Within his arms he carried loads of novels; long ones, short ones- scary ones, romantic ones. Tons of novels, of all genres, all of which he had read already. He breezed down the busy London streets, jade eyes set on one location in particular: the café. He always visited the same café, in the same corner, of the same town, same country, each day. It was one of the few places in public he actually liked to go and visit with people. Elsewhere, it felt bogged down; communication was nowhere as easy outside of the doors as inside.
Now, Arthur himself knew he was no good at "socialization". Sure, he could talk, and he didn't have a case of anxiety; it was just that he had no idea what to say. How to keep the ball rolling, to keep the other occupied and intent on what he had to say. Most of the time, the conversation ended abruptly, with one or both parties feeling unsatisfied and annoyed. Arthur was damn good at getting into arguments, and if he wasn't arguing while talking to someone, he was raving (or ranting) about whatever novel/short story/poem he had just read. His brain was cut out for splendid isolation, but every human craves sociality, and the café gave him his outlet. The workers were all quite kind and used to his antics: he was either inanely talkative or starkly silent, and nearly always had an armload of books ready to lend to them. Whether he handed them out and chattered about the plot or did so wordlessly, it was appreciated, and Arthur simply loved the feeling.
But when he walked in on that day, feeling especially generous, he couldn't help but feel that the atmosphere was off. After all, he'd know, as he practically breathed the dust on the tables each day. As his legs carried him further into the shop, he could feel the 'normal' him appearing: sarcastic, rude, and dangerously closed off. He noted that half of the usual workers were gone; as he slumped the books onto a far table he leaned near the barista who was working. "Where's everyone gone?" He was trying his best to be nice, but the tone was undeniably forced.
"I reckon most are out sick today. I think some of 'em said it was just one of those days, 'ya know?" The man was aged and had a drawl from somewhere south in the United States; where exactly, that's what Arthur didn't know.
Arthur nodded. "Ah, I see," Most of the people who he had wished to lend books to were absent. "Well, if you don't mind, I'm going to drop these off in the back."
The barista's eyes were closed, as if he was deeply enveloped in the washing of a glass. "Alrighty."
Arthur lingered, watching his worn movements, before he gathered the books and dropped them off. He heaved a sigh before placing his hands on his hips- he was rather unsure of what to do with his day. He had cleaned up and gotten a good walk in at present; his mind beckoned if he even needed to do anything else. Innately, he stepped outside and met eyes with the mega-chain bookstore. He winced internally, but pushed it aside, after deciding he wanted a new book. Ultimately not wanting to walk far; he, against his best judgment, decided to go in.
Once he had decided to pursue a novel, he didn't think much about anything. His feet dropped off the curb as he began to go across the street. His feet carried him tiredly, his eyes didn't even bother to check both ways. After all, he was positive that it said "walk". If it didn't, people would be considerate enough for another human being, correct?
No, not correct.
Wrong.
Terribly wrong, really.
And it would be delightful to call such a thing a mistake, but it just so happens that in the moment, a truck driver was very angry. And certainly unwilling to wait. Or think. Or breathe. Let's just say that if the world's fury was personified, it was this truck driver, on this very street, by the very crosswalk that Arthur was going to cross.
Thus, as a truck barreled towards our London-native, he couldn't help but gape. Wouldn't you do the same? There it was, the thing that would end him: a big ol' truck, with a portly man in it, yelling obscenities. What a wonderful way to go.
"Quick—move!" There it was, quick and followed by a mustered grunt.
He could barely hear the voice rattle in his ears. He could barely feel the body press against his, in the heat of such a moment; he could barely notice how the truck driver didn't even fret to stop. He didn't notice the bystanders, the shocked, the laughers; the only thing he did see, though, was the cloudy color the sky took and the vapors that drifted gently athwart it.
"Are… Are you alright?" The same asked, anticipation rising in it, numerous tones hiding as well.
Soon after, he felt a weight upswing from his body. Arthur's breathing was ragged, as expected, but his voice was caught in his throat. In a few moments, there was a head dangerously close to his—he could taste the man's breath. "Hello? You aren't dead or anything, are you?" The voice rose in apprehension. The man was what Arthur guessed to be as about twenty-five, give or take. He was rather handsome as well, in his own right; he had large blue eyes, sandy hair, and a wide grin. Technically, the grin appeared after Arthur flinched. "Ah, you're alive!"
"Uh… Yes, yeah, I'm… I'm alive." Begrudgingly, he pulled himself off of the hot pavement. Once up, he realized that the man who saved him was still slightly on his body. In fact, he was straddling him. "Would you… Ah…?"
"Oh, sorry!" He quickly moved, cheeks flushed. After so, he got up and extended a hand, grin still slicing his face. "That was so weird, I tell you, like… That guy was literally tearing up the road!"
Arthur took the man's hand, nodding in agreement. This was also when he noted that the bloke had an American accent, and that sort of air about him that— "Are you a tourist?"
"I guess you could say that. I'm just visiting."
Arthur brushed himself off and said "oh" in a whittled reply.
"Look, I know that you're still pretty shocked and all, but we're in the middle of the street. You want to take this convo somewhere else?" The American had one eyebrow cocked, and his thumb ushered towards the lines of cars waiting.
"Oh, ah, yes… Yeah, there's ah…" Arthur wasn't all that surprised at the cars, but rather that the man had said 'continue the convo', and that sort of scared the remaining daylights from Arthur. "A café down, just over, uh, there and…"
"Riiiight. Come on, you can show me, let's just get out of the road!" He smiled wide again, this time taking Arthur's wrist and leading him away out of the road.
Arthur still had no idea what had just happened. He was on his way to get a book—from that damned megastore—when he was tackled by a loud American? He sighed, not wanting to remember the rest of the story; the almost splattered-on-the-pavement part. Arthur was still breathing heavily when the man released his arm only to extend his palm once more. Now they were on the sidewalk, and Arthur could still hear hushed tones talking of what just happened. The truck that nearly smashed him was nowhere to be found. People slowly began to peel away, still stunned at what they had just seen.
"I'm Alfred F. Jones. What's your name?" He beamed yet again, in a goofy sort of way, a warm sort of way.
Arthur shook his hand weakly. "Arthur Kirkland." He was amazed that the man was so energetic when he had, in fact, just risked his life and jumped in front of a car. How was his heart not racing? Going 600 miles a minute? How was he not pondering every possible outcome that could've happened? Arthur shuddered—what if the man had died trying to save him? He could never live with that, or even with the man getting injured because of so.
After all, this man was only visiting England. He had a completely different life in a different country; he probably had a family and perhaps a significant other. What if Arthur had heard someone he cared about perished while saving a stranger—not that Arthur had so many he cared about dearly it still stuck him as unnerving, knowing that people actually… Did this kind of stuff. This life-saving stuff. It was something you'd see on the news; in fact, Arthur could see the headline now: HANDSOME AMERICAN HERO SAVES LONELY ENGLISH MAN. He cringed.
"Are you alright, Arthur?" Alfred bit his lip and laughed. "Uh, I mean, that was dumb since you almost got hit by a truck but you're really quiet—"
Arthur, perturbed by the outburst and thrust back into reality, flinched. He nodded as well, and as Alfred mentioned the café, he led the way. It was rather close to the bookstore, but it was still delightfully tucked away, saved from the bustle of the city. As Arthur approached it, he noticed it looked so different; even more so than it did in the morning. Once they reached it, Alfred smiled.
"Looks super quant! I haven't seen anything so homely since I got here. Cool!"
His enthusiasm made Arthur sigh in relief. "That's good." It was a small phrase, but it was something, and Arthur noticed that his face wasn't all red. And he wasn't being terribly awkward, was he? With his legs still unstable, he followed Alfred into the shop.
"We should, ah, sit over here. It's where I usually sit." His voice had a hint of trepidation, but Alfred was too thick to notice anything, and he trailed him to the booth.
Alfred sighed contently, as if he was amazed by the place. "This is like, really not my usual flavor, but I really can't get over how cool it feels in here!" Alfred slumped in the booth, resting his head in his hand; he stared at Arthur contently.
Arthur, in turn, eased cumbersomely into the adjacent seat and placed his hands in his lap.
A few minutes of silence ensued; Alfred's eyes wandered across the shop (and across Arthur, but shh) and Arthur's eyes were unfocused and staring down.
"Why did you save me?" He bit his tongue back immediately after saying it.
Alfred pursed his lips. "You're… Asking that?" He chuckled. "It was the right thing to do—"
"You could have died!"
"You could've died!"
Both were silent now, rising of voices stunning the few others in the shop. Arthur returned to looking down, but Alfred kept his eyes focused.
"I am, after all, what some folks like to call a hero. There was no way I'd let a pretty Brit like you be killed in the name of a cursing fat guy." He laughed lightly in the moment with his head resting delicately on his hand.
And then they both sat.
Arthur's eyes never shrunk, not even for a moment. The American sat with his arms folded on the table; first he had a smile, that cheeky grin. Soon it faded into something weaker, and then he sat with his lips gently parted and his whiter-than-white teeth poking through. He seemed to be entranced, and he was quiet- which was starkly out of character for him. Yet, as Arthur stared at him, and noticed every acute detail, he couldn't help but feel that the man was ordinary. An ordinary hero. At the same time, he was no ordinary human being—you could even tell from the way his cobalt eyes told tons of stories at a time. Maybe not all of them were happy stories, but it was like a hero's backstory; an ordinary hero, an extraordinary human being.
"I… Uh… Well, I bet you've, uh, got some business to do or something—uh, sorry for that outburst and well I'll be on my way. Stay safe, alright? Yeah, okay, bye!" Alfred nearly never got his foot caught in his mouth, but he realized what he had said, and how weird it was, and how he had just met this guy. And it demoralized him. He forced a smile, but the edges were rounded and he hit the corner of a chair as he backed out. He forced a quick wave before he turned and fled.
Arthur's mouth opened slightly, as if in protest, but only a squeak was audible.
Alfred had just stepped out of the door and crammed his hands into his pockets, clearly displeased with what he had said. And perhaps more importantly, how he sounded when he said it.
"Alfred, wait," The voice that said it was near out of breath, both from dashing up and from shock. "You don't… Ah…" Arthur moved to close the gap between the two, but was cautious not to get too close. "I mean, I could show you around, but it would… Only be so I could walk off these jitters. I-It wouldn't be for you."
Alfred's head perked up. "Really?" And, in one swift moment, he grabbed the other by the shoulders and gave the other a quick peck on the lips. It was a jolly thing, friendly, even, but a kiss all the same. "That'd be sooo awesome!"
Arthur, once again dumbstruck, laughed. An odd chuckle, one he himself hadn't heard in a while; Alfred laughed, too. Soon, the American decked back into being himself, and the Brit, did too. They fell into step with each other and trotted down the emptying street.
"...Thanks for saving me, you dolt."
"Any time, Arthur."