Alfred F. Jones' face lit up with excitement upon looking out of the plane's window and watching as the lights down below got closer and closer. He quickly turned and shook the shoulder of the man sleeping on the seat beside him. "Hey Matt! Matt! We're here! We're here!" he said excitedly.
"Hmnmn-what...?" The man yawned and blinked, hugging his stuffed bear. Sighing, he turned to face Alfred. "What is it, Al?"
Alfred grinned. "We're here, dude! In Paris!"
Matthew blinked than leaned over Alfred to see outside the window. "You're right..." He muttered and leaned back against his seat. "Well, I expect we'll be landing soon...Oh by the way," He fixed his brother with a long, hard gaze. "You never told me the reason behind you suddenly wanting to go to Paris. Why's that?"
Alfred merely grinned and said, "I just wanted to see Paris, that's all!" Matthew sighed and shook his head but said nothing else which Alfred was glad for.
Nobody must know his real reason of wanting to go to Paris. Especially his brother and his family. Who knows what they'd do when they found out...They'd be distraught for one thing. Distraught...and sorely disappointed, in his parents' account. Alfred couldn't even bear to think about it right now.
He simply leaned against his chair and watched as the colorful lights of which Paris was famed for got closer and closer.
Arthur Kirkland couldn't wait for the plane to finally land.
First of all, the flight had been delayed for a little while so basically he was late for his arranged meeting time with another writer with whom he had agreed to make a collaboration with. And secondly, he felt sick and he just couldn't bring himself to throw up while he was on the plane. It would ruin his gentlemanly composure for sure.
So when the plane finally did land, Arthur made sure to be the first one out. He raced past the gates and up to the conveyor belt where all the passenger's luggage and bags was scheduled to come out. He laid his small briefcase on the floor beside him as he stood there, his foot tapping impatiently on the floor, arms crossed over his chest, eyes fixed on the small opening where some of the passengers' luggage was slowly beginning to stream out.
Finally, his eyes alighted on a large black suitcase making its way slowly along the belt. He sighed in relief as he grabbed the bag and ran for the exit, wanting to get to his destination faster.
Unfortunately, he was too much in a hurry to notice that the suitcase he had grabbed had a small name tag at the handle in the shape and design of the American flag, with a name scrawled on the plastic behind it.
Alfred F. Jones
"Hey Matt, where's my suitcase?"
"Hm?" Matthew looked up from checking if all his belonging were still in his red-and-white duffel bag, and into his brother's worried face. He turned to look at the conveyor belt, which was laden with different bags and cases of all sizes. But no, he couldn't see any sign of Alfred's black suitcase.
"Just be patient." Matthew said simply. "It'll come out sooner or later."
Despite this reassurance, Alfred still looked worried as he walked up to stand beside the belt, eyes skimming over it in search for his bag.
However, it was Matthew who found it. "Oh there it is!" He cried out to Alfred, pointing towards a black suitcase which had just come out on the belt. Alfred narrowed his eyes at it and frowned but followed Matthew towards it, all the same. He helped Matthew lift it from the belt and place it down on the floor.
Alfred's frown grew deeper still when he didn't see the familiar name tag at the bag's handle. "Are you sure this is mine, Matt?" he asked. Matthew blinked, "Well...it looks like your bag."
"Yeah, but...where's the name tag?" He gestured towards the suitcase's handle. Matthew leaned in closer to look. "Maybe it fell off?" he suggested but a tone of uncertainty was starting to creep into his voice.
"No way, man." Alfred shook his head. "Here, help me open this."
They laid the bag on its back and opened the suitcase.
And that was when Alfred realized that it was not his bag.
First off, it was filled with these suits in drab colors such as brown and gray and there was absolutely no way in hell that Alfred would have been caught in those cloths. Another thing was the amount of books crammed at a corner of the case. Alfred didn't own that many books and even if he did, these were not the kind of books he'd have chosen to read. You would have expected it from Matthew, but not from his older brother. And yet another thing was a box of tea packets tucked among the clothes. How did that even get through inspection? And as if the others didn't already provide a legit reason of this bag not being Alfred's, there was a small family photo tucked into a small pocket behind the lid of the case.
When Alfred took a closer look at it, he immediately confirmed that it wasn't his. The photo showed a small family of seven. In the middle of the picture stood a stoic, serious-looking couple. The wife had a crop of shoulder-length blond hair and a pair of emerald-green eyes while the dad had messy red hair and deep green eyes. The man had a cold, impassive expression on his face. The woman was smiling but you could tell that even she was not to be crossed. Around them stood their sons, or at least that was what Alfred guessed so far. The tallest of them,a redheaded man who bore an uncanny resemblance to his father and who seemed to be smoking a cigar, stood on the right side of his father, the same impassive expression on his face.
Beside him, on his right side, was another much shorter man with the brightest red hair imaginable. He looked cheery, grinning at the camera, with a light wash of freckles across his nose and cheeks. Beside this man still stood a slightly taller man with rusty reddish-brown hair/ He was smiling, but like the look on his mother's face, he looked like someone not to be trifled with.
In front of the mother and father stood a boy who looked no younger than six or seven. He had blond hair and was grinning happily at the camera. And standing to the mother's left side was a man with a messy crop of blond hair, green eyes and very prominent eyebrows. Despite him having the same impassive expression on his face (It must run in the family, Alfred thought with a chuckle), it was his face that struck Alfred the most. Not because of how handsome he was, (though the American had to admit, he was kind of good-looking) but because he looked to be the most sullen, almost miserable, one of the whole lot. Alfred didn't know why, but the sadness in the guy's eyes intrigued him.
Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Alfred?" he heard Matthew say, bringing him out of his reverie.
Alfred's heart suddenly beat against his chest and he could feel his hands go sweaty. He replaced the picture back into the pocket from which he found it and zipped the suitcase shut.
"Matt," he said despairingly to his brother, who already looked alarmed. "I think my suitcase was stolen."
"Ahh, if it isn't Mr. Kirkland himself! I knew you were going to come here for that little collaboration you were talking about just now, but I never knew you were coming today! So, what do I have the honor of this visit?" (AN: Is that even right O.o?)
Arthur scowled at the French man with shoulder-length blond hair, namely Francis Bonnefoy, standing on the doorstep of a charming white house with a red tiled roof. "I just need a place to stay, that's what."
Francis only smiled, "Why, of course. I would be happy to have you stay with me during your stay here." He smirked at the Brit. "And while you're here, maybe I can show you some of the most beautiful sights Paris has to offer...Maybe-"
"Don't go getting any ideas, you bloody frog." Arthur muttered at him dangerously as he entered the Frenchman's house. Francis laughed, "But of course. Come, let me show you to your room. I'll carry that for you." He made to reach for Arthur's suitcase but the Brit pulled it away, eyeing Francis suspiciously. The French only smirked and shrugged his shoulders. "Ah well. Suit yourself. Though I never knew you liked America so much that you'd put a name tag in the design of its flag on your suitcase." He added as he waled up the stairs.
"What?" Arthur asked and, puzzled, turned to look at the suitcase.
His heart did a small leap when he noticed the American flag name tag on the suitcase's handle. He knelt down and with almost-shaking hands opened the suitcase. The moment he saw its contents, he knew it wasn't his.
The first thing he saw was a bomber jacket with a fur collar and a large white 50 at the back. No, that was definitely not his. Going deeper still, he noted that the clothes in there were either too big for him, or too loud and just plain stupid. Plus, there were a few crumpled empty burger wrappers here and there and it disgusted him. Not to mention there were stickers of the American flag plastered along the back of the suitcase's lid, including pictures of some of the said country's famous sites. No, this was most definitely not his suitcase, though it looked like it on the outside. He took the name tag in his hand and flipped it around, reading the name written on it again and again. Alfred F. Jones
"Arthur?" Francis asked, stopping on the middle of the staircase and looking back down at the Brit. "Is something wrong?"
Arthur looked up at him, dread gripping his heart as he thought of his laptop, buried deep in his won suitcase, with all of his manuscripts in it. The French frog was the last person he would have asked for help. They may have known each other for long, but they weren't very close. But there was nobody else around to help him. And it was either him or nobody at all.
The Brit swallowed and got up, "Francis, I need your help. We've got a suitcase to locate."
An idea that I got out of nowhere. Intended to be a one-shot/drabble but, ah well, I guess my mind just doesn't think much of drabbles XDD. Please review!