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“You have dimples.”
“Dimples?”
“Yeah, when you smile.”
He’s given a look. “When I smile.”
“Uh-huh, you should do it more often.”
Arthur raises an eyebrow. “Are you trying to insinuate something?”
“I dunno, maybe I am.” Alfred shrugs his shoulders, an action that looks somewhat funny when he’s cheek-down on a round table looking up at Arthur through his glasses. “Maybe I’m not.”
The Englishman exhales, eyes moving back to the piece he’s currently embroidering. It’s only been half an hour since the rain knocked out their internet and cable, but the toll it’s taken on Alfred’s attention span is incredibly apparent.
(Not that Arthur isn’t flattered that he seems to be Alfred’s favorite topic when it happens.)
“Hey, Artie.” Alfred props himself onto his chin now, arms still hanging limply below the table. “Smile for me, would’ya?”
Arthur considers this for a while. “No.”
“What?” Alfred whines, drawing on the ‘a’ for several more seconds than Arthur would’ve liked. “But why not?”
“I just don’t feel like forcing a smile at the moment.”
“Then don’t force it! Just think of me and how great I am or something!”
Arthur snorts. “And I thought you wanted me to smile, not contort in disgust.” He drinks in Alfred’s look of mock offense, no matter how melodramatic it looked outside of a 20th century comedy film.
“Then,” announces Alfred, conviction clear in his voice, “I’ll just have to make you smile for me.”
Arthur scoffs. “And just how do you intend to do that?”
“Knock knock.”
“Alfred.”
The American gives him a look.
Arthur heaves a sigh.
“Who’s there?”
“Orange.”
“Orange who?”
“Orange you glad I didn’t say banan—wait no I fucked up lemme try again.”
“I don’t think th—”
“Why is Peter Pan always flying?”
“Alfred, what—”
“Because he neverlands!”
“Oh my god, Alfred.”
At this point Arthur’s set his embroidery down on his lap, the upper half of his face covered in disappointment as he shakes his head. It’s not really the reaction Alfred wanted. Ah, right. Puns. Bad idea on Arthur.
After sitting through half a minute of Arthur shaking his head at the apparent devastation that was his - really clever, excuse you - pun, a lightbulb goes off in Alfred’s head.
He stands up so fast that he can feel the lightheaded vertigo spin around in his head, but also enough to catch Arthur’s attention from across the table as he walks over to the Englishman.
In one well-coordinated swoop, Alfred has Arthur bridal style in his arms, embroidery tumbling off the other’s lap, forgotten in an instant.
“Alfred what in the world are you doing? Put me do—oof!” His stomach clenches as he falls a foot or so onto a couple of bouncy cushions he recognizes as his sofa.
Lying horizontally across the length of his sofa, Arthur doesn’t know what to assume when Alfred’s shadow crawls over him.
“…Alfred?”
There’s an almost feral glint in Alfred’s eyes. “You’ve left me no choice, Artie.”
Alfred’s fingers lunge at his sides, making quick, spidery work and Arthur can feel the uncontrollable laughter bursting from his gut.
“Ahaha—Alfred! St-Stop right this inst—ha!”
“No can do, sweetheart.”
Arthur attempts a retort, but he gets cut off by his own choking laughter, body wriggling underneath Alfred’s jittery touches.
The noise must’ve startled their cats, who’ve strolled into the living room to find the couple caught in their moment on the couch. It’s a minute or two before they can calm down enough to speak and take a good look at each other.
Even after Alfred’s stopped, Arthur’s still visibly trembling with the effort it takes for him to not burst into a small fit of giggles. It’s a sight Alfred wishes he could see more often.
Alfred laughs up a smile of his own. “See?” He pokes a finger to a small dip in Arthur’s skin, close to his mouth. “Dimple.”
Arthur’s smile fades in light of a slightly surprised expression, much to Alfred’s displeasure. But after a few seconds it comes back with a fit of giggles, so bright that Alfred might just pass out.
He keeps laughing, laughing and laughing and soon Alfred is too.
God, Arthur’s smile is just too contagious for his own good.
Arthur snorts, taking Alfred’s hand in his so gently the American thinks his heart might just explode. “You’re an idiot.”
“Yeah.” He intertwines their fingers. “That makes the two of us, huh?”