Summary: Alfred has given many lives for his country, and he remembers each one perfectly. But the memory that lingers is of an English soldier he met in the final battles of WWII and never saw again.

Rating: M for bad pick-up lines and USUK frickle-frackle.

Clifton Road Cemetery was a quiet, contemplative place, surrounded by a brick wall and thick hedges that blocked out the chilly autumn winds and the sounds of the nearby roads. A few other visitors walked the grounds, and Alfred was grateful for the company. He worried that the cemetery was haunted, but at least in the crisp light of day, with other people about, he could walk up and down the rows of graves without too much fear as he searched for a specific name. Some of the grave markers were so old and worn that the names could no longer be read, but he passed those by without a second glance. He was looking for someone who had died a little more recently.

The other visitors carried wreaths of poppies and lilies, more appropriate flowers for remembrance. Alfred preferred his single red rose. Edward had mentioned his dream of having a large rose garden once, so it seemed a fitting choice for the English soldier.

He finally found the right headstone in a quiet corner shaded by an old oak tree. The American knelt in front of the marker and placed the red rose beneath a name he would never forget. His eyes misted over as he saw the date of death: 1991. He felt a surge of bittersweet happiness to know that Edward had survived the war by many decades. Alfred hoped that he had been happy living in this quiet corner of England. He didn't see a grave for "Mrs. Wright" nearby, but he wasn't surprised. He had never expected Edward to be the marrying sort.

"Hey, Eddie," he whispered to the headstone. "Do you know how hard it was to find you, old man? I tried so many times, back when you still would have recognized me. I'm sorry we never had a chance to meet again in the same lifetime. But... I want you to know that hundreds of years from now I will still remember the color of your eyes."

The memories washed over him as he crouched near the grave. Edward offering him a cigarette outside the mess tent. The man firing his artillery gun into the rubble, his thick eyebrows scrunched in fury and concentration as he saved the American's life. And later, his hot breath and soft touch as they made love in the aftermath of battle.

Alfred wiped the tears from his eyes and climbed to his feet. Wanting a memento, he pulled his phone out of his backpack and snapped a few shots of the grave marker.

"Don't you think that's rather tasteless?" a crisp voice asked from over his shoulder.

Alfred yelped and dropped his phone on the ground. His heart started beating again when he turned around and saw that the voice was coming from a handsome young man, not a grumpy ghost. Breathing a sigh of relief, he picked up the phone and smiled at the scowling Englishman. "I'm not a tourist, if that's what you're thinking," he replied, returning the phone to his backpack.

Thick eyebrows arched in disbelief. "Well, I know you're not a relative."

"You are, though, judging by those 'brows. They must run in the family, huh?" Alfred laughed at the look of surprise on the other man's face. Grinning, he reached out for a handshake. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Alfred."

"Arthur," the man politely introduced himself as he shook Alfred's hand, though he continued to give the American a suspicious look. "So if you're not a tourist or a relative, who are you? You're too young to have known him."

"No, I didn't know him personally," Alfred agreed with a smile. "But gramps did. He said that Edward Wright saved his life during the war."

"Was your grandfather Theodore Wilson? Is he still alive?" Arthur asked. His green eyes flickered with something close to hope.

"That's him, but he died when I was young," Alfred replied, sorry to be the one to douse the glimmer of hope. "Gramps used to talk about trying to find Eddie to thank him while he was alive, so I thought I'd do it for him."

"I see," though Arthur's voice was calm, he seemed to blink back tears. "Well, that was very thoughtful of you. I'm sure they both would have appreciated it."

"Yeah, I just wish he could have come here himself. It's too bad they didn't digitize the grave records until a few years ago. To be honest, I wasn't even sure this was the right Edward, but I think your eyebrows kind of answer that question."

Arthur snorted. "Well, I'm glad they're useful for something."

They stood in respectful silence as Arthur added his own flower to the grave, another rose, although his was white. Alfred smiled fondly at the two roses lying side by side. Despite the years, it seemed that Edward's favorite flower had never changed. "I bet he had a real nice rose garden," Alfred said.

"He did." A hint of smile touched Arthur's lips, and in that moment he looked exactly like the English soldier that Alfred had fallen in love with. Alfred's heart clenched painfully and he had to look away, reminding himself that this wasn't his Eddie. "There's not much blooming at the moment, but would you like to see the garden?" Arthur offered, bringing Alfred back to the present.

"Yeah, that would be awesome!" Alfred replied enthusiastically. He had come to see the place where Edward was buried, but it would be even better to see where he had lived.

The house was a short drive away and it was exactly the sort of bucolic cottage in the English countryside that Edward had always talked about owning. Boxwood hedges decorated the walk to the front door, but the back garden had clearly been Edward's pride and joy. Even in the chilly autumn weather, asters and marigolds provided specks of color among the dormant plants. An antique ironwork table and chairs sat near the center of the garden and Alfred could tell it was where Edward had spent many happy hours, reading his books and sipping his tea, the model of a perfect English gentleman.

"It's gorgeous," Alfred murmured. "He must have really loved it here."

"The conservatory was always his favorite place in the autumn," Arthur agreed, leading Alfred to the small Victorian-style glass structure. The inside was warm and fragrant, with flowers filling every inch of the plant boxes. Arthur pointed to a group of lovely white roses. "Those are the ones I take to his grave ever year for Remembrance Sunday."

Alfred leaned forward to take in the heady scent. He turned around to say something, caught his foot on a loose brick, and ended up stumbling into Arthur, pressing him against the nearest plant box. Arthur gasped, but it didn't sound like pain. Both of their faces turned bright red as Alfred stepped back and apologized. From the way Arthur dropped his gaze and blushed at the sudden body contact, Alfred could guess that eyebrows weren't the only characteristic that Arthur shared with his grandfather.

"Sorry, Artie. I can be such a klutz," Alfred said with a laugh. He wondered if he could find an excuse to touch Arthur again, then reminded himself that it was creepy to think that the grandson was cute just because he reminded Alfred so strongly of his grandfather.

"Not a problem. Would, um, would you like some tea?" Arthur offered hesitantly.

"Not unless it's cold and has a ton of sugar in it."

Arthur scowled. "I will not serve that abomination in my house. You can have water."

Alfred quickly learned that 'tea' meant 'dinner' and that Arthur's cooking was almost as bad as the cardboard army rations he had eaten during the war. After dinner, the water was quickly replaced with a gin and tonic as they both decided they wanted a stronger drink, and the first gin and tonic soon turned into four. Around drink two, Alfred decided that it wasn't creepy to want to kiss Edward's grandson. His tryst with the English soldier been decades ago, and a different lifetime. Around drink three, he was almost positive that Arthur wanted to kiss him too, judging by the way the young man kept glancing at him and blushing. Sitting on antique couches in the parlor, they continued to swap stories about their grandfathers' lives until Alfred could imagine Edward's full life after the war.

"So what do you do?" Alfred finally asked. "I know everything about your grandpa, but nothing about you."

Arthur blinked. "I'm a bit of a writer acshually. Historical fiction, I guess."

"Really? That's so cool, Artie! I do Teach for America. I've got this great bunch of high schoolers that I'm teaching American history."

"Shouldn't you be in secondary school yourself?" Arthur asked with a smirk.

"Hey! I am plenty old enough to teach." Alfred crossed his arms and pouted. Yes, he had graduated college very early, but he was sick of people calling him too young. It wasn't his fault that school was easy when he had learned it all before.

"It's just... rare to meet someone with the same love of *hic* history," Arthur gave him a loose smile. "I guess we both love old stuff."

"Yeah," Alfred grinned, "but I've got my eye on something new right now."

Arthur blushed and flustered. "How long will you be in the area?" he asked, gazing at Alfred with an unreadable look in his brilliant eyes.

"My flight leaves on Tuesday," Alfred replied. He had already made plans to see a friend in London, but he was more than willing to cancel. Spending time with Arthur was more important. The young man stirred feelings he hadn't felt in years. As long as Arthur was willing, he wanted to follow the rabbit hole as far as it would go.

"Lovely!" Arthur replied with a drunken smile. "Let me show you 'round. I should... I should show you the fairies! They live in the forest, you know."

"Thanks, man." Alfred chuckled. He wondered what it was about drunk Englishmen that made them talk about fairies; Edward had done the same thing. It was usually the sign that it was time to help him back to his bunk before he started picking drunken fights with Frenchmen. "But I think the first stop should be your bedroom," Alfred suggested.

"Oh, I quite agree," Arthur purred. He stood up and would have faceplanted on the coffee table if Alfred hadn't caught him by the elbow. "Has that table always been there?" he asked curiously as Alfred led him up the stairs.

"I dunno. It's your house."

"Right! Been mine for generations and generations and generations," Arthur said glumly as they stumbled into his bedroom. "You're too much like him," he whispered as he brushed his fingers through Alfred's hair. "I don't know if I should kiss you or cry."

"I think you should go to sleep," Alfred replied, gently leading the drunk and despondent young man to his four-poster bed. He realized that he had been so concerned about his own shameful attraction to his lover's grandson, that he had failed to consider Arthur's feelings. The young man was clearly still hung up over an ex.

Arthur gave him a wan smile. "Promise me you'll be here tomorrow."

"I promise," Alfred replied, leaning forward to brush his lips against the young man's forehead. "Good night, Artie." He closed the bedroom door behind him and sighed to himself. He wanted to get to know Arthur better. In many ways, he felt like he already knew him in some way. But he reminded himself that it wasn't fair to treat the young man as a substitute for Edward. He had to approach Arthur as his own man.

After calling his friend and cancelling his London plans, Alfred checked on Arthur a little later that night to make sure that he was doing alright. He smiled to find the young man sleeping like a baby, a thin line of drool escaping his mouth.

"You know, Eddie couldn't hold his liquor either," Alfred said fondly to the sleeping Brit. "Lack of tolerance must run in the family, huh?"

Arthur snored softly.

"It worked out well for me, I guess. I don't think he would have crawled into my lap and started kissing me that night we won our first battle if he wasn't plastered. Lucky for us, the others were too passed out drunk to notice." Alfred chuckled.

He glanced around the room, admiring the antique furniture and tasteful decorations. They had the well-worn sheen of objects that had been lovingly passed down through the generations. Arthur wasn't kidding about liking old stuff.

"I wonder if you knew about that side of your grandpa," Alfred mused as he glanced over at the sleeping Englishman. "I loved him. I loved him so much. I just wish I had gotten a chance to tell him that."

Alfred sighed and closed the bedroom door once again. He curled up on the couch, and for the first time in many years, he didn't dream of Edward when he fell asleep.

The next day, after Arthur had recovered from his hangover, they headed to Stratford-upon-Avon to see the Royal Shakespeare Theatre and Shakespeare's boyhood home. Arthur eschewed the tour guides in favor of delivering his own flavorful account of Shakespeare's life and times. He was such an amazing historian that they attracted a small group of tourists whenever Arthur stopped to deliver another historical tidbit. Alfred didn't care much about such old history, but he listened attentively anyway, admiring the way Arthur's eyes sparkled with delight as he told each tale.

"So you don't believe the folks who think Shakespeare wasn't Shakespeare?" Alfred asked as they walked along the riverfront.

"Their conspiracy theories are pure rubbish," Arthur replied dismissively. "William Shakespeare borrowed heavily from existing literary tradition, yes, but his words were certainly his own."

"What about the theory that multiple people wrote under the same name? You have to admit, the dude wrote a lot of plays."

"Yes, I know there are some Anti-Stratfordians who doubt that one man of middling education and humble origins could have produced so many great works, but I assure you that it was quite possible. Some men are born great, you know," Arthur added with a smirk.

"I love when you get fired up about history," Alfred said with a fond laugh.

Arthur blushed. "I just hate to see people get it wrong," he replied.

Alfred purchased tickets for a retelling of Love's Labour's Lost set in the build-up to World War I. As part of the show, they took a tour backstage. The stagehands explained the details of the lighting, sound, scene changes, and costume changes, while Arthur quietly pointed out the historical inaccuracies. But he admitted that some of the changes, such as replacing candles with electric lighting, provided significant safety benefits. After all, stage fires were the reason why the original Globe Theatre no longer existed.

"It would be more accurate to have us stand during the play," Arthur explained as they took their seats, "but I think I prefer this approach."

"Me too," Alfred agreed. "I just wish they sold popcorn."

"You're ridiculous." Arthur swacked him in the arm and hushed him once the play started. Despite his constant commentary during the tour, Arthur was silent throughout the play. Whenever Alfred glanced over to look at the other man, he saw a rapt face transposed into another era. Alfred wished he could lose himself in the play the same way. Finding it hard to follow the old-timey language, he spent more time watching Arthur than watching the play. The play was beautiful, but Arthur was more so.

Unsurprisingly, the night ended in drinks. This time, at least, the gin and tonics had a little less gin and a little more tonic. Alfred sipped his drink happily as he listened to Arthur complain about modern interpretations of Shakespeare. He felt warm and happy and in love, and he was pretty sure it wasn't just the alcohol.

"Shakespeare would laugh at how his plays are treated as high literature these days," Arthur explained, nearly spilling some of his drink as he waved his hand for emphasis. "They were the crowd pleasers of their time. The cock... blockbusters of Elizabethan English. I damn well bet most English lit teachers would faint if they knew how many dick jokes the Bard stuck in his plays. Hell, at the time even 'wit' was slang for a penis."

"Yeah, you can tell he's a guy who really liked to shake his spear."

"Precisely!"

"You know, I like a guy with a dirty mind." Alfred grinned. "You have a great wit about you, good sir."

Arthur blushed. "That is a terrible pick-up line. If you weren't so attractive, I would tell you to get thee to a nunnery."

"Okay, okay." Alfred leaned forward. "How about this? I want to call you an Artie-fact and handle you carefully."

"God, that's not much better." Arthur chuckled and reached to refill his empty drink. He knocked over the bottle of gin, which landed with a heavy thud on the carpet. He glanced down at the dry carpet in surprise. "Why didn't that spill?" he wondered.

Alfred picked the bottle off the floor and smiled as he shook it. "Prolly 'cause it's already empty," he suggested.

"Oh, well, I've got some scotch somewhere," Arthur said, swaying as he stood up. He walked carefully around the coffee table and ended up passing by Alfred.

"I don't drink I need any more to think," Alfred said as he grabbed Arthur's wrist and pulled him down onto the couch. The Englishman ended up sprawled across his lap, his eyes wide and his mouth tantalizingly close. Alfred kissed him, and for a moment he was Theodore, back in his barracks in 1944, with Edward sprawled across his chest, kissing him furiously and hoping that the chair jammed under the doorknob would be enough to prevent another soldier from interrupting them. He rolled the Englishman onto his back and peppered his neck with kisses as he started to unbutton the other man's shirt. The man beneath him moaned and rolled his hips upward.

Alfred glanced down to see the same half-lidded green eyes staring back at him with need and want, but the face wasn't quite the same. The hair and skin were lighter. Arthur's face had an adorable dusting of freckles. He was gorgeous, but he wasn't Edward.

Feeling an immense sense of guilt, Alfred climbed off the other man and pulled himself unsteadily to his feet. "I'm sorry, Artie, I think we're both too drunk for this."

"It's what you want, though," Arthur retorted. "And you're leaving tomorrow."

"Yeah, but you're his grandson. It's kinda strange."

Arthur sighed and sat up slowly. "That was what the gin was for, you dolt."

"Oh." Alfred rubbed the back of his head in the awkward silence. There had never been anyone serious after Edward, and he was starting to wonder if he had a thing for handsome English guys with green eyes and thick eyebrows.

"Perhaps it's not strange," Arthur said as he stood up and gently draped his arms around Alfred's neck. "Perhaps it's fate."

Alfred let the Englishman kiss him and silently admitted to himself that Arthur's pick-up lines were way better than his. But maybe Arthur was right. Circumstances beyond their control had taken him away from Edward, never to see his lover again. Maybe the universe was apologizing by leading him to Edward's grandson. Absolved of guilt, he began to kiss back as he slipped his hands under Arthur's shirt. The needy moans he elicited from the other man were sinfully delicious.

"Upstairs. My bedroom," Arthur gasped between breathless kisses.

"Gotcha." Alfred slipped a hand below Arthur's knees and swept the man off his feet. What he lacked in pick-up lines, he made up for with literal pick-up moves. Between the buzzing in his head and the hot lips on his neck, he nearly stumbled as he carried the tipsy Englishman up the stairs. But he steadied himself against the rail and managed to not drop Arthur until he reached the man's four-poster bed. Still fully clothed, Arthur writhed against the sheets and gave him an inviting smile.

Alfred checked the dresser drawers as quickly as he could. He nearly fell down in shock when he opened the bottom drawer and discovered a wide collection of sex toys. He whistled in admiration and grabbed the closest bottle of lube. Lavender scented. Nice.

"Dang, Artie. You're way kinkier than you let on," Alfred murmured in appreciation. But there was something missing. "Hey! You got any rubbers?"

"What?" Arthur blinked in confusion. "Why would you need...?"

Alfred didn't want to debate the importance of safe sex. He crossed his arms. "Look, the quicker you tell me the quicker we can get to the fun part."

Arthur shrugged. "In my office. Top desk drawer."

The office was easy enough to find, but no matter how much Alfred looked through the desk drawers he couldn't find a single condom. There were just pens, pencils, and lots of erasers. He paused to wonder why Arthur would even keep condoms in the office. Was it where he had most of his sex? Did he really like getting it on against the wall and on his desk? That was actually pretty kinky too.

"What's taking so long?" Arthur groused as he stumbled through the doorway. He grabbed one of the erasers out of the drawer and held it in front of Alfred's face. "Here's your rubber. Now kindly come back to the bedroom and fuck me."

"That's an eraser, Artie," Alfred explained, wondering how drunk Arthur was to mistake an eraser for a rubber. "I'm looking for a condom."

Arthur blinked and amused understanding dawned on his face. He chuckled as he leaned against Alfred's chest, pressing his warm body close in a distracting manner. "Oh, I forgot Americans called them rubbers. Well, you're out of luck, I'm afraid. I don't have any."

"You fuck strangers and you don't keep condoms around?"

"I don't sleep with strangers," Arthur replied indignantly. His eyes softened as he met Alfred's gaze and he gently tugged on the American's cowlick. "You're not a stranger. This may sound odd, but I feel like I already know you."

"It doesn't sound strange," Alfred confessed as he lifted Arthur onto the desk and continued kissing him as Arthur dangled his legs around Alfred's waist. He had never made love to Edward on a desk, so he could focus on how it was Arthur's tongue in his mouth and Arthur's lips planting a hickey on his neck and Arthur's shirt that went flying through the air and landed somewhere that wasn't important because all that mattered was that it wasn't covering his lean chest. Arthur was the one making the lusty sounds as Alfred bent him over the desk and pounded his cock between Arthur's smooth thighs. And it was Arthur's cock that he gripped in his hand, pumping him until they both reached a shuddering gasping earthshaking release.

After they finished disheveling Arthur's office and covering his desk in a white, sticky mess, Alfred barely had enough energy left to carry the limp Englishman back to his bed. They collapsed together in a tangle of limbs. Alfred wrapped Arthur in his arms and pulled a blanket over them. He gently brushed his fingers through Arthur's hair as he watched the young man conk out with a satiated smile on his face.

The next morning was nowhere near as awkward as Alfred feared.

He woke up to the sight of brilliant green eyes blinking at him across the pillow, and he murmured the first thing that came to mind. "You're beautiful."

Arthur blushed and shook his head slightly, then winced in pain at the sudden movement. Alfred leaned forward and pressed his lips against Arthur's forehead, hoping to kiss away the pain of the other man's hangover. He then rested his forehead against Arthur's forehead and smiled as their warm breath mingled in the chilly bedroom.

"Will you stay for breakfast?" Arthur asked, his voice whisper quiet.

"Depends," Alfred winked. "Are you on the menu?"

"Oh, god," Arthur groaned. "Your pick-up lines aren't any better when you're sober." But he blushed again and Alfred grinned in delight. He had never realized how attractive a blushing face dappled with freckles could be. Edward had never been much of a blusher. Then again, he had lacked Arthur's pale skin.

They shared Arthur's shower and Alfred remembered how wonderful it was to be young. He could drink heavily and feel almost no ill effects in the morning. And he was always ready for another round of sex.

But as much as he wanted to stay until he had memorized every curve and angle of Arthur's body, he couldn't. He had a plane to catch and a class to teach. Alfred left for his flight with an email address, a phone number, and plans for Arthur to come visit him as soon as he could. This time, Alfred promised himself, he wasn't going to let his handsome Englishman slip away.