27 Dresses
Laura Briggs
Arthur Kirkland sat alone in the driver's seat of his car, his arms crossed and the heat on high. His headlights pierced the rainy midnight at full blast, illuminating a runaway grocery cart that tumbled down the aisles without aim. A sickening clank followed as it rammed head-on into a metal streetlamp a few spaces down. Arthur didn't even flinch at the broken silence.
He didn't understand.
It had been a whole year- a whole damn year that Arthur had put up with his obnoxious, thick boyfriend, and he was getting tired of all the back-and-forth. I mean, he loved Alfred, he really did, even when they bickered and fought and didn't speak to each other. But this- this was irrational. Today, it seemed like chasing after the carefree, lovable nation wasn't even worth wasting his time. After all, it obviously wasn't worth wasting Alfred's.
Now, Arthur Kirkland didn't know too much about romance, (only what he'd seen in 27 Dresses, which the Bad Touch Trio forced him to watch one day- and it didn't help much with his dilemma, considering Arthur had never laid eyes on a bridesmaid dress) but he was almost certain that the one-year anniversary was a landmark point in a relationship, calling for special celebration and careful planning. The slightly-obsessive Brit had the date marked on his calendar in bright red ink, and Alfred failed to even give him a call? Where was he, anyways? His house deserted, his cell phone unanswered, and not a single bystander that knew his whereabouts? What, was he with someone else, someone more important? A wave of anger mixed with emptiness washed over Arthur. His fingers twitched towards his cell phone, which sat beside him in the passenger's seat. He wanted so badly to call him, to give him a piece of his mind, to nestle into his warm, furry jacket and for everything to be alright.
He watched the rain bombard the pavement, barely visible through the watery curtain flowing down his windshield. He knew that he should be getting home- it was cold even with his car running, and he was running low on hours of sleep. But then again, what was there to go home to? There was as much that he could do in this Wal-Mart parking lot as there was anywhere else. There was no reason to leave. Again, Arthur was tempted to call his boyfriend and tell him that he was sorry, that he shouldn't have obsessed over their anniversary anyways. It would fix things, right? No, it wouldn't.
A few minutes past as Arthur was plagued by these same thoughts running circles in his head. His mood snowballed from guilt to anger to hopelessness just like that. He rested his head against the dashboard and closed his eyes, fighting back tears that were worthy of 27 Dresses at least. He didn't even notice a figure sauntering through the void lot, one hand in his pocket and the other twirling an umbrella over his head. He made a beeline straight towards Arthur's car, a smirk on his handsome face. He rapped lightly on the passenger's window, peering inside. Arthur lazily opened one eye, and upon seeing his guest, locked all the doors in the car. The intruder made a shocked face, which Arthur returned with a scowl. But the man stood his ground, and finally, Arthur reached over to unlock the door and let him in. "What the hell are you doing, Francis?"
Francis Bonnefoy swooped into the passenger's seat of the car, completely soaked despite his umbrella. "My apologies if I get your seat wet, mon cher," he cooed. "It's taken a long time to walk here, and the wind is practically blowing the rain horizontally."
"Do I look like I care, frog?" Arthur asked sourly. He crossed his arms as Francis swept his eyes up and down the Englishman's body. His hair was disheveled, his eyes were cluttered with sleep, bloodshot, and puffy, and his clothes were wrinkled. A royal blue tie hung loosely around his neck. He eyed Francis with as much hatred as he could muster. "How did you even know that I was here, anyways?"
"In all honesty, I didn't. But when I saw a pair of headlights out here in the Wal-Mart parking lot, who better than the man ruining America's beautiful coastlines to leave his car running at such an unsightly hour? I put two and two together."
At the mention of Alfred, Arthur felt a wrenching feeling come from inside him. "Shut the fuck up, Francis. Get out of my car."
"Ooh, touchy, aren't we? What goes, mon amour? Is it that time of the month-" he raised an eyebrow at Arthur, who looked positively unamused- "or did you get in a fight with l'Amerique again?"
"It's none of your business, frog."
"I do believe that today is a special day for you and ton copain, oui?"
Arthur growled in response. "One year anniversary," he mumbled through his teeth, his vision blurring with bitter tears again.
"And yet, he is not the one hunting you down at midnight in the rain, oui?" he asked, trying to intertwine the British man's fingers with his. Arthur shook them off, thinking nothing of his words. He loved somebody else, in a way that the frog would never get to love, that the frog had never understood.
"Leave your language in your country, Francis." Arthur pulled a lever on the side of his seat and reclined until he was almost laying down. He closed his eyes again, unable to think about anything with the Frenchman's presence in the car. He willed him to get the message and just leave. Instead, the persistant frog just leaned back his seat as well until they were eye to eye again.
Sighing in surrender, the Brit turned over on his side until he was facing Francis. "He didn't even call."
Arthur expected a smirk to form on Francis's face, laden with the satisfaction of finally breaking him, but none appeared. Instead, his countenance was sympathetic, understanding. "Je regrette," he muttered, unafraid to look directly into his friend's eyes. Arthur looked away, the bright blue irises reminding him too much of Alfred's.
"Don't be sorry," he said, "because it isn't your fault. Ugh!" he screamed, aggravated and with no sense of self-dignity. "He's probably warm and comfortable, fucking some slut-"
A slender finger went to his lips, and he tasted Francis's aroma of sweet red wine. Arthur reached up and removed his hand, a smile gracing his lips. Neither wanted to cease contact with the other, and their fingers lingered on each other's skin between them. "Do not waste your time with l'Amerique, mon ami. He is merely a child; you're a grown man, Arthur."
Arthur was sleepy, and he couldn't think straight. The only sound was the rain, which hadn't let up since the Englishman had shown up in the parking lot of the Wal-Mart. It danced on the roof like needles, pleading to be let inside. Arthur didn't think about Alfred, or where he might be. He didn't think about the fact that it was midnight, or that his car was running. It could run all night long, for all he cared.
He let Francis move towards him, wrap his arms around his neck and press their lips together loosely. They held onto each other like polar magnets until their lungs pushed them apart. Each was lost for thoughts, desperate for contact that had been repressed so long. Arthur's tie was thrown into the empty passenger's seat, where it lay crumpled in a heap. The scene reminded him of 27 Dresses, in which the two lovers had it off in the backseat, both heartbroken and senseless. His body was void of guilt as long as Francis's fingers were touching it- and he planned to make that last as long as possible.
Screw anniversaries, he thought.