DISCLAIMER: I DON'T OWN ANYTHING, BUT THE PLOT.
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õ.õ~ ───Ｏ（≧∇≦）Ｏ──── ~õ.õ ~ ───Ｏ（≧∇≦）Ｏ──── ~õ.õ õ.õ~ ───Ｏ（≧∇≦）Ｏ──── ~õ.õ õ~ ───Ｏ（≧∇≦）Ｏ──── ~õ.õ~ ───Ｏ（≧∇≦）Ｏ──── ~õ.õ~ ───Ｏ（≧∇≦）Ｏ──── ~õ.õ
Many times in this life, you worry about if the pieces wouldn't fit. If you let them settle to the bottom, time would be the solution to it. Even if the places are in ruin, with no one to trust, you know there would be always be a constant. Nothing could change it, making the joy of seeing worth the wait. All that you can do is just that, the ways of time don't lean to you, him, or her.
Serious topics that could bring thoughts of many hours of labor constantly ran through his mind. The brothers that he had grown along with forgot their relation to him, took a mental toll. College granted the wishes of working, even if your body lingered to slumber in the warm blankets. They want to pull themselves over your head, to provide you with warmth, and a sense of protection. The constant that allowed him to make his way through the weekdays, appeared every Friday, right before the last shift of the night. Any sensible person could see through crinkles of the days, the tension that pulled his shoulder blades together.
The constant, the simple source of joy that propelled his life forward, was a voice from the comforting coffee-shop. A place for him was rare, people of nuisance terminating the chances of relaxation. The store owners knew gained to respect the foreigner's requests, even adding his favorite to the menu.
This very day was the day. What he waited for every week, the opportunity to unwind from the duties of studies. Queen radiated from his speakers of the mini, a unmistakable blue. Union jack, sitting proud on the hood, and the back of the mirrors to display a proud British Man. Liquid oozed it's way into the asphalt, after the dark. He shuffled for the black umbrella under his seat, the pouring over coming the singing of Freddy (AN: Mercury). With a turn of a key, the machine turned off different works under the hood. A leap of faith out of the car, a black shield protecting from the downpour. He quickly shut the door, walking fast to the cafe across the street. Arthur sighed, the rain darkening the night further. He glanced around the shop, the owner's with a freshly ground coffee hovering in the air. It smelled it's strongest because it was the final hour before closing.
A rectangle convenience, a clear window, giving outsiders the chance to see the events inside. A warm splashes of a chocolate brown lined the walls, dimming lights hung every couple feet. A stage composed of a dark oak, raising a seats height above the concrete floors. Deep red curtains, opening to more brown colored plaster appeared to be framed in a square like fashion to protect the heavy drapes. The business worked on the east side, with busy with drink orders. The tables had a smooth surface, grains can be seen even if it was treated correctly. It formed perfect circles, selectively allowing two people to use itself.
Arthur chose the table farest from the stage, long dreads of air rising and lowering his chest. An opaque, ceramic tea cup contained the prized Earl Grey. A slight ruckus interrupted the calming movement, the entertainment of the night. A trio radiated the prime years of their because it was happening now. Mikes were tossed, laughter escaping them.
The group had a set of twins, visible difference between them was their eyes, the shades of blue. Jace, the eldest with the tittle because of a few minutes was given with piecing gray, light gray eyes. Serious composure, having odd quirks. The preparing of the stage allowed him to laugh at the pranks he performed. A skilled piano player, fingers jumping along the black and ivory of keys. If you listen close, he would brag of playing all his life. Jasper, the playa, the pimp, wooed all the girls. Occasionally the opposite gender, but turned them down correctly. His eyes coloring were of a light blueish, green, soft, unharmed of the years of life. Like his brother, the music gene was prominent. Various genres were his specialty, yet he prefer a acoustic. They shared the black hair, spiking it a couple inches above the skin. Skinny frame worked for the both of them.
"No time like the present!" rang from the tallest of their band. The shady curls hung lazily around the head, as if having a personality of it's own. A stubborn lock stood to the skies, bending to obey gravity, a sure sign of rebelition. Lingering on the orbs, a deep ocean like hues, vibrant with life. The kind that wouldn't falter under pressure, smiling through the worse. The average nose, straight, not blending into face. Her lips never had the chance to frown, the curves on the edges as proof. Always in spacious clothing, never caught in tight. A deep wine dyed flannel rolled till her elbows, over a graphic tee. Those shirts were a sight, the sayings, the actions printed upon them. Those sayings could have brought a smile to anyone's features. The shirt today was a printed Skelton bones, with a quarter note replacing the beating organ. The tees tried to hid the large chest, but failing horribley. Dark wash jeans skirt cutting at mid-thigh, no ruffles and breaking at the seam. Faded red chucks on her feet. Many nights of performance, and her name was revealed as Hero. Her voice was a mellow, yet you could felt how much heart she put in. The mood that came from Hero radiated a never ending happiness, always ready for the next battle.
"Tonight, I am going to do something a little different! Can you handle it?" The American accent alerted the life-less crowd. Arthur couldn't help but chuckle at the poor attempt. The singer signaled the guitarist, with a point of her index. Jaspher begain the beat, a steady one string. Picking the beat easily, following it with her foot. The pattern was caught, a couple measures before beginning the melody.
It began the simple enough,
"Call you for the first time today.."
The muscles of the week's tension unleashed themselves. His lids grew heavy, to show darkness.
A gentle shake to his shoulder awoke him, his eyelids opening hesitantly. "What do you want?" He snapped at the young woman, British accent thick. Hero ignored the remark, and left her hand out for a shake. "To know you! But you can call me Abby!" The American sat comfortably on the chair, the back-bone of it facing the blonde. The other's hand rested on his right shoulder. The response gave Arthur a confused thought. Why the change in name..? Before he brought the tea to his lips, it no longer warmed his palms, meaning the pass of the time. He feel asleep during the performance! The chance of relaxing! Vanished! A sigh came out, "Arthur Kirkland." The tone had been monotone, lacking such expressions. "Nice to meet ya Artie! You come here when ever I performance! True fan! I was wondering if you would want my autograph because I'm awesome like that!" Abby fell under the category of annoying, losing all charm what she gained while singing. The changes within a voice like her. A loud bubbly in a commonplace; yet, at a gig the appearance of pain shown through. "No, I don't want your blood autograph." Arthur huffed, gathering his belongings to leave. "I'll give to you anyway! It's gonna be worth something! I know it!" Surprisingly, taking the thick eyebrow's case, ransacking it for a object to write with, and something to write on. "Give that back! Wanker! That's mine! Learn some manners before you speak to me!" He scrambled for his personal articles of writings. In large font, across a worn rough draft read 'Abby Jones' In loopy letters, the A the largest, with completing the name on the bottom much smaller. Hovering above the many name was 'Hero'. A prized piece of work. Hours. Gone. The Brit was ready to scold, scream, curse the child to the next century. He breathed heavily, calm yourself. Public place. Public Place. Don't want to ruin your ability to come to the shop. You can do this. were a couple of thoughts that ran threw person workstation known as the brain. A forced "Thank you." Came out, stuffing his papers inside the deep brown, leather case. Rectangular in shape, dividers within to avoid havoc. The cash inside his black slacks were slammed onto the table top, the sound making workers to look at the scene unfolding.
õ.õ~ ───Ｏ（≧∇≦）Ｏ──── ~õ.õ ~ ───Ｏ（≧∇≦）Ｏ──── ~õ.õ ~ ───Ｏ（≧∇≦）Ｏ──── ~õ.õ ~ ───Ｏ（≧∇≦）Ｏ──── ~õ.õ ~ ───Ｏ（≧∇≦）Ｏ──── ~õ.õ ~ ───Ｏ（≧∇≦）Ｏ──── ~õ.õ
The night was ruined. The American Brat destroyed a classic work. The mini copper appeared to have a ticket, with a bright yellow boot on the back tire. In a dripping ink, a fine was there, but rain took the away the chance to read it. He kicked his loafer cover foot at the metal ring, only to harm the walking tool. A howl came out, and ripped the ticket off the windshield wiper. By the time he had reached his flat, water could have been felt through his insides. He would have sworn to have feeling it inside his stomach.
Luckily his apartment was high up in a building nearby. The hallways were decorated with a paling yellow, and a marbled red carpet. The key worked against the rusted lock, producing a couple clinks. The door obeyed the request, swinging forward. Arthur's hand searched along the wall for a switch. A flick up, and the corridor bulb's illuminating one, by one. He turned around to lock the door, from the key slot to the next two protective measures.
The loyal feline waiting by the entrance, tail swaying slowly. Juliet, a soft white female, gifted with orange slabs on its vertebrae and a Scottish fold upon her ears. Intelligent ears, a piecing green much like his own; however, the cat hissed at anyone but his owner. "Juliet...Today..was blood hell." He bent his knees to scratch behind it's left ear, the cat leaning into his hand.
A soft meow came from the kitchen, Arthur's head shot up. "You have visitors?" He felt the blood pressure spike, running into the cooking area. Sliding into the small space, a chubby white feline layed on curled at Juliet's pillow. The cat had a thick brown collar, with a matching brown fluff tail. Like the singer at the shop, it seemed to have a ash imprint of a glass's frame. Juliet followed slowly, entering the room to climb into the bed with the fat cat. She coiled deep into the cat's stomach for warmth.
The jaw dropped, his hand running through his tangled hair. Shock. Even his cat found love. His eyes widened, those two could get pregnant! By chance, the fat cat rolled on his side to show the male part. Instant face palm to his face. That 'thing' was going to get his cat pregnant. His hand scrunched up, to pinch nasal cavity.
"If you have kittens Juliet, you are going to live on the streets." He said with a sigh, moving to inspect the couple. The blonde's palm ran along the male cat's brown thick fur, to find a bright red collar. Spinning it to find the name tag, engraved in a American Flag read 'Hero' directly under it was a a line of digits if lost.
õ.õ~ ───Ｏ（≧∇≦）Ｏ──── ~õ.õ ~ ───Ｏ（≧∇≦）Ｏ──── ~õ.õ ~ ───Ｏ（≧∇≦）Ｏ──── ~õ.õ ~ ───Ｏ（≧∇≦）Ｏ──── ~õ.õ ~ ───Ｏ（≧∇≦）Ｏ──── ~õ.õ ~ ───Ｏ（≧∇≦）Ｏ──── ~õ.õ
He had decided not to call the number, Juliet would have been heart broken if he was gone. The tabby came by often before he moved in, always bothering his poor cat. They would exchange meow-arguments outside the kitchen window. He should have saw it coming when she gave him a lick to the ear. She always looked a little crest fallen when he left, even if the two fought. When the couple caught him staring at the two, they walked to the next room. Her time for a litter was arriving. They practiced everyday he knew, breaking up it up by putting them in separate rooms. Both would get severe scoldings and empty threats. By the looks of it, she wanted a litter to call her own, making sure idiotic fur ball knew how to do it right. When the started this 'love making' he could not help but laugh. Hero aimed for the mid-spine when she was laying around, causing her to jump a couple feet. The stud got the hang of it, making fun of him by doing it every time he got home from work. When the fuckin' tub of lard gets his precious Juilet pregnant, he was going to hurt that stupid excuse of a cat.
The apartment was shabby, a single bedroom and bath, with a connected living room and kitchen. The view from the kitchen window was one to the alleyway, black metal ladders hanging off the side. If you climbed through the room from the kitchen glass, the bare, clean, fogging metal lined the sink. Go directly to the left, over some cream tiles over the counters. The stove/oven with a window to show the progress of baked goods. It had a few dents on the oven window out of anger. None directly touched the glass, but the upper right corner curled in a bit. Like the oven, it was white, shaking under the years of wear and tear. The corner of the kitchen appeared to end at the corner of the fridge.
Arthur lost his appetite after the lost of the paper, taking a novel to bed. He had a twin size bed, with a deep emerald green comforter. Before changing into night clothes, he searched his room to check any 'love-making' was happening. Taking his time to change into a tee and boxers. The mirror across the room caught his eye. Clumps of hair divided his forehead; as a result, giving him a slight tan line on the washed out epidermis. Black caterpillars crawled above the emerald optics, and made home. The cheek muscles tense from keeping a scowl upon his lips. Tall, bony, and lanky, could describe the body he owned. "What are my chances.." The Brit thought to himself. He slipped his glasses on to his nose, laying in the medium size bed.
Opening the worn paper back copy of 'Hamlet', the duo came into view. 'Hero' in front with Juliet at his side. She leaped to her pillow on the bed. The tabby took the chance to take the pillow, then leave some space for her. A couple angry mews back and forth, so the decision was made. He got the sheet while she had a pillow.
"Nice job Juilet." He scratched behind her foldings, Hero out cold. The papers! The work ruined! shouted through his conscious, forcing him out of bed. Once Arthur reached the main table of the room, he dumped the contents of the case on to the clear, glass slab. His hand finding the bloody piece of paper. The letters from before smudged because of the rain. 'That damn American Prat ruined my work..'
õ.õ~ ───Ｏ（≧∇≦）Ｏ──── ~õ.õ ~ ───Ｏ（≧∇≦）Ｏ──── ~õ.õ ~ ───Ｏ（≧∇≦）Ｏ──── ~õ.õ ~ ───Ｏ（≧∇≦）Ｏ──── ~õ.õ ~ ───Ｏ（≧∇≦）Ｏ──── ~õ.õ ~ ───Ｏ（≧∇≦）Ｏ──── ~õ.õ
After a sleepless night of work, the paper was retrieved, good for turning in. The couple watched him leave with a slam, tails intertwined.
If he had opened the written piece earlier, a line of digits would have been clear...
Maybe the as the one on the collar of the cat that moved in...?
õ.õ~ ───Ｏ（≧∇≦）Ｏ──── ~õ.õ ~ ───Ｏ（≧∇≦）Ｏ──── ~õ.õ ~ ───Ｏ（≧∇≦）Ｏ──── ~õ.õ ~ ───Ｏ（≧∇≦）Ｏ──── ~õ.õ ~ ───Ｏ（≧∇≦）Ｏ──── ~õ.õ ~ ───Ｏ（≧∇≦）Ｏ──── ~õ.õ
Ohonhonhon, what do you think? Not much to the actual pairing, and those cat's won't be the center of this! Just hint at center things~ Ohonhon~
Same fic, just little differences within the America's if you were wondering. He is changed to She and /minor/ personality changes.
My first USUK. More you review, the more I want to update. :D Till the next time!