-Going through an 'edit' for grammar and cosistency-

Every once and a while, Arthur didn't mind splurging over a few glasses of rich Irish beer. He could just feel those lonelier days where the rain fall was heavier, and the dark nights seemed longer, and he thirsted for a nights where he would probably not remember when the sun rose the next day and the rain had been sucked dry from evaporation. The English professor would start by twisting open a can of his cat's favourite tuna and leave it for the domestic pet to succumb to when it felt hungry. Then the Briton would tousle his light blonde hair and raid his cupboard for a Benjamin Franklin, and tuck it into his wallet, and shrug on his thin raincoat, and wrap his neck with a warm knitted scarf.

Dinner wasn't always necessary, if the Brit could admit it publicly. When company wasn't over- and it rarely was, mind you, he would often order takeout. When company WAS over, then the professor's ego took over. Nevertheless, all he needed tonight was to get hammered this Friday night and not think about the dreaded mid-term session that was closely creeping on him.

Today was a special day, however.

Four bloody years, Arthur nodded to himself as he jammed his hands into his pockets, starting a low whistle. Four bloody years, Artie. Good job you incredible Brit!

The green-eyed man had gone to the same bar for the last 48 months. Arthur preferred the rawness of the pub that seemed to always go out and in business, depending on the way loan sharks hit the owner. Beer was imported from the British islands, and it felt exactly like home. Sure it cost a bit more than Arthur would have liked, but it was rarely crowded, and the owner had known the Brit enough to call a taxi for him when one drink too many was served to the angry drunk.

A familiar chime dinged as Arthur pushed the wooden door open, ignoring the 'CLOSED' sign. It was only ever there for formalities when the owner, a white-haired beer enthusiast was feeling particularly tired. Said owner snapped his head up when the door chimed.

"HEY! CAN YOU DUMMKOMPFS NOT SEE THE SIGN- Oh, hey, Artie, my man!" Gilbert greeted, opening his arms up in jubilation. "How's my least favourite college professor?"

"S'not raining tonight, so I'm doing quite alright," Arthur admitted, sliding onto a barstool. "Where's your brother tonight?" Gilbert had already begun unboxing a new crate of Arthur's favourite. The other German brother grunted.

"As-hole left me to fend for myself the week. He went to the city to quote scout new bank loans unquote, but really I think it's his and Feli's anniversary or some shit." The unusually red-eyed man just shined a glass and emptied the bottle, smirking proudly as he sliced through the foam. Arthur accepted it graciously.

Gilbert sighed, "Art, you've got to definitely warn me when you want to stop coming, okay? That stuff costs a fortune to ship over."

"Well, I pay you don't I?"

"How long before your teacher's salary runs dry? I'm partially kidding, man, but if you know for sure, let me cancel the orders," Gilbert winked. He popped the rest of the crate into the mini fridge under the counter to allow them to get ice cold. "But anyway, is there a reason you completely ignored my awesome sign to not enter?" The bartender took a seat himself and propped his chin on his fists, eyeing the blonde manically.

"I do believe I've never told you a story worth telling."

"What was it again? Another day of hell with those bratty 19 year olds? How are you a college prof anyway? You're barely 30."

"We've gone over this, Gil."

"Yeah, yeah, you're English and some shit," the other man yapped, slamming his head on the table. He growled, "I'm getting tired. Have you fill and leave the cash 'fore you leave okay?"

Arthur nodded, tipping the glass and emptying it down.

To four bloody years, he toasted to himself.

X-X-X-X-X

"W-Whoa there man," a distinctive male American voice cautioned. Arthur's vision was already starting to get hazy as he slammed the hundred dollar bill beside Gilbert's missing body. His head didn't ache as much as it usually did, so that must have meant he didn't get completely wasted. And telling by the surrounding, he had fallen asleep on the counter. He felt the similar dullness in his body and joints as he tried to get himself up, only to knock a taller dirty-blonde, slamming the latter's hand and allowing his drink to trickle down his shirt. Arthur hiccuped and just shrugged as if it were nothing. The American didn't seem so impressed.

"What the hell man! Don't you know your limits?!" Arthur couldn't see clearly, but he could make out a tall bespectacled male trying to pat his shirt dry. The Briton rolled his eyed- overreacting hipsters, he thought.

"I do know, and I'm off," Arthur answered ever so eloquently.

"You better find some way to replace this! I got German beer on this shirt! I could sue your as- right now if I wanted to-!"

Arthur just snorted. Go ahead, he thought. At this point, he just didn't give a damn. Why was this annoying man freaking over a shirt. He just flipped the man off and headed for the door. The other just grabbed his shoulder and turned the shorter man around.

"I have a freaking meeting in one hour! Do I look like I have time to get changed?! You're just walking out?"

"Uh…yes," Arthur nodded. He grabbed his coat off the rack and shrugged it on.

Gritting his teeth, the American was about to go all court-whipping when his brother burst in from the back.

"Alfred, please be quiet," a soft voice pleaded. Arthur blinked a few times and cocked his head. Gilbert waved at his British friend, one arm draped around another bespectacled blonde who looked almost identical to the annoying one in front of Arthur.

"Yeah, Jones, if you're so pissed off Artie'll take you to his house and get your cleaned up. He lives 10 minutes from here," Gilbert offered. Arthur spluttered at the idea.

"I'll do no such thing."

Gilbert narrowed his eyes, hoping that Arthur got the clue. He had chosen to wake up the Brit earlier, and now he knew he was probably a stupid idea as the hungover Brit would have probably not liked a morning Alfred Jones.

No one messed with Alfred F. Jones when the 25-year old was in his profession mode.

The American just looked down on Arthur and cocked his eyebrow.

"Are you sure?"