Alphabet City B
By: Teaspoon of Heartbreak
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Hetalia is owned by Hidekaz Himaruya.
A/N: I finally got to write something! If anyone has noticed, this is can get to be pretty heavily based on the musical RENT but it will not have the same plots (at least I hope not, it has happened before ^^"). This is primarily FACE but it will have minor pairings here and there. Also, I hope there aren't too many spelling errors and such. I wrote a bit of this when I was younger, but managed to look over a few errors. If you see something, feel free to tell me! Please enjoy : )
Frost clung to the grimy windows panes of a high-rise apartment building. It stood in the infamous Alphabet City, Avenue B to be exact. A couple of people were roaming about in front of the buildings, looking for some kind of shelter for the night. Snowflakes had already started gracefully falling to the ashen pavement below, causing the small groups of people to dissipate into the covered alleys. It was going to be a hard winter for everyone.
Walking down the icy sidewalks was a man, bundled up in a long cotton coat and soft scarf. The people, huddled in their little groups, were hiding under the cover staring at him silently as he pushed his way into the building. There was silent hope lingering in the air that he was one of the rare individuals that allowed the homeless to join them in the warmth. The man gave no sign of this kindness, so they gave up and moved deeper into the alleyways. With a grunt, the man made his way through the heavy door of the building, knowing that he himself would be sleeping in the cold tonight as well.
Around five years ago this man, properly known as Arthur Kirkland, moved to New York City from his home in England in pursuit of a writing career. The New York dream, they say. He thought that it would be a breeze; that work would come to him. Five years, six jobs. Three months being the longest that he had ever has kept one. His plan was to be a writer, a journalist even, anything that would allow for a steady income to pay for the insulin he so dreadfully need.
For his first two years in America, Arthur's parents provided him with enough money for 25 percent of his rent and the insulin for the type II diabetes he was diagnosed with. They soon were having trouble providing for themselves so, trying his best to help his parents; Arthur lied to them, telling about an nonexistent job that paid for everything he needed. From then on, he barely spoke to his parents in fear of them finding out.
During this period, Arthur managed to find a roommate that shared the rent's expenses but sadly, he was in the same boat at the Englishman. His roommate's name was Francis Bonnefoy, an actor-to-be from France. Francis shared the same dream as Arthur; money, fortune, and fame. Somewhat of an easy lifestyle.
Not many people wanted an actor around this time of year. Anyone who was seeking talent turned him away because he wasn't fit for the role or they were just looking for something along that line. This has gone on for over six months. Francis took up a job at the local coffee shop; using what little wages he had to help pay the rent. With what free time he earned, Francis spent most of his time at the apartment doing absolutely nothing or hanging out with his strange friends that haunted the alleyways.
Finally, escaping from most of the chilling air, Arthur made his way to the top floor, which homed his apartment. It was a surprisingly short walk up the few flights of stairs, seeing how the building was only four stories high. He made a soft sigh of relief as he pulled the heavy doors open, revealing what seemed to be a pretty plain room. Home sweet home. A couch sat in the middle, covered in a couple of blankets and a seemingly endless amount of paper. Nothing seemed to be disturbed, so Francis was probably out again.
He didn't bother to call out the Frenchman's name, not particularly caring exactly where he was. The only few places that he would be were the café, where he worked a part time job as barista, or on the streets with his drug dealer best friend. The two usually hand out in the alleys behind the building or in the room Francis calls 'Paradise'. There is also a strange Spaniard who pops in occasionally with homegrown tomatoes. It baffles even Arthur how the he grows tomatoes in the middle of a Tent City. At least they are edible.
Gathering up the scattered array of papers and setting them on the floor, Arthur takes his place on the couch, lying his head down for a quick nap. Maybe with Francis being gone he could have a quick rest.
Just as Arthur settled on the couch, with his coat snuggly wrapped around his body, Francis and the rest of his trio burst into the room. Laughter filled the air as Francis joked with his two companions, Antonio and Gilbert, better known to Arthur as Druggy and Tomato Guy. The three seemed to be in high spirits, each of them being just the slightest bit tipsy.
Arthur grumbled in irritation, rising into an uncomfortable seated position, giving the three poisonous glares. The annoying trio kept laughing, never ceasing their bothersome laughter, even when entering the Englishman's presence. When they finally calmed down, Francis slung his arm around Arthur's shoulder, snickering at the man's glare.
"Je suis désolé, I had no idea you were asleep." The French man's voice wavered in the air, echoing through the concrete room. Arthur had to move away due to the stench of alcohol lingering on Francis' breath. Francis just smiled, letting the Brit go.
Arthur rose from the couch, tidying up his coat that hung around his body awkwardly. "If I had known that you would be coming in, I would have gone to my bedroom to escape you three assholes! Thanks for the warning, Francis."
Turning from the company, Arthur marched to a door on the other side of the room. He planted his feet and turning sharply to face the three. "Now, if you would please keep it down, I want try to sleep tonight." The snarl echoed through the room, hopefully getting through their thick skulls. He really was exhausted from the day. With those final words, Arthur pushed open the heavy door, only to be met with the dreary sight of his bedroom. After he pushed inside, the Brit closed the door in a weak manner, not slamming it like he planned, but hopefully his message did affect them in some way.
Arthur's bedroom was nothing to look at; it had a small twin sized bed that squeaked horribly if you sat on it and it was covered in three or four thin blankets with holes, thanks to the moths. There were a few windows, covered by curtains that were gradually wasting away. They kept out most of the light though. No matter the poor condition of the room, Arthur called it his own. The only thing that bugged him would be the lack of heating. Francis and Arthur were behind in the rent so often that the owner turned the one thing they needed most in the winter season.
Due to it being unbearably cold in the gloomy room, the Brit didn't change into any other clothes, only climbing into the bed with the warm clothes he already had on. Outside, the laughter of the three could vaguely be heard but it was quiet enough for the British man to get some rest. Wrapped up in his coat and the four blankets on his bed, Arthur waited patiently for sleep to overtake him. It wasn't long until the sound of people conversing and precipitation hitting against his window lulled the Brit into a light state of slumber.
The man stayed like this until morning harshly woke him with the cold wind rushing in from the door that Francis must have opened in order to check on Arthur. He did that sometimes, just checking in to make sure he was okay. Arthur found it weird but didn't say anything about it, not wanting to purposely hurt the Frenchman's feelings.
The Brit groaned in displeasure as the frigid winter air blew in, causing him to stir. The blankets barely kept the warmth in, but they were better than nothing. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, lifting his arms in the air to stretch the drowsiness out of his body.
It took him a couple of minutes to urge himself to stand, and shuffle to the cluttered kitchen that appeared abandoned. Unfinished manuscripts and lengthy auditions lay scattered on the cold, metal table. Pushing these burdens aside, Arthur sat down, pulling out a blood glucose monitor and lancing device that were buried under the copious amount of papers.
After cleaning off his finger, the man used the lancing device to prick his finger then let the blood drip on a test strip. The monitor was fairly old, mainly because he got it ever since he was diagnosed with diabetes around eleven years ago. It got the job done though, so Arthur didn't really care about it's state. Thankfully, his levels were normal, so he wouldn't have to check again until noon came around.
Finishing up his morning routine of eating a small breakfast that contained cereal and a simple glass of water. He put the cereal back on the shelf and discarded the bowl in the sink, telling himself that he was going to wash it later, along with the twenty or so other dishes that littered the basin.
Arthur turned from the kitchen and returned to the conjoined living room/office area that he did all of his writings that were never published. It was always really hard to get his stuff out there and when he did, it was always apart of the last pages, looked over by the people reading the news. Despite this, he kept writing, silently hoping that one day he would write something that was worthwhile. Something important.
He moved to his designated working area, a little table with a old model typewriter. Dust was collected on the exterior, having not been used for a couple of days. Sometimes, there wasn't anything interesting to write about and it became more of a chore to jot down every little thing.
Arthur gingerly placed a piece of paper typewriter's paper table and clamped it down with the paper fingers, holding it in place. He sat down at his space, cracking his knuckles in preparation for his day of writing. After walking around the day before, the Brit gained some needed inspiration. It took him a moment to collected his thoughts but soon he was ready, typing away at the keys as he began to write...