Author's Note: Hey guys! Wow, I've never imagined I'd be encouraged by my friends to actually start writing online. Before this, it was just a few freestyle rough drafts on paper. I got inspired to write this when I started thinking about a work that I'd basically given up on. Since my only friends are rabid Hetalia fans, I thought, 'Eh, what the hell." Sooooooo…..this story was born. Now I'm a new user of Fanfiction, so if the first few chapters' format ends up looking like horsecrap, I'm going to apologize in advance. Enjoy the story! (Hopefully, haha :D) USUK FOR THE WIN, YASS!
~ The Rest of My World: Chapter 1 ~
Arthur always knew he was different from everyone else at his office. Hell, he'd go as far as saying that he was different from everyone in the whole entire city of London. There were things he couldn't explain, like how he knew the Kent earthquake last week was going to be around a four point something on the Richter scale. He could predict when bad or good events were going to happen, and this made others wary of his very being. He often heard rumored whispers of, "witch," and ," freak," as he made his way into his office room.
And that wasn't the least of his worries. Arthur also knew for a fact that he almost didn't age at all, and that in the twenty years he'd worked at Madison Press he still looked around thirty years old, the culmination of his youth while others aged all around him. There were even times where he could glimpse his own mother gazing fearfully at him, and he knew why although he repeated denied his own dark thoughts.
"We're here," a rough voice rumbled. Arthur stared mutely at the man in the seat in front of him, still lost in thoughts.
"Oi, we're here!" the cabbie snapped, jolting Arthur awake.
Oh, hell, Madison Press!
Even as he the unwelcomed thought passed through his mind, there was a slight sucking feeling before Arthur was rudely thrown onto marble-tiled floor inside the said building. His stomach sank as his several of his co-workers gaped, stammered, and then turned their heads. Arthur hung his head and tried to ignore the feeling of shame knotting his gut.
The cabbie!
Arthur raced outside, only to be greeted by the exhaust of the receding car, its driver cursing loudly for being robbed of his rightful money. Sighing, Arthur decided to take a photo of the cab's phone number imprinted on the side to send the money to him later. Perhaps, after work. Arthur ran a shaking hand through his hair and proceeded to drag himself back to his office.
His brain switched to autopilot as he greeted his colleagues and all too soon, he was at the door of his little cramped office that had a plaque near the peephole with his name engraved into the slightly rusted metal.
-Arthur Kirkland-
He pushed the dark oak wood door inward and was met by his little desk, crammed full of papers and a laptop sitting next to scattered stacks of discarded rough drafts. His printer was whirring softly on the ground next to an old pine desk. Arthur collapsed into his chair and let out a long sigh. He hated the little bursts of warping in between places that happened almost the moment he concentrated of a destination.
He knew it wasn't normal, and had gone to doctors to ask if he had some kind of rare disease or something. They were no help; the most they would do is to suggest appointments with a therapist.
"Maybe your mind was so overwhelmed you were hallucinating," they would tell him. "Let me write down a prescription of..."
And Arthur would spend the next few days resting and eagerly awaiting his fantasized results. But they would never come true, and as the years passed Arthur eventually gave up hope trying.
It was the teleporting that also made others point and whisper and it terrified him. When he had first come to realize this weird ability, he'd been having a stressful day at the office trying to type up an interesting article for some sports team's victory. He could recall that moment clear as day. Arthur had closed his sore eyes, letting out a long sigh and tried to imagine himself away from the noise of clacking keys and the Boss shouting orders to his newspaper boys.
Uhmph…I sure wouldn't mind a vacation in Venice right now….and just relax on the waves…..
There had been a short period of pure bliss as images of sparkling, cobalt canals and beautiful rows of antique buildings flitted across his eyelids.
Then the noise of the office had vanished, replaced by joyous greetings that he could not understand and the delicious scent of tomato sauce. Arthur's eyes snapped open. He was reclining in a narrow gondola with a brown-haired gondolier smiling and talking animatedly to him as if nothing had happened.
"W-where the bloody hell am I?" Arthur spluttered, scrambling back.
No, no, no, no! I need to go back, I need to go back, I need to go back, I need to go back….
The Italian man stopped rowing for a minute to smile at Arthur, his honey golden eyes warm and inviting.
"Qualcosa non va , signore?" he asked. "Vee~...?"
Arthur shook his head quickly, apologizing about his bother.
I need to go back to Madison Press, London!
There was the sucking feeling again, and Arthur had been back in his room, breathing hard and shaking.
Ring! Ring!
For the second time that day, Arthur was yanked from the depth of his memories, this time by the sound of his phone buzzing and its familiar ringtone. Slightly annoyed, his eyes flicked over to the caller ID and the Brit frowned when he was not able to recognize the number glowing on the screen.
Probably a prank call, he reasoned, looking away and turning on his laptop, deciding to check for any new emails before he started working. The laptop chimed a series of notes, signalling a surplus of new messages in his mailbox. He moved his cursor towards the little envelope icon.
Ring! Ring! Ring!
Arthur jumped a bit in his seat. He had not expected the prank caller to try again. He sighed, deciding to set aside the idea of checking his inbox and reaching for his phone to try to scold the little git who was disrupting his work. He swiped the screen and raised the phone to his ear.
"Hello?" he said flatly, not expecting much of an appropriate answer. He noticed a rustling of cloth in the background and some muffled speech. Then there was a clack! and a, "Jesus Christ, Francis!" before the person who had called breathed a long sigh of relief.
"Hello?" the person asked. "Is this Arthur? Arthur Kirkland?"
More muffled exclamations.
Arthur inhaled sharply and tried to speak past the obstruction that had suddenly appeared in his throat. He managed a small croak and almost choked when the other person shouted his name again, this time slightly more annoyed.
"How...how do you know my name?" Arthur whispered, his eyes wide and darting around his office as if someone would just pop up in front of the window and begin shooting.
"Eh, don't get too hung up on the details, dude! Me and my guys want you to c'mere to the good old U. S. Of A.! C'mon! Whadya say? You up for it?"
For a while, there was only the sound of Arthur's strangled breathing.
He sounds...American, Arthur thought, and he's dead serious about this.
The Brit swallowed hard. "No, thank you," he murmured, his fingers fumbling for the "End Call" button.
Beep.
Arthur sank down into his seat, cold sweat beginning to run down his brow and cheeks. He glanced down at his violently quaking hands and wondered subconsciously if they would ever stop. Once again, his phone rang, its ringtone now deafening to Arthur. The once cheerful jingle of notes was now an ominous reminder of his potential stalkers.
What if they come here? They can obviously track my location and my social life if they know my phone number, and if the little bugger's American, then God knows how many guns he must own...
It was only when his phone had stopped buzzing did he dare look down, and for the first time in his lifetime, Arthur Kirkland was glad he had caller ID.
Bloopers:
England: Oh, wonderful, Author. First chapter in and I'm already a complete nit.
Me: *glares*
France: Oh, honestly, Angleterre. I thought your acting was brilliant.
England: That's rich coming from you, cheesy monkey!
France: Black sheep of Europe!
England: Why you little twat-!
*fighting and shouting*
America: *walking into the studio with a burger* Whaf goin' on? *loud chewing*
Me: *sighs* The usual, Mr. America.
America: *shrugging and taking a huge bite* You c'n call me when they're done fighting.
Me: *sweatdrop as America leaves the room proclaiming his need for a Coke*
Italy: *finally speaking up* Hey, Author! Will we get to eat pasta? Pasta~a~a...
Me: Uh...yeah. Sure. Okay. Well guys, expect another chapter soon! If anything-
France: Author, give me a hand-!
Me: *AHEM* IF ANYTHING HAPPENS. I'll at least post up some Behind the Scenes to let my fellow-
England: Don't help him!
Me: MY FELLOW READERS KNOW THAT THE NEXT CHAPTER IS A WORK IN PROGRESS!
*distant yelling*
Me: *groans and goes off to break it up*
America: *having just reentered the room* ...I'm turning this off now.