The months passed like minutes, and life was fantastic, frustrating, different, beautiful, everything.

December.

Christmas 1944 was one of the most interesting of Arthur's life. Everything tended to be interesting when Alfred was involved. A gigantic Christmas tree loomed in the corner of the pub, the biggest tree Alfred could find in the entire city of London, which was so large it was squashed against the ceiling and had required the assistance of several servicemen to get through the front door. The rest of the room was covered with makeshift decorations Alfred had strewn around the place - snowflakes made of paper, brightly colored tinsel, empty bottles with tiny lights inside. Arthur thought it all hideously tacky. Alfred thought it was festive. The regular customers found it all rather strange, but not as strange as the loud American who insisted on trying to help out behind the bar. He was hopeless, but somehow no one ever complained when he forgot to get them their drink or served them the wrong one or somehow managed to spill it all over them. Arthur wondered whether that had something to do with Alfred's missing fingers, or the fact that no one could stay mad at the happy, friendly American for long. Today Alfred was trying particularly hard, and being particularly irritatingly cheerful. It was Christmas Eve and the pub was full of Christmas revellers, including Francis, who had been more than happy to spend one of his last evenings in England with Alfred and Arthur.

Alfred grinned widely as he carried a tray of drinks to the bar and set a glass down before Francis with a flourish. "Your brandy, sir."

"Alfred, that's bourbon," said Arthur, watching him from behind the bar and hoping desperately he wouldn't drop the tray for the third time that week. His already limited patience was being stretched to the limit.

"I asked for wine," said Francis, staring disdainfully at the glass.

"Oh," said Alfred. He shrugged. "Try the bourbon, it's good."

"Alfred," said Arthur, a low exclamation of warning and exasperation.

"Or, ah, I could just get you that wine, shall I?"

Francis sighed. "Don't bother, I would not wish you to hurt yourself." He took a sip, made a face, and pushed the glass away. "Urgh, that is terrible. How do you drink this poison?"

"Here," said Arthur, glaring at Alfred and picking up a tray of rum balls from behind the bar. He offered them to Francis. They were Arthur's specialty dessert that he made every Christmas, and he was quite proud of them, even though they seemed to make even the most hardened drinker rather ill by the second one. Francis eyed them suspiciously. "To remove the taste," Arthur explained.

"What are they?" asked Francis, picking one up and turning it over in his hand.

"Rum balls," said Alfred cheerfully. He placed the tray down and leant on the bar. "Delicious. Really. Arthur is the best cook in England." Arthur's frustration lessened and he beamed happily at the praise. Sometimes, Alfred could be sweet.

"Somehow, that does not fill me with confidence," said Francis slowly, but he raised the sweet to his mouth regardless.

Alfred nudged Arthur with his elbow and whispered with suppressed laughter, "Look, he believed me!" Arthur's eyes narrowed. Sometimes, Alfred could be such a git. Francis chewed thoughtfully for a few moments. Then his eyes went wide, his cheeks turned red, and after swallowing he suffered quite a violent coughing fit.

"Well?" asked Arthur and Alfred in unison. Francis blinked rapidly then turned to Alfred, his eyes bleary and red.

"Alfred! Mon ami!" cried Francis, his words slurred. "Do you know, you really are the most... such a great... you mean so much to me, do you know? After everything we've been through... and only you can understand that..." Francis threw an arm around Alfred's shoulder and leant into him heavily. Alfred struggled to hold him up.

"Whoa there buddy, maybe you should..."

"What are you looking at?" shouted Francis suddenly, glaring blearily at Alfred, whose eyes went wide.

"Nothing."

"Imbecile! You want to fight me?" Francis swung an ineffectual punch which Alfred easily dodged. "Come on, flyboy, show me that American esprit you always speak of!" Another failed punch and Francis fell onto the bar stool, despondently throwing his arms across the bar. "It's not worth it! None of it! In the end, what is the point? I was in love once. He wore a polar bear on his lapel. Alors, that would make a great song!" Francis sobbed twice then fell off the bar. By the time he reached the floor he was out cold.

Alfred whistled. "How much rum did you put in those things, Arthur?"

"Actually," said Arthur, shaking his head in confusion, "That was one of the non alcoholic ones."

Later in the evening, after the pub had emptied, after Francis had been carried unconscious to the guest room, after Alfred had tried and failed to sing Christmas carols, after the local constabulary had issued a noise violation warning, and after the entire mad and glorious evening had come to an end, Arthur fell into bed with Alfred at his side. And he spent the first Christmas night of his life falling asleep full, happy, and loved instead of cold, empty, and sensing that something was missing. He could definitely get used to the feeling.

January.

Arthur had never been so ready to say goodbye to a year as he had to 1944. Awful memories of the dark months of the year often arose unbidden, and he would be left breathless and terrified of being left alone again. And it was not just Arthur. He knew the toll the year had taken on Alfred. He could see it in the pain and guilt in Alfred's eyes when he spoke to soldiers in the pub. He could hear it in Alfred's voice on the terrible nights when he woke up screaming, when it took several minutes to convince him where he was as he lay shaking in Arthur's arms, crying tears only Arthur would ever see. Yes, 1944 was a year Arthur would not be sad to see go.

It was New Year's Eve, and Alfred was singing. That wasn't new. Alfred often sang, or rather a vague variation of the activity. It usually wasn't apparent what he was actually singing until asked. This afternoon, for some reason, Alfred was singing, and doing it the way he always did: loudly, obnoxiously, and with no attention to tune or rhythm.

"What are you on about this time?" asked Arthur, peering at Alfred as the American leant over the bar and watched Arthur put away the last of the glasses for the afternoon. He had closed the pub early for New Year's Eve, the customers all headed home to spend the evening with their families.

"It's this song they were singing in the bar earlier. It's called 'Old Lang's Eye.' I don't know why you Brits sing about an old guy's eye to celebrate the new year, but hey, it ain't my place to judge." And Alfred burst into song again. "Let Old Aunt Quaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind..."

Arthur blinked a few times, pausing midway in replacing a bottle of whiskey. Just when he thought he'd heard the stupidest thing the Yank could possibly come out with. "You do realize, it's called 'Auld Lang Syne.' It has nothing to do with anyone's eye. And the word is 'acquaintance,' where on earth did you get 'Aunt Quaintance' from?"

Alfred shrugged. "I had an Aunt Quaintance once. I didn't really understand the words, I think they were in Chinese or something, so I just sort of made my own."

Arthur shook his head in exasperation. "You're hopeless." He replaced the whiskey, then turned to find Alfred gazing at him with a familiar glint in his eye. "What?" Alfred gazed at Arthur for a moment more before he suddenly jumped the bar, took Arthur by the waist, and spun him around until his back hit the bar. It all happened so fast Arthur's brain barely registered it. "Blimey, what the..."

"Do you know how many times I've stood behind that bar, watching you, and wanted to do that?" Alfred whispered against Arthur's ear.

Arthur gulped. "Is... is that so?" He was slowly getting used to these unexpected and impulsive displays of affection the Yank often gave. They were rather irritating, somewhat embarrassing, and yet strangely thrilling all at the same time.

"Mm hm." Alfred pressed his lips to Arthur's neck.

"And, er... what else did you want to do?" asked Arthur, heart thumping. They were usually worth going along with, as well.

Alfred grinned. "This." In minutes they lay spread across the bar, tangled in each other, Arthur's pants already unbuttoned and his mind spinning. Alfred's lips and hands were hot and frantic against him. He was just reaching that point where he always lost control when suddenly the front door slammed opened. Alfred shrieked and fell off the bar. Arthur shot up in surprise.

"Still not locking your door I see, Arthur."

Arthur and Alfred both sat stunned for a few seconds. Finally Alfred reacted, jumping up and breaking into laughter. "Matthew! What... how..." Alfred strode over and pulled Matthew into a hug. "What are you doing here? I thought you were stuck in France!"

"I had to fly back to wish you a happy new year, didn't I?" asked Matthew, patting Alfred's back. He was dressed in his combat uniform and looked as though he hadn't had proper sleep in weeks. He also looked happier than Arthur had ever seen him. "It's so good to see you, old friend. Alive."

Alfred pulled back and stared at Matthew, shaking his head in disbelief. "You rat, you could have let me known you were getting leave!"

"Where would the fun be in that?" Matthew looked even more like Alfred when he grinned like that. "Hi, Arthur."

Arthur stood and walked over to Matthew. It was a relief to see him. Arthur genuinely worried about Matthew over in France, almost as much as he knew Alfred did. He held out his hand and Matthew shook it firmly. "Jolly good to see you safe, old chap."

"You too, Arthur," said Matthew, his eyes almost piercing Arthur's. Arthur coughed and glanced nervously at Alfred. He hadn't yet told him of the awful state Matthew had found him in not long before they had been reunited. He rather hoped he would never have to. Matthew suddenly turned red, cleared his throat, and turned away. "I'm sorry, I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

Arthur shook his head innocently. "Not at all, whatever makes you think that?"

"Well, um... your pants are unbuttoned."

"Oh bloody hell," Arthur muttered, burning in embarrassment as he hurried off to fix himself up behind the bar. Alfred just laughed.

As the afternoon progressed, the three of them found themselves by the pub's fireplace, seated on the comfortable couches and drinking glasses of Arthur's finest brandy. Matthew told them all he knew of the war in France, about the awful landings of June, the glorious liberation of Paris, and his experiences in the south of the country. Alfred did not speak of his own experience, and Matthew did not ask. Eventually, the light outside long since faded, the conversation turned away from the war. Arthur knew they had all had quite enough of that topic. As Arthur leant over to refill his glass, the front door flew open once more. "That's it, I am going to install a padlock..."

"Mon Dieu it is freezing out there. Arthur, have you closed the pub? I came by to say..." Francis fell silent when he reached the fireplace, his eyes falling on Matthew. "My Canadian!" he whispered. Matthew froze, wide-eyed, his hand clutching his brandy glass in midair.

"Excuse me?" To Arthur's surprise, Alfred's amusement, and Matthew's utter horror, Francis dropped to his knees before the stunned Canadian. "My love! I thought I had lost you forever and here I find you in the very place of our romance's beginning! It is fate! It is destiny! It is... l'amour, non?"

"I... I... I'm sorry, monsieur, but I think you may have me confused with someone else." Matthew looked up at Alfred, silently pleading for help. Alfred just laughed helplessly, his face hidden in a cushion.

Francis shook his head insistently. "Never! I would know you anywhere, Lieutenant Matthew Williams."

"I'm sorry? How do you know my name?" Now Matthew looked at Arthur, who dropped his gaze into his brandy glass. He jolly well wasn't about to admit that he was the one who had told Francis Matthew's name.

The French captain sighed dramatically. "My heart breaks that you do not remember me. Did I not say that one day, if we were lucky, we should meet again?"

Matthew's eyes brightened in understanding. "Ohhh. Yes. The strange Frenchman who accosted me at the door a few months ago."

"Matthew, this is Captain Francis Bonnefoy," Alfred managed to choke out through his laughter.

Matthew nodded hesitantly and held out his hand. He still looked bewildered. "Pleasure to meet you, er, again, Captain Bonnefoy."

Francis took Matthew's hand and kissed it. "Enchanté."

"Francis, stop assaulting Matthew and have a brandy," said Arthur. Alfred threw the cushion at Francis' back.

Francis finally stood from the floor and fell onto the couch. "Please. Anything but one of those hideous rum balls."

When eventually the clock read one minute to twelve, Matthew raised his glass and the others quickly followed. "To friends, old and new," said Matthew, smiling at Arthur. "And to friends lost."

Alfred nodded, gazing unseeing at the ground before lifting his eyes to Arthur's. He smiled slightly. "To lives remade."

"To l'amour," said Francis, wagging his eyebrows at Matthew, who turned three shades of red and darted his eyes away from the overbearing Frenchmen.

"To England," said Arthur firmly, before adding softly, "And to the end of this bloody war."

The war was not over. Both Matthew and Francis would be heading back to France. Alfred would continue to train British pilots to carry on the conflict. London was not yet safe, and they knew there were many lives still to be lost. But when the clock struck twelve, they toasted goodbye to 1944 with hope and careful confidence that 1945 would be better. After all, it had to be. How could it possibly be any worse?

When Arthur awoke the next day and descended the stairs to the pub, he found Matthew and Francis lying asleep on the couch by the fireplace, their arms around each other. He smirked to himself. The new year was off to a promising start.

February.

Saint Valentine's Day had never meant anything to Arthur. In Februaries gone by he had passed the displays of chocolate and hearts in shop windows and rolled his eyes at the idea of something so absurd. It was all so meaningless, so trivial. So overblown and trumped up. It was so... American.

So Arthur was a little shocked when, on February the 14th, he walked down into the pub to find it covered in wildflowers. They lay across the bar, engulfed the tables, coated the floor. The pub practically shone in a bright burst of colourful flora. Arthur's mouth dropped open as he walked into the room in trepidation. "What the bloody hell?"

"I told you last year, remember..." Arthur turned to find Alfred almost struggling under the load of a huge bunch of red roses, a red box tied up with a ribbon, and most absurdly of all, an enormous pink card in the shape of a heart. Arthur's eyes widened. He didn't know whether to burst out laughing or cringe in embarrassment. "Remember," continued Alfred, "In my letter. I told you that I would give you a proper Valentine this year!"

Arthur finally settled on laughing as an appropriate response, and did so hysterically, unable to stop. Alfred looked so ridiculous standing there surrounded by wildflowers, his arms full of Valentine's Day mementos, peering through his glasses over a bouquet of roses. "Alfred," said Arthur as he laughed, "You look absolutely..." he slowly trailed off when Alfred's face fell. He fought to control his laughter. "...charming," he finally finished. Alfred's eyes lit back up and he grinned. Arthur walked over, kissed Alfred lightly on the cheek, and took the roses from his hand. "Stupid Yank," he muttered quietly.

"Here, open the box! It's chocolate, I had it sent from America because the British stuff is awful. Oh, and read the card I wrote you, I filled up the entire thing!"

Arthur let Alfred chatter on, thrusting the gifts into his hands and looking as eager as a puppy. Sometimes things were so difficult. Alfred's hours training pilots were long, he often travelled, and there never seemed to be enough time to spend with each other. And always that thought sat there... the knowledge that this was temporary, it would end, the war would be over soon and Alfred would have to leave for America. And Arthur would be left alone. The thought was never far away, even in the happiest moments. But it was moments like this, when Alfred was foolish and wonderful and Arthur could so easily see how he had fallen in love with him, that Arthur almost forgot that. That he realized he had never been so happy in his entire life. And that maybe Saint Valentine's Day wasn't so bad after all.

March.

Arthur was woken by a blinding flash and a deafening crash. His heart jumped a little, then he took a deep breath, sighed, and rolled over. A bombing raid was nothing new. Sure, it had been a few months since the last one, but Arthur was quite used to being awoken by a sudden German air strike. He was almost asleep when the sound of another loud crash filled the room and, quite unexpectedly, his hand was grasped and he was wrenched upright. Almost senseless in the dark, all he was aware of was Alfred's hand in his, dragging him insistently from the bed and out of the bedroom. His sleep-addled brain fought to keep up with what was happening. When his sight came back he realised he was in the living room, pressed against the wall, Alfred's body covering his as the building shook with the force of an earthquake. "What the bloody blazing hell are you doing?" he yelled, trying to be heard over the thunderous blasts and the wailing of the air raid sirens.

"It's a rocket strike. V2's," Alfred shouted back. "We have to get to the cellar."

"Excuse me? This is nothing, I've slept through far worse than this. I'm going back to bed." Arthur tried to push his way past, but Alfred just pressed him back against the wall, trying to cover his head with his hand. Arthur batted it away in irritation. "Let me past, Alfred."

"No! The Germans are attacking! We must take cover!"

Arthur groaned and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Stupid American. "Can I at least make a cup of tea first?" Alfred didn't answer, but when the shaking of the floor stilled for a moment he took off immediately, pulling Arthur along by the hand. Arthur had no chance of pulling away. They stumbled down two flights of stairs, finally making it to the cellar where Alfred pulled him into a corner, down to the floor, and encircled him with his arms. Arthur yawned as the noise and tremors surrounded them. "This is quite unnecessary," he said, his voice muffled by Alfred's shoulder.

"Ssh," said Alfred, his lips pressed close to Arthur's ear as he stroked Arthur's back. "Don't be scared."

Arthur clenched his fists in exasperation. "I'm not scared, I just want to go back to bed. I lived through the blitz, you know."

Alfred either could not hear or was willfully ignoring him. "Ssh," he said again. "This is a last desperate attack, the Germans know they're finished. The blitz is not going to happen again, I promise."

"Oh, you promise. Jolly good," said Arthur, willing the air strike to end so he could get up off the cold stone ground and Alfred could stop playing his little game of hero. "And just how can you promise that?"

"You're right, I can't. So I promise this... if another blitz-like attack happens, I'll go up myself and stop them." Alfred grinned.

Arthur just shook his head incredulously. "You'll stop them?"

"Single-handedly, baby." Alfred winked, and Arthur gave in and laughed. Then Alfred whispered breathily, "I'll protect you." Which made Arthur quite bloody irritated.

"What the bloody hell makes you think I need pro..." Arthur was cut off as a particularly loud and shattering blast tore through the building. He screamed, clutching onto Alfred's shoulders as Alfred's arms pressed him into the wall and covered his head. The room shook around them and bottles fell from the racks to smash and shatter on the stone floor. The dark room turned light with a glow brighter than daylight. Finally the panic started to rise. Arthur told himself to breathe. Keep breathing. As long as you're breathing, you know you're alive. The terror of those days of the blitz took hold once again. That sickening fear; that dreamlike horror. That terrible solitude.

But then he breathed in Alfred's scent, leant into his embrace, felt the thrill of those strong arms around him and those warm hands trying to protect him. This wasn't like the blitz after all. He wasn't alone this time.

Finally the room grew dark again. It stopped shaking. They waited, balanced on a knife edge, expecting at any moment another crashing strike. It didn't come. Eventually Arthur sighed in relief, then could have growled when he noticed Alfred was giggling. He immediately regretted the scream. He would never live this one down.

April.

Arthur stood at the base of the stairs, tapping his foot and checking his watch repeatedly. "Will you hurry up?" he called for the fifth time.

"I'm hurrying, I'm hurrying, hold your horses." Alfred's voice drifted down the stairs.

"Hold my what?" Arthur called back. Alfred's American sayings often threw him off guard.

"Horses."

"My... why would I... what the bleeding hell are you on about?" And they never made any sense.

"Calm down, darling." Alfred sounded like he was laughing.

"Me? You are the one talking some nonsense about horses. And don't call me darling."

"Sweetheart? Baby? Doll? What can I call you?"

Arthur shuddered in disgust. "You can call me Arthur. Now get down here and let's get going, Mr Churchill is not going to wait all afternoon for you, Alfred Jones."

When Alfred had been told he was receiving a medal, they hadn't mentioned he would also be receiving recognition from the British Government for services to the Commonwealth. So it came as a complete surprise when Alfred was invited to a special ceremony to accept the decoration. Alfred had once been so eager for praise, for recognition, to be called a hero. But that was a lifetime ago, and now he had to be persuaded into accepting the invitation for the ceremony. Though at this rate it looked like he was going to miss out on the honour regardless. Arthur was learning one thing about Alfred: it took him an inordinate amount of time to get ready for anything.

Arthur looked at the ceiling in exasperation as he turned to the stairs. "Some time this month would be..." he trailed off when he looked over to see Alfred walking down the stairs, his Air Force dress uniform pressed pristinely, wearing his military blazer instead of his bomber jacket, a grin on his face, and of course, his cap at an angle on his head. All in all, Alfred was almost unbearably handsome.

"How do I look?" Alfred asked cockily.

Perfect. "Tolerable, I suppose," said Arthur gruffly. "Now come on, we're going to be dreadfully late."

The ceremony was one of many held that year, the purpose of which was to honour the contribution of various servicemen to Britain. Upon arrival, Alfred was immediately ferried away by high ranking military officials, whose eyes glanced unseeing over Arthur. He shrugged, quite used to the treatment, and not expecting anything else. Military personnel occupied the first few rows of the auditorium, family members in the rows behind, while members of the press milled around further back. Arthur stood in the back row amongst various civilians who stretched to see the stage. His eyes drifted over to where the wives and girlfriends of the English servicemen sat in a special designated area to the side of the stage. He wondered if they had a better view.

Arthur watched as the British servicemen's names were read out, their citations given, their medals awarded. He watched as they walked off the stage to be embraced by their waiting wives. He watched as the press took their photographs, their partners smiling proudly and prettily at their sides. And he wondered briefly what it felt like to stand proudly like that beside the one you loved, the world acknowledging you, with nothing and no reason to hide.

Arthur was shaken from his reverie as the announcer began to speak of an American pilot who was injured, captured, and now using his considerable expertise to train young British pilots. Arthur's heart leapt. And when he saw Alfred stride onto the stage to receive his medal, his cap crooked and his customary swagger in place, Arthur realised he wanted everyone in that audience to know that the handsome American on the stage was his and his alone. But he just applauded politely along with everyone else. Then Alfred turned to the audience, nodded, and tipped his hat. It would be nice for it to be recognised that he was with Alfred. But it was enough for Arthur to know that to Alfred, he was the only person in that audience.

Later at the Emerald Lion, amidst the loud talking and laughing and cheering of congratulating American servicemen, Alfred leant over the bar, brushed his hand across Arthur's, and asked, "So, how did I go up there? I was looking for you in the audience, you know."

Arthur sighed and decided to let Alfred have his moment. "You looked so brave and handsome, I almost died of pride," he said in a monotone. He felt ridiculous saying it, but the blinding grin Alfred flashed him was worth it. Arthur would never admit to himself that he meant it.

May.

And then one fine afternoon it happened. The moment Arthur had hoped for but barely dared to dream of for the last six years. Arthur sat down to the table the same as he did every day. Alfred sat listening to the crackling wireless radio the same as he did every day. But today was different. They waited for the expected radio broadcast to begin, then sat on edge when it did. The bells struck three outside.

"The prime minister, the right honourable Winston Churchill..." came the voice of the announcer over the wireless.

"Shush, shush," said Arthur, waving his hand at Alfred.

"I didn't say anything!"

"Stop, be quiet."

"But I'm not..."

"Shut up Alfred!"

The speech that filtered through the speakers into the quiet, still living room held Arthur riveted to the radio. This was the moment they had waited for for days... the day they had waited for for years. Arthur held his breath, staring at his hands as they lay on the table, letting the words change the world around him. "...Hostilities will end at one minute past midnight tonight..." He would never remember all the words that were said before, or all the ones that came after. But those nine words would be forever etched into Arthur's memory.

Alfred's eyes bored into his as the speech continued. "...we will allow ourselves a brief period of rejoicing..." Arthur tried to focus but it seemed a massive roaring flooded his ears. As though he could not have heard correctly. As though this couldn't be real. "...this is your victory..." The roar of the people from the streets outside blasted in through the windows. "Advance Britannia. God bless you all." Then it was over.

Arthur just looked at Alfred, completely shocked. Alfred's face mirrored everything Arthur was thinking and feeling. They sat in silence for a few moments, the noise from outside invading the room, until eventually Alfred's eyes lit up and he let out a deafening whoop. Arthur just shook his head, slightly stunned. It was not that he had not expected it. But to hear it was something completely different. "Did you hear..."

"Yes!" cried Alfred.

Arthur shook his head again. "I can't believe it!"

"Arthur... it's over!"

As the words finally sank in, Arthur's chest felt it would almost burst, and he broke into joyful laughter. He stood, threw himself into Alfred's arms, and Alfred spun him around until he started to feel dizzy. It was overwhelming... it was unbelievable... it was like the biggest sigh of relief he could ever imagine. The war was over.

"Come on!" Alfred cried. He set Arthur on his feet, grasped his hand, then pulled him down the stairs and out the door. Arthur tried not to fall over, but he still couldn't stop laughing.

Arthur had never imagined his city could look like this. People filled the streets, swarming onto them in a joyful tide; hugging strangers, dancing, marching arm in arm. Ecstatic chaos surrounded them, and it all felt utterly surreal as the city came alive again after years of darkness. Arthur was struck by a wave of pride. They'd made it through. He pressed close to Alfred, hoping not to lose him in the surging crowd. Pretty young girls danced past in bright colours and brighter smiles, eyeing the handsome young pilot in the American military uniform who laughed and tipped his hat as people stopped him in the street, shook his hand, thanked him.

A sea of Union Jacks filled Arthur's sight, an ocean of red, white and blue. Alfred merrily grasped a British flag from the crowd, pressing it into Arthur's hand before taking an American flag from a car and throwing it over his own shoulders. He looked like he was having the time of his life. Arthur fought to keep up, nearly slipping on the pamphlets and papers that littered the streets and dodging a rain of streamers that revellers hung over balconies to throw down at the crowd. London had become a party, a fair, a country fête. The joy was palpable, the air heavy with emotion. Arthur looked around to see a soldier kissing a laughing girl on the cheek, an old man just shaking his head and smiling, a middle aged woman with tears flowing down her cheeks.

"I told you once your city was fantastic. I mean, this is incredible!" said Alfred cheerfully.

Arthur laughed loudly and waved his flag. "Advance Britannia!" Then the noise around them was almost drowned out by the roar of a group of planes that flew overhead. "Are they some of yours?" asked Arthur, watching the aircraft fly in formation.

"No, those are Spitfires. They're British. Tough, feisty and elegant. And very beautiful." Arthur lowered his eyes to find Alfred grinning back at him. He rolled his eyes and looked away, though as always was unable to stop his own grin stretching across his face.

They headed further down the street, taking in the atmosphere, staring wide-eyed around them. Everywhere they looked, among the throng of civilians, servicemen in uniform strolled the street, laughing and joking and accepting kisses and handshakes from the crowd. Arthur nearly ran into a group of them and tried to back up, then realised that Alfred seemed to recognise them. They all embraced Alfred, clapping him on the shoulder, talking and grinning and laughing loudly. "It's home for us now, Jones! Or down to the Pacific, depending. But we're finally finished in Europe!"

Alfred laughed, but Arthur's heart suddenly sunk. The war was finished in Europe. Amongst everything he hadn't even thought about what it meant. What use was there for Alfred to stay here now?

"Come have a drink with us, Jones!"

That reminded Arthur... he really shouldn't be out here. He should get back and open the pub for the people who wanted to celebrate. Back to work, back to trying to forget.

"Meet me in an hour at The Emerald Lion," smiled Alfred. The Americans all agreed and headed off merrily. Alfred turned back to Arthur and grinned happily. "You'll make a killing this afternoon, Arthur!"

"I guess this means you're going home," said Arthur bluntly, looking away from that blinding grin. Right now it hurt too much.

"Well, yes."

"Of course. I understand." Arthur felt like his chest was being crushed. This was the moment he'd been dreading, the one he knew was coming, the one he had so far managed to avoid but could ignore no longer. Alfred was finally leaving him, for good this time.

"And you're coming with me."

Arthur's breath stopped in his throat. He must have heard that wrong. "What?"

Alfred laughed. "I told you before, remember? I want to show you the streets of New York, and take you home to my farm, and go up and show you the whole country from the air. I want to show you everything. You will come with me, won't you?" Alfred's face was eager and pleading.

The pain in Arthur's chest was replaced by an unfamiliar soaring feeling of hope. But just as quickly it fell again. As he looked around at everyone celebrating on the streets that he loved, he realized... "Alfred, I can't live in America. I could never leave London."

Alfred shrugged. "Then we'll come back here. The military will always need flight instructors. And I practically saved England, they can't kick me out. I'm a goddamn war hero." Alfred grinned cockily. Arthur suppressed the urge to either scoff or kick Alfred, even as his wildly oscillating emotions threatened to overwhelm him.

"But... what about your home?"

"Of course I can't abandon America entirely. But we'll work it out." Alfred looked down at Arthur, pressed close against him in the swelling crowd. His grin faded slightly and his eyes grew intense. A tingling shudder ran through Arthur's spine. "Besides, Arthur, home is wherever you are. So, will you come with me? And take me with you? 'Cause I never want to leave home again."

Arthur's heart thumped wildly and he was suddenly overcome with delirious happiness. "Alfred, what... what are you asking?"

"Well I'd give you a ring, but I don't think you'd wear it. And I'd get down on one knee, but I'm pretty sure I'd be trampled in this crowd. But Arthur..." Alfred winked. "That's pretty much what I'm asking."

Arthur's pulse quickened and his neck flushed with heat. He wondered if that grin, that wink, would ever stop affecting him. He knew, somehow, that it never would. And in the middle of the street, with the streamers flying and the crowd cheering and the sun shining brightly in the blue sky, Alfred took Arthur's hand and kissed it, looking down with eyes full of love and promise. And Arthur didn't care that they were outside, that people could see them, that a loud and pushing crowd surrounded them. Arthur had always thought, somewhere deep inside, that Alfred would leave one day - like everyone always had before. But now he suddenly realised what had been right before him the entire time. That wherever Alfred went, he would always come back. They would always meet again. The noise and the colour faded into the distance until it was just Alfred and him, standing together, smiling and laughing and unable to believe that this war had led them to this conclusion. It was incredible. It was beautiful. It was magic.

And it was only the beginning.