This is AU. Really AU. So AU that some characters' names have been changed. Don't like it? Go read something else!
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, or any of its characters. Those belong to Himeruya Hidekaz-sensei, who made a lot more out of them than I ever could have. ^^;; I just do fanfiction for fun, and earn no monetary rewards for writing it. Reviews are, of course, worth as much as silver.
Summary: Unauthorized opening, inspection or tampering of mail is considered a federal offense and thus punishable by law. One wonders if this statute applies to the employees, as well.
Title: Tampering With Mail Clerks Is Illegal
Chapter Three: Νοέμβριος (Greek)
Chapter Three: November
Word Count: 18,602
Page Count: 28
[Total Word Count: 55,450]
[Total Page Count: 83]
Anime: Hetalia
Pairing(s) in this chapter: Alfred/Arthur [America/England], Luca/Hartmut [North Italy/Germany], Gilbert/Matthew [Prussia/Canada], Nikolai/Alfred [Russia/America], Past Arthur/OCs [England/Kenya, England/Sudan, England/India, England/Nigeria, England/Libya]
Warning: Language (mostly Arthur), BL
Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)
Date: Tuesday, August 3, 2010
[On 23 Favorites and 28 Author Alerts] Eep! S-So many! A big thank-you to those who Favorite! :3
[30 reviews for 1,782 hits!] H-How the hell did the hit count jump up to there, so fast? x/x
Fic Recs: The Baffled King and the Idiot Hero, by Ellarose C [ h t t p : / / w w w . f a n f i c t i o n . n e t / s / 5 8 1 9 8 8 0 / 1 / T h e _ B a f f l e d _ K i n g _ a n d _ t h e _ I d i o t _ H e r o ], Prometheus Rising by White Mizerable [ h t t p : / / w w w . f a n f i c t i o n . n e t / s / 5 8 4 7 4 5 4 / 1 / P r o m e t h e u s _ R i s i n g ], How to leave the closet by ButterFish [ h t t p : / / w w w . f a n f i c t i o n . n e t / s / 5 5 2 5 5 7 8 / 1 / H o w _ t o _ l e a v e _ t h e _ c l o s e t ], and Liete's continuous series of "delinquent AU" fics [ h t t p : / / w w w . f a n f i c t i o n . n e t / u / 1 2 4 2 6 / l i e t e ].
Miscellaneous Notes(May 30, 2010): America calls Russia 'Nick' (for Nikolai) because he's a jerk about foreign names and 'Nikolai' sounds better shortened to the more familiar American/British English 'Nick', in his opinion. ...Yeah. My America muse refuses to call Russia anything else, in this fic (no, I wasn't planning for him to call Russia that when I renamed Russia—it just sort of… happened).
Prussia uses German and France and Canada use French, in this chapter. [ Keep your iGoogles on standby, everyone~! xD ;;; ] I apologize if it is horrible. ;.;
Linguistic note for the Americans reading this: When England says 'Blow me' it's a shorter form of the British English exclamation 'Blow me down'. xD ;; It's meant to be for surprise, so he's not asking America to do anything—buuut in American English it sounds a liiittle like~ …Erm. Yes. x.o;; Like that. Thus America's reaction. x3~
Why, yes, the other-country-OCs that are England's exes were picked to (however briefly) represent those nations because they are all former British colonies! xD [Learn something from this Hetalia fic—despite it being an AU—bugger all! x.o;; ]
7/14/2010: Late update. x.x I haven't lost interest in this fic or had writer's block, I swear! I've been writing, it's just—I've gotten bitten by the rp bug for the first time in three years, so if my Japan/France/America from Goodreads are reading this… it's all your guys' faults! D: [ I'm totally not being sold on England/Japan and France/England by rping with them… nooo… never! x/x~ Gah. Bad author! x.x ]
8/3/2010: This chapter might have to tide you over for another little while (I haven't written too much for chapter four, as of yet, sooo…). D: Enjoy it while you can? I'm still thinking about this fic, don't worry~! It just might take me a bit of time to get something else out, as school's starting back up in less than a month. My friend who was proof-reading for plot and characterization and such has seemed to have abandoned me, as well. I haven't heard from her in just about as long as you guys haven't heard from me… j~j
This chapter was written to the music listed below.
Songs: World Is Mine (by Hatsune Miku), Pub and GO!, Absolutely Invincible English Gentleman, Country From Where The Sun Rises, Excuse Me I Am Sorry, Gee (by SNSD), W.D.C., Pechka, Winter, Aiyah! Four-Thousand Years, Hello China
Albums: Nevermind The Bollocks, Here's The Sex Pistols (by the Sex Pistols), London Calling (by The Clash)
Important notes: Alfred is taller than Arthur in this fic (even though there's really only two centimeters' difference between them…). He just 'looks up' at Arthur a lot because he's leaning over and trying to be all cute (and manipulative, so as to get his way). xD ;; Just thought I'd clarify that, because some people seemed confused~! :3
: : : : : : :
Sunlight filtered in through the window, and he winced against the growing light on the outside of his eyelids. They peeked slowly open, vision blurred slightly as the wall across from him—looked unfamiliar? Squinting slightly, the student raised a few fingers to rub at his eyes, focusing slowly on the Rammstein poster across the way. He frowned a little and made to shift, but a slow mumble behind him made him freeze. Something heavy and warm curled further around his waist and he jerked a little as his face bathed itself in cerise, having not realized the limb was there. He didn't need to look behind him to confirm who was there, and put a hand to his head, muttering softly.
"Fuck…" It was soft, though, and he painstakingly made to shift out of the other's grasp, moving that limb and slipping out of the bed as unobtrusively as possible. It thumped back on the bed behind him, and Arthur raised a hand to try and tame the mussed blond strands that comprised his hair with a sigh, glancing back. The stupid yank was still in his costume from the night before—well, at least the jeans and blue-and-white pinstriped shirt. Something odd was struggling at a corner of his mouth, but he looked away, going to gather the wings and halo set aside the night before.
He pushed down the unease that was building—the awkwardness that would ensue if Alfred were to wake now. Not that anything had really happened, last night—but his cheeks still felt a little warm for no real reason at all. With a last lingering look back at the sleeping freshman and a moment's hesitation—the Brit slid on his sandals and walked out the door. Once downstairs, he made his way over to the neighboring frat house at a brisk stride (all too aware of his odd attire), rapping sharply on the door with his free hand and hoping against hope that someone was awake and— It swung open, revealing an all-too-familiar smiling face.
"Ah! Buenos dias, did you—"
"I'm here for my clothes." He stated it bluntly, shoving the halo and wings at the man and striding past the Spaniard to make for the stairs. The Latino wandered after him, laughing lightly. There were asleep college students everywhere—passed out on tables, chairs, the stage, even! Casting a suspicious glance behind him as they ascended the stairs, Toni returned it with a cheerful smile.
"¿Cual es ...?"
"Why are you so—Eh, nevermind." Arthur shook his head, deciding he really didn't care why the chap was so wide-awake and peppy. He continued to stomp up the stairs, flinging open the door to the room and— There was a shriek and he froze, eyes wide and hand still on the doorknob. Some weird outfit including a short green skirt, an apron, a brown corset with pink threading was lying haphazardly on the floor, just beside what seemed to be a matching pair of green suspenders and— The shriek had come from the bed, some auburn-haired woman with a weird curl in front of her face sitting up and clutching the sheets to her chest. His face bloomed red.
"I-I-I'm sorry, I d-didn't realize—" There was a grumble and a hand flailed out, dragging the woman back down despite her flailing and protests.
"Nnnhn—go back to sleep…"
"B-B-B-But, Hartmut, there's a guy—!" Was it him, or did that voice now sound a little lower than the shriek he'd heard, before? The blond heard quick footsteps behind him, though, and soon Toni was beaming at him warmly as he blocked his view and firmly shut the door behind him.
"Mi amigo, the room with your clothes in it is over this way—" Flushing only brighter, he nodded, following. The Spaniard left him alone in the room, and he quickly slid on his socks and slacks with mirroring sighs of relief. Having barely worn them the night before, they were still rather clean. The blond still wrinkled his nose, though. He needed a shower, having had nothing to change into the night before, and thus forced to forgo his nightly routine. He'd like to brush his teeth, as well. Sighing, the Brit quietly finished buttoning up his pale orange shirt, tucking it in before slipping the dark green sweater vest over his head.
: : :
Grinning like a madman, he rocked back and forth on his heels in the elevator, pleased with himself. That girl he'd banged last night sure was hot! The albino chuckled, adjusting the black SS hat on his head. Who knew she'd be crazy for Nazi bondage games, like that? Weird fetish. He shrugged, though, stepping out as the elevator dinged and beginning to stride towards his dorm. A loud scuffling sound from the RA's room made him slow, though, raising a brow. He then grinned, laughing obnoxiously to himself. Man, he should've expected ol' Fran to get some, too! What he didn't expect, though, was for the door to burst open and a willowy, wavy-haired dirty blonde to come darting out. The kid barreled right into him and he backpedaled a little, hands going to the girl's shoulders to steady himself as his eyebrows shot up. Her curvy bangs covered her bowed face, and she had a stuffed bear clutched tightly in her arms in front of her, lessening the effect of their collision.
"Shit, watch where you're going! You—" She looked up, and he caught his breath. Those eyes were way too violet-purple. They glistened and glimmered at the corners behind the slightly rounded glasses set askew on her face—she was crying, the tears still streaming down. His expression unconsciously softened (damn his weak spot for a girl's sad face!), and he lifted a hand to try to— "Hey, now…" She shoved him away, a sob hitching in her throat as she tore for the stairs. He had half a mind to follow her and—lacking anything better to do—did, casting a dirty glance back to the RA's door, which had swung shut after she'd burst out of it.
"Wait! What's—dammit!" He kept an eye on the red and black flannel shirt that fluttered as she hastily pounded down the steps, bare feet slapping the unforgiving cement. Her jeans were up, at least—just barely dangling from her hips, apparently not fully zipped or buttoned—one brown suspender over her shoulder practically keeping them up and the other waving uselessly behind, as though she'd pulled the first one on in a hurry.
"Hey!" She glanced over her shoulder as she pushed the stairway door open on the floor below—red face, wet streaks still cutting down her cheeks as she flailed the stuffed polar bear as though it could actually cause harm, yelling at him. …Well, he guessed she tried to yell. It sounded more like a vehemently strained whisper, her face still (angrily?) flushed, a long random wisp of a curl that he previously hadn't noticed bouncing in front of her face.
"I-It's nothing to do with you!" It took him a moment to realize, after she turned to him—that her shirt was actually unbuttoned. He hadn't noticed before, because she'd been clutching that damn toy to her chest like a lifeline. Unthinkingly, his eyes flicked downward, expecting to see a lacy bra or something poking out between—oh. Flat skin. No breasts, either. He blinked, feeling his own face flush a little in mistaking the guy's freaking gender. And with those looks… it probably happened a lot. When s—he turned to leave, the German lunged forward, grabbing the guy's upper arm and forcing him to stop. Girl or not, that guy's face was still miserable… and, hell, he'd take any chance he could to make Francis' life just as bad.
"Hey, dude, what the fuck?" There was the smallest of flinches to his language but he ignored it, shaking the man's arm, ruby eyes hard. "Did Fran slip you a roofie and rape you or something?" The other student's shoulder was shaking beneath his firm grip. Abruptly the guy turned and glared at him (as though insulted by the very suggestion he'd been coerced into something he didn't want), that strained voice raising a notch to an almost-normal speaking level.
"N-No, he didn't, but— E-Excuse me!" The polar bear was shoved into his collarbone and Gilbert stumbled back a few paces, reflexively grasping it and the boy (arm now freed) hurried through the emergency door and onto the fourth floor. He followed after slowly, peeking slightly as the distraught kid banged on one door in specific—four-sixteen, he noted—and just caught the soft-spoken, entreating cries.
"Tino, Tino! P-Please, let me in, my key—" The door opened and the poor boy stumbled inside, crying and clinging on to whoever was there. Scratching his head uncomfortably, red eyes slid to the stuffed polar bear in his arms. When the door shut Gilbert strode the rest of the way forward, setting it down in front and glancing up towards the ceiling. He stuck his hands in the pockets of the black Schutzstaffel uniform-costume he still wore, turning to go and do the right thing.
Even if it meant—this early in the morning, no less!—kicking Fran's ugly mug to the street and back.
…Oh, no, wait—that was a good thing~!
He grinned.
: : :
"Nnnn…" His head was throbbing, and he put a hand to it, wincing and rolling over, burrowing further into the covers with a suffering exhale. He mussed his hair, blinking blearily into the covers. There'd been a draft and that was what eventually prodded him to wake, but it didn't really make sense—most of the comforter was over him, anyway. He figured he was forgetting something, but it didn't come to mind. Couldn't be that important, right? Groaning, the American stuffed his head back under the pillow.
God, how much had he had, last night?
: : :
Standing outside Waltman Hall, leaned back against the building, his arms crossed over his front, the Brit thought. Clearly… clearly, he had no reason to go back in, yes? After all, the fact Alfred had got completely plastered was the yank's own fault, right? A few fingers rose to rub at the blond's temple as he sighed. Really… he needn't go back in there. He'd best head back to the apartment, and— His mobile was out of his pocket and in his hand in another moment, as he waited impatiently for Ren to pick up.
"Arthur-san?" Still rubbing his temple with his other hand, he opened his mouth to inform his room mate of the current situation.
"A friend of mine is ill. He's—" He blinked, stopping as soon as he realized his words. Ren remained quiet on the other end of the line, politely, until a few beats had passed.
"…Arthur-san?" The blond shook his head, leaning his head into his hand. He mumbled.
"I must be mad…"
"Eh? What was that? Arthur-san, it's a bit difficult to hear you—"
"Sorry… I'll be back soon. I'm fine." He scarcely waited to hear the response before snapping his mobile shut. Leaning his head back against the concrete wall of the dorm, he furrowed his brows at the sky. Why did he care? Other than the fact that… Alfred seemed to—like him, perhaps? His cheeks colored and so he trained his gaze to the ground, shaking his head rapidly, fair strands hitting his forehead and cheeks with the motion. It did nothing to dissuade the thoughts pooling in the back of his mind, though. If… well—the yank had been drunk, but he'd been coherent to listen when Arthur'd said no, and… didn't—didn't that speak of… something? Putting his hand to his head, once more, he shook it softer than before. Utterly ridiculous. Was that loon's idiocy wearing off on him? Sticking his mobile back in his pocket, he headed off to his apartment for a much-needed shower and some well-deserved time to think.
: : :
Well, it was obvious the lad was attracted to him. Wasn't it? After all, when one was drunk it didn't necessarily mean they did things they didn't want to, right? According to everything he'd ever read (and he'd done that a lot, the past few days) when one was inebriated it only tended to lower their inhibitions. His cheeks colored. It was quite a possibility that Alfred did—
"A-Arthur-san?" He was jarred out of his thoughts, chin reclined on the heel of a hand as he blinked towards his flat mate. The tea in front of him was just freshly steeped, and a pleasant milky brown color due to the milk he'd added. He was only really waiting for the scones in the oven to finish cooking. Straightening from his absent-minded, thoughtful lean, the Brit offered a polite smile towards the nervous-looking Japanese man.
"Ah, yes?" He sniffed the air, and furrowed his brows, lifting his mug to take a sip. The Asian lad's dark eyes flitted nervously towards the oven, Ren speaking just as the luke-warm beverage hit his lips.
"H-How long has the oven been—"
"Oh, blast!" He quickly sprang up from his chair, rushing over to the appliance and opening the door. A little bit of smoke billowed out and he hastily grabbed an oven mitt, pulling the tray out and soundly shutting the door before too much more could escape. He dumped the tray on the stove, then quickly turning the dials to shut the oven off. It was only then he turned to look at his creations. His shoulders sagged in utter defeat.
Black. Burnt, crispy and completely ruined. He thought he might cry. He'd made sure to follow every rule on the recipe with meticulous care! How could he have forgotten the time? The blond put his head in his hands, shaking it. He'd… wanted to… Well, that wasn't important now, was it? They were ruined. A vaguely hopeful glance towards Ren only confirmed it, and he grabbed the tray with his padded hand, as well as a spatula, and headed over towards the rubbish bin to begin scraping the little blocks of charcoal that once were scone-hopefuls into it. When he was finished, he felt a careful voice behind him, and looked back miserably. Ren was poking at the other half of the yet-unbaked batch still in the bowl on the counter, as though testing the consistency—but upon noticing Arthur's attention stopped, and politely smiled.
"Arthur-san… the recipe seems to be all right. Perhaps you should try again, but please remember to time how long they should be in, yes?" The mail clerk sighed, walking back over to the stove and placing the tray on top of it, glumly.
"What's the point? I always mess it up, somehow…" There's no way Alfred would want to—
"Pardon me, Arthur-san… but is there… someone you were making these for?" His cheeks flooded again and he quickly looked away, waving his non-gloved hand in the air.
"D-D-Don't be ridiculous! I just missed the taste of home—" Well, that was partly true, at least. "—and scones are a rather common British food! I only made them to go with my tea!" By the last sentence he was completely yelling in defense of his motives, but caught himself before he could rant further, covering his mouth with the hand yet encased in an oven mitt. Green eyes were wide. "O-Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—" But his flat mate was only smiling calmly at him. The Japanese lad stepped over to the sink, rolling up his sleeves and making to wash his hands.
"I understand, Arthur-san. Please allow me to help you make another batch?" He felt a little tickle of pride, but… He did want to make them right. And while he sometimes couldn't trust his own taste, at least if they made another tray Ren could taste them and tell him if they were horrible, right? Squaring his shoulders, the Brit lifted his chin with a sharp nod.
"Perhaps you're right. Yes! Let's try this together."
It was only afterwards, when the second tray came out and he nervously watched Ren try one did he feel any small spark of relief. The shorter boy had bit into one—hard on the outside, fluffy and light on the inside, although they were a little black around the bottom edges—and cast him a slight smile. Ren confirmed that they were, indeed, edible, and congratulated Arthur on doing such a good job of sticking to the recipe, this time.
: : :
A few of the scones were safely packed away for tomorrow, in a little airtight clear plastic case. At the moment he was staring up at the ceiling, feeling a strange flutter somewhere in the area of his abdomen. Large brows wrinkled together as he thought. It was certainly… a possibility that Alfred might be attracted to him, in some way. They hadn't exactly had much time to discuss their preferences, and he truly thought it was a bit odd to flaunt such a thing when one hardly knew someone. The States were better about accepting orientations well—on the whole—but there were still those people who would search for any reason to discriminate against someone, and he didn't particularly feel like dealing with it. For yanks, though—from what he'd seen, Americans tended to be loud and obnoxious about their preferences. So he really had no way of knowing, without asking an all-too-forward question that would be rather rude due to prying into the brunet's private life. He closed his eyes, inhaling slowly.
To be sure, it was quite possible that if he asked that question the boy would get offended. He couldn't imagine Alfred being short of having women interested in him—the thought sent a stone into his gut, and he let out a heavy sigh. Besides, he had been drunk. Some people tended to act in ways differently while under the influence, and it didn't always have to have a base in reality… Alfred didn't have to be gay to want to kiss him, while drunk. He could've mistaken him for a girl in the darkness, anyway.
Although that didn't explain why the bloke had said his name.
Blushing furiously, he turned over onto his stomach, pulling his pillow over his head and hiding from the lamplight peering in from outside with a small sound. At least, then… at least Alfred had known who he was, at that point. So, perhaps—he shook his head, eyes clenching firmly shut. He would not make any assumptions until he was positively certain. He would not ask Alfred his sexual preference, he reiterated, feeling a darker flush steal over his nose at the thought. He shook his face against the mattress with a low moan in the back of his throat. Oh, why… why had he gone to that Halloween party? A hand pressed against his stomach beneath his pajama top, palm rubbing against it idly in his misery—as though he could abate the butterflies with the motions.
He had… he had wanted to bake those scones, for Alfred. And the weather was getting colder—it was November, already!—so he would be seeing a good deal less of the chap in the future unless he did something about it. Forehead slowly relaxing, the Brit still on his stomach beneath the comforter, he thought on it. Logically, really. If he offered Alfred the scones tomorrow, then the boy would be indebted and thus obliged to take him out for—for lunch, or some such thing, the next day. That would be all right, wouldn't it? And while it may be a bit uncomfortable, it might… it might be the best idea to tell Alfred what he'd—he'd nearly done, when he was drunk that night. It would be the proper thing to do. Arthur's cheeks brightened once more, heat bouncing off the insulating pillow and mattress and making his entire head feel too warm.
Ah, uhm. Yes. That would be the best way to go about it. After all—Alfred had offered every time they'd met on the football field, for the past two months. Even though he'd never taken him up on it—it was still possible that the offer stood, correct? Yes. Most likely. And, er… it would only be to have Alfred pay him back for the scones. Which Ren had confirmed were edible. Yes. And he'd made them. Not for Alfred, of course! For himself. Because… they reminded him of Britain. …Yes. That would do well. He could feign that he'd brought them for lunch, really. …Yes.
It would be brilliant.
: : :
Seated behind the high counter, the plastic container full of scones set neatly on his lap, Arthur checked his watch for the fourth time in the past minute. 1:15. Where could that damn yank be? He was usually here by now. Mildly worried, he drummed his fingers over the snap-on plastic lid, eyes dropping to the desktop before him as he bit his lip. Of course it would be like this. The one time he would make a decision of some minor importance, it would backfire. His grip on the plastic box intensified a little. Really, it was foolish of him to think that every Friday the boy would be perfectly on time—wasn't it? To think, even, that—
"Artie!" Oh good lord he nearly fell out of his seat. The Brit recovered magnificently, though, standing and offering a sunny smile towards the brunet, attempting to swallow his nerves as he nonchalantly placed the small plastic tub atop the counter, lifting a hand to slide off his reading glasses (not that he'd been reading much, today, but one had to make an effort to present an air of normalcy!).
"A-Ah, hello! Five-fourteen, wasn't it? I'll be—" He made to hastily hurry off, but a succinct index finger tapping the top of the plastic case brought his attention back towards those curious blue eyes behind thin lenses. Had the lad's hair always glinted gold like that in the light?
"Hey, what're these?" His mouth went dry, a little, and he tried a slightly shakier smile, reaching down to pop off the lid so it was loose while wrenching his eyes from that sight. There was another odd flutter in his stomach, which he soundly ignored as best he could.
"They're—ah—They're scones." Alfred squinted at him in confusion, and he snapped before he could stop himself. "From Britain! They're quite popular, I assure you—" Oh. His gaze widened as he realized he'd been more… forceful, than he'd intended. The blond pushed a little nervous laugh out before waving the moment off, willing himself to turn and give his back to the yank, walking away down the grid of mailboxes as he continued. His hands clasped each other in front of his stomach, tightly.
"F-F-Feel free to have some, if you'd like!" He took his time, handling the mail extra carefully as he watched Alfred out of the corner of his eye. The American had chosen one, and was examining it from all angles, curiously. His stomach did an unnatural little movement that left his knees trembling a little as his palms began to perspire. Would he like it? That thought was quickly stifled as he told himself it didn't matter if Alfred liked it, or not. No, it really didn't. He hadn't painstakingly measured out the ingredients, checking the recipe about four times for each item to be sure he was putting the correct amount in. He hadn't nearly burned his hand in his haste to get them out of the oven, worried they'd be burnt like the batch before them if he didn't remove them right at the fifteen-minute mark.
As the American bit into the one he held Arthur quickly averted his eyes away, not wanting to see if there was an expression of utter distaste on the younger man's face. He kept his eyes to the floor as he walked back, heart thumping in his ears. When he reached the desk he at last looked up, face neutral and tone diligently 'casual' as he held out the boy's mail.
"How are they?" He patted himself on the back that his face was curved into a look of bored disinterest, and his voice didn't shake at all. Alfred stopped chewing for a moment, blinking at him before swallowing and giving him a smile.
"They're like—cookies, sorta. Only a little fluffier. Like, um…" He laughed, waving the half-eaten scone in his face and sending a few crumbs flying. "They're like doughnuts, a little! Only not as sweet. And shaped differently. But they're not bad—" His entire chest flooded with warmth, and he couldn't help the fact that a corner of his lips tipped up in an aborted proud smile. Alfred liked them! His face felt a little warm suddenly, but he couldn't seem to care about it—until he realized the yank had stopped chewing and was staring at him, a bit. He jarred himself out of the successful-cook euphoria he'd been floating in, going with the feeling in his chest and smiling a bit, looking down and tentatively pushing the small container towards the American.
"A-Ah, is that so? I'm glad you like them! Feel free to take the rest—" The boy grinned at him again, moving to grab the lid and his mail—their fingers brushing, just faintly (not that he noticed something silly like that!)—taking another scone before he fixed the top back on.
"Wow, really? Thanks!" He'd half-hoped the boy would stay, but Alfred only gave him another dazzling(!)ly grateful smile before making to turn around. "Well, I guess I'll see ya—"
"Wait!" In his momentary panic it was perhaps a little louder than he'd meant it to be, but—the bloke heard it and swiveled his head to look back at him, inquisitively. Suddenly rather aware of the situation he hastily grabbed his reading glasses, slipping them back on as he then proceeded to stare at his hands. They were clenched tightly around the handle of the drawer in front of him. Alfred couldn't see that, though, the counter was too high. Thank god.
"A-Ah, I mean, since—er, the weather's getting colder, isn't it?" He just blurted it, green eyes wavering but lifting up to lock on the bluer ones across the way. The American raised a brow, and he felt his heart sink a little.
"Yeah, so?" He wanted to bang his head against that desk. It would work, he only had to—
"I-I probably won't be playing football much, anymore. With how—with how cold it's getting."
"Oh, yeah? That's too bad. Guess I'll be seeing less of you, then?" Dammit, but his eyes were back on his hands and the stupid pillock was still staring at him, not getting it. Arthur forced his gaze back up with a little bit of gumption, jade narrowed and determined.
"A-And you've… got my lunch, there." He quickly gestured towards the scones, and Alfred opened his mouth to respond, eyebrows descending in annoyance—the Brit kept going, desperate not to be interrupted as he might lose his nerve.
"A-And since it's my lunch, you owe me! Tomorrow." He puffed up his chest, pointing solemnly at the brunet who was, by now, staring at him with a mix of astonishment and… what was that? He didn't take the time to think.
"Tomorrow! You owe me lunch!" There, he'd gotten it out, and took a breath—before realizing Alfred hadn't reacted, was just watching him with as dumbfounded an expression as before. His cheeks suddenly inflamed themselves in shame. Had it been too presumptuous? Perhaps he'd assumed wrong, and the boy would rather not— He coughed, hiding it in a fisted hand as he looked away again, trying to hide his disappointment—n-n-no, not that at all! It was frustration. Yes!
"E-Er—that's… i-if it's too much trouble I wouldn't wish to—"
A hard hand clapped him on the shoulder and he jumped, jerking his gaze back up. Sapphire eyes were much closer than they'd been, before, smiling at him from behind their spectacles as Alfred leaned over the counter a little, so their eyes were level.
"What, you kidding? Of course it's fine!" He chirped, looking far too happy with the proclamation. God, his entire face was practically radiating joy. The blond looked down again, wrestling with the relieved smile that wanted to break over his countenance as something in his chest loosened. Feeling a little warm again, all he could do was nod and try not to pay too much attention to that rough hand still resting on his shoulder.
"Y-Yes, well… tomorrow, then?" He looked to the side, lifting an arm to brush Alfred's hand off of him, delicately. It went without much fight, and he glanced back, feeling that same weird impulse to lift up a corner of his lips, again. "The same place as usual?" It was an easy spot to meet, after all, that field—and apparently the other student agreed, because he grinned and nodded.
"Yeah, sure! Well, I've got some things I've gotta study for, so—" Happy to be in more familiar conversational waters, the Brit just nodded, turning to go complete some of his regular work chores.
"Of course, yes, I understand. I suppose I'll—"
"See you tomorrow~!" Alfred finished the sentence for him, the brunet's cheeks tinted an eager pink as he offered an even wider smile—if it was possible—at last turning and waving behind him as he departed, the little tub of scones safely tucked under an arm. The sudden swell of self-pride did not diminish, even as Arthur stepped into the area behind the mailboxes, going about his business, giving in and smiling elatedly to himself now that no one was around to witness it.
Well, that didn't go near so horribly as I feared it would!
: : :
I've got a date!
He practically skipped (manfully!) into the elevator, pressing the button before thrusting his hands into his jeans pockets as the doors slid shut. He whistled to himself in the empty metal box as it ascended. His backpack was still over one shoulder, the little plastic tub of scones safely pinned between the crook of his elbow and his side. The American's smile was big enough to easily outshine the florescent lights bearing down on him from above.
"I've got a date." He chuckled to himself, beaming up at the numbers over the doors as they dinged, mouth's corners stubbornly refusing to slump downward so much as he tried to compose himself. A little flutter in his chest answered the soft statement when he heard it in his own ears instead of his mind, and it practically burst past his lips the second time.
"I've got a date!" With Arthur! Alfred grinned, nearly bouncing out the doors with a laugh as he strode confidently towards his dorm, not seeing much as he was muttering happily to himself in a low mantra.
"I've got a date, got a date, got a daaaate with—Oof!" He ran into someone standing outside the (often) open door to his suite, jostling his glasses and he automatically jerked a hand up to readjust them, backing up a step and blinking up at the man he'd run into. His smile didn't diminish—it just wouldn't!—as he recognized the guy. Saluting with two fingers signaling out smartly from the side of his head, he proceeded to greet the Russian, tone still lit amiably.
"Oh, heya, Nick! Sorry 'bout that, I was a little—" Warm violet eyes bore down on him as a sweet smile spread out over the taller student's face.
"Oh, nyet, nyet… A date is a good reason, da?" To that, heat darted out over his cheeks. It was obvious his muttering hadn't been as low as he'd thought it'd been, then! He laughed, raising a hand to rub at the back of his head, expression sheepish.
"Ha, ha, yeah!" His face felt a little warmer all of the sudden, and he looked down, still smiling a little. "Well, I've been goin' after this one for a while, so—"
"I am happy for you, comrade~" The cream-haired man's voice was light and fluffy, but lilted a little in curious surprise. "Ah! What are those?" Alfred blinked at the cutely pointing finger, following it to the scones tucked against his side. He opened his mouth to— "Gifts from your lady friend? Ehe, how lucky you are~!" At that last statement, though, his face burned again and he tried to laugh it off.
"Huh? Oh, no way, it's not—" The younger student waved a palm in front of himself, shaking his head as the Russian tilted his head and blinked in what could only be thought.
"Ah? It is not a lady friend, then~?" Damn it! He just knew his face glowing bright pink, at this point! Not one to shy away from truth, though, he just muttered his response a little bashfully, trying to push past his floor mate's bulk with a rough shoulder-bump as he crossed the door threshold.
"Um, no, not really—" He wasn't afraid of it, just a little gunshy around people he didn't know well. Couldn't really tell who the religious wackos were, at a glance, after all. He'd almost made it, when a strong grip hooked around his elbow over the sleeve of his leather jacket. His heart froze. Oh crap. Damn. Maybe in Russia they really—
"Oh! How fortunate Alfred is~! Good men are hard to find around here!" That jolly chirp stopped him dead in his tracks, and he blinked, glancing over in hesitant amazement. Nikolai was beaming at him over his scarf and own shoulder, respectively, barely-visible mouth quirked into another of those delighted little smiles. After another moment the Russian released him, lively light plum eyes opening again as the broad-framed student patted his shoulder.
"You will have to tell me how it goes! Perhaps if it doesn't work out, Alfred would like to have a date with me, instead, da~?" He'd been about to say something, but it only came out as a surprised half-stutter of a sound as his suspicions were confirmed—the guy'd said it so casually!—and the brunet fought to reestablish a grin on his currently utterly-astonished face.
"H-Hey, th—You—" The taller boy smiled at him innocently, as though he'd not just said that.
"Regretfully, I have studying to do. Have fun on your date~!" And with that, the Russian turned around completely and strode off, humming a little tune.
The American stood frozen for another moment—before shaking his head with a laugh and walking to his door, throwing it open with a cheery announcement.
"Hey, you were right, Gil! There are lotsa gay guys here in the city~!"
: : :
At the end of his shift he returned from his usual trip to the loo to find—much to his surprise—an envelope waiting for him in front of the metal blinds he'd drawn down not minutes ago. The Brit's brows creased together as he strode forward, plucking it and turning it over.
To Arthur
His heart skipped a beat, and his expression softened into one of pleasant confusion. Why would Alfred bother leaving a—oh, wait, no. That handwriting was much too neat to be that damn yank's. It didn't match the messily-scrawled script he'd seen, before. Frowning once more, he tore open the top part, pulling out a small letter. It was just the size of the envelope, actually—it looked as though it had been ripped to fit.
Loose information spreads quickly. Terminate your rendezvous. He is mine.
His fingers tightened over the paper, crinkling it slightly before he folded it smartly in half and stuck it in his pocket, marching resolutely onward to retrieve his coat and knapsack. The blond refused to glance around suspiciously as he left, although he was scowling in consternation as to just who he'd managed to wind up to receive such a letter. The words played again and again—written in their careful, meticulously exact cursive—over his thoughts as he headed to the library until he stubbornly thrust them from his mind, not allowing the threatening message to alter his usual routine.
He didn't bother himself to wonder how the bastard—whoever he was—knew of his plans.
: : :
"Did he call it a date? If he didn't call it a date, it's not a date." Alfred cast a frown over to his room mate, the albino currently reclined atop his bed, on his back with his arms folded behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. The younger guy tugged lightly on the collar of his shirt, mumbling quietly as he looked away.
"Well, no…" There was a bark of a laugh and Gilbert sat up on his elbows, grinning upside-down towards him.
"See! Can't go assumin'. 'sides, I think ol' Nick's got the hots for you—" The American's cheeks flushed angrily, and he turned, shouting at the other student so lazily occupying his mattress.
"C-C'mon! This isn't about Nick! It's Arthur! D-Dammit…" Peering at himself in the mirror out of the corner of his eye, he ran a hand back through his hair in frustration, then glancing down at his clothes. His usual leather jacket, jeans and a white T-shirt. "You really sure this is alright? I feel like I should dress up more…" There was a snort, and blue eyes snapped down to meet annoyed red ones.
"What are you, a girl? If the guy didn't say it's a date you don't want to over-dress, idiot!" The German made a shooing motion with a flippant hand, once again grinning. "Geht dich! You're gonna be late! Don't wanna make him wait, right?" He reached up, then, snatching either side of the American's leather collar and dragging him down. "You might not get your kiss~!" The white-haired boy pursed his lips out, making kissy sounds as he pulled Alfred a few teasing inches closer. "Von Artur, ja? Du möchtest auf deinem Mund einen hot Kuss~?" Puffing in annoyance, the brunet quickly shoved him away, cheeks aglow as sapphire eyes narrowed behind his spectacles.
"S-Shut up, Gil! Stop it with the German!" He just huffed as the albino only guffawed obnoxiously, the older guy at last releasing his jacket and dropping back-first onto the bed. "I'm goin'!"
"Ja, ja! Viel Spaß~!"
He just shook his head, sticking his hands in the pockets of his jacket as Gilbert's loud laughter permeated the suite's hallway, all too thankful when he stepped into the elevator and couldn't hear it anymore. The American glanced up at the ceiling, smiling a hint nervously. Well… at least it meant that that dream had been just that. A dream. After all, Arthur wouldn't have wanted to see him again if he'd actually molested him. He really just had an overactive imagination, was all. Alfred's cheeks blossomed pink as he realized he was tugging absently at the red wristband tucked under his jacket's left cuff and he frowned. Releasing it, he stuck his hands in his pockets once more and glanced down, kicking the toe of a sneaker against the diamond-patterned steel beneath it. Gil had a point, he shouldn't expect anything—because it wasn't a date.
Right?
: : :
He wasn't nervous, really. His fingers were just a bit restless, playing against each other like that as he stood beside the usual tree bordering the large field. He shivered slightly in his coat. The weather really was getting colder, here. There was no reason to be nervous, though, it wasn't as though this were a date. The yank simply owed him for those scones, yesterday. Yes, that was all. Really, it wasn't so hard to fathom, was it? It's not as though he would suddenly owe the boy for anything, afterward. The Brit nodded to himself. No, of course not! This was merely a good time to bring up that… that thing that had occurred, on Halloween. His cheeks colored. Er. Yes. To be a good friend, no doubt. It wouldn't be right of him to keep it to himself. No. Not really. Not that he was curious as to why— Oh, certainly not! Never. What did he care what the yank did, really? He didn't. Not at all.
His inner ramblings were interrupted by a loud yell and he lifted his gaze to spy the idiot American waving from his spot atop the hill. He scowled as the boy slid down the bank, then striding over and folding his arms over his chest, grumpily.
"Well, at last! I've been waiting here for—" The plonker just laughed, rubbing a hand behind his head as he gazed sheepishly towards him.
"Yeah, sorry, something sorta came up, last minute… So!" Suddenly the brunet was all business, hands on his hips as he grinned towards the Brit confidently, blue eyes sparkling lightly behind their lenses. He forced himself not to pay too much attention to that, though.
"Where to? If we wanna get rid of my meal passes, Market Commons is probably our best bet, but—" The foreigner took a moment to reflect, fingers curling thoughtfully in the pockets of his coat as he refreshed the memory in his mind. Arthur hadn't really ever been—not rich enough for the uni's exorbitant meal plans—and so had only heard of the all-you-can-eat buffet-style dining hall. After another moment he nodded, shifting to his companion's side and past it, striding off towards the taller of the two campus landmarks and in the general direction of the decided-upon cafeteria.
"That's fine. Let's be off." He soundly forbade this lunch from being awkward. Really, it was all about determination. In relative silence they strode along, over a few concrete sidewalks and patches of grass, stairs and ramps and through doors, and more stairs, until they were settled at the front of the Commons. Alfred flashed his ID and motioned towards the Brit who managed a slightly-forced polite smile towards the black woman seated behind the register. She cast them a barely-interested glance before swiping the yank's ID a second time and sending them through.
The inside was huge, he realized, having never been there before. It was a basement area, entirely underground. He hadn't really thought of how much ground the floor above it (home to Campus Central as well as the largest student mailroom on campus, and the entryways, laundry and exercise room for residents of the three huge, hulking residence dorms that jutted into the sky in easily over twenty floors) sprawled over, until now. Right as they walked in there was a long grill with a wide array of fried foods along it—if he glanced to his left he spotted a circular one with in the middle, and yet another long grill against the wall on the side they'd come in on. If he strained, he could see pizza and pasta beneath the sneeze-guards, sitting on counters that separated the student population from the hard-working range monkeys. He didn't have too much time to assess the area, though—and the right side he'd not even had a chance to glance at!—before he was dragged away by a merry American tugging on his arm.
"Ha, you look like this is your first time! I'll admit it's pretty daunting at first, but it's really just a huge buffet!" Alfred grinned at him, glancing over his shoulder as he pulled him over to a small booth that was just big enough to house two people.
"You go get what you want, and bring it back here. I've already paid, so you can just pick whatever." The lad released him at last, shrugging off his jacket and plopping it onto one of the seats—claiming it. The younger chap hooked his thumbs into his jeans' front pockets as he waited, watching as Arthur carefully extricated himself from his own coat, folding it over his arm before placing it on the seat, as well. When he looked up, Alfred grinned, and one hand began to gesture a bit, excitedly.
"Over back there is the salad bar and the Mexican area where you can get quesadillas." He waved somewhere behind Arthur's head, and the Brit turned to look. Indeed, there was yet another counter tucked away opposite where they'd come in. Lord, was the word 'excessive' in the American English dictionary, at all?
"In the middle here is some Chinese—fried rice and noodles and stuff like that." Ah, so that was what that round grill he'd initially spotted was for. His friend waved a hand towards the counter near where they'd come in, then in a wider sweep as they began to walk. He followed after a hesitant moment.
"Pizza's over there—over here, the 'meal of the day', whatever that is, and burgers and chicken nuggets and French fries and the makings for waffles and breakfast stuff." Alfred took a breath, and by this point the Brit was beginning to gape, a little overwhelmed at the sheer gluttony of this place. No wonder so many yanks were so overweight! The brunet was pointing elsewhere, again.
"On the right side, over there, there's another grill that sometimes has peanut-butter-and-jelly sand—"
"Jam." Alfred stopped in his rant, blinking at him. The Brit pinkened a little and cast his gaze aside, a little embarrassed at the unthinking slip but unable to do much about it, now.
"Huh?"
"It's 'jam', you insufferable American twat, now what were you saying?" He snapped the response, growing more irritated by the moment as the loon just continued to stare at him before letting out a laugh and clapping him on the shoulder. He jumped, and jerked his eyes up to glare emerald fury towards the idiot, shoving off his hand with a silent snub as the guy sniggered and resumed his 'tour'.
"Haha, Brit-speak! So weird, man. Anyway—yeah, over there there's sandwiches, and then on the other counter there's the makings for grilled sandwiches, and some cakes and cookies and—"
"Biscuits." He muttered the correction without thinking, again, but this time Alfred appeared oblivious and merely continued on.
"—hot water for coffee—" He winced, thinking of the beverage. Really, why had the yanks gone for that horrid stuff, at all? Tea was so much better.
"—and around that corner there's a freezer with ice cream." The boy was almost leering at him, and he mustered a formidable frown that did nothing to lessen it—bollocks.
"There're beverage stands, dishes and utensils all over the place, and I'm sure you'll be able to find the spot where they're returned." Just in case, Alfred pointed past his nose and the Brit wrinkled it, sparing a droll glance towards the multi-story conveyer belt that worked in a continuous anti-clockwise loop, stacked and dirtied dishes disappearing past the corner and into—presumably—the washing room.
"Yes, yes, it's not that complicated, I'll find my way." He shooed the hovering yank away, but the bloke just laughed at him before hooking his arms behind his head and wandering off.
"Don't forget where the table is, Artie~!" He huffed, turning to scrutinize the huge buffet surrounding him. The Brit sighed, pinching his nose, before going off to find the least-fattening area of the large dining hall. There had to be something here that wasn't drenched in grease or sugar!
: : :
Arthur was seated with a moderately-sized salad, as well as a few rolls on a plate beside him. Fresh fruit or vegetables were expensive, after all, and if he could get them technically for free he wouldn't pass up the opportunity. Although hot water and a mug were easy enough to locate, he hadn't managed to find a tea bag and so instead settled sulkily for a plastic glass full of milk. He could have tea when he got home, he supposed. Across from him, there was a plate with a double-stacked burger stuffed to bursting with tomato, lettuce, and cheese. Beside it was a generous cluster of chips. He eyed them warily, slightly tempted by the familiar, slightly-salty odor they emitted. He'd spied them, before, but passed by without another glance, firmly not allowing himself to give into temptation. When they were so innocuously seated across from him, though, left unprotected and— Stealing a quick glance around, he reached out and nicked one from the side of the plate, nibbling at the end and smiling slightly when the steam from the sliced-and-cooked potato rose pleasantly into his mouth. He finished it with not a moment to spare, for soon he spied that damn yank making his way across the room with a big grin and another plate to match. The Brit creased his brows together, sparing a sideways glance to the untouched burger and chips across from him. What on earth would the boy have, now? Surely one large burger like that was enough for a good nosh?
"Hey, Artie! Heh, went for the rabbit food, eh?" He cast a glare towards the stupid div, reaching for his milk as he turned away with a sniff.
"At least it's better than—" The boy had plopped his second plate on the tabletop, sliding into the booth and blinking towards him curiously as he trailed off. The blond stared at his companion's second plate—this one stocked with two narrow slices of pizza, a few biscuits and a slice of chocolate cake-hiding a disapproving frown at all the carbohydrates and sugar behind the rim of his own glass. He took a sip as his calculating gaze observed the fizzy drink bubbling mildly on the other's side of the table, as well.
"Huh? What?" Americans were such calorie gluttons, he thought to himself, only shaking his head as he set his milk back on the table.
"No, nothing." There was a bit of silence as they both took to their respective meals, and he discreetly watched as the boy managed to barrel his way through the entirety of the profoundly unbalanced meal. He sniffed, suddenly rather proud of his—what had that blasted yank called it? Ah. Yes. 'Rabbit food'… Really, now. Why were so many people over here practically allergic to eating well? Honestly! As the silence went on, he found himself a tad nervous. Soon the lettuce he was poking his fork at was less abundant, and he glanced up, noting that the boy had foregone half of his chips but completely decimated the burger, and was well into his second biscuit by now, the chocolate cake sitting innocently amidst the small smudges of tomato and crumbs falling around it. Alfred's second glass of whatever soft drink he'd initially procured was half-gone, as well. Wrinkling his nose, Arthur again reached for his (still original glass of) milk, taking a small sip before placing it back and staring firmly at his nearly-gone salad, poking at it a bit more before giving up. He slid it aside, taking one of the rolls and breaking off a small piece. Setting the rest of the roll down on the plate beside it, he then reached for a conveniently-available packet of butter. With the knife in his right hand, he neatly scooped out a small dollop and smeared it over the slightly-dry insides. Really, this was American food at its worst!
"Well." Alfred looked up, blinking at him and he kept his eyes firmly on the piece of bread in his hand, taking a small bite before setting it down and folding his hands together in his lap, at last gathering his mettle as he pressed a serious gaze towards the other student.
"Huh?"
"I've something to talk to you about." He paused, nodding and losing a bit of his nerve, glancing off once more but keeping his hands folded neatly in place.
"About, er—about the other day." He tried a smile, but it felt a little flat as the yank only continued to stare at him, waiting for him to continue. Lifting his napkin from his lap, he pressed it over his mouth with a quiet mumble, eyes sliding away once more.
"Ah. At the party. You… erm." He knew his face was heating, god blast it all!
"You tried to—er. Snog me." He went on, hurriedly, not daring to glance up. "N-Not that I think any less of you! Of course, you were drunk and I completely understand but I couldn't simply refrain from informing you of it—because then, what sort of person would I be?—and certainly it's not that worrisome, not that I liked it mind you, but you really should be aware of how forward you are after you've gotten yourself sloshed and I—" A nervous titter from the other side of the table interrupted his babbling and Arthur blinked up, lips lighting in a thin, crookedly uncomfortable smile as wide azure stared at him out of a pale face. The American had slouched forward, one elbow resting on the table as he stared at his friend as though he'd just spat out the correct measurements for Big Ben in metric, with its tourist statistics and all.
"Uh. I—wait, I—I—what?" The Brit winced inwardly, but managed to steel his smile, keeping it frozen on his face.
"Ah. You." He gestured towards the American, politely refraining from actually pointing. "Attempted to lay a kiss—" Here the blond motioned back towards himself, again, cheeks heating quietly as he again averted his eyes off to the side. "On me. But, as I've mentioned, it really doesn't matter! I only thought you should be aware of it, it doesn't make me think any less of you except to perhaps avoid you in case you've been heavily drinking, but honestly—"
"Aha. Ha, ha! N-No way, man, I couldn't've…" He was interrupted again, and could only watch helplessly as the yank began to emit a few forced chortles, those too-wide sapphire eyes still devouring him in shock from behind their lenses. The lad shook his head, running a hand through his fringe as those eyes—thank heaven!—hastily snapped to the side, a healthy blush stealing up onto the younger man's face. "N-N-No way… I thought I'd just dreamed that—" Taken aback at that mutter, he blinked smartly, brows furrowing, angling down towards one another.
"Wot?" At that one word, Alfred seemed to register him again and the guy's head shot up, looking once more like a deer in headlights.
"U-Uh, no I—" His own gaze was likely widening as well, and the Brit lifted his napkin a bit higher, trying to cover at least one cheek's redness as he glanced away again, his mind working quickly. I-If Alfred was reacting like this, then it could only be… O-Oh. Then—then perhaps he hadn't been wrong?
"H-H-Hey, Artie, I'm really sorry. I, uh, I don't even really remember that night, other than—" Perhaps the boy really was—
"Y-Ya know? Just that you were wearin' that, um, that really awesome angel costume and—"
"Blow me." The Brit breathed it, voice yet shell-shocked, eyes still focused elsewhere and mind practically bowled-over with this new realization—one that sent the pits of his stomach into warm convulsions and flooded his chest with an old emotion. To be wanted 'that way' by someone was a truly rare occurrence for someone like him, to be sure, and he— He heard a strangled noise from across the table just after his stunned, half-murmured remark, though, and immediately lifted his gaze. Those blue eyes were almost comically wide and—wait. Arthur blinked at the expression on his friend's face, utterly flummoxed as to where it had come from.
"W-What did you just say?" Alfred croaked the inquiry in a hissed whisper after a moment of merely staring, his cheeks rosy and the whites of his eyes all-too-visible, so it seemed his pupils were mere pinpricks of black within the sclera. The Brit blinked, as well, flushing in seeming response to the other's question before he raised a hand, waving it about in the air as though to dismiss whatever had been said.
"N-Nothing." He shook his head, coughing neatly into a fisted hand to try to regain some composure. "Well. I. Er." He glanced up, forcing another smile to try to dispel the tension. "Really, now, is it that big of a deal? I mean, after all I'm sure we've all done some things we're not proud of when—" The end of an index finger was suddenly thrust in his face and he gaped, then glared around it, opening his mouth.
"Y-You tried to kiss me, too!" The poor chap's face continued to burn brightly, but it seemed he'd regained enough of his mental functions to say at least this, and Arthur's annoyed would-be tirade (on the other's lack of manners) turned into a gape as his cheeks flushed a brighter carmine than was likely healthy.
"W-Wot?" It was, perhaps, more of a squeak than the calmly dignified query he'd been aiming for, but there was no help for it. He cleared his throat, attempting proper speech, once more. "I-I can assure you, I never, I—"
"No, no!" Alfred leaned over the table, waving the hand of the elbow leaned against it impatiently in the air. The look in his eyes gone from scared to eager—goddamn bloody hell, what was he so eager about, all of the sudden?—and the blond reflexively leaned back, emerald widening further as he began to lift his hands from his lap. Just in case he'd need to shove the boy back into his own seat.
"No! You remember—oh, wait, no you don't—never mind—but, but!" Those cerulean eyes were locked on his own, a broad grin sneaking onto the corners of the lad's mouth, stretching it upward as he leaned forward earnestly on his forearm.
"That night! Y'know, with the vodka and stuff, right? On the bench, while we were waitin' for the cab to get back to your place! You tried to kiss me!" Thankfully, the chap had marginally lowered his tone for that last sentence, bright blue smiling into him. The poor Brit blushed only further, sneaking a glance to the side as he dropped his hands to twist the napkin lying over his lap. C-Certainly he didn't remember much from that night, but—but he'd really tried to—with Alfred, and—(the boy wasn't put off by that)?
"Oh, man, this is so cool! I can't believe I actually—and you—Ehe~!" The stupid kid laughed, and he sent a half-hearted glare towards the infuriating bloke. All of it was too much, too close, too embarrassing all at once! In annoyance, he stood, snatching his plates from the table and stalking off towards the conveyer belt, needing to sort through things for a moment. He heard a yell behind him, but focused on his thoughts, first. Right. Temporary solution. Perhaps the loo? Yes, he couldn't afford to make a scene here. Yes, that would work.
"Hey, Art, I—" He practically threw the dishes onto the lowest conveyer belt, whipping around and brushing roughly past Alfred, snarling a single word, fully Americanized so the blooming fool wouldn't misunderstand.
"Bathroom."
: : :
He couldn't be in here for long, he knew that, so he glanced at his watch as he entered before promptly steering himself towards a stall, stepping in and locking the door, and collapsing into a curiously-available chair, putting his head in his hands. …The handicapped stall, then. With a sink and kitchen roll dispenser of its own, as well as a chair. Lovely. He breathed against the warmth of his own palms, moisture rising to drift over his red face in the closed space.
Now then, old chap, let's sit and think this one through. He nodded to himself.
He—so. We've both almost snogged one another, correct? Another nod.
Yes, well. That hardly counts as dating, doesn't it? Oh, lord, what've I gotten myself into, this time. He groaned softly to himself, shaking his forehead against the supporting palms, heels pressing into his eye sockets.
Now, then. That bloke's certainly not against it, but… He paused, hesitating. The history of his failed attempts at romance washed over him and he lifted his head from his hands, staring blankly at the dirty floor of the W.C. he currently occupied. He was so tired of being hurt. So tired of pouring himself into people that only left him, in the end. Green eyes slid half-shut, growing hazed with memories.
Ooadira. Ivie. Aadi. Samir. Mumbi.
So many heartbreaks. Certainly, it was expected at his age to have gone through quite a few, but… it seemed to be his unfortunate tendency to believe they would all last.
Ooadira, that immigrant from Libya who'd been in London as long as she could recall. She'd been a year older than him and they'd passed a couple of sweet words, but neither divulged much. It'd been his first—albeit a mockery of—relationship, as he liked to recall. That was five years ago.
Ivie, from Nigeria. She'd lasted a good six months before he'd begun to cheat on her (emotionally, never physically!) with Aadi and had, guilt-ridden, broken it off not a few weeks into the affair. He still felt awful about it. The lass had been a year younger than him, and in his absent-mindedness he'd bloody broken up with her on her birthday. He made sure to never forget any important dates, after that.
Aadi, then. Oh, Aadi, originally from India. He wondered how the chap was getting on, now. His heart ached and he repressed the sniffle that wanted to burst out, burying his head in his hands once more. Aadi, who'd liked Arthur before they both even knew they'd liked boys. Aadi, who was the first of his doomed romantic partners that he'd started to be serious with and was actually close to his age. Did that make him a pedophile, that he tended to prefer those younger than him? He liked to think it was an issue of comfort. But, yes, Aadi… three years off-and-on, where they just simply clicked and yet— Aadi was in a relationship, and couldn't admit being gay to himself, much less his family, and… And he'd sacrificed so much, for that boy. Pining, and waiting, and knowing that he would never be closer to Aadi than the lad's girlfriend—oh, it'd been terrible. Not that he'd admitted that, back then. They'd parted ways, for a while, and two months later Aadi came back, begging and asking for forgiveness but not to try again. No, that time Arthur had made the mistake, had tried to acquiesce and regain some of what they'd lost, but—the hurt was too deep on his heart. He'd ended up too closed-off, too afraid of being hurt, to let Aadi in, again. No. And so they'd parted ways, once more, only to come back together for a few months before Arthur would leave him for another chance at Samir.
Samir. Samir, the Sudanese boy two years younger than him—a minor, seventeen when Arthur was nineteen—who he'd come upon while he and Aadi weren't speaking. Samir, who he'd dated for six months—always mindful of the age difference, always respectful—before the lad got bored of him and tossed him away like a used toy. Samir, who he'd mind-fucked himself into oblivion for, who he'd saved and scrimped for in order to send him only the best Christmas presents and a dozen roses on Valentine's Day two years in a row, as well as his birthday. Samir, who he'd spoiled so much as a poor uni student could. Samir, who he'd devotedly trailed after and supported with a smile even as he watched him go on and continue to have shallow fucks (never with him, though, he'd not allowed the lad to go there). Watched, and pined, and ached for that one day Samir would realize that there was someone standing beside him who wouldn't leave. A year later. A year, and the bloody bastard had seemed to fall for him, again. For two months. Two months, and then he was left high and dry, once more. Not even Aadi wanted him, then. Not even Aadi, who had long come to terms about his sexual orientation by then—partly due to Arthur, he felt with a small, tiny twinge of pride—but was wisely wary by now and not about to let Arthur hurt him, again.
Pass to a year after that, disregard that short scuffle of a relationship which lasted about a month with no one especially memorable, and then there was Mumbi, from Kenya. Mumbi. Who he'd dared to try harder with, who he'd bought flowers for on their first date and who had embraced him with the cry of "You're so sweet!" on that occasion, making his cheeks tint pink as he patted her back awkwardly with the one hand not holding the small (three-rose; pink, white and lavender) bouquet. Mumbi, who he'd actually taken to writing little poems for on notes that he'd give her on each of their dates. Their two, ill-fated dates—and the last poem the last time he'd managed to see her, and tried to patch things up on either side, attempting to kill any future awkwardness by facing it head-on while it was still stinging and fresh. Mumbi, who he'd managed to see that last time, and after that run to the bus stop so hard he wheezed and coughed and nearly couldn't breathe, although he'd never been and wasn't asthmatic. He'd caught the bus home—he'd been so afraid he would've missed it and the next one didn't come for another hour, thus the reason he had run out of there like the hounds of hell were on his heels—while trying not to cry to himself. Trying not to admit that his first tentative attempt in a fucking year was a complete failure that only made him hide under the brim of his hat in the late night—or early morning, at any rate it was after midnight—ride, from the other two passengers and the driver who seemed to be the only souls awake at that ungodly hour.
God, he was such a horrible person, wasn't he? He breathed into his palms, breaths sharp and ragged, but he tried to keep them quiet. God. Horrible. Cheating, and dumping, and turning around and practically begging for more chances with those he knew, because he was too afraid of trying it all with someone he didn't know. God, so bleeding weak just to be wanted for who he was. But it didn't matter, did it? Who he was was never good enough to keep anyone around, and eventually they all left him to pick up the pieces afterward. And if they didn't, he knew he would. He knew he'd leave them after a time, paranoid that he'd slip and wouldn't be able to control himself and damage those dearest people beyond any repair. Everyone was better-off if they just stayed away. So he yelled, and he cursed. And he manipulated them and acted like a general arse after every break-up. It never failed. They would be sorry at first, then grow angry at his behavior and leave him utterly alone. It was brilliant, really. They were angry, and so spared any sadness. It was the best way to go about these things. The only consolation he'd found, from any of his long, sad string of relationships, was that he'd managed to make Aadi realize—despite his upbringing and strict religion—that he was gay. It was his one saving grace, and never failed to make him feel a swell of pride in his broken heart. Even if he never met the boy again, at least he could be attributed to helping him admit the truth to himself. At least that—
And now, here. And Alfred. The infuriating, stupid boy who wouldn't leave him alone. Who was attracted to him. Who'd tried to kiss him, while drunk. Whose eyes were bright and clear and god, it was so wrong because the boy was at least three years younger than him and barely out of high school and still a freshman and curse it all, curse his weak, soft, selfish heart but he wanted to just give in and slump into those warm arms and eyes and caress that face and—
He shook his head, rubbing at his eyes. No! No. He'd learned his lesson long ago. He'd learned to appreciate what he had while he had it, because it would always leave. He'd learned, and tried to keep to the old axiom of "loving as though one has never been hurt", but—but, by now—he was perhaps too old, and seen too much in the four years he'd been dating? A loner in primary and secondary school, he hadn't started dating until he'd entered university—god, was it only four years? Four years of all that, and… and he was just tired. Arthur was just exhausted by it all. What was the point, again? He would watch the world, see it pass by—especially so in America—with all these shallow relationships and only shake his head. But what right did he have to judge? At least those mindless souls had someone to lie beside them at night. It might only last a few weeks, but that should count for something, shouldn't it? Shaking his head again, the Brit pushed himself to a stand, then strode over to the sink, running the water and leaning down to splash his face. He sighed, bracing his hands on either side of the sink blindly, and blowing a few loose droplets from his lips as his eyes creaked open, locking on himself in the mirror and blinking a few times to clear the water from his eyelashes.
He looked tired.
Giving a defiant, angry glare to the image there, he straightened, grabbing a towel and drying his face with quick, hard rubs. No, none of that self-pity. He didn't have the time, and this certainly wasn't the place. Besides, he wouldn't just break down. Grin and bear it, wasn't it, here? Keep a stiff upper lip?
Yes, that's right.
That's right.
It wouldn't get to him, as he refused to allow it more than a few passing, depressing thoughts. Best keep all that crap buried, down in the depths where it belonged. Yes. Right way to go about it, really. Nothing could be done, anyway. About-facing, he stomped over towards the door, unlocking it and glancing at himself in the mirror above the line of sinks. He lifted a hand to pat his hair down—a futile effort, anyway—and cocked a half-hearted smile at himself. Yes, well. Best he could do, right? Yes. He had homework to do, anyway. Should be off. As he stepped to the door, he checked his watch—ah, it'd only been about ten minutes. Good, then. He could formulate an excuse to Alfred and—
"Oof! Hey!" He blinked up, cheeks coloring as he recognized the bloke he'd just run into, glancing off to the side and continuing on as though he didn't particularly care.
"Watch where you're standing, you stupid pillock." He sniffed the insult snobbishly, making for the table with the taller chap right on his heels. Alfred slid into the seat across from him, but Arthur merely stretched to take his coat from its folded-up place against the wall on his own side of the booth, tugging it out and unfolding it neatly, keeping his eyes on the task at hand. "Well. I've work to do, so while this was a right-lovely luncheon—we really should do it again, sometime—" In hell, he silently added. "I'm afraid I shall have to take my leave." With that, he jerked the front flaps of his coat so they sat straight and began walking out.
"Hey!" He picked up the pace, managing to get past the registers at the entrance before the sodding prat managed to snag his elbow, forcibly halting his forward motion. The Brit glared fiercely over his shoulder towards the American, noting vaguely that the boy looked mildly surprised before it simmered down into anger.
"Unhand me, you—"
"What the hell, Arthur!" The blond stopped, surprised, before furrowing his intimidating brows together, once more.
"I beg your—" The yank whipped out a hand, gesturing angrily at the air as blue eyes narrowed down towards him.
"You suddenly got all PMS-y on me, dude. I thought you were having fun?" He straightened, glowering.
"Don't call me—" The stupid lad continued on, blathering needlessly and his patience was beginning to wear.
"Like hell I won't! What's your problem, eh? You got an issue with gays? With guys who aren't afraid of loving other guys? Huh? Is that what they tell you in Britain, that it's wrong?" The blond glared at him, beginning to take offense at the other's words and opening his mouth, indignant.
"I have no such—"
"Then what's the problem, huh?" Frustrated blue was right in his vision, then, and he frowned, leaning back and sending a cool response.
"I simply do not find you attractive. You are not my type. Kindly release my arm." He spat the last comment, spinning around and out of the other's loosened grasp to continue on his way up the stairs to the first level and the exit. He heard footsteps behind him but ignored them, instead intent on making a run for it so soon as they hit level ground. He would have, really, but a strong hand wrapped around his elbow once more and dragged him off to a dark corner, hidden between one of the walls and a vending machine. Before he knew it he was pressed up against that dingy corner, a hand palming the area next to one of his ears while a digit jutted into his face. He looked up, and the American's face could only be described as boiling in fury and aggravation. He opened his mouth.
"No! No, I don't want to hear another word, Arthur. It's all bullshit. 'You're not my type'? Gimme a break, that's the oldest line in the book." He leaned closer, and the Brit soundly kept his scowl on his face, not giving any ground by shrinking into the corner like a frightened mole.
"Well, I apologize, but that's the truth." He huffed, trying to push past the other's taller frame. "Now if you'll excuse—"
"Dammit, Arthur." The American had leaned down, hissing it into his ear and he shuddered, involuntarily, eyes going wide as they locked on nothing somewhere beyond Alfred's shoulder, the Brit's real attention quite obviously trained on the person currently pinning him to the wall. They were, mercifully, still out of sight of the bustling students only a few meters away. That mouth moved, lips brushing against his hastily-reddening audit with another whisper and he shivered again, eyes closing and head tipping back some to try to escape the feathery heat.
"I know you feel the same, you fucking liar. Why else wouldn't you have just left me there when I tried that, huh? Why would you let me almost kiss you if I didn't matter, yeah? Why would you have even bothered to take me back to my room if you didn't care?" He had gasped at the first of those lines, breaths growing quick with panic as his sight returned, madly shifting here and there, anywhere but on the American's face as one sure hand trailed deft fingers over his cheek, and down toward his chin—
"H-How can you—recollect what—" There was a gentle press of lips to his temple and he started, a hand coming up to try to swat the tosser's face away. There was no luck to be had, though, as it was caught in a hard grip—not particularly painful, but unyielding—and he scrunched his eyes shut as the lips again ghosted over his ear.
"I wasn't that drunk, Art. I've got more of a tolerance than you do, I still remember—" The boy ducked his head, breathed warmth against his neck with a hint of a laugh in his voice. "Hey, right? 'You're m' angel~?' Ha, ha…" There was the chortle, then, smooth and warm and he felt a tremble rake up his spine at the close contact. "You looked really good in that costume, y'know." The Brit stopped, swallowing, and closed his eyes, leaning back on the wall behind as he sorted his thoughts. A few moments passed, and the yank's grip on his hand relaxed. He let it fall, then opened his eyes quietly, tipping his head and training his sight on the vending machine beside them that blocked the pair from view in their dark corner.
"Alfred. I cannot date you." He stated it simply, allowing his gaze to fall shut once more as the boy pressed only closer, a warm palm against his cheek.
"Why? I know you feel the same way I do, you've gotta feel it too—"
"Why are you so sure of that? Shouldn't what I want play a part in this, too?" The lad fell quiet, at that, and for this he chanced a glance up, smiling slightly and raising a hand to pat the arm of the palm yet splayed against the wall beside him. He tipped his head, pulling that lop-sided, unnatural-feeling smile a hint tighter. "If I don't want to date you, I shouldn't have to." He lidded his eyes, then, casting them away, voice echoing out deadly soft and precise. "Or would you rather force me to hate you, hm?"
The boy flinched from him as though burned, and when he peered back he saw a stricken expression that he absolutely concurred did not go straight to his heart. Fixing his clothes with a few prim movements, the Brit stepped around the motionless brunet, offering a final remark.
"I shouldn't think so. Good lad. Well. Cheers." To that, he stuck his hands in the pockets of his coat and headed for the nearest exit. As he stepped out into the cold November air, shivering slightly and starting for his apartment, he couldn't help but think what a welcome change it would be not to have that insufferable nitwit mucking up his mailroom shift, any longer.
Really, that was all. Perhaps he'd finally have some peace, after soundly rejecting the other boy and making it perfectly clear where he stood. Because, really. It would've all ended badly, wouldn't it? Yes. Best spare the lad that agony, the utter agony of having to deal with his own odd little quirks, stunted communication skills and misguided attempts at gaining affection. Emerald eyes closed, for a moment. Yes. Really. It was the best decision he'd ever made, and he was proud he'd managed to be so selfless, for once. Not selfish, at all. Alfred would be free to go off and search for someone else to fill the craving in his heart, untainted by Arthur.
Yes, this was for the best.
Now. Now, if only those shuddering, painfully familiar tingles would stop running up his arms and into his chest, settling there and throbbing with each heartbeat, he could completely forget about all this. After all, it was impossible to have your heart broken if nothing had even happened, yes? Yes. Utterly daft to even contemplate it being a possibility.
He told the small part of his mind that dubiously prodded at his rationalizations to look into putting into practice ways of properly belting up!
: : :
"Ah, Avery, I cannot believe that uncouth rosbif rejected you so! Here, let us have a toast to love, to l'amour, that you may one day find someone worthy of—"
"My name's Alfred, Francis, not Avery." He muttered, head still buried in his crossed arms as he lied on his stomach on his bed, the pillow stuffed under his chin. The Frenchman merely patted his clothed bicep, comfortingly.
"Now, now, the best you can hope for is to find another, non? Perhaps someone who is not so insensitive as that silly Englishman~?" Here he jerked his head up, pulling away from the too-close cooing face of his RA with a frown.
"…Not helping, dude." The elegant man merely waved a hand, settling back in his seat with a calculating look, rubbing the small stubble on his chin. The American raised an eyebrow towards him.
"So, you ever gonna tell me how you got that bruise on your 'precious face'?" The blond winced, putting a delicate hand to the discolored spot on his cheek as he looked away with a dramatic sigh.
"Hmmm. Some things are best left unsaid, mon ami." There was a loud echo of obnoxious laughter at the door to the suite, then, and they both lifted their heads as Gilbert entered, gesturing to someone as he walked into the room backwards.
"And this is my room! Pretty awesome, right? Although—"
"Ah, Gisil." Alfred blinked. Was it him or had Francis' tone gone frosty? He chanced a glance out of the corner of his eye towards the man, and did indeed behold a rather sharp smile. The albino froze, turning around only to glare at the blond, his hands curling into fists at his sides. The German tried a grin, but it came off with more teeth than were strictly necessary.
"Fran. What're you doing here?" There was what seemed to be a little bob of dirty-blond behind what was Gil's outstretched—protective?—arm, and the American caught a glimpse of a pair of rounded glasses and a bouncy flyaway curl before he tipped his gaze back to his RA to see his response, brows raising a bit.
"It is my job to be sure the residents of this floor are content, non? I am merely serving my duties as RA, after that rosbif so rudely spurned this young man's advances." Alfred noted that the Frenchman's eyes flicked over Gil's shoulder towards the person there, and that his expression immediately softened. "Mattheu, excuser mon comportement irréfléchi. S'il vous plaît permettez-moi d'expliquer—"
"S'il vous plaît ne rien dire de plus, Francis. Vous—" It was a soft voice that glided effortlessly over the syllables and accents. It didn't quite lack Francis' confidence, but held it in a subtler tone, more subdued and stronger, almost. Something in the back of his mind told him it was familiar, but Alfred instead sat up a little, trying to get a better view of the stranger, who would have been well-hidden behind Gil's back—but for the fact he had stepped forward. Violet-blue eyes watched the Frenchman sadly from behind their lenses for a moment before another comment escaped, nearly a whisper in the still air. "Vous avez déjà dit assez." It was only then that he noticed Gil had put a soft hand to the boy's shoulder, red eyes glaring soundly at the RA as Francis stood, gliding over and taking the boy's hand, lifting it whilst leaning down to place a kiss upon the back of it.
"Mon petit chou, je suis désolé—" The wavy-haired brunet carefully pulled his hand out of the other man's hold before his lips could touch, smiling quietly towards him in a slightly tired way that nonetheless indicated he would let it go no further.
"S'il vous plaît ne faites pas cela. Je ne veux pas en entendre davantage. D'ailleurs, en ce moment nous sommes très impoli—" Caught up in the unexpected drama, Alfred nonetheless noted when the guy's eyes flicked to him at that last sentence, and grinned reflexively at the attention, jumping off the bed to land in front of him.
"Heya! I'm Alfred! Pretty cool French you've got goin', there." He saw the guy tense, wide eyes watching him but only smiled warmly in response, firmly grabbing his hand to shake. "Didn't understand a word of it, but Gil does that to me with German, too, so!" He spared a glare to his room mate and the white-haired guy snorted, putting his hands behind his head and striding over to flop back on his own bed.
"Hey, not my fault you're not awesome and didn't take German in high school. If you had you'd understand me!" To that he just shook his head, releasing the new guy's hand and hearing a shy murmur in response.
"It's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Matthew." He grinned again, gesturing towards the chair vacated by Francis after he made his surprisingly un-dramatic exit and leaping to settle cross-legged atop his mattress.
"Mattie, huh? Cool! Take a seat, man." To that, though, he blinked and deflated a little, recalling how Francis had found him, before. He glanced away, and if Gil noticed he didn't say anything. There was a little concerned sound from the French-speaking guy, though, and the American lifted his head to try a bright smile. Mattie just frowned at him, eying him a moment more before shifting a bit to seat himself beside him on the bed. One foot tucked itself under the guy's thigh, the other dangling off the edge. The wavy-haired boy gave him a reassuring smile once he was situated, voice calm and soothing.
"Francis mentioned something about you being spurned…?"
"What?" They both jumped, gazing wide-eyed towards Gil who had snapped up to a sitting position. Those red eyes were narrowed in annoyance. "That guy rejected you? No way! He was all over you last time, and at the party— Hey." That annoyed face dove into a baffled one, and a finger rose, indicating the both of them with a few side-to-side sways. The German's white brows descended, expression confused. "You—You both look… really alike. Like brothers, almost. Twins. You sure you're not related or something?" Mattie broke the silence with a bit of soft laughter, smiling pleasantly towards Gil before dropping his gaze to his lap, tugging lightly at the bottom of his red sweatshirt with a little high flush on his cheeks.
"Ah, no, Gilly, I only have an older sister." Something pulled at his mind, but Alfred beamed a moment later, laughing boisterously to cover up his moment of disquiet.
"Haha, yeah, Gil—and I'm an only child! Besides, we don't have the same last names, duh!" As though to reward him for that, Mattie chuckled softly and Alfred grinned towards him, nudging the guy with an elbow. For some reason he felt really comfortable around him—maybe because he was so quiet and unassuming? "Am I right, m' man? Although you seem like you'd make a pretty awesome brother." There was that little unidentified twinge, again, and his smile grew a little forced even as Mattie gazed back at him fondly. Apparently the relaxing vibe was mutual.
"Mm, perhaps. But what were you saying, earlier?" He sobered up at that, and looked down at his hands with a frown.
"Ah, just get on with it, Al. Tell us your 'dramatic tale of misery and woe'." He glared in Gil's general direction at the sarcastic comment, but didn't bother to lift his head, and just sighed after a moment, glancing off.
"Well… this—guy, that I've known for a little while. Um, he's really weird, but sorta cool, ya know?" He glanced up, seeking confirmation. The other man perched on his bed was watching him calmly with a patient smile. Glancing back down, he proceeded to relay the gist of the disastrous 'date', trying not to leave out any important points. After a few moments he glanced up again, and saw Mattie tapping his chin with his fingers, gaze averted and distant. Then he glanced towards him with a small smile.
"It… sounds to me as though he doesn't know what to do. Like he's been through a lot, eh? Like he… doesn't know how to trust people." He noted that Mattie cast a quiet glance towards Gil, and the American blinked.
"Oh?" The French-speaking student nodded, slowly curling the leg that'd hung over the edge to his chest, arms hooking around it as his tone grew thoughtful.
"It seems like… he probably knows what you're talking about, but doesn't want you to try. Because he's afraid you might succeed, yeah?" He blinked, again, frowning in thought.
"I… guess that makes sense…" Not really, but it did. Sort of. And Arthur was weird, anyway.
"I suppose it just depends on whether or not you want to prove to him that you mean it. But, you know, I don't know this person personally, so I'm not sure if—"
"No! No, you're totally right, Mattie!" He'd probably startled the guy when he'd jumped to his feet on the mattress, the poor bed frame creaking and groaning beneath him as he raised a fist in the air, but that didn't matter. "I can't give up, you're right!"
"W-Well I didn't say that, b-but—" The Canadian glanced towards his friend across the room, rather helplessly.
"You're wasting your time, he's off in that hero-fantasy-world of his again." The white-haired German's tone was flat, and he closed his eyes in utter disinterest. "But thanks for cheering him up, Mat. He's really annoying when he's depressed." To that, the timid boy smiled once more and slipped nimbly off of Alfred's bed to pad over to Gilbert's. When he got close enough, he raised a hand, hesitating in mid-air for a moment before tentatively ruffling those spiky white bangs. When he withdrew his hand ruby eyes bore piercingly up on him and the shy boy blushed, averting his gaze with a gentle mumble.
"I was… only returning the favor." Teeth glinted in a predatory grin, and the Canadian let out a faint squawk as he was pulled unceremoniously onto the bed and into a tight embrace with a set of boorish cackles resounding in his ears.
"Heh, heh, you're such a great person! Fitting for someone incredible like me!" Flushed only more at his sudden position sprawled ungracefully over the other, the boy just turned his cheek, that odd little curl springing out into the air as he hid a bashful smile against the other's chest.
"Of-Of course, yeah?"
"Oh, no! Alfred, what has that horrible man done to you?" The trilling cry of despair beat out all previous thoughts and even called the loudmouth brunet back from his proclamations, making the three of them blink towards the open door to the suite. Not a moment later a tall figure rushed in, seizing the American from atop his bed and plunging him into an unyielding embrace. The poor boy coughed, kicking his legs and trying to wriggle free to breathe.
"H-H-Hey, Nick!" He managed to rasp, lungs constricted as they were. Tearful amethyst eyes landed on him and he was squeezed, if possible, harder. Damn, but this guy had muscle!
"Alfred! How could you not tell me of this? I thought I was your friend!" The Russian wailed at him, swinging him around and cradling him close, the scarf he always seemed to wear fanning out in a circle behind him, twisting in the air. "Oh, Alfred! It is so cruel! He cannot get away with breaking your heart like this, da?" The blue-eyed American blinked, then stared up at the taller man, taken aback and momentarily forgetting his inability to properly breathe, due to the (now even) firm(er) hold he was currently encased in.
"Y-You? How do you—"
"Francis told me, kind man that he is! Now, Alfred—" Nikolai set him back on his feet and released him. He wobbled for a moment at the sudden lack of pressure, and the man set a steadying hand on each of his shoulders, gazing seriously down at him. "We must plan our next move." He blinked up at the guy, to that, raising a brow.
"…'We'? Hey, Nick, I appreciate your concern, but—" The taller guy beamed at him, fingers tightening on his shoulders a hint.
"Oh! You are right, Alfred. Perhaps we should go on a date, first? I hear the Japanese Garden on the outskirts of town is lovely this time of year. The leaves are changing so prettily, da?" He stared at him for a moment before laughing, and lifting his arms to knock the others' off.
"Huh, what? When'd I say I'd go on a date with you, Nick?" That creepily guileless smile surfaced once more, those glowing purple eyes slipping to happy crescents as the massive Russian tipped his head cutely to one side.
"Why, when you told me you had a date with your male friend, of course! Did it not go well? Did he not, as Francis so put it, 'break your heart'? You have no reason to see him again, da?" There was a little ache in the center of his chest at that, but he pushed past it with another grin, pointing a thumb at himself.
"Me? Heart-broken? Nah, you've gotta be kidding! A hero never gives up in the face of diversity!" There was a roll of red eyes ceiling-ward, one pale hand absently petting through the soft, curly locks of the boy yet propped atop him.
"That's adversity, wise-ass." An immediate snap of a retort followed.
"Shut up, Gil! Go make-out with your boyfriend somewhere else, I've got a grumpy Englishman to romance~!" A quiet squeak, and some half-hearted wriggling to try and escape from a quite comfortable resting spot ensued from that comment.
"W-We're not making-out… !" Two other occupants of the room found themselves staring as the usually-harsh German wrapped his arm more around the boy's back and pressed a tender kiss to the embarrassed man's temple, an unruffled reply murmured in a soothing and surprisingly sweet tone.
"Keine Angst vor ihm haben, mein Liebchen. Er is einen Dummkopf."
"Hey! I may not understand German, but I heard 'dumb'! Whatsa matter, Gil, can't say it to my face?" Apparently a bit of sentimentality didn't soften the guy's typically sharp tongue when it was needed, though.
"You face, ha. That's something I could do without seeing for a while!" Alfred puffed up, yelling.
"Argh! You're such a bad room mate!" At a dainty tug to his shirt, the white-haired boy returned his attention to the endearing person atop him, though.
"Mon poulet, s'il vous plaît ne pas se moquer de lui… ?" Somehow, the meek tone made everyone listen—despite the fact it was assured that at least two of the listeners didn't speak French (one never knew about those Russians, after all).
"You sound so sexy when you speak French, Mat. Does my German turn you on, too?" There was a pregnant pause, before that diffidently charming voice continued, the kid hiding his delicate blush against his boyfriend's shirt.
"Bi-Bien sûr que non—! N-Ne dis pas ces choses embarrassantes—"
"Meine Fresse! Du bist definitiv den heißesten Bursche auf der ganzen Erde!" There was another squeak, some suspicious rustling of cloth, then a very thick, (intentionally) muted silence.
"…So, Nick. Think we should leave about now?"
"A lovely idea, lapochka. We can plan our date~!"
"Oi, don't you start! And I told you I didn't agree to no date! Hey!"
: : :
He really should have expected it. No, he honestly should have. It was a little after one, about a week after his luncheon with Alfred-and there was the idiotic boy, himself, grinning at him and leaning over the counter as he attempted to get his reading done. It was after a few minutes of staring that he finally looked up through his reading glasses towards the teen, irritated.
"What, praytell, do you want?" The boy just grinned wider, motioning for him to go.
"Just my mail, as usual, Artie! Is that so much to ask? Man, the service around here really sucks…" He whistled as the Brit threw down his stapled-together reading material, stomping off for the brat's dratted mailbox. Five-fourteen. He shook his head, dragging the mail out of its box and frowning as he found a package slip in there. Cursing under his breath, he stalked back to the yank, pointing at the screen.
"Sign here. You have a package in." To his great annoyance the boy ignored his command, only beaming up at him.
"Hey, Art, I've been thinkin'… before I do that, I gotta tell you something." He scowled towards the divvy plonker, hissing a little and slapping a palm on the counter, leaning over it a bit and pointing up at the taller student.
"I don't care for anything you've to say. I've already told you you're not my type. Just sign the stupid screen and leave me in peace!" He ended up shouting that last bit a hint louder than he'd initially intended, but the other seemed to care less, just waving a hand as though to dismiss Arthur's opinions. His blood boiled. Had the lad no sense of common decency?
"Well, tough, 'cause I'm goin' to tell ya anyway." He smiled, and Arthur clenched his hand around the packing slip, wrinkling it a little. He turned, the mail clerk snarling over his shoulder as he approached the door to the back room.
"Just sign the stupid thing!"
A few minutes later he was tapping his fingers impatiently atop the damned package, still waiting for the boy to sign the electronic box buzzing in front of him. Alfred refused, though, and his expression darkened further before the Brit moodily shot his gaze to the side, an unhappy blush willing its way across his face.
"Oh, fine. Just say it, you tosser." He snapped at last, finally acknowledging that the damned boy wouldn't sign it—and thus, wouldn't leave—without saying whatever rubbish he had to say, first. Damn that he couldn't just walk away, due to his shift. Damn that he was essentially trapped here. Damn that—
"So what're you doin' for Thanksgiving, Art? Goin' home?" He blinked after a moment, then frowned, crossing his arms over his chest and looking haughtily away.
"You Americans! Not everyone in the world celebrates that holiday, you know!" He heard a gasp of surprise and peered back out of the corner of his eye to see that the American's expression had fallen to one of utter shock.
"W-What? How can you not celebrate Thanksgiving! It's the second-biggest holiday of the—"
"Think, for a moment, just exactly what Thanksgiving celebrates, you blooming moron!" He tapped his fingers over the bend in his elbow impatiently, watching as the boy's face turned thoughtful.
"Well… it's about family, and getting-together, and eating a lot of food… Oh, and in elementary school we learned about the Indians and the Puritans celebrating surviving living in the New World for—" He went silent, then, blinking and smiling sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. Arthur smirked.
"There, you see?"
"Oh, yeah, then I guess it makes sense you don't celebrate Thanksgiving in England…" He sniffed, nodding and pointing once more towards the screen.
"Yes, well, just because we don't celebrate it doesn't mean I won't let the autumn holiday go to waste, you know!" Alfred blinked at him again, but thankfully reached for the stylus and began to scrawl his name, looking at it as he spoke.
"Huh, yeah? You're going home, then?" His face reddened and he barked a defensive response.
"O-Of course not, you twit! Hopping over the pond isn't so cheap that we can waste the money for a bloody five days off! I—" He snapped his mouth shut, eyes widening as the yank's surprised gaze locked with his, and he hastily turned away, leaving the idiot's package on the counter and quickly kneeling to rifle through his backpack. There wasn't anything he needed in there, just a distraction.
"Art… are you—"
"I'm perfectly fine, thank you, it's just my family can't afford to waste funds on—" Oh, bollocks, he'd let it slip again! He bit his lip, pulling out a random notebook and striding back over to the desk, frowning to cover his discomfort and bringing an angry gaze to the staring brunet's concerned face.
"Arthur—"
"Well! You've got your mail and signed for it, now kindly get out of my sight!" With a huff he sat down, pushing his spectacles up on his nose and narrowing his eyes towards the notebook in his hands, opening it to a random page and beginning to read. He heard a sigh, and promptly ignored the lad as he leaned over the counter, dropping his voice a notch or two.
"I… know what you said, but I'm not going to give up on you." Then, bold as you please, there was a brief sensation of soft warmth on his cheek and he snapped his gaze up.
"What are you—!" The yank pulled back, smiling at him—only it was a little different, a wee bit more tentative than his usual loud grins—before taking his box and tucking it under an arm, turning and raising his free hand to wave behind him.
"See ya, Art." He was left to ponder over the slight flush to his cheeks and how his fingers drew up to touch the spot Alfred's lips had rested upon not moments before. He regained himself a moment later, though, dropping his hand quickly and glaring fiercely at the neatly-scribbled notes before him with a muttered curse.
Stupid yank. He didn't listen to a word I said!
: : :
The next two weeks passed by rather quietly, and the poppy he'd worn on Remembrance Day during the second week of the month slowly deteriorated. The weather was turning a bit too cold, so he'd had to forgo his weekly Saturday football sessions—but Alfred stopped by every Friday at the mailroom, as usual, and he'd try to initiate a conversation that Arthur would rudely brush off. Still, the American rambled on and on about this and that—sometimes thoughtlessly about his upcoming 'vacation', but more often than not it related to complaints about his schoolwork and how everything was suddenly being unloaded right before their autumn break. To that, the Brit had merely rolled his eyes and interjected with something sarcastic and cutting.
Of course, he could feel the brunt of it, as well. The semester was slowly winding down, what with their winter holiday beginning at the end of the second full week of December. His professors were trying to squeeze in anything last-minute that they'd forgotten to cover in the short amount of time. He even had a paper due the Monday after the autumn holiday ('Thanksgiving break', to the blasted Americans)—but he'd most certainly get it done as, unlike the other students, he was staying near the campus for it. But the late start on their winter holiday left only a few days before Christmas, which was rather inconvenient to say the least! He wouldn't be heading home this time, either. It really did cost too much to fly back to Britain from here he currently was—he hadn't been home for Christmas since his first freshman year. Back then, the uni had kicked everyone out of the dorms as soon as the holiday 'officially' started, so his family had had to dip into its savings in order to get him home. It'd been… nice, he supposed, to see his brothers Ken and Ron and his dear sister Adie. They'd been doing well—or, as well as could be hoped—but he hadn't had the chance to see them, since. That very summer he'd managed to sublet an apartment near the campus and snagged a job nearby to pay for the rent and other utilities. He set aside as much as he could, though. But for his siblings…
The situation was rather depressing for all of them, yet they understood that Arthur had been very lucky to land an admission to such a prestigious college in America and certainly made no less of a nuisance of themselves by posting various irritating comments on his Wall. They argued back and forth, trying to pretend that they were only separated by a few thin walls instead of an entire sea. Adie tried to call when she could, but her work schedule and the time difference made it hard. He'd belled her back that time he'd missed her call while playing football with Alfred, being sure to check with her ahead of time with a few messages to her on Facebook. They'd chatted about a few things, and he might've mentioned the American, but she just laughed and poked fun at him for being so shy. Shy about what? Goodness, he'd forgotten that she could be just as obnoxious as their brothers, although she tended to be a shade kinder about some things.
So time passed, and ran by, and it came to the Monday that marked the end of the month. He'd managed to buy his siblings their Christmas presents early (thanks to much scrimping and saving, for many months), and was indeed wrapping one of Ken's at the moment when his mobile rang.
"But if you must lie and deceit. And trample people under your feet—(don't you know it is wrong!)—to cheat the trying man—(don't you know it is wrong!)—to cheat a tryin' man. You betta stop. It is the wrong 'em boyo!" [1]
He cast a glance towards it, frowning softly as he recognized the specialized tone and thought of the time. It was sometime after ten here, and that meant three in the morning in London! He finished applying a rectangle of tape to the present before him before moving to pick up his mobile and put it to his ear.
"Hey! The wrong 'em boyo—" [1]
"Ken? What do you—" He heard quite a bit of noise in the background, something that sounded like yelling before a breathless voice came over the line.
"Hey, Art? You there? It's Ron, he's—" His heart stopped in his chest, green eyes widening as his hearing slowly muted itself, like his brother's words came to him through a roll of cotton. "—accident—driving home—critical—" Arthur scolded himself and forced himself to listen to Ken's ramblings, once more. "Oh god, I know I've never been the best brother to you but Adie's talking to the nurses and Ron's—Ron's—"
"I-It's all right, Ken. Thank you for ringing me." Was that his voice? It couldn't be his voice, so calm, so blank. His mind was running in circles, and he placed a hand on the table before him, leaning heavily against it. "I-It… will he be all right?"
"Haha, Ard, of course—-it's Ron, he'll be fine!" That laughter was too nervous, despite the old childhood nickname, and he imagined his red-haired sibling running a hand back through his wild frizz. "I-I mean, the NHS, right? Better 'n those stupid yanks where you are! Heheheh…" Arthur sighed, taking a slow breath, voice quiet.
"R-Right. Thanks, Ken. Could I speak to Adie for a moment?" There was a bit of shuffling.
"S-Sure, here—" Her slightly-harried voice came on, next.
"Arthur?"
"Hello, Adie." He closed his eyes, imagining her face and wishing he was right there beside them. She was strong, and he was proud of that, but in such times of distress it was always comforting to have family around. Just as, at the moment, he— "How do things look?" He heard a sigh, reflected as buzz over the speaker.
"He's… he's in bad shape, Arthur. They took him in a while ago, but we won't know anything until he gets out of critical care…" He nodded, tone falling to a mere whisper.
"I see… it's that bad? What happened?" She snorted, and his lips twitched in an aborted smile.
"Some blooming idiot ran a light, crashed into the car while Ron was driving home. He's… got lots of injuries. Won't be able to work for a while…" He held his breath, inhaling quickly.
"Are—Are you going to be all right?" She laughed, and he felt himself relax a little.
"Y-Yeah! We've got enough saved away to tide us over and help with your next semester—that bill's coming soon, isn't it?" He almost smiled again, although it wasn't quite as fond as the last one. He hated being such a burden on them, but his job here wasn't exactly enough to pay for tuition. He was lucky he even attended uni, at all, being the only one out of his siblings to. His mailroom job paid for other things such as rent, electricity, gas, food… although Ren helped with that, too, as they shared the costs. Still, it was hard. Thank god for national healthcare, though. If such a thing were to happen here—
"We've got it covered on our end, Art. You just worry about getting your degree, right? It's just… you're our brother, you know, we couldn't leave you out—" He laughed a little, opening his eyes again and ignoring the burning sensation in the corners of them.
"H-Heh, yes, well—thank you for thinking of me…" He heard more yelling in the background, and then the shuffling of some papers. His sister sounded annoyed when she spoke again.
"Look, I'm sorry, but these blasted nurses are—"
"No, no, it's fine. Off you go, then. Er, you… Take care." Her voice softened, then, and it warmed his heart a little.
"Art, don't worry about us. Everything will be fine. You just focus on your studies. T-Take care." And the line went dead.
He stared at it in his hand, for a while. Then there was a light tap on his shoulder and he jumped, eyes snapping behind him to—oh, Ren. He tried a smile, but the concerned look on his flat mate's face only deepened, dark brown eyes narrowing slightly.
"…Arthur-san? Is everything all right?" To this he almost laughed, and tried a light smile.
"Y-Yes of course. Nothing to worry about. Excuse me, I must finish wrapping these—" And he turned around, set his mobile aside and went back to folding the paper around Ken's present, biting the inside of his cheek and glaring firmly down at the package. He would not cry. Everything would be fine. Breaking down would achieve nothing at all. But one selfish thought persisted.
I really don't need this on top of everything else.
: : :
[1] – Wrong 'em Boyo (by The Clash)
Oops, angst. I'm sorry? x.o;; …Erm, yes. Scene poll's still up, people! Check my profile!
Also have a few new little Hetalia fics up (mostly US/UK/US). Reviews would be… just lovely. :3 -Fox