Summary: "Well, I think 'that' easily equates to 'Hey, I'm interested in establishing a something with you so hit me up maybe?'" [USUK]
This was for that puttana of a jimmy maker. It was supposed to be a birthday gift but then stuff happened and there is limited net so here you go you buttface. With shitloads of love.
The first time Arthur meets him was in a Starbucks in Paddington Station.
As a biweekly ritual, Arthur goes to Starbucks on his way to work. He goes there not for its coffee but rather a cup of latte, its syrup depending on his mood. In all honesty, he'd much prefer going to Costa because he thinks they serve much better drinks there but he usually forgets to do so and then ends up climbing the escalator and gravitating into the horrendously cramped coffeehouse.
Which was where he currently was now, standing in line with his ears stuffed with his earphones and his foot tapping along to the musical surrealism of Kate Bush. He notes that he doesn't listen to her often but today seems to be an exception so he goes along with it. He nods along to the wistful waltz of Army Dreamers, content with retreating into his own space when someone taps him on the shoulder. "Sorry," he mumbles and takes a step forward when the line shifts as the person three spaces to the front places her order. He glances up at the menu for a moment before he closes his eyes once more, his lips moving soundlessly to the lyrics.
He is tapped on the shoulder once more.
Arthur opens his eyes and sees the line has not moved. Odd, he thinks and gives a light shrug, thinking perhaps the person behind him must have accidentally jostled him. He is about to retreat back to his music when he is tapped on the shoulder yet again.
Arthur glances behind him. He is not surprised to find himself looking straight into an unfamiliar face of a bespectacled man with bright, blue eyes. "I'm sorry?" he says, not bothering to remove his earphones. In truth, it was a little rude of him but the fact was overruled because he really wasn't in the mood for a chat since it's still a little too early in the morning and he thinks that it's a perfectly justifiable action to openly show one's disinterest. However, much to Arthur's chagrin, the man speaks again and whilst he feels a little annoyed, he can't help but pay attention to the way the man's mouth moves – the way he shapes his words, the way he stretches his vowels here and there.
"Pardon?" Arthur says, finally removing one of his earphones albeit a little reluctantly.
"I was saying if I could have your Facebook," the man says rather than asks and he flashes Arthur a big grin at him, as if he'd just come back winning first at a cross country race.
Arthur stares at him at a loss.
"I…I'm sorry?"
Because surely he must have misheard…right?
"Your Facebook," the man – an American, Arthur soon realises after wracking his brain for information – repeats, still grinning.
"Yes, I heard that," Arthur says slowly with uncertainty. He wonders if anyone nearby would step in and save him from this incredibly weird situation. It wasn't likely though. London was full of cold, self-centred people like himself after all. "I don't understand where you're headed with that."
"Well, I think 'that' easily equates to 'Hey, I'm interested in establishing a something with you so hit me up maybe?'," the man winks and Arthur's eyes widen a fraction.
"Excuse me?"
"So what do you say, hot stuff?"
What?
Arthur stands there with his body half turned towards this stranger, taking in the exuberant confidence which just seems to radiate from his very being. In his stupor, his remaining earphone slips from his ear and it joins its partner, dangling down the front of his shirt. For once, in a very long time, Arthur finds himself rendered speechless.
Shite, did he just call him hot stuff?
Who on earth calls people hot stuff?
"No," Arthur blurts out the moment he finds his voice. In an instant, the grin falls from the man's lips and Arthur is astonished to see how unbelievably gutted he looks.
"Seriously? With a hot booty like mine, you're really gonna pass? Everyone's been wanting to tap this sweet piece of ass and I'm offering you a piece of the Jones. You're just gonna up and leave? For reals bro?"
What?
Arthur's mouth flaps open and close one, two, three times before he shakes his head in disbelief and turns his body to the front. He gathers his dangling earphones and pockets them.
"Dude."
Arthur purses his lips and it takes almost all of his willpower to not sigh out in relief as he sees the queue move. Thank god. The brief stall in the conversation allows him a few seconds to collect himself and shrug off the weirdness which had just happened. Why, it isn't exactly everyday that this sort thing happens to somebody like him. Well, in truth, this sort of thing never actually happens. For Arthur, meeting and establishing relations with new people only occurred in either the office or a bar. And so, it is a little discomforting, he admits. Being placed in a position where he is forced to go along with a conversation which was laden with so many unknowns.
He thinks, reasons really, that it's because it's still so early in the morning. Being such a vibrant metropolis with an equally lively night life, it is unsurprising to find a handful of people in London who would be staggering their way back. So yes this is what was occurring. The other man must have had a really wild night out, woken up somewhere and was now dying for a cup of coffee to clear last night's toxicity out of his system.
Yes, yes, that seems plausible.
"The name's Alfred, by the way. Alfred F. Jones," the man suddenly introduces himself and Arthur feels the hair on the back of his neck stand on end at where his warm breath touches his skin. "I'm betting hot stuff over here has an equally awesome name?"
"No," Arthur deadpans, keeping his eyes forward. "It's perfectly normal. So normal that you'd probably never guess it."
"Normal, huh? That's cool. I mean, normal names mixed with awesome names could only end up being like super dope, y'know," Alfred F. Jones comments.
"Dope," Arthur repeats slowly.
"Yeah, man. Like super mega dope. We're talking awesomeness on the level of supernovas. So. What's it gonna be, hot stuff? I'm thinking that you look like a Daniel."
The queue moves once more and Arthur shuffles along. "Daniel, huh," he muses and rolls the name around in his tongue, tasting it and imprinting the exquisite way the man stretches the name into the back of his mind.
"Yup. So Dan. Dan the man," Alfred F. Jones purrs. "The man who I'd like to be friends with."
"Would you leave me in peace if I told you I don't want to be friends?" Arthur says.
"Aww, surely we can come to a compromise?" Alfred F. Jones tries.
"And what is there to compromise exactly?"
"Well. All I need is your name, sweet cheeks, and all you need is my love. Which, lucky for you, I have an ample supply of. So." Arthur detects a movement behind him and he thinks Alfred F. Jones is probably sizing himself up and looking overly confident back there. "What do you say, Dan? Ready to be swept off your feet?"
"You know, this is the first time anyone's negotiated something as weird as this with me," Arthur says over his shoulder. He casts the man an amused look. "Sorry, I'm not sold." Before Alfred F. Jones can continue, it's already Arthur's turn to place an order and he thinks he wants to decide on something a little different for once today. A relatively sweet drink. A caramel macchiato perhaps.
"Same thing here, yeah?"
Arthur looks over his shoulder with wide eyes and he is stunned to see Alfred F. Jones standing ever so casually beside him with a dangerously disarming smile. "Wait, wha–"
"That's seven fifty all together," chirps the cashier.
Arthur whips his head towards the till. "No, hang on –"
"Sure thing."
Arthur watches in disbelief as Alfred F. Jones hands over a tenner and actually tells them to keep the change. Wordlessly, he also for some strange reason allows Alfred F. Jones to steer him away from the till and lead him over to a pair of armchairs tucked in the corner of the café. It was only after he was comfortably seated and when Alfred F. Jones returns back to him with their drinks did Arthur finally find his voice.
"Look. Jones," Arthur starts and he can't help but feel a little unnerved with how those blue eyes look earnestly back at him. Discomforted by the intensity of the man's gaze, he wraps his hands around his wonderfully hot cup of macchiato and drags it close to him. "I'm not interested," he says bluntly. "But thanks anyway. For the drink too."
"'But thanks anyway'?"
Arthur pauses. He looks directly at Alfred F. Jones and notices that the man looks rather affronted by his words – comically affronted, to be precise – and he briefly wonders if Alfred F. Jones would punch him for not returning his terribly misplaced feelings. Admittedly, it was a remarkably farfetched thought but it could be possible.
"Really, is that all you're gonna say to blow me off?"
Arthur blinks at him stupidly.
"Um, yes?" Arthur responds, finally able to lift his drink to his lips. "What else is there to say to make you understand that I'm not looking. We've just met five minutes ago in a queue, you do realise." He takes a sip and licks the caramel off his lip. He does his best to ignore the way Alfred F. Jones was watching him closely.
"You're not gonna give me a chance? Okay take it this way. Even if we're not gonna work out, we could actually turn out to be the best of friends. Come on, Dan."
"Daniel isn't my name. That's my brother's."
"No shit." Alfred F. Jones lips quirk up at this. "Well, that narrows things down."
Arthur raises an eyebrow in question and he notices that the other man hasn't touched his drink. "What do you mean?" he finds himself asking out of curiosity.
"Well. Families which have a Daniel usually have a Richard and a Matthew," Alfred F. Jones states matter-of-factly. His gaze is contemplative and after a moment of deliberation, he leans back into his ample armchair and crosses one leg over the other. "Guess I take it that you're neither?"
Arthur smirks over the rim of his mug. "Ding ding."
"Heh. Cute."
"Reckon you'd fancy another guess, then."
"Reckon I'd fancy we go together actually."
Arthur almost laughed out loud because of how decisively clever and cheesy that line was. He shakes his head and tries to not spill his drink over his ironed shirt. "Reckon we won't work out at all," he retorts in finality.
"Reckon we would."
Arthur notices the way Alfred F. Jones was now sitting forward in his seat. He leans back into his seat.
"Unlikely."
"Jeez," huffs Alfred F. Jones. "Kill a man while he's down on the floor, why don't you?"
"It's my charm, Jones," Arthur drones. "It's how you survive in this world."
"Well you businessmen are always bleak like that, aren't you. Looking at the world through one window."
Arthur is impressed that Alfred F. Jones notices straight away. Francis often tells him that he is a little too cold and sometimes it bleeds through his persona outside the office. Perhaps that was what had happened then.
"I take it that you look through several then," Arthur remarks. The relax in Alfred F. Jones shoulders probably indicates that he was someone who studied the arts or humanities. A person who had the luxury of time to ponder rather than deliver immediate solutions on the spot.
"Nope. I've got my sights straight up at the skylight."
"Skylight?"
Alfred F. Jones nods sagely and emphasises his point by pointing upwards. "Skylight. See, windows can only take you to what you can see. Skylights however…the view is never-ending. There is no limit so all you can do is aim high."
"Right." Funnily enough, that actually sort of made sense. Arthur didn't agree with it per se but he appraised the use of the metaphor. "I hardly think you could see anyone through a skylight. No one's stupid enough to climb rooftops."
"You've never climbed rooftops?"
"No. Why? Is it a crime to not do so?" asks Arthur with a smirk as he raises his cup once again.
"Well." Alfred F. Jones flashes him a winning smile. "I think I know where to take you on our first date."
Arthur snorts against the lip of his mug. "You're obscenely confident of yourself, aren't you?"
"Well, it's how you survive in this world. And get what you want," says Alfred F. Jones as he casts him a meaningful look. Startled by the echo of his words, Arthur fights the flush of warmth he could feel climbing up his cheeks and forces himself to take a drink of his macchiato before he drops the entire mug onto his lap. "How's this then," Alfred F. Jones continues after what almost feels like two minutes of calculative staring. "If you don't want me to hit you up on Facebook, how about you just give me your name? It'll make my day."
"Wouldn't giving my name not just link you to my Facebook anyway?"
"Well, yeah. Unless you're name is some ridiculous pseudonym like Sconetastic or Cocktail Connoisseur."
"You really think I would go for something like that?"
Alfred F. Jones shrugs and grins boyishly at him. "You look like a guy who could be into either."
"Right. And you're probably a guy who's into superheroes."
"Sort of. But then I had a rethink just now and I might've realised I need to change it."
"Uhuh. To what exactly?"
"A mashup of our super mega dope names."
"Please."
"Seriously. I'm that into you."
"That so."
"Truly madly deeply."
Arthur sighs in defeat, knowing fully well that was absolutely no way he was going to win this 'thing' that was transpiring between them. He steals a glance at his watch and realises to his great surprise, that a lot of time has passed. And he was now running late. Which isn't something which usually happens in his clockwork life. In fact, this is the first time. He does not know how to feel about it.
So he stands.
And apparently so does Alfred F. Jones.
Arthur looks at him. And Alfred F. Jones does so as well.
"Look. I have to go," he goes to explain.
"Yeah I know," says Alfred F. Jones but he is unmoving and god, he has not even touched his drink at all. Did he actually buy a drink just so that he could sit down and chat with him?
"I don't have a Facebook," Arthur suddenly tells him and once he realises what he's done (For god's sake, what are you doing?), he shuffles his feet awkwardly when he notices the look of surprise on Alfred F. Jones's face. "But I do have a name." Ashamed of himself for suddenly losing control of his cool like this, he turns on his heel so that his back is towards the man.
"It's Arthur," he finally says. "Arthur Kirkland."
"Arthur, huh?" He can actually hear the smile in Alfred's voice. "Yeah. Yeah, that does sound pretty dope."
Arthur snorts softly but smiles a little. "Until next time, Alfred F. Jones."
"There's a next time?"
"Well, I did come here for a latte and not a macchiato. I reckon you'd fancy one as well the next time we meet. My treat." And with that, Arthur leaves the establishment with a paltry wave and a grin thrown over shoulder at one beaming Alfred F. Jones.