A/N: S-SO UH. Hi. It's been a while. I had planned on this being out much sooner but hey. Life happens. I don't have much to say, other than sorry for taking so long, but I'm really pleased that so many people have responded positively to this! I hope the rest of the story appeases, as well. Things between Alfred and Arthur will definitely pick up pretty soon. I don't think it's going to be a very long story, in and of itself, but I can't say for sure.

Chapter 02: Of Chocolate (and) Ice Cream

"Come again?"

Arthur stared wide-eyed at the young man before him. Had he just said what he thought he said?

"Alfred F. Jones," he repeated. This time he kept his voice down just a little bit, his eyes flitting out here-and-there.

Surely that was the feeling of his heart stopping, right? Well, maybe not—he was still alive, after all, but something was definitely happening to him. Arthur's thoughts ran miles upon miles per minute. This wasn't happening. He refused to believe that before him, having asked for his help, sat one of the most popular young men in all of North America. The most sought-after actor for almost the last two years.

"You … you mean…?"

"Uh, I do? …I think."

"Alfred F. Jones? As in the actor?"

"The same!" He gave another shiny smile, combing his fingers through his hair after fixing his glasses. "Alfred F. Jones, America's most eligible bachelor, hottest star in the entertainment world, and current cover of this month's Rolling Stone!" he announced happily. Arthur did have to admit: The boy certainly did seem to believe everything that spilt out of his own mouth. Arthur thought back a few days; he'd certainly seen Alfred on the cover of things, but he'd made no connection of them to the young man before him. Despite the benefits it would bring to his job to make those connections, it was a trait that he simply … did not seem to possess.

It was of little consequence, that moment: Arthur's brain was working out a plan and thus far, he was enjoying the prospects of his concoction.

Arthur wasn't an idiot, and it was true that he wasn't terribly familiar with writing celebrity-based articles, but he was being presented an opportunity to take a few more steps up the ladder and damn it all if he wasn't going to take it. He would just have to play the game carefully. Judging from what he knew of Alfred (although not much), he was likely to get wary if he suspected that Arthur was using him. That was really putting a negative spin on it, but Arthur couldn't allow himself to be too wrapped up in the smaller, petty details. He had to be slow in his approach, to not scare Alfred away too soon.

"That's nice," he finally said.

Alfred, apparently, had not been expecting a nonchalant answer. "All that build-up and then just a, 'That's nice?'"

Arthur grabbed his tea, looking over the glass's rim as he drank, giving a small shrug. "It's really of no great concern to me."

"Huh." Alfred quickly drank down the rest of his coke, then looked sadly at the empty cup. "Well, that's a first—except from the chocolate seller down the street. But I think the only person he liked was his sister." He paused, grinning. "Usually everyone fawns over me when they find out who I am."

Arthur allowed himself a smirk. "My deepest apologies if I do not immediately fawnover you."

"No biggy."

The two fell into a silence. It was neither comfortable nor awkward. It was simply … there. Arthur found himself studying the boy's small quirks—how he moved his hands, any small noise or hum he made, and how he wore his light coat open and just a little higher on the left than on the right.

"Your dress is sloppy and unfit for the public eye."

"What? Three minutes of silence and that's how you break the ice? That's mean!"

Arthur waved the waitress over, requesting more tea (Alfred of course asked for more coke). After she walked off to grab their drinks, Arthur leaned back into his seat, still sitting straight. "Let's discuss this payment you mentioned earlier."

"I mentioned wha'?" He was hunched over his fresh coke, straw in his mouth, and already half-way finished with it.

Arthur felt his lips pull back. There had been few Americans he'd had the honor of meeting who actually practiced patience. Alfred was not one of them. "Yes. When you threwmy coatover yourself, hiding in the corner you said that you would not only pay for my meal, but also pay me 'a few hundred bucks.'" He paused, enjoying the shocked look on Alfred's face. Clearly the young boy had not remembered. The look dissipated, though, when their food arrived. A pizza before Alfred, and spaghetti before Arthur; Alfred dug in, Arthur let his cool. (He'd learned that the first time he'd ever stepped foot in Romano's, Lovino preferred that the food be served as if it was still in the oven—or in Arthur's case, boiling water.) "Now," he began again. Alfred looked up, pizza and cheese dangling from his lips as if the hot cheese wasn't, in fact, melting the roof of his mouth. Arthur grimaced and the most forefront thought of his mind was composed mostly of half-formed words and sounds of wonder. The least pronounced thought was buried somewhere at the very bottom and he was unable to properly place it, but that was of very little consequence. "I generally assume that 'few' fits with 'three' so I am expecting 300 US dollars."

"Free-undreh?"

"No, three hundred. Listen to me, and don't speak with your mouth full!"

Alfred pouted, chewing his pizza as he grabbed another slice.

"As I was saying. Three hundred dollars is a lot of money and is worth far more than a few moments of charity. I do expect people to see through on their word, but I'm not about to get up and simply take your money after having done next to nothing. That stated, for the duration of your stay I shall escort you around the immediate area." And get you to spill details you've told no one else.

It was dirty trickery and Arthur knew it. A slight tinge of guilt poked at his conscious but he pushed it away. He could put a more positive spin on the action's motivation and indeed he had! He was actually performing some Samaritan good in helping the newcomer and besides that: It was sinful to have so much money. For Alfred to give away such a large sum of money without giving it a second thought proved it. Arthur would just help … make his wallet a little more modest. Besides, would it really hurt Alfred in any way? He was a movie star, after all—what was 300 dollars?

"That's cool. Not that I think I'll get too lost."

Arthur grinned, finally drawing on some pasta. "You might think that, but I promise. One wrong turn and you'll find yourself in something of a maze."

Arthur's assumption, it turned out, was correct. Alfred really didn'tthink much of money. He'd followed through on his word, paying for Arthur's meal (as well as a good portion of those he'd been given for free), and he even left the waitress a rather decent tip. (Tips were things that had taken some getting used to when he arrived in America.)

Now it was that Arthur was hurriedly getting ready to show Alfred around the small downtown area. He'd insisted that he rush back to his flat to freshen up so Alfred had followed and was sitting in the small parlor area, probably eating the pizza he'd failed to finish at the restaurant. How he managed to eat more than even 3 slices was beyond Arthur, but he simply settled with the idea that Americans had particularly large stomachs.

Arthur quickly threw on a new shirt and a more comfortable pair of trousers after washing his face and brushing his teeth, then walked out while carefully messing his hair in what he hoped would come across as natural, yet still attractive. (Not to make others think he tried to seduce anyone who looked at him. Such was far from the case. He just preferred to appear appealing, even if no interaction was to be had. …Yes, that was it.)

"Alfred, are you ready—Alfred?"

Walking into the parlor, he was a little shocked to not find Alfred sitting on his sofa, as he'd instructed. "I'm in the kitchen," he called.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "I explicitly recall instructing you to sit in the parlor," he began, wandering into the kitchen. He stopped next to the open fridge door. "What I do notexplicitly recall—" He leaned against the wall and shut the door with a quick, easy swipe of his arm. "Is giving you the allowance to wander about my flat, or to make yourself at home enough to scavenge through my icebox." He shot Alfred a lazy glare down the length of his nose. At least Alfred had the decency to look … a little bit ashamed. (Keyword being, 'little.')

"I was hungry…?" he tried.

"You can finish the rest of your pizza."

"I already did…."

"What? An entire pizza, gone?"

Alfred nodded, the shame quickly leaving him as he looked around the kitchen counter. His eyes found the plate of scones that Arthur had prepared earlier that day to cool before going to see his boss. Something shone in Alfred's eyes when he looked to Arthur and Arthur found something within him seizing up. What it was he didn't know, but the look Alfred shot him was so sorrowful, sad, and … absolutely pathetic. Arthur hadn't realized that he'd stopped breathing until he found himself giving in.

"You may have a scone," he answered slowly with a nod. The morose expression in Alfred's eyes vanished, replaced with a smile, and he happily slid over to the plate. He didn't seem to notice the charred edges and this made Arthur himself smile. Not many people liked his cooking—he couldn't, for the life of him, figure out why—so when someone voluntarily ate his food, excitement overcame him. "They're chocolate scones; the recipe was my grandmother's—I can give it to you, if you'd like it for yourself." His eyes were fixed on the floor, too shy to look up; too nervous to find out how else he'd react to someone enjoying his food!

"These are—geez! What do you use as ingredients?"

Unable to see, Arthur flushed with excitement. "W-well, they're scones! As I said, they're chocolate. I used a particular kind of chocolate for this recipe, however—"

"I can't even taste the chocolate!"

Well, that was odd. He could have sworn he'd put in more chocolate than the recipe called for. (Chocolate was good for you, after all.) Alfred should have been more than able to taste the chocolate. He shot his head up, eyes questioning. "That can't be right. Are you sure your tongue isn't covered in pizza grease?"

Alfred looked to have a pained expression on his face, yet the plate the scones sat on was held firmly before him. "It'd be impossible!" he exclaimed, putting another one in his mouth. "Deezh ah nafty, Ahfuh!" He finally managed to swallow. "What did you do to them? I have had scones before and these are not scones!"

"What…?"

"Deezh ah a krum againft uma'i'ee!"

"I notice that despite your apparent protestations, you're still shoving them haphazardly into the gaping hole you deem fit to call a mouth! I told you earlier to not speak with your mouth full!"

Once again Alfred swallowed what he had in his mouth, this time adding on to the dramatics and gasping for breath. Pah. Actors. "I'm hungry!" he insisted. "Of course I'll eat them! But they're just bad. Dude, don't tell me you cook for yourself."

Arthur closed his eyes, counting to ten. He had made a deal. He couldn't just step back from it. "As a matter of fact, I do."

Apparently his answer had been astounding to Alfred. Blue eyes widened, almost horrifically. "What? No way! You're still alive?"

"I would appreciate it if you would stop insulting me and my less-than-amazing culinary skills!" Arthur stamped his foot, fists clenched at either side of his body. His eyes shot a rather mean glance to the other man and he tore the plate away and set it down next to the sink with a particular clank. "If you eat them, it will be without complaint."

Alfred settled a small pout on his face and crossed his arms. "Well fine! I didn't want anymore, anyway!"

Arthur rolled his eyes, covering the remaining baked goods with cellophane. Was this entire little episode really worth three hundred dollars? "If you're going to act like a child while in my company, I will not step out of that door with you and help you."

Alfred shrugged. He shrugged. "That's fine. It can't be that hard to figure out, right?"

"You didn't deny acting like a child!"

It appeared that Arthur's words went unheard as Alfred's eyes found something else of intrigue in Arthur's kitchen. He had to wonder, because there was nothing of extreme fascination anywhere in his flat. (To himself, anyway. The only things of true, unadulterated interest were when his fae friends decided to drop by.)

"What is that?" Alfred asked, shifting easily past Arthur. Arthur followed his movements until Alfred stopped in front of his electric tea kettle. "This is so cool lookin'! All sleek, and shiny!"

Arthur grinned. He knew he wasn't the most fashionable of the people he knew, but he didn't necessarily doubt his aesthetic prowess. Not that he'd actually paid too much attention to style when choosing his kettle; apparently he'd just gotten lucky. "It's my tea kettle."

Still Alfred looked, but his excitement dwindled down. Was that a bad thing…? (Or maybe it was a good thing.) "Oh," he said. "Lame. You actually like tea?"

"Yes, I'm sure you'll be thrilledto know, I do—oh!" He could practically feel his vocal chords morphing so they could escape danger if he were to yell. "We're going! Come on!" He grabbed Alfred's sleeve, dragging him away.

This was going to be a long afternoon.

The tour of the downtown area hadn't been, despite the setting, a walk in the park.

Arthur made sure that they didn't wander too far from the park area. Despite having passed through earlier, Alfred could now pay proper attention to the surroundings. After affixing a baseball cap on his head, the young man told Arthur about going to the chocolatier and his journey thereafter. He insisted that the downtown area wasn't difficult at all to navigate. Arthur insisted otherwise, that Alfred had directions and really: The restaurant was, in reality, only several shops down the street. His words weren't heard very well, as he went on about the Zwinglis (the chocolatier and his sister) and their supposed connections. Arthur thought the information interesting, but Alfred had found something else that interested him. The fountain. Unfortunately, due to cooler weather, the water had been shut off and it seemed to upset Alfred enough to put a genuinely sad look in his eyes.

Something tugged at Arthur's heart strings.

Ice cream it became. ("But that's probably closed, toooo!" "It's not closed for another week, now come on!")

After a decent three minutes, Arthur finally succeeded in convincing Alfred that the ice cream parlor was still open, and marched him along. It would be counted among Arthur's blessings (which to him was a rather small list) that Alfred's attention was caught enough by the theater along the way, helping Arthur propel him forward. After promising to take him to a movie (Not that this would happen. Ever.), he was, by then, forcefully pushing him along.

"What kinda ice cream are you getting?" Alfred asked excitedly. They stood at the outside window, looking up at their choices. "I'm gonna get four scoops of rocky road!"

"Just a frozen drink."

This appeared to offend Alfred. "What? No! You're getting ice cream at an ice cream shop!"

"I will purchase whatever I bloody well like, and if it's a frozen drink, so be it!"

"You have a long list of humanitarian crimes, don't you? First you can't cook a simple biscuit thingy—"

"They are scones, thank you verymuch!"

"And you won't get ice cream at a ice cream parlor? Despicable."

"'An'! 'An' ice cream parlor!"

"You are not ordering for yourself. Step aside, British man!"

Arthur was only a little confused by this, unable to stop Alfred's hands from gripping either of Arthur's arms, lifting him five inches from the ground, and setting him a step away from the ordering window. He had rather strong hands, he'd noticed. Arthur wasn't necessarily light; he was certainly lean but he wasn't a feather. Arthur felt his heart skip a beat, but he wrote it off as his pasta having had too much garlic in the sauce. Meanwhile, Alfred babbled on to the cashier, sunglasses suddenly replacing the glasses he'd been wearing (Where had those come from?), about how awesome he wanted his four-scoop rocky road ice cream cone to look, and that 'the British dude' wanted two scoops of chocolate, minus the awesome. Finally he returned to himself and he simply glared, arms crossed, at the young actor as he paid and took their ice cream cones.

"Here ya go!" he said happily.

He stared, still glaring, at the ice cream being offered to him. "And if I said I didn't like chocolate ice cream?" he asked, not bothering to look away.

"Then you'd be lying, because I know you mentioned how you used chocolate in that charcoal you baked."

"It wasn't charcoal!" Arthur snapped. He shot his hand out to take the ice cream and he stomped off. Where to he was unsure of, but Alfred followed happily along as he ate his treat, the sunglasses put away and his regular spectacles in place. They went on in relative silence, and Arthur began thinking about his article. There wasn't much he'd yet deciphered, beyond the fact that Alfred was nothing but the embodiment of a hyped up nine-year old child on muscle-building steroids. He liked 'cool', 'awesome' things, had the stomach of a giant, and was easily amused. It was nothing phenomenal. His hopes began to crumble with that little bit of realization, then came crashing down with the realization that if he were to write some giant article about him, he needed to watch his movies, of which he'd seen a grand total of zero. Suddenly, the entirety of his company with Alfred was deemed a waste. Not that he'd had marvelous plans for the day. He probably would have ended up researching the ice festival. He took a small, awkward bite of his ice cream and rolled his eyes as he felt his phone vibrate, then begin ringing his work tone. He handed his ice cream to Alfred without thought, grabbing and opening his phone.

"Arthur Kirkland," he answered.

"Arthur, it's me," said an amused voice. His boss. "Not this Friday or the next, but the Friday after that. Are you free?"

"Three weeks from now? Sir, I have nothing to do most of the time."

"Wonderful! I need you to do a small, little piece on the football game at the high school!"

"Football? Sir, it's autumn! Football is—"

"Grazieee!"

"No, Sir, please, don't hang up—!"

Arthur heard only the dial tone. He wondered if maybe he could get away with murdering his boss one day on the grounds of being driven to insanity. He could do that in America, right? He was really more or less unsure of the little details on that particular kind of case, but he was sure there was a loophole somewhere. If his boss kept this sporadic kind of scheduling up, he really would lose his mind.

He snapped his phone shut and went to grab his ice cream back from Alfred with a scowl. The scowl didn't seem to last long, though. There was a look in Alfred's eyes that Arthur never saw much in anyone else's.

It would be the third time that day to see Alfred saddened, but this was a look of true, deep, incomprehensible sorrow.

"Alfred, what's wrong?" he asked tentatively. The poor lad looked as though he'd just lost his entire family. Just a blink of his eyes later, he realized that he hadn't needed to ask and that his concern dwindled exponentially. Alfred's scoops of ice cream had fallen, splattered to the ground with the Reese's and marshmallows almost horrifically symbolizing something of its bloody, chocolatey massacre. He looked back up, seeing his own still intact. Arthur realized that his shoving his ice cream into Alfred had probably startled the other enough to topple his frozen treat over. A shocking wave of guilt swept through him, and Arthur winced. Arthur didn't necessarily feel guilt if something happened; he was really more of the, 'Well it must have been that way for a reason,' but that kind of logic just wasn't coming through for this incident. What reason could there have been for the murder of Alfred's ice cream?

"You can finish mine, if you'd like," he offered. "I have ice cream at home, after all."

Alfred fixed Arthur with shimmering eyes. "You—you mean it?"

"Of course I mean it! I wouldn't have offered if I didn't! (Really, who would do such a thing?)"

It seemed that the other man's birthday had come early, as he guiltlessly began eating away at Arthur's ice cream. Arthur expected to feel a little taken aback by Alfred's actions, but he wasn't. He was just glad to see that look off of Alfred's face. A person as young-at-heart—and possibly as naïve—as Alfred didn't deserve that kind of sadness. (Besides, Alfred would have enough to deal with that would bring him sorrow as a celebrity.)

"So is there anything else you planned on showing me?"

The two resumed their walk and Arthur looked about him. A dry cleaner, the library—that was a big no-no—the Town Hall, the local middle school…. "There's a rather small war memorial of the area's fallen soldiers."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes—what on Earth! Are you four years old?"

Alfred had ice cream all over his mouth and there was no way Arthur could ignore it.

"Nah, I'm nineteen!"

"I refuse to believe that…." Arthur reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a handkerchief. "No one above the age of at least 12 makes such a mess of their ice cream." Without thought, he went to dab up the ice cream and he did it in Quite a Proficient Manner. He supposed that to most people it might seem like an English thing, to be mannerly and efficient with cleaning up in such a manner. To Arthur … it was just the proper thing to do.

Of course, the true gravity of what he was doing didn't strike him until he'd folded the dirtied part of the cloth away. He eyes shot to Alfred, and Alfred stared back, blinking, with a bit of pink coloring his ears. Quickly, Arthur turned away.

"W-well? Did you want to see the memorial or not!"

"Yeah! Oh, wait, hold on…."

"What is it?"

Alfred fixed the cone to his left hand while his right grabbed for something in his jeans' pocket. His phone. Surprisingly, to Arthur, anyway, it didn't look to be one of those high-tech, fancy touch-screen iPhones, or Smart Phones, or whatever-they-were-phones. It did slide, though.

"'Lo? …Hahaha, nah, I'm still in the downtown area—I GOT ICE CREAM! It's so good, man!" he exclaimed excitedly. Arthur bit down a grin. It was sweet that someone could really still be so spirited over something like ice cream. "Yeah," Alfred continued. "Yeah, I can do that. Oh, I dunno about that. …Uh-huh."

For the next few moments, Alfred's end of the conversation was a long line of, 'Uh-huh's. Answers to questions Arthur wished he could be asking, or at least knew what they were. This concern was overrun by the fact that Alfred's tone had lost its excited touch, and he took on a more worried sound.

"Oh…. Ugh, okay, yeah…. Sorry. …The chocolate shop. Main Street. Kay. Bye."

Alfred pouted, hanging up his phone, shoving it to the deepest depths of his pocket, and taking a large bite of the ice cream. Arthur almost wanted to mention what happened when people ate cold things too fast, but he was sure Alfred would be reminded on his own soon enough.

"What happened?" he asked.

Alfred shrugged. "Nothin' huge, but we gotta turn around," he said, doing just that. Arthur followed in turn, jogging a step or two to catch up. "It's nothing. Just … I got caught being separated from Kiku so now I'm in trouble."

"Trouble? For walking around?"

"Well…. I wasn't supposed to be gone this long, let alone separate myself from Kiku."

Arthur nodded. "I see."

"Don't worry though." Alfred took another bite of ice cream. Maybe he was foolish enough to not suffer brain freeze like the rest of the human race. "I won't let you get in trouble."

"I wasn't afraid of getting in trouble." The idea had truly not crossed his mind. "I've done nothing wrong; in fact, I feel I should be getting a bonus for my selfless charity."

"You're pushin' the buttons."

"I should hardly think so!" Then he remembered his entire point to said charity, and the reason was not at all selfless. Quickly he tried changing the subject. "So where are you headed?" he prompted. It was a better time than never just to pry a little bit.

"Just some local hotel. I gotta meet Kiku at the chocolate shop."

"For how long are you at the hotel?"

"I dunno, actually! Good question! Why?"

Arthur startled. He couldn't answer with, So I can use you to boost me to the top, could he? "Er … well…! What if I enjoyed our time together and wanted to mock about with you some more?" Somewhere—everywhere—on his face felt a little warmer. Shyly, he looked at Alfred, but Alfred didn't … seem quite as enthused as he'd expected. He wondered for a moment; Alfred seemed the type to get excited over such a simple prospect, but he didn't … seem to be reacting the right way. Arthur's wondering soon came to an end.

"Uh … 'mocking about'…?" he asked. "What's 'mocking about'?" Alfred stopped in front of the chocolatier's shop. Zwingli, Arthur noticed, seemed to recognize Alfred through the glass windows of the shop, as Alfred stood there, still focused on getting an answer to his question.

Oh yeah. Americans couldn't speak proper English. "Erm, you know. Going out and having fun with your friends. Hanging … out?"

Arthur could almost see the light bulb flash on in Alfred's head, and his eyes lit up. "Oh, hang out! Yeah, that's awesome! Don't worry, I know I'll be here for at least a few days. If it's okay, I'll see you tomorrow!" Alfred's attention was stolen away by the rather nice-looking Lincoln that pulled up next to the shop.

"I'm free after eleven."

"Cool! Meet me by the fountain, then!"

Arthur's breath hitched and he nodded. "Of course. Farewell," he said, as Alfred opened a door to the vehicle and got in. Alfred shot him his widest grin yet, waving and saying a quick, "See ya!" before shutting the door and driving off.

The car drove off and without thinking, Arthur walked his way back to his flat. The day had been a small whirlwind between work and Alfred F. Jones, and thinking of how he could tie the two together.

The rest of his day had compared rather boringly as he ate his (poorly made) supper and whenever thoughts of Alfred popped into his mind—in a way more personal than for work—he did his best to shove them away. Of course, he hadbeen the one to suggest that they 'hang out', but that was purely for work-related reasons! He fell asleep trying to assert that in his head, thinking of ways to get answers out of Alfred, and what he could use as article-fodder.

The next morning, the newspaper sitting on the rack in the lobby had a rather explicit idea for him waiting on the front page, in big, bold letters. One that he had not thought of. One that he knew he wanted to be no part of.

Alfred F. Jones Meets Someone Mysterious, Local, and … British?

-END CH. 02-

I've been meaning to take pictures of the DTP area so it's not as complicated to follow…. But I promise. For as easy as DTP looks to navigate, you can get very lost, very easily. (Just a cute side-fact: DTP has a street called Fleet Street. It's pretty out-of-the-way, but there's a barber shop on that street. H-hehehheheh.) Anywho. Yeah.

Also, just a really random fact, I've learned that in Texas, ice cream shops don't. Close for the winter. Not that this is a bad thing! It's just … they close in Michigan. It is a very sad time. :( (BUT SPRING IS ON ITS WAY SO HOPEFULLY IT WILL OPEN SOON.)

Thank you all very much for reading, and please look forward to the next chapter! I'll try to have it for you soon. I've got a couple things to work on writing for help_japan and for the usxuk lj community's fanworkathon! I can't wait! (Oh, there are not enough days in the month….)