Chapter Text
The candle in the corner of his cabin flickers restlessly and Alfred distractedly follows the long and wavering shadows that are cast across the wooden walls. Around him, the ship creaks as it glides through the waves, a rhythmic sound that could have sang him to sleep, were he not waiting for Arthur.
It’s Arthur’s turn to come to him tonight, but he’s taking longer than anticipated. Though perhaps he just got caught up talking to Yao again, something Alfred cannot begrudge him. Arthur’s disappearance obviously melted some ice from the wall Yao’s constructed around himself, because ever since their reunion, Arthur and Yao were near inseparable, constantly reminiscing and talking things through.
Perhaps he should take the initiative and go to Arthur’s cabin instead. It’s silly that they’ve got this unspoken agreement of taking turns sneaking to each other’s cabin after all.
Just as he wants to push himself to his feet, he hears a soft and quick rap of knuckles against the door to his cabin. A soft click follows almost immediately and the door opens just wide enough for Arthur to slip in.
Alfred grins, his insides doing a funny little flip, as usual. “Took you long enough.”
Arthur makes his way inside before Alfred can say anything else and shuts the door behind him, pausing only for a moment to ensure it was locked before relaxing and approaching Alfred. Eagerly, Alfred pushes himself back on the bed (barely big enough for one man, let alone two, but alas), waiting for Arthur to join him.
“I can’t stay long.” Arthur says as he stops in front of him.
It’s a sequence of words he keeps repeating every time he sneaks out to Alfred’s cabin and Alfred rolls his eyes. They’ve only messed up once, and that was when Alfred went to Arthur’s cabin and fell asleep - even then, Alfred woke up early enough to sneak back towards his own cabin.
“I’m serious, Alfred.” Arthur sighs wistfully. “If I fall asleep here and your valet finds us together in the morning, the entire ship will know before we even dock. And then it will spread like wildfire the moment we return to Spades.”
Alfred’s not so sure what the problem is. He does not mind the idea of their relationship becoming public. No, it’s Arthur who wants to keep their involvement under wraps for now. Alfred understands why, he supposes: it would only add fuel to the fire and right now, their fire is big enough already.
But eventually, he would love for them to be public.
“How scandalous, a future king and queen actually in love.” Alfred deadpans, before moving forward and grabbing Arthur by his wrist. “Come on, we have all night.”
Arthur resists, for all of a second.
Then Alfred’s arms encircle his waist and he slowly pulls Arthur down onto his lap, giving the older prince all the time he could possibly need to object or pull away. It’s immensely gratifying to see that Arthur does not object and instead melts a little into Alfred’s embrace, and before long, Alfred’s got him where he wants him.
“See?” Alfred quips, his insides warm and mushy with affection as Arthur raises his hands to rest them atop of Alfred’s shoulders. “Much better.”
This is Alfred’s best strategy, currently. Years upon years of little physical touch have made Arthur starved for affection and now that he’s no longer uncomfortable with receiving it from Alfred, at least not as much as before anymore, he’s terribly easy to distract with a strategic hug or kiss.
But he wouldn’t be Arthur if he gave up that easily, of course.
“We need to talk.”
“No, we don’t.” Alfred insists, tilting his head in an attempt to kiss his significant other.
“Yes, we do.” Arthur counters, settling him with a pointed glare as he deftly moves back to avoid Alfred’s wandering lips, a full departure restricted by Alfred’s arms. “We’ll be back in Spades by the end of this week, and we need to figure out how we’re going to handle things. The speech, my heritage, your family - ”
Alfred’s entire body tenses in a way that’s impossible for Arthur to miss. His jaw tightens, his fingers clench slightly where they rest on Arthur’s back and although he does a marvelous job at keeping his expression neutral, he does allow his gaze to flicker towards the swaying lamp, hanging from the ceiling.
Arthur sighs. “You’re avoiding it.”
“No, I’m not.” Alfred mutters.
“You are. Every time I bring up returning home, you change the subject.”
Alfred runs a hand down his face. “Because I don’t want to think about it yet, Arthur.”
“You’re going to have to.”
Silence stretches between them. Arthur is still looking at him, green eyes sharp with that unwavering intensity that always makes Alfred feel like he’s under scrutiny.
And oh, how the tables turn. Back when they had first left Spades, when they had first arrived in Antevaria, it had been Arthur who dragged his feet, wary of every step forward. It had been Arthur who was reluctant, uncertain, while Alfred had been the one pushing him - them - forward.
Now it’s Arthur who spends hours bent over maps and documents, discussing strategies with Yao and Eugènio. It’s Arthur who tirelessly goes over every possible speech he might give, every approach he might take to ease his eventual revelation to the court and people of Spades.
And Alfred has started dragging his feet.
The thing is: the closer they get to returning home, the heavier it begins to feel. That weight of what they have done; the consequences that they will have to face.
Alfred has just spent weeks basking in the quiet freedom of being unknown. Of not being the Crown Prince of Spades, not the future king. He had simply been Alfred (or Allen). There had been no expectations, no nobles gossiping about his every move, no wary glances from people afraid of what he might break.
On top of all that, Alfred had seen Arthur thrive.
For the first time, Arthur had not been an anomaly trapped in a palace. He had not been a curiosity, an outsider with the wrong magic, wrong bloodline, wrong everything. He had been home in a way he had never been before and Alfred had watched the way his walls came down.
He’s terrified all of this will disappear the moment they disembark the ship they’re on.
Would Arthur pull away again, retreat back into that wary shell he had built for himself after years of being othered by their court, would he bury himself in duty? Would Alfred have to slip back into the carefully controlled role of the good son, the strong, dependable prince who never faltered, who never questioned his place?
All of that pales in comparison to what might happen to them, though. To what had slowly and cautiously grown between them.
Whether or not their relationship will be public, Alfred knows their every move will be watched in the coming years. And once Arthur announces his heritage, the clergy will scrutinize him; the nobles will speculate and argue.
Even worse… Would Arthur stop looking at him like he does now?
Unconsciously, Alfred’s fingers twitch against the fabric of Arthur’s tunic. The thought of losing this, the Arthur who finally lets himself be Alfred’s, who has finally started to meet his touch with his own, who finally wants him back… it makes his stomach twist.
Fingers brush gently across his cheek and Alfred blinks, realizing Arthur is talking to him.
“You’re not even listening, are you?” Arthur muses, appraising him with a cautious yet worried expression.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.” Alfred says.
He realizes he sounds uncharacteristically bitter and to prevent a sudden argument, Alfred quickly redirects his emotions towards another issue that weighs heavily on his mind: his family. He can already imagine his mother’s despair, his father’s fury, and Matthew’s disappointment.
“We left without a word. Just disappeared in the middle of the night. Do you have any idea what that must have done to my family?”
Arthur visibly hesitates as he searches for the right words and sentiment. “They love you, that won’t have changed.”
Alfred lets out a soft, humorless chuckle. “Love doesn’t erase the fact that I abandoned them.”
Arthur frowns. “You didn’t abandon them. You left because I -”
“Because we left.” Alfred corrects, finally looking up at him again. “We left, together.”
Arthur’s fingers linger for a moment in Alfred’s hair, smoothing down strands before he pulls back. “You’ll make it up to them.”
Alfred watches him, blue eyes glinting with something mischievous beneath the candlelight. “And what about you?”
Arthur frowns delicately. “What about me?”
“You’ve had to put up with me all this time.” Alfred grins, his hands sliding a little lower on Arthur’s back. “Think I need to make it up to you too?”
Arthur huffs, unimpressed. “You’re ridiculous.”
Alfred gasps dramatically. “Me? I’m a responsible and upstanding prince, Arthur.”
Arthur gives him a dry look. “Alfred, you once broke a solid oak door because you pushed it instead of pulling.”
“Okay, but in my defense,” his hands tighten slightly around Arthur’s waist, his voice dipping into something warmer, more teasing, “I was very distracted by your legs that day.”
Arthur’s lips part, then press together again. The realization dawns slowly in his eyes before his face abruptly heats, a scowl forming as if to shield whatever reaction he refuses to let show. “You’re insufferable.”
He shoves at Alfred’s chest, hard, but Alfred lets himself fall back, dragging Arthur with him.
“And yet.” Alfred murmurs, his smirk lazy and content. “Here you are, sneaking into my room in the middle of the night.”
Arthur’s face does something funny and for a second, it seems like he wants to bite back with something witty, something sharp that would knock Alfred down a peg.
But he doesn’t - instead, his expression softens into something shy and content. His lips twitch into a secret little smile as his fingers trace the faint line of Alfred’s jaw, featherlight but deliberate.
Alfred is so in love with him that it actually hurts.
He barely breathes as Arthur studies him, really looks at him, as if memorizing every inch and every detail illuminated by the flickering candlelight. His grip on Arthur’s waist is firm, but not demanding, simply a reminder that Arthur is here, in his arms.
Warm, and real, and his.
Arthur exhales, his breath fanning against Alfred’s skin as he leans forward, pressing their foreheads together. His fingers slide into Alfred’s hair, threading through the strands at his temple, his touch so careful, so achingly tender that Alfred has to physically stop himself from chasing it.
“I should go.” Arthur whispers, but there’s no real conviction in it.
Alfred swallows, his hands tracing slow, soothing circles along Arthur’s back. “Will you kiss me goodnight first?”
Arthur makes a small sound, somewhere between a sigh, a scoff, and surrender. And then, finally, finally, he closes the space between them.
His lips press against Alfred’s, warm and familiar, and Alfred’s grip tightens as he melts into it. Arthur leans in fully, hands sliding from Alfred’s hair to his jaw, his touch firm, fingers curling like he doesn’t want to let go. Like he doesn’t want to leave.
Alfred tilts his head, deepening the kiss, and Arthur lets him, lets himself fall into it, just a little more. He tastes like sea salt and candle smoke, like something Alfred wants to keep forever.
Arthur pulls back just barely, their lips still brushing, his breath warm as it ghosts over Alfred’s skin. “I have to go.”
Alfred hums, sliding his hands a little lower, tilting his face up to kiss Arthur again, soft, slow and coaxing. “Then go.”
Arthur doesn’t.
Instead, his hands tighten against Alfred’s jaw, and he kisses him again, harder this time. Arthur’s hands slide against his skin, his weight pressing down just enough to make Alfred’s stomach flip, and -
He doesn’t care what happens when they return to Spades. He’s never going to give this up.
“Alfred.” Arthur murmurs against his lips and the way his voice rounds out the syllables of Alfred’s name never fails to make his head spin.
Alfred doesn’t bother replying, not with words at least. Instead, he drags Arthur back in, kissing him deep, wet and wanton, his lips parting just enough to taste the sigh that slips past Arthur’s own.
As Arthur melts beneath his fingertips, Alfred shifts, his hands drifting from the small of Arthur’s back up to his arms, his thumbs pressing lightly into the muscle there as he maps him out. Slowly, carefully, to etch his figure into his memory; but also to allow Arthur to adjust, to not surprise him, to make him comfortable.
Arthur exhales sharply as Alfred’s lips leave his own, only for them to press lower, against his jaw, the hollow of his throat and the sharp plane of his collarbone. Alfred imagines he feels Arthur’s pulse jump beneath his mouth and the idea makes him feel a little silly, so he grins against the skin, skims his teeth across it.
He wants more.
Aware that he can’t simply take - he doesn’t even want to simply take, he wants to give and give - Alfred slowly slides his hands beneath the fabric of Arthur’s shirt, fingertips teasing over bare skin.
He’s managed this once before, and this time, Arthur does not startle. He tenses, briefly, but then he relaxes again and Alfred takes it as approval to carefully ease Arthur’s shirt over his shoulders. The linen pools at Arthur’s elbows because Alfred does not rush to remove it fully, too busy kissing him.
His lips find Arthur’s again, then his cheek, his temples, the soft spots, the quiet places, the places only Alfred gets to touch. He noses away the stray strands of Arthur’s hair that have fallen across his forehead before brushing his lips there, lingering.
Arthur sighs, shifting forward until there’s no space left between them.
His hands, previously clenched at Alfred’s shoulders, finally move, fumbling and tugging at the hem of Alfred’s own shirt, trying to rid him of it, but distracted by Alfred’s unrelenting kisses.
Arthur tries again, only for Alfred to nip at his bottom lip this time, his hands brushing low along Arthur’s back in slow, featherlight strokes. It earns him a shiver, a sharp inhale, a low noise in the back of Arthur’s throat.
Alfred can’t focus enough to finish ridding him of his shirt, but Arthur apparently has no such problems. He all but forces Alfred’s arms up and although the fabric snags slightly, Arthur manages to pull it free, his knuckles grazing Alfred’s bare skin.
Alfred sucks in a breath, sharp and audible, when Arthur’s fingers skate over the dip of his hipbones, brushing against the soft skin of his lower stomach.
Arthur freezes. For a fraction of a second, he looks guilty, as if he’s burned him, and he starts to pull back, but Alfred doesn’t let him.
He pulls Arthur back, chasing the warmth that had almost left him, trying to convey how much he would not mind being subjected to Arthur’s wandering electricity as long as it meant Arthur kept touching him.
Arthur exhales, some of the hesitation ebbing away as Alfred sighs into the next kiss.
And then, carefully, tentatively, Alfred resumes his earlier course, his fingers tracing the ridges of Arthur’s ribs as he drags his shirt up with them.
Arthur shivers and stills, but does not tense. They briefly break the kiss to rid Arthur of his shirt as well and Arthur, face flushed and lips swollen, smiles shyly down at him from where he’s still perched atop of Alfred.
Alfred falls in love all over again.
It’s a trustful thing, this. To be so vulnerable, to let somebody in when you’ve spent a lifetime covering your heart in armor.
Alfred’s fingers skim across Arthur’s back, tracing the bumps of his spine and lingering where the skin is softest. Arthur doesn’t flinch or pull away, he only leans back down to kiss him again, soft and sweet, while Alfred’s fingers drift back down, coming to a rest against the lowest set of Arthur’s ribs.
He applies the slightest bit of pressure, and Arthur’s breath catches. Alfred feels the way his own heartbeat thrums throughout his body, echoing in every bit of bare skin that Arthur touches, accidental or not.
He wants to say something, but words feel clumsy, unnecessary.
Words escape him anyway when Arthur slowly, cautiously, grinds down on him.
“Oh, that’s good.” Alfred groans, acutely aware now of both his own cock and Arthur’s cock, both hard and at attention.
They’d only been intimate once more since leaving the Northern Gale, and somehow, it had ended in minor injury: specifically, a small burn on Alfred’s jaw, courtesy of Arthur’s wandering hands and excitement.
Yao had not been amused. The following morning, he had taken one look at the reddened mark, sighed deeply, and, after a long sip of his tea, flatly asked if they had been fighting again.
Alfred, ever the composed diplomat, had immediately replied with a sulky affirmative while Arthur desperately tried not to choke on his own sip of tea.
It took Alfred a lot of reassurances and a lot of kissing to convince Arthur that he did not really hurt Alfred, nor was Alfred reluctant to touch him again, and a few more things, but it seems Arthur’s finally forgiven himself.
And, well, Alfred is nothing if not an opportunist.
“Can I try something?” he asks, the words muffled against Arthur’s lips, spoken between breaths, between the soft, feverish press of mouths that had only just found their rhythm again. “Please, let me try something. If you don’t like it, we’ll stop immediately.”
Arthur stills at the somewhat desperate edge to Alfred’s voice, his brows twitching together as he pulls back just enough to meet his gaze. His green eyes, darkened by the dim candlelight and something else entirely, flicker over Alfred’s flushed face, his parted lips, the way his chest rises and falls beneath him.
“What is it?” Arthur asks, voice quieter now, curious.
Alfred swallows, hands twitching where they rest on Arthur’s (bare) waist.
“I just…” Alfred exhales and tilts his head back slightly. Slowly he drags one hand down from Arthur’s waist and to his lower abdomen, testing, measuring the way Arthur reacts before venturing further.
Arthur’s abdominal muscles flutter and the mage shivers. And, fuck, if that isn’t the most encouraging thing in the world.
“Tell me to stop.” Alfred says, somewhat urgently, because he does not want Arthur to feel like he is not in control.
Slowly, deliberately, he lets his hand wander further down until his fingers are spread against the warm, hard surface of Arthur’s clothed cock. He dares not grip onto it just yet, instead waits to see Arthur’s reaction. The mage inhales shakily, his eyes drooping closed as he tenses, but he doesn’t move away.
“Arthur.” Alfred says, somewhat desperately now, his own cock throbbing in time with his pulse. He tilts his head, nosing along Arthur’s jaw, brushing his lips there before murmuring, voice low and gravelly. “If you don’t want this, tell me to stop.”
“...Don’t stop.”
How Alfred does not spontaneously combust right then and there, he’ll never know, but he’s incredibly glad for it. Alfred doesn’t rush, he presses his thumb into Arthur’s hipbone first, exploring leisurely now that he’s been given permission, both for his own personal gain, but also to ease Arthur into it.
Alfred’s pulse thunders in his ears as he hooks his fingers around the waistband of Arthur’s trousers, the fabric warm beneath his touch, taut where it clings to the dip of his hips.
“Is this okay?” Alfred asks, his voice low, heated, thick with something he doesn’t know how to put into words.
Arthur doesn’t stop him.
Instead, he exhales, his breath shaky, his hands tightening against Alfred’s ribs like he’s grounding himself. Then he leans into Alfred’s touch, his own fingers dragging against bare skin as he shifts.
And he nods.
Alfred’s chest tightens, his grip instinctively flexing as heat coils low in his stomach, but he doesn’t rush, doesn’t push. Instead, he takes his time, watching, waiting, searching for even the smallest flicker of hesitation.
There is none.
Arthur trusts him.
And all Alfred thinks is that his hand is too dry for this.
Arthur’s expression when Alfred pulls his hand back and licks it is definitely something Alfred’s going to revisit later, but then he dives back in and finally, finally, curls his fingers around Arthur’s cock.
If Arthur’s been tense before, he’s frozen now. He goes absolutely rigid, his eyes clenched closed and his lips pressed tightly together as he inhales through his nose and holds it, as if waiting for the ball to drop. Alfred waits, draining what little willpower he has as he waits.
“Ssh, it’s okay. Let me take care of you.” He finds himself murmuring, soothingly. “Tell me to stop and I will. Fuck, Arthur, you’re so -”
A low, unconstrained groan breaks from Arthur’s lips as he exhales, low and rough. “More.”
Alfred has never obeyed an order this fast in his life. Careful to not overwhelm, to not take and take and take, Alfred gently sweeps his thumb over the leaking head of Arthur’s cock and this time, it’s Alfred who moans, despite being all but untouched himself.
He strokes down the length agonisingly slowly, staring up at Arthur, at how he bites down on his lower lip, at how his eyelids flutter and at how his brow furrows with pleasure. Alfred desperately wants to kiss him, to taste him, but the fear of it being too much and Arthur retreating keeps Alfred where he is.
Instead Alfred just stares at Arthur’s lips, licking his own and imagining he was licking Arthur’s instead.
For a while, all he does is rub his thumb over the head of Arthur’s cock over and over, alternating it with a gentle slide up and down every now and then.
Then Arthur shifts and all but grinds down on Alfred’s neglected erection and Alfred all but spasms, his fingers clenching. Arthur keens and slumps forward to press himself back against Alfred, the warmth of his bare chest against Alfred’s own overbearing and so, so good.
Restraint abandons Arthur, it seems, as he tightens his legs around Alfred’s hips, using his position on top to his advantage. With uneven, jerky motions, he grinds forward, pushing down into Alfred’s fist until all Alfred’s able to do is lie there as his fist is being fucked and his cock is being grinded upon sporadically.
The idea of being trapped, of allowing Arthur to use him as he sees fit, punches a strangled noise out of him and Alfred digs the finger of his free hand deep into Arthur’s rear.
“It’s alright, I’ve got you, c’mon, come for me, that’s it, that’s it.”
Arthur comes, with a low and throaty sound, his face hidden in Alfred’s neck and his body jerking as he spills hot and wet across Alfred’s fist.
Whether it’s the sound, the feeling or the realisation of it all, Alfred doesn’t know nor does he care. He follows almost immediately after and his climax is so intense, that it feels less like a relief and more like being dragged out to sea and pulled under by a current.
Pleasure skates through his body like a landslide and he shudders helplessly through it. He might have screamed, he might have not made any sound - it doesn’t matter, because his ears are ringing regardless.
It’s not long before Arthur winces, likely overstimulated, and attempts to pull back. Still not entirely aware of where he is and how he is, Alfred refuses him an escape at first, and is rewarded with a zap of electricity down his side, which tickles more than anything.
“Sorry.” He all but slurs, slowly and reluctantly releasing his hold on Arthur’s softening cock. He thinks about raising it to his face and licking it clean, but figures Arthur’s not quite there yet, so instead he idly wipes it dry on his trousers.
Arthur leans down to kiss him, pressing small, firm, desperate kisses against his face, and that’s when Alfred realizes Arthur is crying.
“Shit.” Alfred rasps between kisses, panic seizing his chest as his clean hand cups Arthur’s cheek, thumb swiping over damp skin. His body is still buzzing, his heart still racing, but worry cuts through the haze like a knife. “Arthur, are you okay? I’m so -”
“I love you.” Arthur’s voice is hoarse, but steady. Unshaken.
Alfred freezes, lips parting, breath catching in his throat. He should say something. He needs to say something, but his mind is stuck, tangled in the sheer gravity of those words.
It’s not as if Arthur hadn’t said them before, but something about him saying them now, about how he’s said them, about how he allows himself to be open and vulnerable, it makes Alfred’s stomach flip violently.
Before he can speak, before he can even think, Arthur’s fingers are in his sweaty hair, tugging gently, pulling him in again.
“Do you need space?” Alfred blurts, still breathless, still overwhelmed. “Do you need me to -”
“Alfred, I love you.”
Arthur says it again, firmer this time, his voice raw in a way Alfred has never heard before.
And then he kisses him—properly, fully. Alfred makes a sound, low and guttural, because fuck, he doesn’t know how to do anything else when Arthur kisses him like this. Like he means it. Like he’s never meant anything more.
Alfred kisses him back, hard and hungry, his hand sliding from Arthur’s cheek down to his neck, his chest, his waist, just to feel him, just to hold on.
Arthur shudders into it, melting against him, his fingers still tangled in Alfred’s hair, holding him so close, so tightly that Alfred doesn’t think he could pull away even if he wanted to.
He exhales shakily when they finally break apart, resting his forehead against Arthur’s.
“You’re not just saying that, right?” Alfred whispers, almost afraid to ask.
Arthur laughs, wet and breathless, and it’s the best sound Alfred’s ever heard.
“Idiot.” The mage murmurs, nuzzling closer, his nose brushing against Alfred’s cheek. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”
Alfred’s chest tightens painfully.
“Say it again.” He pleads, because he needs to hear it.
Arthur smiles. “I love you.”
Alfred doesn’t trust his voice, so he just kisses him again.
The morning after had been rushed. Arthur panicked the moment the first hint of dawn spilled through the cabin window, shaking Alfred awake with wild eyes and a slew of hushed curses as he scrambled for his clothes.
Alfred, on the other hand, had been too dazed and too in love to properly care.
He had stretched, languid and satisfied, still feeling the ghost of Arthur’s touch on his skin as he watched his lover pace, muttering about discretion and consequences while desperately trying to dress properly in his frantic state.
Arthur had been adorably grumpy ever since.
Now, standing on the deck together, the ocean stretching before them, Alfred still rides the high of last night, his gaze trailing lazily over Arthur’s profile. All sharp lines and soft edges, all familiarity and something new all at once. Arthur, however, seems far less charmed, arms folded as he leans against the ship railing, eyes narrowed slightly against the wind.
“I still can’t believe I fell asleep.” He mutters, mostly to himself. “I never meant to -”
Alfred grins, boldly reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Arthur’s ear, not discouraged when Arthur swats his hand away.
“I don’t know.” He teases. “I thought it was kind of sweet. You were so relaxed, all curled up next to me -”
Arthur shoots him a flat look. “Don’t.”
“Besides.” Alfred continues, as if not having been interrupted at all. “You were the one who fell asleep right after exclaiming your love for me for, oh, some twenty times?”
Arthur’s entire expression twitches, his grip on the railing tightening slightly. “…That was a lapse of judgement.”
“You love me.” Alfred sings teasingly under his breath.
Arthur exhales sharply, then turns his gaze back toward the sea, choosing to ignore him rather than take the bait. Instead, his expression softens, his fingers tapping absentmindedly against the wood. “I suppose we’ll have to practice our speech today.”
Alfred groans dramatically, dragging a hand down his face. “Don’t remind me.”
“What, and let the kingdom figure it out on their own?” Arthur deadpans, though not without a small smile. “I can see the headlines now: ‘Future Queen of Spades apparently from Antevaria - shock of the century.’”
Alfred snorts, shaking his head. “I mean, they’d figure it out eventually.”
Arthur laughs and Alfred almost freezes at the sound. Not because it’s uncommon, he’s heard Arthur laugh quite some times before now; he’s heard Arthur laugh at his expense more times than he could count, for one.
But this, this is different. There’s no sarcasm or restraint behind it, it’s genuine, a rare, quiet joy. Alfred is entirely mesmerized by his counterpart, something that’s happening more often than not, these days.
Even before all of this went down, before Alfred caught feelings, he could admit that Arthur had always been beautiful in his own way. But here, now, with the wind in his hair and a spark of something like excitement in his eyes…
Alfred’s done for. He wants this forever.
The thought hits him suddenly, without warning, crashing into his chest like a lightning bolt.
And, well.
Alfred has never been the type to think things through, so he says the first thing that comes to mind.
“I want to marry you.”
Arthur chokes on air.
“What -”
“I want to marry you.” Alfred repeats, louder this time.
Somewhere behind them, the conversation among the crew pauses. Arthur stares at him, stunned, his mouth opening and closing, his fingers gripping the railing like he might actually collapse.
Alfred barely registers the growing whispers, the movement of people turning to look.
His focus is entirely on Arthur. They’d face everything together, side by side. He will make sure that Arthur feels heard, loved, wanted, in every moment he can offer from now on.
He imagines their future, a real one, not dictated by the court, not suffocating under expectation. Days filled with stolen moments in the palace gardens, riding horses through the countryside, visiting the sea just because they could, sneaking away from the palace to join the festivals and markets.
He wants all of it.
“…What do you mean?” Arthur asks, his voice low, his green eyes darting over Alfred’s face, like he wasn’t sure if he had actually heard him right.
Alfred steps forward and grabs onto Arthur’s hand. He’d get down on one knee, but that would definitely draw attention (unwanted attention, knowing Arthur), so this is the next best thing.
“I want to marry you.” Alfred repeats for a third time and he squeezes Arthur’s hand gently, enjoying the way Arthur’s cheeks color slightly at the casual display of affection. “Not because we have to, but because we want to. Will you marry me?”
A hush has fallen over the deck.
The crew has all but abandoned their chores to turn and look at them, whispering quietly among themselves, and Alfred’s positive Yao is glaring daggers into their sides, but he’s not going to turn and look to make sure.
Arthur, still stunned, looks around in growing horror as realization dawns.
And then, someone clears their throat, sharp and terribly familiar.
“Are you certain you wish to do this in front of an audience?” Yao asks, and he stands just a few feet away with his arms crossed, expression wholly unamused.
Arthur’s face goes beet red. “No, he doesn’t -”
“Yes, I do.” Alfred interrupts firmly, his grip on Arthur’s hand tightening. Arthur whips his head back toward him, mouth open in sheer disbelief. Alfred just grins, undeterred. “Because I love you.”
Arthur opens his mouth, and closes it again. Alfred watches him carefully, heart pounding, waiting - waiting for anything.
Then, quietly, almost hesitantly, Arthur nods. Alfred barely has time to grin triumphantly before Arthur yanks him forward, burying his face into Alfred’s shoulder to hide his mortified expression as the deck erupts into cheers.
Alfred just laughs, arms wrapping tightly around Arthur’s waist.
“Guess that’s a yes.”