscular days, he had never been very heavyset, but there were unfortunate parts that seemed padded when he touched them, or fuller when he stared into the mirror until his eyes hurt.

And, after a while, it consumed him.

There was a constant tug-of-war in him, one side arguing that he needed to eat, and the other, that he needed to be thinner. He had always been tough, and he was prepared to do anything for one option or the other. But he seemed indecisive on this issue, swinging violently back and forth. He ate less and less, until one night, he suddenly felt hungry. So for dinner, he indulged in himself, and began to eat. Eat, and eat, and eat, consuming tearing chewing at the food until he realized that his sparse refrigerator was empty for the first time in years.

He had gone to sleep surprisingly content.

And woken up in the middle of night, sweating. The thought had begun to whisper in his mind again, but this time pressing against him uncomfortably. How could he? How could he have just done that? How could he have done such a disgusting act? Repulsion swept through him, and he had staggered to his bathroom in the middle of the night, face dripping in sweat. He could not stand himself. His skin seemed to fit too snugly on him. When he ran his fingers down to his stomach, he could feel the phantom weight already pressing against him.

He dry-heaved into the toilet bowl, the smell of disinfectant hitting his nose. His drool ran down his chin and swirled into the toilet, and the black duct seemed to stare into him. He tried again and again, and it hurt, and he was scared because he felt disgusting. But he had heard of something, once, and he could only recall it faintly and it didn’t seem very sanitary. Still, he rammed a trembling finger down his throat.

It hurt at first, and burned as his throat suddenly clenched on all sides at the unwelcome intruder, but he felt almost delighted to feel his stomach shift abruptly. But not enough, it hurt and stretched and burned, but not enough. So he jammed the second finger in there, and suddenly it was enough, and he was gripping the sides of the toilet bowl, hurling the food into the dark abyss until the putrid colors of his vomit mingled with the clearness of the water. He was crying a little bit, the hot tears splashing onto his tiled floor, as he used his pajamas sleeve to try and wipe and clean himself a little. He flushed the toilet and stood up, not daring to look into a mirror, and he washed his hands and changed his pajamas and lay down in his bed, feeling strange and violated, yet—

Satisfied.

It grew better, even though the thought always pressed against his mind. Three times a day wasn’t nearly enough for the strange thought. It haunted him, more frightening than his cute little ghosts. Lingering, it whispered, fat, you’re too fat, the uncomfortable padding around his stomach, there was too much, and he needed to be thinner. Look, Alfred wouldn’t even look at him, because look at him, look at him, so fat and disgusting and repulsive. So he would eat and vomit and eat and vomit and eat and vomit and he was trapped but, there was some sort of pleasantness in the rituals, and even though he could no longer look at himself in the mirror anymore, he was satisfied.

--

The scars at the back of his hand ached, but the cold leather gloves hid them.

The yearning at the back of his heart ached, but his placid face hid them.

When had he lost control? Not of his eating habits, no, they were perfectly fine. But the young man that was standing in front of him, sucking on his soda and talking rapidly about this and that, when had he changed? Arthur nodded in time to Alfred’s rhythm, and felt a dull sense of memory, when he could still hold the child in his arms and kissed his sweet cheeks and they would fall asleep in the large bed together, arm still curled around him.

And now he was a golden young man, broad-shouldered and tall, with a lazy, warm grin, and contagious excitement. It was almost unfair how well he had grown up, and how much Arthur had stayed the same over the years. The hand of fate had decided that he was still in as much love as ever, except in a hurting, aching way. As Alfred lost interest in the conversation and, presumably, in Arthur, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of hurt.

Maybe he needed to be thinner, still—

“I remembered what I was going to ask you,” Alfred interrupted, interest swinging back to him in full force, an unfair pendulum. “There’s this new restaurant in town and I heard the food was good, but nobody else would go with me. I don’t want to see your stupid face for the whole dinner, but I thought it might be a good lesson on what good food is like.”

“Stupid prat—“ Arthur scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. “What sort of idiotic offer is that? My food is delicious!”

“It’s disgusting,” Alfred deadpanned. An almost curious look flitted on his face. “I’m glad you haven’t brought your disgusting scones to the meetings lately.” His expression, however, seemed more relieved than thoughtful.

“You miss them, don’t you?”

“Not at all.”

“Bastard—“ It didn’t matter, either way. Arthur had lost the will to bake his scones, despite their deliciousness, because it disgusted him. His hands trembled slightly at the repulsion of the thought.

“So, are you going?”

“With such an impudent offer?” Arthur knew the answer that was already budding at the tip of his tongue, but he lingered for a few moments to give an impression of hesitance. “I suppose I have a bit of free time tomorrow night.”

“You mean, you have nothing at all to do.”

“Idiot!” But despite himself, he felt a little warmth to be going out to dinner with Alfred. It wasn’t anything special or unusual, but the giddiness in his stomach surely couldn’t only be hunger.

--

Alfred looked handsome.

It was a formal restaurant, so Arthur was pleased that at the very least, the messy Alfred had worn a suit. But it was more than that. Texas was tucked in the front of his pockets so his bright blue eyes shimmered under the chandelier, and his warmly tanned skin reflected the moon in its brightness. When he grinned in his cocky manner, his white teeth flashed. And when he ran his fingers through his neatly-styled hair, even Nantucket had been obedient enough to be swept all the way back, a far cry from his natural hairstyle. His casual stance contrasted aesthetically against his crisp, black suit, which called attention to the broadness of his chest and the thickness of his wrists.

“Alfred,” he said.

“What do you want to eat?” Like always, Alfred was dismissive, and buried his nose into the menu as quickly as possible. “They don’t have burgers, but maybe they can make something into a burger.”

“Idiot, don’t turn the distinguished food into something so cheap.” He fiddled with the laminated menu for another moment. He shouldn’t have been so nervous, nor flush so deep a red. But his heart couldn’t help but beat a little faster. As expected, though, there were no remarks on his own style of dress. There never were and he hadn’t expected any, other than a cruel comment about a lack of cashmere sweater vests for the night. But seeing how good that Alfred looked made him feel a little jealous.

“Just hurry up and order.” Alfred peered up from the menu briefly, breaking him from his thoughts. “And not just something light. You have to order something big.”

“Because I’m paying?” Arthur asked dryly. His heart pressed against him, but it was all right, because he did feel hungry that day. Nothing but water had passed his lips all day, and most of yesterday, but the languishing feeling had been placed with voraciousness. It felt like calling upon an old friend.

“A little bit.” Alfred leaned back in his chair. “But because I never see you eat lately.”

“I eat,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes slightly. “How would I survive if I didn’t?”

“An old geezer like you might forget about lunch.”

“Tea time is very important to me.” That was true enough. He just had not been keeping with tea time lately. But even the thought of crunching down on a dry biscuit made him feel disgusted lately, though not tonight. “All right, I’ll order something big.”

To his surprise, something like relief broke out in Alfred’s young face. “Sure,” he said. “I’ll order something big, too. Because I heard the food was good here.”

--

Alfred was dozing off in front of his telly, a forgotten board game on the table. Risk? Trouble? Either one seemed fitting at the moment, because he was dozing off on Arthur, and that was a problem. He felt disgusting at the moment, and he knew what he needed to do. The darkness of the house seemed to press upon it, whispering the importance over and over again. He swallowed a few times painfully. It hurt to swallow.

“Alfred,” he whispered. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Mm…” Alfred yawned sleepily, but he released him and flopped to the other side of the sofa, nearly knocking over the little figures sitting on the board game. Arthur kept his pace steady as he rose and walked calmly up the stairs. Once he was on the landing, he walked calmly to his room, and then calmly to his personal bathroom, where he turned on the lights and the whirring fan to cover up the noise, and then locked the door behind him.

He needed to get the disgusting food out of him.

That was his only thought when he rammed his fingers down his hurting throat, and he vomited into the toilet bowl with such violence that he felt tears forming at the corner of his eyes. It passed through his stomach to his throat and landed with a splash into the toilet, and when he was only dry-heaving, he collapsed against the cold tiles of his own bathroom and coughed a few times, hand clamped over his mouth. He was sweating again, breathing shallowly through his nose.

Fuck, it had felt good.

It felt right, and he watched with certain pleasure when he flushed the toilet. The feeling of the purging the food from his body, until he felt like the meat had gone out of him and he could feel the satisfying angles of his bones pressing against his skin, it was good. He no longer felt disgusting, but that the happiness would not last very long.

He was running the tap water over his fingers when the tapping came at the door. He froze for a second, making the mistake of looking up at the mirror in surprise. There he was, fat as always, with the baby fat still clinging to his face and under his chin, and he shuddered in near horror as he began to feel full again, like the food still clung to his stomach.

Tap tap. Tap tap. “Arthur, are you in there?”

Fuck. Fuck, if Alfred had been listening, then that would be horrible. In a flurry of panic, he dried his hands with the fluffy white towel, checking around the toilet bowl for any evidence. He forced himself to look into the mirror to check his clothes for any sign of the purging, but satisfied, he took a few deep breathes before he opened the door.

Alfred winced as the bright light flooded into the dark bedroom. But he blinked a few times and blearily looked at him.

“You took a long time,” he said.

“Sorry,” Arthur said, hearting beating quickly at his own lies. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I wasn’t,” Alfred said petulantly. His styled hair had begun to loosen from its grip, sending stray curls around his face. He yawned again, rubbing at his eyes until Arthur turned off the light. Had he heard anything? He couldn’t have. He was acting far too natural than if he had heard Arthur vomit. Or perhaps he knew? Perhaps he approved? And also thought that Arthur should be thinner? The panic flooded in him again until Alfred pulled him closer.

“You looked nice tonight,” he said sleepily.

“… Yeah?” It was silly for him to be pleased but such a simple statement, but the warmth flooded into his heart, and despite himself, he smiled in the darkness. He looked nice. He had gotten a little thinner. Not enough, far not enough, but a little attention was such a good thing. He felt like the sun had finally risen over the snowy hills.

“It was nice to see you eat so much,” Alfred said. “Did you think the food there was good?”

He could barely remember how anything tasted. He had been concentrating too much on shoveling the food down his mouth, trying to remember how to eat, all while his stomach demanded the nutrients. He remembered chewing, swallowing, feeling. The food itself, irrelevant.

“Yeah,” he lied. “It was good.”

--

Not thin enough.

He shuddered as he wrapped himself in blankets in the night, for it seemed as if the nights grew colder and colder. It hurt to sleep in some positions, though, because light bruises had begun to appear on him from the lightest scrapes. He had been shoved into a wall the other day, an accident, nothing to be pondered upon, and though it ached slightly, he hadn’t realized it would leave such a large, ugly bruise until he was changing and saw the discoloring that spread on his shoulder.

But those thoughts didn’t seem very important as his weight. He was disgusting, he knew, but it would have been nice to feel pleasant for a night. It wasn’t like him to measure himself by another’s opinion, he knew. Yet still, with some bitterness, he reflected that Alfred had barely even looked at him that day. He had been busy with his whale friends.

The irony of the statement never struck him. He rolled over impatiently, wincing as he settled on another bruise, and he clutched the blankets tighter around him to stop his shivering. He needed to be thinner, the voice said, and as he faded into sleep, he could only agree. That night, he woke up abruptly, stumbled to his kitchen, and ate anything he could find. Then he vomited. Then he went back to sleep, because he had a seven o’ clock meeting that he absolutely could not miss.

--

Alfred’s long arms curled around him as he leaned over, breathing into his neck. It felt tantalizing, the slight whispers of breath on his collar. At the slight stiffening, Alfred propped his chin on the sharp shoulder and looked at him curiously, with his large puppy-dog eyes that Arthur could only flush against.

“What is it?” he asked, and surprisingly, without a stutter.

“Nothing,” Alfred said. “It hurts a little.”

“What does?”

“Your shoulder. It’s so bony.” Alfred’s hand sneaked the way to the shoulder, and he pressed his large hand across the bone so he could prop his chin atop his hand. Arthur flushed again and looked away, back down at his papers.

“Then don’t lie on it.”

“It’s fine.” Alfred sighed for another moment, a slight rolling of breath that made Arthur flush once again. When Alfred was there, he could never concentrate on his work. He read the same sentence three times The official statement of the government does henceforth approve until Alfred spoke again.

“Have you had a lot of work lately?”

“The same amount as usual.”

“You’ve been working hard.”

“The same amount as usual,” he repeated, emphasizing each word sharply. But Alfred did not seem satisfy, rolling his chin around on his hand so Arthur could feel the vibrations throughout his body.

“I guess your food is so disgusting that you don’t eat it that much,” Alfred said out loud, as if he had been pondering it within his head and the words had accidentally slipped out. Arthur straightened up with indignation, his head nearly hitting Alfred’s face.

“It’s delicious!” he argued, tapping his pen against his desk. “Appreciate it, you prat! You wouldn’t know good cooking even if it hit you in the face!”

“I’d probably lose a tooth if any of your cooking hits me in the face,” Alfred said. But he lowered his head closer until it seemed to fit into the dip between Arthur’s shoulder, and despite himself, Arthur flushed and held still. He knew Alfred was only being touchy and playful, but he wanted to enjoy the moment for another second, before Alfred withdrew and left only the coldness. And there was a coldness nowadays, one that emanated from his bones to his skin. He could hardly get warm without wrapping himself up within layers.

“So it’s agreed, then,” Alfred said triumphantly.

“What’s agreed?”

“You’ll make us dinner and I’ll say whether or not it’s good. I mean, it won’t be,” Alfred pondered out loud, and his hand left Arthur’s shoulder. It felt cold. “But I’ll be nice and let you try to redeem yourself. Tonight, I’ll let you cook at my house.”

“All right,” Arthur said, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice. To see Alfred again at his house made him feel jittery, filling his stomach full of butterflies. He swallowed slightly, regaining his bearings before he opened his mouth again. “I’ll do it.”

--

Fuck, fuck, fuck. It was so cold, and his hands were trembling, and he knew the disgusting food in front of him slopped down on the dish and he didn’t want to touch it. He hated touching it, the bad discolorment, the way it oozed and grimed and slimed on the pristine white china. He played with his silverware for another moment, glancing occasionally at Alfred, who was chewing on it with an emotionless expression.

“It’s disgusting,” Alfred said, looking up and catching sight of Arthur’s gaze. “But I guess I’ll eat it so I don’t have to see you cry.”

“Don’t eat it for my sake,” Arthur said dryly, trying to silence his pounding heart. He stared back down at his plate, and his stomach churned at the thought.

“I’m not,” Alfred said, and an almost pout formed on his face. “I just like eating.”

Arthur snorted, and he forced himself to dip his fork into the substance. With a slightly trembling hand, he brought the food to his mouth. A regular slip and slide, that’s what it was, sticking to his mouth and his gums and teeth before he swallowed. The disgusting feeling overwhelmed him as the food made its way down his throat and into his stomach, and he was disgusting. He shuddered slightly at the feeling of the food settling into his body, and he felt as if he had gained ten pounds from that single bite.

“You don’t like it, either?” Alfred had been watching with a mildly curious look.

“It’s good,” he said defensively. He had to do something. Fuck, he had to, he felt disgusting. His eyes roamed over to the clock sitting on the wall.

“Isn’t it time for your show on the telly?”

“Is it?” Alfred frowned and looked at the clock, and then his face childishly lit up in delight. “Oh, it is! Sorry, Arthur, I’m going to eat in front of the television. You have to come with me, though.” The last part was added not as an afterthought, but a tacked on reminder. Alfred was already bringing his dish to the television, and Arthur felt a surge of relief through his bones. He smiled faintly and after scaring half his dish into the trash, he followed suit, pretending to chew as he sat next to Alfred.

The television showed an obese man instructing seriously about weight loss, and Arthur could only be glad that Alfred was paying too much attention to the television to notice how he, too, had grown alarmingly obese. No, that wasn’t right.

It would have been nice if Alfred paid him any attention at all.

--

He had slept over at Alfred’s house, and the night was going well. He had gotten away with only eating half his dish, and though Alfred offered decent food from his refrigerator, he had refused. He stirred from his dreams in the guest room, the sleep clinging to the back of his eyelids. Rolling over on the soft bed, he stared at the ceiling for a few minutes. The bed smelled like Alfred. Everything smelled like him. He brought the blanket up to his nose and inhaled deeply, smelling Alfred’s burgers oil fries chips grass gasoline.

Under the blanket, his fingers danced across his ribs. It was like a phantom dance, barely brushing against the one-two-three one-two-three of his rib cage that held his beating heart. His fingertips felt cold, like ice pressing against his chest. But he ran his fingers up and down, a cleaning, calming ritual. He closed his eyes and began to fade back to sleep.

And he was suddenly hungry.

He usually wasn’t, not even at the normal tea times, so he almost doubled over in pain at the suddenness of the hunger. His stomach felt like it was consuming itself, and he trembled slightly, a sweat breaking across his brow. No, he thought, no, fuck, no, no, not now. But he was hungry, and he needed to eat, and before he knew it, he was stumbling down the hallway with his bare feet. It was all right, he tried to convince himself. His rituals scrambled to place themselves at his disposition as he entered the empty kitchen, dark and cold against his hot sweating skin.

He hadn’t eaten so much the past few days, just the this and the that, so it was all right. And he was hungry, so he opened the refrigerator and began to scavenge for food. It was a sight too horrible for even himself, shaking hands trying not to make a noise as he sat on the cold tiled floor that pressed its coldness through his thin pajamas. A bag of frozen peas were torn open and he was shoveling the hard green rocks into his mouth, cold, crunching and tearing and saliva dripping from his mouth as he grabbed the peas by the fistful and ate them. And next, there was a small box of leftovers from their dinner, and he couldn’t even use a fork, and he used his hands to scoop out the muck and shove it in his mouth, dripping down his front, and his teeth clenched down upon it as he tore it viciously, the oil slicking across his fingers and still his other hand was searching for more, and he needed to find the more, and when he felt slightly better, he staggered up to find the food from the upper shelves, and finding bread on the counter, he left the fridge door open and grabbed the entire loaf and sat at the table and began to chew and tear and gnaw and desperately ravish as his drool splattered across the table and he was eating and he was hungry. He lost track of time, and food, and he continued to eat, over and over again.

And suddenly, the lights flicked on.

“Arthur?”

He froze at the sleepy voice, looking up painfully through the sudden whiteness. Alfred stood at the kitchen door, slumped on the frame while rubbing his eyes. He looked cute while he was sleepy, a drowsiness cloaking a film over his eyes, rumbled pajamas that featured one of his superheroes in the same stupid pose over and over and over again, red and blue.

“Alfred,” he said, and he grabbed a napkin to wipe his mouth. He didn’t dare to look at the mess that he had made in the kitchen, and he was frightened. He was shaking and trembling, and he was covered in a cold sweat. The kitchen was a mess, and it wasn’t even his kitchen, and the feelings of deep shame washed over him. No, Alfred, he could explain, he really could—

“You were hungry?” Alfred bent down to pick up the empty bags on the floor. “You should have just told me. I would have made you something.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur murmured. “It’s your kitchen, and I should have—“

“Nah.” Alfred stomped on the pedal of his trashcan. “I should have known your food was too disgusting to digest. I mean, I didn’t think it was worse than usual, but maybe you did.”

“It…” Arthur swallowed. “Yeah. It was bad.”

“You finally admit it,” Alfred said, with a small, tired smile. He seemed to be unsure about something, as if the scene unsettled him, and he was creating justifications in his mind. Arthur was overeager to help him make the proper excuses. It was part of the ritual.

“Only this time.” Arthur wrung his hands underneath the table. “I’ll properly compensate you for any food that I’ve eaten that—“

“It’s fine.” Alfred shrugged and glanced into the refrigerator as he was closing it. He blinked and glanced back at Arthur, the unsure expression deepening. “Wow, you ate a lot.”

He saw him at the most disgusting, and he felt disgusting. Arthur wanted to suddenly stand up and run away, but he forced himself to continue sitting, dirty, disgusting filth that he was, and he could feel how fat he had become in his fingers and under his chin and in the arms.

“Sorry.”

“’sokay.” Alfred seemed almost relieved when he closed the door. “It’s nice to see you eat. You’ve been working too hard lately. I mean, I don’t care about old geezers like you.” He didn’t care because Arthur was still too obese. There was a secret language, and Arthur could read it.

“I’m going to go clean myself up,” Arthur said, slowly standing up. “Don’t… Don’t talk about this, all right? I was just a little hungry and went overboard.”

“Like I ever talk about you,” Alfred said, balling up the wrapper and tossing it in the can. That was true. Like Alfred would ever talk about him. He felt his face grow warmer. He had ruined the trip, and it had been going so well, by his shameful act. Why had he been so hungry? He balled his hands into fists, made some quiet excuse, and left to the bathroom, where the last part of his act would be completed, so perhaps he could face Alfred once more.

--

His belt loosely hung around his hips, and he stared. He couldn’t tell if he was pleased or not, but nevertheless, he sat down at the edge of his bed and punched another hole through it, and looped around his shoulder and his waist, before head off to work.

--

He felt almost giddy that Alfred paid him some attention, and invited him out to dinner again. They were back at his house, where Alfred was sitting and watching the television. He loosened his tie against his sharp collarbones, and felt a warm smile growing on his face despite himself. He felt safe and happy. It was all he could ask for.

He walked up the stairs to the second floor, into his personal room, and then into the bathroom. With a snap, he tore off his glove and placed it on the sink. Through the dim, florescent light, he reflected on the state on the back of his hands. The scars had grown, raw and pink, against his pale skin. The bones jutted out against the taut skin, and the scabs had grown a dark black-red. He rubbed at his hand with almost curiosity, but though it hurt, he felt at peace.

With a barely discernable sigh, he settled in front of the toilet. On his knees was the best position, and he always made sure to disinfect the toilet after. It was another part of his ritual. One finger would do that night, he thought, and he raised his head a little so the vomit wouldn’t splash onto him, and he had just rammed his finger down his throbbing throat when the door opened.

He had forgotten to lock the door.

And he couldn’t stop the surge of vomit that was already coming out of his mouth, and everything was in a panic because one moment he was in front of the toilet, and the next, thrown against his bathtub, both his wrists caught in a painful grip above his head. Alfred stared at him wildly, glasses at the end of his nose, face caught between horror and fear. He had never seen that look on his face, even when the closets of catastrophes had occurred. No, he had always been smiling, laughing, playful about the serious threats.

Arthur coughed painfully a few times. He suddenly felt cold, and he swallowed to settle the world down into something stable. His eyes flickered back and forth, looking anywhere but the piercing blue eyes that were, for once, staring straight at him.

“What…” Alfred licked his dry lips. “What was…”

“Let me go, Alfred.” His voice was calmer than he had expected. He stared at the sink, looking at the marble that shone under the lights. “You’re hurting me.”

There was a heavy second, and Alfred released his grip. Arthur shrank back, massaging the bruised areas around his wrist until the circulation had returned. His quick mind darted back and forth, and he was sweating desperately, through the thin layer of clothes, but he could do it. Shame settled into the bile of his stomach, but his mind screamed at him to make the excuses.

“I wasn’t feeling well,” he said calmly, “and—“

“Your finger was down your fucking throat!” Alfred’s voice broke into a higher pitch midway through his sentence, and he was trembling in rage, standing above him with his face contorted painfully.

“You were seeing things.”

“I know what I fucking saw! Arthur, what… what the hell were you…” The words seemed too much for him at the moment, and Alfred collapsed against the wall, pressing his hands against his face as if to hide tears.

Arthur stared at the shining marble. “I just had a little trouble getting it out,” he said carefully, “So I thought it might help if—“

“If you rammed a finger down your throat?” Alfred’s rage seemed to raise again, but his words seemed broken and dry. Arthur could see Alfred’s a Adam’s apple bob up and down desperately. He tried to say something else, but he failed, and he gave an aching groan.

“Yes.” Arthur stared at him patiently. Accept the lie. Accept the lie they both wanted and let this shame end. Let this cold feeling that was strangling him finally grow warm again in his safety. He was caught in a trap, and there was no way out, and he felt nearly sick and bewildered from the feeling. He wanted to escape. He wanted to run. There was no place left to run, but he was scared.

“You honestly expect me to believe that?” Alfred dropped his hands to his sides. His eyes watched him, the blue of the sky.

“Why not?” Arthur shrugged too casually. “I just heard it from somewhere, and—“

Alfred stepped forward abruptly, and in his thick grip, he pulled Arthur’s hand in front of him. The scabs and the places were his teeth had rubbed his skin red almost glowed in the poor light. He shook the hand at him silently for a few moments, and then dropped it because the despair of his face twisted.

“You’ve done this before,” he said brokenly, as if he had only realized at that moment what was happening. It was as if someone was twisting a cold knife into Arthur’s stomach. No, he was wrong, it was a lie. He could still escape, but he felt as if someone was strangling him.

“No, I haven’t—“

“Stop fucking lying to me!” Alfred brought his fist down onto the sink, and it cracked under his immense strength, the marble shattering onto the cold tiled floor. Arthur drew back against the rock, and the silence after the violence seemed to echo. Arthur shuddered.

“I’m not—“

“No! You are! I thought… I thought at first, something was…” Alfred looked conflicted. “I thought something was wrong, because you didn’t eat, and then… You were in the bathroom, and you took… took a long time, and I thought you were just… taking a shit, except it was a really long time and you… you didn’t eat, and…” He stared down at his own hands in abject horror.

“Alfred,” Arthur said soothingly. With his clean, gloved hand, he stretched out to delicately touch the side of Alfred’s face. “No, you’re wrong. You’re completely wrong. I haven’t been doing any—“

“Shut the fuck up!” And suddenly he was pressed against the bathroom wall, and his back hurt and his hands trembled. He felt sick, like he was about to vomit, but he knew there would be nothing in there. He had been trapped in his own lie and he couldn’t get out and he was shaking and he knew he had lost by the look of Alfred’s eyes, blazing and bright, and he was crying a little bit now. He could feel it, the drip drip drip off his face and onto the floor.

In a small voice, he whimpered.

“Arthur,” Alfred said. He looked broken, and he was too close. Arthur could smell him, a good comforting smell, and he wanted to press onto him and relieve the pain in his heart. But he didn’t dare, because he was still trying to formulate excuses, his mouth opening and closing dryly.

“I didn’t…” The lie fluttered to the ground and broke.

“What did I do wrong?” Alfred suddenly stared at him intensely, his eyes haunted with guilt. “Why didn’t I notice this sooner? Why didn’t I do anything sooner? Why… Why did you even fucking do it? Why? You were already stick-thin and now you’re… you’re bony, and…”

“I needed to be thinner.” The mantra fell from his lips, and he was defeated. The cold feeling in his stomach overtook him completely, and he cast his gaze downward, unable to face the eyes.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” His fingers twitched. “Because you didn’t look at me.”

There was a heavy silence, but when he finally raised his eyes, he was surprised to see the broken look returning to Alfred’s face.

“What?” Alfred’s voice broke between the wh and the at. Arthur allowed his head to rest, hanging it so he could see the tips of his shoes. It was embarrassing, but he no longer felt anything. The words passed coldly through his lips, far worse than any warm vomit.

“You didn’t pay attention,” he murmured to the blue-and-white tiles. “You didn’t turn my way. So I thought I needed to be thinner.”

“I always paid attention to you.” Alfred’s voice was bitterly honest, peeled back from the layers of laughter and jokes. When Arthur dared to raise his eyes again, Alfred had bent slightly to face-level, his eyes roaming desperately on his face.

“Pardon?” Arthur whispered.

“Everyday. Every second. I watched you.” Alfred trembled. “I stayed up nights thinking when I would see you next.”

“But…”

“God,” Alfred said, and he stepped back. He slumped against the wall, covering his eyes with his hands, and reclined his head back to the ceiling. “God, I was just… I was stupid. I thought you would pay attention to me if I didn’t pay attention to you. And I tried to ask you out in stupid ways, and I didn’t want to get rejected so I didn’t do it the right way, but even when I did it, it just never came out right.”

Arthur clutched at his elbow.

Alfred swallowed a few times. “It’s my fault, isn’t it?”

“No—“

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Alfred grabbed him by the wrist again. “Why are you so stupid? You’re… You’re fine the way you are! Were! Are! I don’t… Don’t do this anymore.”

“… Don’t tell anyone,” Arthur mumbled, painfully attempting to draw away. But the iron grip only clamped down harder on his wrist bones.

“Arthur! Don’t do this anymore!” Alfred seemed at a loss for words. “You’re good, okay! You’re good the way you are! I like you! I don’t care what you look like, but don’t do this to yourself!” And suddenly, Alfred was the one crying. Arthur was stunned, and with a trembling hand, he reached out to touch the hot tears and try to wipe them away.

“Don’t cry,” he murmured anxiously.

“You always did care more about me than yourself, you idiot,” he finally said after a moment of silence, and he touched Arthur’s hand closely to his skin. It felt warm and nice.

Silently, he guided Arthur to the sink where he washed his hand with soap and water, the bare skin feeling nice. And when he was done, he lead him out of the bathroom, flicking off the lights. Arthur awkwardly stood in his bedroom and began to turn around when he was suddenly gently pushed into his bed.

“I want to see,” Alfred said. In the moonlight, it felt different. Arthur didn’t have to ask about what Alfred meant, and he began to remove his belt. It slipped easily from his skin, and it felt nice, no longer being confined. His clothes hung baggily on him as he placed the belt on a nearby table. He was too aware of the eyes that followed his every movement, but he felt tired. Next came his jacket, crumpling onto the bed until he folded it neatly and placed it on the chair as well. He pulled his dress shirt out of trousers and pulled at his tie, and that was draped over the back of his chair.

When he began to unbutton his shirt, Alfred was no longer an audience, but in front of him, helping him from the bottom. There was a struggle on the third button, but it, too slipped from him, and this time crumpled to the floor. He trembled slightly from the cold, as Alfred looked with an unhappy look in his eyes. His ghost touches felt different because his hands were warm, and when he touched his ribs, he could only close his eyes.

“You’re thin,” Alfred murmured into his ear. The warm breath rolled over his sensitive earlobes and he shuddered.

“No,” he said.

“Yes.” Alfred pulled him closer suddenly, and his warm mouth pressed against his neck and then with fluttering kisses, he planted them swiftly in succession down to his sharp shoulder, where he pressed his forehead against the wide, bony expanse. Arthur raised his hand to hold him against him, and then Alfred was gently pushing him onto the bed, straddling him and kissing the insides of his wrist, fingers surprisingly gentle around the sharp bone. Arthur kicked off his boots, and he wasn’t surprised to see that Alfred was struggling with his other hand to untie his own.

“You have bruises,” he said softly. He pulled off his glasses and placed them on the dresser table with a soft clink.

“Some.”

“A lot.” Alfred placed his hand gently across one bruise near his stomach, one that spread contagiously and seemed to worsen. He winced slightly, but didn’t allow the pain to show in his face. Alfred looked up at him for approval before he leaned down and kissed his stomach, fingers running down the ribs. Arthur adjusted uncomfortably underneath him because the kisses seemed to be trailing downward, and his face flushed slightly. He could feel himself harden slightly as the kisses lingered around his naval, and the fingers playfully pick at the belt.

“Hey…” Alfred looked up. “Is it all right to do it?”

“Idiot.” Arthur flung his arm over his eyes. “Read the atmosphere for once, won’t you?”

Alfred’s chuckles reverberated into his stomach, and he could feel Alfred pulling off his jacket and dumping it sloppily to the floor. Next came the jacket, and haphazardly the tie, and then the shirt was pulled off impatiently, popping one or two buttons across the room. Arthur watched for a while, a little pleased despite himself. His boy had grown up to be extraordinarily muscular, he mused, his arms and wrists thick, his stomach muscles taut, if not for the cute pudge around his stomach. But he twisted his thoughts away from the stomach, admiring the smooth expanse of skin until the hands were now pulling at his trousers.

“H-hey—” and Arthur was trying to stop him, but Alfred was stronger, and firmly pulled down both his underwear and his trousers. He gave a small cry, toes curling in his socks. Embarrassed, he didn’t dare look down, covering his face with his bony hands. The sudden cool air only made him grow harder, but he gave the loudest, most surprised cry of all when he felt a warm mouth suddenly encase his member.

“Idiot!” He reached down, but could only grasp Alfred’s fine hair as he trembled.

“It tastes like you,” Arthur said, looking up. Seeing the bright blue eyes disturbed him, and he could only reach up one hand to cover his face.

“Don’t say obscene things.”

“We’re already this far and you’re still like that?”

“Shut…” He didn’t finish his sentence as that obscene mouth began to tentatively lick at his cock, at the undersides where he could feel his veins throbbing. He shuddered at the warmth, and at the hands that lightly brushed against his balls when Alfred adjusted to get a better grip. Then again, his warm mouth sucked at his foreskin, and then began to sink deeper along the length. With one hand, Arthur gently guided him, tightening when he felt teeth accidentally brush against him. Despite himself, he felt his hips rising slightly to push against the warm, wet cavern, and he closed his eyes in disappointment when the wet mouth left.

“It tastes weird.”

“Don’t be…”

“Obscene, yeah, yeah.” A pink tongue snaked out to lick the pre-cum away from the tip, and Alfred seemed to be pondering what to do next. Arthur didn’t dare to look down, flushing already from just feeling himself hard in front of Alfred’s probing eyes.

“Is that all?” Arthur stroked the soft hair again without judgment. “At least finish the job, stupid.” His voice seemed a little too breathless to be natural, and a low rumble of a chuckle came from down below.

“Sorry.” And suddenly Alfred was tentatively running his fingers into him, and he shuddered momentarily when he felt the tip of the finger enter him. Alfred immediately froze, looking up at him for confirmation.

“… Keep going.” And the finger was in, warm and good. It pressed tentatively against the walls, wiggling slightly in a playful manner. Arthur winced slightly and adjusted his hips so the second finger could fit in more comfortably. It felt slightly surreal, to have those in him.

“Warm,” Alfred was mumbling to himself.

“What?”

“I want to warm you up.” Alfred looked up, pausing for a moment. “You always felt cold.”

“Idiot.”

“I love you,” Alfred insisted, pulling out his fingers. The absence made him feel slightly deflated, though he watched with a near fascination when Alfred began to pull down his own pants, discarding them over the bed with confidence. He had already been mostly hard, stroking himself as he straddled him with ease. There was a gentleness in his movements, as if he had been afraid of breaking him or hurting him.

“Don’t say such obscene things,” Arthur whispered, covering his face and eyes again. The darkness seemed soothing to his too-hot skin, and he could feel the beginnings of the penetration. He winced slightly as it took Alfred a while to enter, tentative and unsure. With his other hand, he looped around Alfred’s neck to draw him closer to the bed.

And then he was in, snug and secure, though he did not move at first. When Arthur peered up through the darkness, he could see that Alfred’s face was covered in a sheen of sweat, and he was trembling slightly. He flushed suddenly when he saw that Arthur had removed his arm to look at him.

“Don’t look at me,” he said softly. “That’s obscene.” Arthur laughed a little despite himself, and then brought both arms to drag him closer to himself, kissing his lips fully as he could feel Alfred try to grab a better stance on the bed and begin to move. At the first move, Arthur winced slightly, burying his face into the good smell of Alfred’s shoulder. His fingers gripped a little too tightly, but Alfred didn’t say anything, instead only stroking his hair in a calming fashion. And then the movement attempted again, and he tried to make himself relax, focus only on the feeling of skin beneath his fingers, the sharp hips pressing against him, how Alfred was kissing his neck and whispering something as he moved again, this time faster.

It hit a good nerve, and Arthur gave a short cry, and then fell silent in embarrassment. His face flushed, and he bit down hard on his lip when it hit the nerve again, and again, and again, and then he was panting hard against Alfred’s shoulder, feeling him bite and suck gently at his neck as he moved again inside him, and the hot coil of pleasure moved downwards and he was breathing heavily into Alfred’s shoulder, gripping him by the shoulder blades tightly as he moved again, his own cock brushing against Alfred’s stomach and he was wet and hard and Alfred was inside him and he closed his eyes and felt his back arch under the movements, at the feeling of pleasure and the surreality of another member fitting inside of him.

Alfred’s movements began to pick up speed, hitting it over and over again, and his toes were curling and his cock was wet and he groaned into Alfred’s shoulder as his fingers painfully tightened and fuck it felt good Alfred felt good inside him and he gave a short gasp as he felt warm fingers brush against his cock and hold it down playfully and he made a sound against Alfred’s shoulder that sounded almost like begging and he felt needy and desperate for the release, and when Alfred’s fingers loosened, the movements increased again and he couldn’t hold it in anymore and with a short cry, came.

It happened shortly, and when the whiteness flooded from his eyes, he turned slightly to see that Alfred was finishing himself, brushing his big fingers against his members and closing his eyes until the white semen seeped into his fingers.

Arthur had nothing to say at first, lying on his own bed with a dampness in between his legs. He rolled to the other side, tired suddenly, fatigue seeping into his bones. And then he felt a warm arm around his waist, pulling him closer, almost spooning him and kissing his neck and the other stroking his hair. He wasn’t a child, he wanted to say, and he didn’t need such babying. But it was nice to be held in such warm arms after so many cold nights, so he didn’t say anything and allowed Alfred to touch him and kiss him.

“How did I do?”

“What?” Arthur tried to tilt his head and see him, but Alfred’s arm firmly kept hold around him. “Let go of me, I want to see you.”

“You can’t.”

“Why not?”

Alfred was silent for a moment, his face buried into the space between Arthur’s shoulder blades. After another moment, the answer sullenly came.

“Because I’m embarrassed.”

“We just had fucking sex and you’re emb—“

“Yes! Don’t say it to the world.” His face did feel warm against him, but he couldn’t tell. Everything about Alfred felt warm and good and hot. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax slightly against the muscular arm.

“You won’t do it again, will you?” The anxious voice made him open his eyes slightly, almost with interest.

“What? Sex?”

“No.” The younger man sighed slightly. “That… thing.”

Arthur was quiet, stroking Alfred’s fingers with his hand. It felt like an oddly intimate move, despite everything that had occurred. But the fingers were big and strong against his own wiry fingers.

“No,” Arthur said at last. “I won’t.”

“Because you’re good the way you are.”

“I don’t know.”

“No, I know. You are. I promise.” Alfred’s breath came in short, hot bursts against the back of his neck and the tender area where his hair and neck met. “I swear. You’re good to me the way you are. So don’t make yourself throw up.”

“All right.” Arthur closed his heavy eyes. “I won’t. I promise.”

“Okay.”

“… Alfred?”

There was only a small grunt as a response, as Alfred was already fading asleep, arm still gripped tightly around him. Arthur sighed slightly, and sank back into his embrace. It was all right like this, too, he thought. Even he was still a little afraid. But it was all right.

“Alfred,” he murmured as he nodded to sleep, “You’re warm.”

Damn but this was good. Arthur's thought process was incredibly disturbing and Alfred's concern was so touching. I don't normally like the magic healing cock but, well, this is a kinkmeme and the fic was just incredibly well done. Good job, Author!Anon.