p a i n t i n g
o f
a
h e r o—
x.
as you get older, it is harder to have heroes…
but it is sort of necessary.— ernest hemingway
x.
In this tormented city composed of twisted individuals with tainted minds, being an artist made it all the more grey.
Strewn across his apartment were torn apart canvases, all the paint greyscale or sepia toned coffee paintings. Stray cups and brushes were littered across the wooden floorboards, stains of paint smearing it and flooding it with dreary colours that reflected both the troubled city and his stained heart. Nothing he created seemed to be worthwhile anymore. Whenever he picked up a brush or a pen, he felt just as hopeless as he did without. He had lost his inspiration, and he felt lost himself.
Spindly fingers tapped against a table without rhythm as crackling music played in the remote little café. Rain cascaded heavily upon the thin glass windows and the man isolated near the back of the café sighed, the sound desolate but almost inaudible. He recalled once having adored the rain, donning little wellington boots and a canary yellow coat and chasing his faeries through forest past, discovering secret places hidden by vines and rose bushes and rabbits scurrying around amidst the shrubbery.
He vaguely remembered the faceless images of his imaginary friends that had long since vanished along with his innocence, their happy smiles that greeted his tears whenever other children picked on him. The silhouettes of ghosts visible only to him remained only in his memories of days when he had not been so jaded and on a few paintings that were hidden beneath his bed along with sketches of friends and lovers long gone.
The bells chimed as the door to the café opened, the sound slicing through his thoughts and interrupting his reverie. His eyes flickered up to linger on a man with a hunched figure and his hands stuck in his deep pockets with loose stitching, gazing wordlessly as the man approached the till. He glanced around for a moment before leaning forwards, scrambling over the side frantically, and the spectator belatedly realised what he was doing.
"I think you should put that money back," the artist said lowly, rising from his chair but remaining where he stood so as not to be threatening. The boy whirled around, eyes widening in horror as he saw him and he sputtered, reeling back and colliding with the wall. "Don't panic," the man murmured soothingly but imperiously. He had vast experience in the department of thievery, but he wasn't entirely sure how to handle it. This kid seemed so edgy and frightened and he never knew what to do about anxious people. When he'd been stealing and fighting, he'd never been a ball of nerves; he hardly let himself think, always numb from something so that he wouldn't back out. "Just put it back. I won't call the police, all right?"
The boy stared at him, chest heaving from shock as he frowned in bewilderment. He watched him for a moment before sidling over to the desk and shakily depositing the money on it. He licked his lips and backed away again, looking ready to make a run for it, and gasped when the man approached. He flinched, ready for god knows what, but blinked his eyes open when his hand was lifted and money was pressed into it.
"I don't have a lot," the blond man muttered, frowning at the ground, "but just use this for whatever you need." There was silence for a prolonged moment and he finally looked up to glare at the petrified looking boy. Growling, he snapped, "Get out of here!"
The boy inhaled sharply and staggered back before dashing out of the café, disappearing immediately into the torrents of rain that drowned the city.
He sighed, running a hand through his messy hair as he gazed out into the downpour and tried not to muse over what that kid's story was. He didn't want to imagine him living on the streets or being involved with gangs or some troublesome shit like that. He seemed so frightened, not to mention amateurish at crime. At least when he had been involved with questionable people, he'd not been as susceptible to fear. Or at least, he was able to repress it. When you have no one, you've got to be your own saviour. Sometimes, he couldn't help but think that all the good guys were fucking annoys as martyrs because they all got themselves killed one way or another.
The only difference between martyrdom and suicide is a press coverage indeed.
"Why'd you let him go?"
He twisted on his heel to stare in disbelief at the new arrival, surprised that he hadn't heard him approach. Had he been that distracted? He needed to keep his guard up… "He didn't take anything," he muttered, brushing past the man to return to his table, pulling on his beige Burberry coat and stuffing his empty wallet into the back pocket of his thin corduroy trousers. He was prepared to depart from the isolated café but his arm was caught by the obstinate man, and he turned to scowl into the blue eyes that weren't at all reminiscent of the grey skies in this place.
"He would've if you weren't here," he said, looking more pleasantly surprised than accusatory.
Still defensive and suspicious but less guarded than before, he shrugged the man off. "Well, I was here," he replied, and then walked away, leaving behind a cold cup of tea and a half eaten scone.
As soon as he stepped out into the rain, the droplets encased him in a lasting tempest that left him soaked and frozen. He shuddered and folded his arms tightly across his chest, although that did nothing to conserve warmth. Perhaps he should have remained at the café for as long as possible since his apartment was hardly comfortable. There was a constant draft and the windows were weak. He'd already had them fixed twice and he didn't fancy paying money he didn't have to get them done again if a storm destroyed them.
"Don't you have an umbrella?"
He looked up to find a transparent umbrella being held over his head, the droplets of rain falling from it, and then he frowned into the blue eyes of the annoying man from moments prior. "Oh, I do," he replied dryly, "I just fancy getting wet."
The other man rolled his eyes at the sarcastic remark but wisely chose not to respond. "What's your name then, stranger?" he asked with a lopsided grin. "Mine's Alfred."
"Mine," the artist replied, "is none of your bleeding business."
The idiot—Alfred—blinked in surprise before scratching his neck sheepishly. "Well, gee," he said, "it'd be pretty damn awkward if I didn't know my sidekick's name, y'know?"
He was sent a vacant stare in response. "Is that meant to be a pick up line?" he muttered dubiously, looking very unimpressed. "Sorry, I'm not looking for a relationship."
Alfred gaped at him, eyes widening as he stared at him in astonishment. His cheeks pinked and he looked about ready to spontaneously combust. It was rather… cute. In an irritating way. After a moment, he regained his composure and gazed back at Arthur with a crooked smirk and half-lidded eyes. "So," he murmured, leaning closer beneath the umbrella, "you wanna be my Lois Lane, huh?"
For that remark, Alfred F. Jones received a black eye and Arthur Kirkland's number.
x.
Thunder echoed ominously in the sky and lightning illuminated the place, stretching the shadows and forming silhouettes of monsters, the strong wind sounding as if voices of ghosts were being carried with it. A pale figure hunched in the bushes held his scraped knees to his chest and he gritted his teeth, eyes clenched shut as tears escaped, masked by the seemingly everlasting rain.
He would never have friends. He'd always be alone, and he should never have doubted it. When he had actually thought someone cared for him, cared enough to want to be with him… they let him down. They threw away the gift he'd given, a painting he'd worked on for weeks, and they might as well have trampled all over his hopeless little heart.
"You honestly think I'd want to be friends with a freak like you?" the boy had muttered with a bitter smile and demons in his eyes from his own past Arthur knew nothing of.
"… Yes," he whispered into the darkness as he glared at the sky, "I did…"
The phone's shrill ring echoed in the nearly empty apartment, the sound resounding from the bare walls splattered with paint, and green eyes fluttered open. A sigh escaped his lips as he lifted himself from the floor, coughing against his palm, and picked up the phone.
"Arthur Kirkland," he answered tiredly, rubbing his eyes and repressing another cough.
"Hey, Artie!" the obnoxious voice of one Alfred Jones greeted happily. He resisted the urge to groan, collapsing back against the floor and staring up at the blurry ceiling.
"My name is Arthur, you incompetent twat," he mumbled, voice lacking the malice it usually held. "What do you want? It's too early to deal with you."
"It's twelve in the afternoon, Arthur," Alfred replied, sounding amused and incredulous. "You usually get up at six in the morning. What's up?"
"It is…?" Arthur lifted his arm, grimacing as he realised he must have just passed out on the floor last night after returning from a night of drowning his sorrows in alcohol and painting. "Fuck," he muttered, massaging his temples and shutting his eyes again.
"Hey, don't worry about it," Alfred said smoothly, voice oddly soothing now that it had dropped a few octaves. His exuberance faded into a more serious mood, sounding slightly concerned. "You don't sound so hot."
"I'm fine."
"You always say that."
"It's true."
"You always say that too," Alfred mumbled, "but you always look tired."
"I know you get sleepless nights too," Arthur muttered accusingly. "Don't think I don't notice when you turn up to the café with bags under your eyes. I don't say anything because you just get pissed off when I nag you, but I see it. And until you're willing to stop lying to me, I'll tell you I'm fine." He knew he was being stubborn, but both of them were. It was a flaw that made them clash and a trait that brought them together.
"Jesus Christ, Arthur," Alfred hissed with a sigh. "Why d'you have to make everything so much more complicated than it needs to be?"
"You go on about us being friends," Arthur said, "and then you brush everything off and think a cup off coffee and a fake smile will make me forget how fucking hopeless you look."
"For fuck sake!" Alfred exclaimed, sounding angry now, voice rising in volume but lowering in pitch. He always sounded so threatening and demanding whenever he did that. God, Arthur wished he wouldn't use that voice when they were being serious. "First of all, have you ever considered that I might not wanna worry you? You always seem pretty sick of life too!"
Arthur paused, surprised by Alfred's oddly observant words, and his lips parted but no sound escaped. He gripped the phone tighter.
"Secondly, I have never faked a smile around you," he muttered lowly, baritone voice rumbling in the static of the phones. Arthur scarcely heard the cars in the background noise, now focused on the erratic breaths that escaped his friend's mouth as he ranted. "Even if I'm tired, I always like t' see you. Why d'you think I go outta my way to meet up with you so often if I was only pretending to enjoy myself? Fuck, Arthur," he shouted, "Have you ever considered that I might actually care about you?"
He gasped at the sound of a bell infiltrating his preoccupied mind, lifting himself off of the floor and turning to stare at the door with a grey X marked on it. He exhaled slowly and stood up, a bit shaky on his legs, and drifted over to the door in a blind trance. Briefly, he toyed with the concept of this being an entirely too realistic and masochistic dream, and then the lock clicked and the door opened and he was met with a steely blue glare.
Alfred snapped his phone closed and pitched forward, enveloping the shell shocked Arthur into a tight embrace, cradling his head and entangling his fingers in his messy hair. "And you call me oblivious," Alfred said, voice muffled in Arthur's hair. "I really do care about you, Arthur."
The phone slipped from Arthur's grasp and clattered to the floor, but he didn't spare it a second thought as he slowly, tentatively wrapped his arms around Alfred and hid his own face in the American's shoulder.
I care about you too… Alfred.
x.
"Why is it," Arthur murmured, looking up at the sky from the swing he was seated on, already dripping wet as rain fell and danced across the ground, "that we always meet when it rains?"
"I dunno," Alfred confessed with a nonchalant shrug, eyes drifting from the tempestuous sky to Arthur's form, and his features softened into a fond smile. "I guess we're just helping each other make it through the storms, huh?"
Arthur turned to look at Alfred when he said that, cheeks flushing a delicate shade of pink when he noticed the gentle gaze settled on him. He hummed, averting his eyes to stare at his knees, wet hair falling to hide his red face. "I'll always stay with you during a storm," he mumbled, gripping the chains of the swing tightly, eyes widening when he felt something brush his cheek, turning in his astonishment only for his and Alfred's lips to meet.
It was chaste but somehow lingering, lasting a few seconds, but they were barely touching. Alfred sighed into the kiss and then smiled, pressing their foreheads together. "And I'll definitely lift us out of it," he promised, gazing into the eyes that reminded him of warm spring days and blossoming flowers, his own fluttering shut as Arthur leaned towards him and kissed him again.
Somehow, the world didn't seem so grey anymore.
x.
His toes curled into the newspapers and his fingertips dug into the sun-kissed skin of his lover's back as he took him in, back arching as he felt warm hands drift over his ribcage and hover teasingly over where he wished to be touched the most. Gasps and groans and grunts and moans escaped his abused lips as he bucked his hips and hissed Alfred's name, demanding and ordering, faster, harder, that way, kiss me, Alfred—!
He spilled over the newspaper beneath them, words marred by ribbons of white and droplets of sweat, and he leaned up, snaking his arms around Alfred's neck to kiss him deeply. Their lips clashed and he nipped at his beau's teasingly before Alfred grew weary of the tantalising sensations, choosing instead to engage Arthur's tongue in a heated dance as the paper beneath them cracked and their breaths fell in sync.
"You know," Alfred breathed against Arthur's neck when they finally collapsed, "it's kinda amazing making love surrounded by your paintings." He pressed a kiss against a prominent love bite, delighting in the sound Arthur made. "Maybe you should paint one of us."
"And you call me oblivious," Arthur teased with a small smirk, fondness shining clearly in his eyes. "I drew you the day we first met," he admitted, intertwining their fingers and shutting his eyes. "I drew us the day you smiled at me so familiarly."
Alfred smiled against his neck and pulled him into a loose embrace. "And whenever I smile at you," he said, "it's from the heart."
x. I know this is rather short for the idea of it, but it's supposed to be snippets from different times in their relationship. The first is their meeting, the second is when their friendship is deepened, and the third is when they become a couple. :) The fourth… well, it's rather obvious, I should hope. This is for the USUK community's summer camp thing, and the theme for the first day is
I might consider delving deeper into this plot and developing it more, but we'll see. I didn't expand much on Arthur's questionable past, nor did I explain why they were at the shop at the offset, so I might one day write about that… I will think about it.
I hope you enjoyed this odd fic. c: Thank you for reading.