Musical Differences
Chapter 1
Alfred exhaled as he strummed his pencil against the table, trying to tap out a beat as he stared blankly at the equally blank music sheet before him. The empty black staves were taunting him mercilessly, and he longed to scribble all over them with quavers and minims, but that was like considering throwing a comeback at a bully when you had no idea what to say.
Alfred exhaled again, more heavily this time, as he dropped the pencil on the desk, not minding when it bounced off onto the floor upon impact, and sidled away from the foreboding desk to spin around in his chair for a bit. He produced a gust of wind as he spun, and his room with the carpet covered in layers of dirty clothes and screwed up sheet music and the video games piled upon the DVDs on the shelf by the small screen TV were a blur, like the cars that raced by in the streets of London at night, pumping out their loud music, acting a bit like an ice cream van that had nothing to offer. Alfred remembered why he had bought a spinning chair as he embraced the sensation of artificial wind blowing through his golden locks. He smiled and closed his eyes for a moment, imagining that he was flying through the clouds, like Superman would. He was soon frowning again though as he remembered how much this chair had cost him. Not that he was complaining – it was totally worth it – but he wished he had been more careful with his money, for now he barely had any left in his account.
Alfred stopped spinning, and although his eyes were still swivelling around in his head he attempted to gaze at the photograph above his desk from behind silver-framed glasses. The photograph was a picture of him, his brother and his parents back in Washington DC, smiling cheerily underneath the blue sky. Alfred smiled in return at the familiar faces in the image, with a small tingle of home-sickness resonating through him like when you plucked the lowest string of an acoustic and let it resound.
That picture was taken around the time when Alfred managed to see his dream framed in his mind. He longed to become a musician, and a legendary one at that. He admitted that he had a bit of a hero complex, and he hoped that one day his songs would be the sort that saved people from such things as suicides and depression. He longed to be a thriving musician in the United Kingdom though, where all his favourite musicians were – the best of the best. He would surely become one of the greats if he started out in the United Kingdom, right? Maybe he'd even meet one or two of the people he admired, and they could share with him some wise words and teach him some musical magic. And so, with his idealistic imagination, Alfred pulled out thousands that he had saved in his bank account, bid his dear friends and family farewell, and headed to the United Kingdom – headed to the top.
Alfred thought that his music would be acknowledged very quickly, and soon he would gain all his lost money back and more. However, after two years of living in London and busking in the bustling streets every other day, Alfred was beginning to regret his decision. He still was not a star, he still was not a musical hero, and he was still swimming in debt. Alfred spun round in his chair again, slowly this time, taking in all the grubby details of the apartment which was really all he could afford. The paint was peeling in some places, and there was damp and mould in the corner of others. He didn't have much furniture, and a few of the furnishings, like his bedside table and the chair in his bedroom, were actually wooden crates and boxes.
However, just because some of his furniture was made of boxes, doesn't mean he should stay boxed up in this mangy apartment. Alfred, despite the tough time he was going through, still had hope that someday soon his big break would come. He'd write an awesome song, it'd become an awesome hit, he'd gain awesome fans, he'd play at awesome venues and arenas, he'd gain awesome money and feel awesome when he paid off his not-so-awesome bills. But to do that he needed inspiration – song inspiration – so he got up from his chair, grabbed his keys, phone and wallet and plunged them into his jacket pocket as he took one last look around the apartment and sneered at the offending music sheet on his desk before heading out.
Alfred had at first been excited about moving to London. All his friends that had been there for a vacation had told him that it was very beautiful and very lively. Upon arriving, Alfred realised that they were right. The architecture was astounding – it was as if the Londoners were OCD, and so, every building, every brick, every window pane, every roof tile, and every door and its frame had to be perfectly symmetrical and even in height and width. Not that he was complaining – it was pretty – but it could also get a bit boring. None of the buildings differed – none of them had a unique feature different from the rest. You could walk past a building and feel like you walked past it just a while back because all of them are so similar, with their tones and hues and saturations of light grey to dark grey. There were tiny inklings of colours on the frames of doors and windows and on the vehicles blazing the streets, but nothing that could lift the stream of charcoal colours flowing through the city like an over-repetitive beat.
Alfred sighed. This scenery was no good – it only made him want to write morbid songs, and morbid songs weren't going to cheer anybody up, or save them. Alfred wished he had looked up London on Google images before going there. That way, maybe he would have realised how grim looking it is and decided to move somewhere else instead. Spain perhaps? Playing acoustic in the warm evenings of Spain might have been nice. But he wasn't in Spain. He was here, shivering in the cold late afternoon of London, getting pushed and shoved by the sea of people flittering in the opposite direction, and he had no way out of this hectic city.
He wriggled his way out of the crowd as they rushed to the London underground, on their way to slave away at their work until evening. However, Alfred couldn't feel sympathetic towards them. At least they were making money – he barely made a cent. He made about £70 a week busking, and if he had a pub to play at he might even make £100, but that was barely enough to pay for his apartment. Luckily for him, the landlord, Gilbert, was pretty chill about it and let him off with the rent as long as Alfred remained his drinking buddy. Alfred didn't much like alcohol, but he'd do anything to keep Gilbert from turning on him.
Alfred looked through the window he had pressed himself against to get away from the crowd, his expression changing to pure bliss when he realised it was a coffee shop. If he falls into no other American stereotype, he'd definitely fall into the coffee-loving one. In fact, searching around the streets of London for inspiration was hard work, right? So maybe he could just rest in here for a bit.
Alfred didn't need to convince himself further. He was inside that shop faster than a badass guitar riff. He was greeted by a cashier with prim hair in a bun an a wide smile, her uniform tucked in appropriately, and Alfred suddenly felt a little conscious of his untamed bed hair and sluggish outfit, but he didn't let it show as he ordered a cappuccino and took out his wallet.
As the cashier was getting his beverage, he let his eyes rove around the shop. It was quaint, to say the least. The entire room smelt of coffee beans and fresh pastries, and an empty ambiance resonated throughout the wooden beams and steel piping. A majority of the red plush chairs scattered upon the green carpet remained untaken, only a few being sat in by such people as a middle-aged woman daintily sipping at her black coffee as she gently pushed her baby 's pram to and fro, lulling it to stay silent during her break. On the table opposite hers was a classic old man – a pipe in his mouth and a newspaper in his hand whilst a doughnut rested in his other. Chocolate smeared across his moustache as he took a bite, but he was too absorbed by his article to bother fussing with it. And then Alfred looked at the final room occupant, alone in the corner. He was a young man, by the looks of it, wearing a green sweater vest and red tie over a cream blouse. His slim legs clothed in black trousers were crossed, and one of his arms was supporting a book whilst the other supported his face, as if he himself were one of the fine structures of London. His face sported a humorously thick pair of eyebrows, but such eyebrows framed the most dazzling green eyes above a thin line of plush pink lips. In other words, he was hot.
"Your cappuccino, sir."
Alfred was stirred from his captivation by the cashier's voice, and he flustered about madly with a red hue to his cheeks. "Y-yeah, sorry!" he spluttered, quickly grabbing his hot mug and practically crab-walking away from the counter, garnering a chuckle from the cashier.
Alfred stopped flustering like a pigeon when the woman stopped watching him, and he breathed out heavily, trying to expel the embarrassment from his system. He looked up at the young man in the corner again, watching him as the man licked his thumb and used it to turn the page of the book in his hands. Alfred then looked all around the room, at the variety of empty chairs for him to choose from. He looked back to the man's table after browsing the room, taken by that rather empty seat opposite him. It felt like the red material stretched across the mahogany frame was calling to him to sit there. Alfred scanned the room one last time, weighing up his options, before gulping down his nerves and proceeding towards the corner.
The young man looked up from his page as Alfred sat down opposite him, smiling sheepishly. Those green eyes then swivelled around the shop before focusing on Alfred again. And then that thin line of lips broke as he opened his mouth.
"You do realise there are empty tables all throughout this room, right?"
Alfred felt like he had been stung by a bee. What a cruel opening line.
"Yeah, I'm not stupid or nothing." he replied, maintaining his smile.
"Of course," the man drawled, "that must be why you used a double negative just now."
Alfred laughed nervously as the man returned to his book, Sherlock Holmes. Alfred almost regretted sitting at this man's table. Why were Londoners so rude? Or maybe this man was just shy? Yeah, that must be it. Alfred decided to keep pushing at the man to open up. Maybe it would even be a glorious moment? Like a blooming flower!
"So, you like Sherlock?" he asked, leaning over to get a good look at the black ink printed across the yellowing pages.
"No, I hate him."
"Oh." Alfred bit his lip and leant back again, wallowing in his seat. If you don't like it then why are you reading it, he thought.
The man looked up at Alfred again, and sighed in exasperation, "Don't look so glum. I was obviously being sarcastic. Why would I read a series I didn't like?"
Alfred blushed again, "O-oh, right! Ha, I was totally thinking the same thing! Crazy, right?" All the man responded with was a half-hearted hum before he turned another page, his green orbs following the cascading of the paper as it settled onto the pile of already-read pages. "Ahem," Alfred coughed, "this is the part where you continue the conversation."
The man looked up once again, "Why?"
"Because…that's what people do when they're beside each other. They talk."
The man paused for a moment, staring at Alfred – staring him down – before putting his book down on the table, neatly pushing it to the side (Yup, Londoners were definitely OCD) before using both his hands to support his face. "First of all, I was not prepared to sit by anybody. I came to this corner solely to be alone, and so, it was not me that started this conversation – I thought that my dissolving into the corner tactic would tell people to piss off. Unfortunately, it seems like such a tactic doesn't work on Americans seeing as you have not only come over here to sit opposite me, but you have initiated the conversation. Do you hear me? You initiated this, and I was dragged along for the ride. Now, if it is a conversation you are looking for then bugger off over there to that old fellow – I'm sure he has some war stories to enthral you with."
Alfred stared back at him, flabbergasted. This man, though beautiful, was certainly one of the venomous types – like a snake rhythmically sliding flawlessly through the grass as it cornered its prey. The man went back to his book now, probably hoping that this would be the end of it, but Alfred just grinned widely, like a lion cornering the snake. He liked them feisty.
Alfred pushed his hand into the young man's face, chuckling as the dusty-blonde leant back away from the offending hand. "I'm Alfred. Nice to meet you."
The man frowned, "Didn't you listen to anything that I just said?"
"Meh, I zoned in and out of the speech."
The man grimaced at first, but he took the offered hand in the end and shook it lightly, "Arthur Kirkland."
"Arthur Kirkland." Alfred repeated as he shook his hand. He was surprised at how soft and warm Arthur's hand was, but he enjoyed the sensation all the same. "You're really, really British, man."
"Really?" Arthur replied sarcastically, "I hadn't noticed."
Alfred laughed, "And you're funny too."
"Cheers." Arthur grunted, lifting up his cup of tea to take a sip of the warm liquid.
"Hey, is that leaf water?" Alfred grimaced, leaning back to drink his cappuccino.
"No, it's tea."
"Yup," Alfred sang, "leaf water." Arthur groaned at this, wondering what had possessed him to acknowledge the presence of this fool. Now look what he had gotten himself into.
"So," Alfred began, resting his head in his hands like Arthur, "what are you doing with your life?"
Arthur leant back as Alfred leant forwards, wiping crumbs off of his knee as he did, "English student."
"Oh, wow," Alfred gasped, "you must be super smart then, right?"
"I guess you could say that." Arthur coughed, quite uncomfortable with someone gazing at him with such admiration in their eyes, although he couldn't say that he didn't like the feeling of it, "As for you?"
"Musician!" Alfred replied, beaming across at Arthur as he played an air guitar, "Well, I hope to be someday."
Arthur hummed, considering Alfred's ambitions. "And until then? What are you currently doing?"
"Uh…" Alfred slumped in his seat again, looking down at the table with its age-old stains, "…Absolutely nothing. I just busk all the time to get by."
"Oh, your parents must be so proud." Arthur smirked.
"You bet they are!" Alfred practically glowed, not at all noticing Arthur's sarcasm, "And my bro too!"
"Oh, I'm so bloody happy for you."
"Cheers!" Alfred imitated Arthur's accent, laughing as the Briton scowled.
"That was a terrible mockery."
"Maybe it wasn't supposed to be good." Alfred winked and stuck his tongue out mischievously to the side. Arthur just rolled his eyes, but then he lifted his wristwatch up to his line of sight and he breathed out as he got up from his seat, picking up his book and turning to the American staring after him in awe, "I think that's enough talking for today."
Alfred frowned and furrowed his brow. He wasn't letting Arthur go just like that. He didn't know why, and he didn't really care why, but he found Arthur to be such an interesting being. He was like the other Londoners, but different. If only he could know more about him and find out what made him tick. Such a striving was probably what made Alfred get up from the table as well, leaving his half-finished cappuccino as he briskly skipped forwards to keep up with the retreating Briton.
Author's notes: OMG, WHY AM I WRITING THIS WHEN I ALREADY HAVE SO MUCH TO DO, WTF, I'M AN IDIOT, WHAT IS THIS, HOW AM I GOING TO DO THIS, I CANNOT EVEN, FFFFFFUUUUU- Disclaimer: Alfred, Arthur and Gilbert belong to Hidekaz Himaruya.
Okay, rant over. Anyway, despite already having another story going on (Of Books and Beverages) I could not resist getting to writing this idea straight after it came into my mind. And what's more, I'm actually more confident about writing this one than OBAB because I've actually planned this one out (seriously, I've planned out all the content and what's happening in what chapter. I've even prepared the epilogue). My writing isn't very good, and I struggle to write stories with chapters (I'm better at one-shots) without repeating myself, but I shall try my best, and I hope those that become compelled to follow this story (if anyone does) will manage to put the terrible writing aside and enjoy reading on as Alfred and Arthur become drawn to each other via the element of music, despite their differences.
Critique is welcomed, comments are appreciated!
Thank you and enjoy!
AnorexicWalrus~