Mr Arthur Jones

Mr Arthur Kirkland Jones

Mr Jones

Mr F. Jones

Mrs Jones

Arthur crossed out the last one in the paper and chuckled quietly to himself, shaking his head. It was a bright sunny morning and he was up early, sitting on the couch with a notepad and a pen in his hand enjoying the morning air. Finally, his dream to marry the love of his life finally came true just a few months ago. It was a long and painful process, the paper works drove Arthur crazy. But in the end they were finally approved and now they will have their wedding in another two weeks.

It was all so crazy.

One moment they were just a pair of teenagers crazily in love with each other and now they were getting married, to be husband and wife. (Or in their case, husband and husband.) They always dream about this, and now it's coming true. Arthur smiled softly to himself as he glanced around his house, their house, the house that they bought together. Saving up bit by bit and finally they bought it, a small house painted in sky blue with a red roof in the suburbs with a nice backyard and an oak tree. There're three rooms upstairs with a nice little bathroom, a spacey living room and a kitchen.

They were happy.

The extra room upstairs they turned it into a guest room slash study room which consists of a small bed, a bookcase with Arthur's novels and Alfred's comic books. A shelf with framed photographs of Alfred and Arthur's baby photos, a signed football, a Captain America figurine and a teddy bear with a bow around its neck (A gift from Alfred to Arthur on their first date, Arthur treats it like his mos treasure item ever since.)

The bathroom's yellow. A bright sunflower yellow, it was like this when they bought the house and they both had no intention of changing the colour. There's a small old fashioned bath tub in the corner, which allowed them to take bubble baths together. Arthur decorated the sink with fancy little shaped soaps that smell like a flower garden, that Alfred would laugh at him about. ("What? A bathroom's not a bathroom without fancy soaps.")

The kitchen downstairs was kept clean and tidy, since both of them were not professional cooks, but they did keep a cookbook or two on top of the fridge for emergencies like family dinners and such. There were plenty of microwavable food in the cabinet, often it was ALfred who would make microwavable food since he's too lazy to actually put the effort to make real food, or sometimes he would just order some Chinese takeout or pizza, which Arthur would scold him since he said it's unhealthy.

It was so so crazy.

Arthur put down his pen and took a sip of his tea. It had turned cold. He propped his legs on top of the coffee table and wiggled his toes inside his fuzzy socks. They were a gift from Alfred, he knitted them for the Brit last Christmas. Even if the colour was horrible (they were in the ugliest shade of orange) and were too long ("I didn't know the size of your feet so I made it longer, just in case, you can even use them as gloves if you want, they're big enough.") and horrible knitted (Arthur found the 'Knitting for Dummy' book underneath Alfred's bed when he want visiting last time, looks like it was his first time knitting something.), but Arthur still loves it.

A pair of hands appeared out of no where and covered his eyes. Darkness swept over him and he smiled, putting down the pen and notepad onto his lap and gave the hand a squeeze, feeling the familiar blue wristband of his lover. Arthur also has one of it, a red one, but he doesn't wear it as often as Alfred.

"Good morning love." Arthur greeted, prying the hands away from his emerald eyes and turned around, giving his lover a smile.

"Mornin'." Alfred replied, his voice husky from sleep. The blonde American yawned and scratched the back of his head.

"Breakfast's ready. I made waffles. I didn't burn them this time though, I think I deserve a praise for that." Arthur said, nodding his head to the direction of the kitchen, grinning.

Alfred chuckled.

"Thank God you didn't make your famous Kirkland scones."

"Why?"

"Because they taste awful. Horrible, in fact. Too dry, tasteless and sometimes burnt... Hard, even."

Arthur crossed his arms around his chest and frowned at him. "At least I try to make them, unlike that certain someone who only eats and complains... And also the recipe was passed down from my great great great grandmother."

"Hey, I make food sometimes too." Alfred said, defensing himself.

"Like what?"

"Uh..." Alfred looked away, fiddling with the hem of his checkered pajama bottom. "I helped making the cake last time." he said.

That cake.

That chocolate cake that they made together as a get well gift for Alfred's brother. They almost blew up the whole kitchen, but eventually they managed, even if it tasted like burnt rocks.

"You helped, Alfred. You didn't make it yourself. When was the last time you made something all by yourself without the help of others?"

"I microwave stuff."

"That doesn't count." Arthur smirked.

"Well... I guess, never then..."

Arthur gave him a proud smirk and nodded towards the kitchen again. "Go on, go eat your breakfast."

"Fine fine... hey, what were you writing before I came down?" the American asked.

A blush crept onto Arthur's cheeks as he hid the notepad behind his back. "Nothing, absolutely nothing... I was just uh... writing a poem."

"A poem, huh? Can I read it?"

Arthur's blush darkened as he shook his head furiously. "No, you can't. Sorry but it's kind of private."

"Is it some cheesy poem? Something like, roses are red, violets are blue, Alfred F Jones you're so freaking handsome and brave and heroic, I love you?"

Arthur looked at his lover, horrified. "Dear Lord, are you crazy? Why would I write something like that? And also, whatever possessed you to make you think that I would write something that... that..."

"Romantic." Alfred grinned.

"It's not romantic at all you git. It's gross, and also a bit creepy." Arthur looked away, gripping the notepad in his hands tightly.

He would never, not in a million years let Alfred see what he wrote. It would be so embarrassing. Alfred would surely laugh at him, maybe he would even think that Arthur's a weirdo.

"Come one, let me see." Alfred said, holding out his hand to Arthur, asking for the notepad.

Arthur shook his head, and inched away from him.

"No."

"Aww Artie..."

"Don't call me that. It's Arthur, how many times have I told you that my name's Arthur, not Artie. Give some respect, I'm older that you by the way."

"Old fart."

"Am not!" Arthur fumed, glaring at Alfred.

"You're so cute when you're embarrassed, and angry." Alfred smiled, pulling the Brit closer so he could plant a kiss on his blonde hair.

"I'm not embarrassed."

"You're blushing, see?" Alfred poked the Brit's cheek and immediately his hand was slapped away. "Just leave me alone, go have your breakfast. It's the most important meal of the day, they say." Arthur said, standing up, clutching the notepad in his chest.

Alfred chuckled and nodded. "Fine, I'll go have my breakfast. But in return you have to let me read what you wrote."

"You little git."

"Fair, no?"

"Just go."