LIFE AND STYLE
Chapter One
Arthur Kirkland'
Arthur loved seeing his name in glossy print. No matter how many published pieces he had under his belt now, every magazine issue that came out he'd flip to where his article was featured and wistfully stare at the bottom of the page, 'Author: Arthur Kirkland'. It was intensely satisfying.
"You may not have popular opinions, Arthur," his editor had said to him, staring at him over his glasses, hands folder neatly atop his giant desk, "but, you cause a splash. Readers like being riled up." And so Arthur was rewarded for his brash opinions with an office and desk and recurrent spot in a home and lifestyle magazine under the Edelstein Publishing brand.
His small office, with a large western-facing window, was shared with another writer for the same magazine: a tidy, soft-spoken, and polite Japanese gentleman of the name Mr. Kiku Honda. Arthur got along with him famously and quite enjoyed sharing a working space with him. They could have friendly conversations and work in comfortable silence. Arthur had mixed feelings when Kiku broke out of the article-writing business and published his first novel. He was promoted and offered a multiple book contract along with a new, private office on an upper floor.
Arthur was happy his friend had seemingly hit it big, but sad to see him collect his things in a cardboard box before moving offices.
He then discovered he was quite fond of having a whole office to himself. At first, the desk across from his made the room feel too big, but Arthur quickly grew to enjoy the silence and extra space. He knew it wouldn't last forever, and he steeled himself for the day when he would be introduced to his new office-mate.
Arthur did his best to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest when there was an unexpected knock at his office door and placed the brightest smile he could muster on his face.
"Mr. Kirkland?" Came a soft, accented voice from behind him. Arthur spun around in his chair, removing his reading glasses from his face.
"Yes! That's me." There in the door stood a lean man in a tidy, tailored navy suit, long, blonde hair tied back in a loose ponytail at the nape of his neck and a neatly trimmed beard on his chin. He had shining blue eyes, the corners crinkled in a friendly smile. He held one slender hand out for a handshake, the other balancing a tattered cardboard box on his hip with a flourished 'FB' marked in felt on the side. Arthur grasped his hand firmly, standing.
"Francis Bonnefoy, Haute Cuisine," the man introduced himself along with the article he wrote for. He smelled faintly of something sweet, flowery. "I am your new office-mate."
"Arthur Kirkland, Brash Opinions and short fiction," Arthur responded warmly, gesturing to the empty desk. "Make yourself at home! Ah-" he quickly grabbed all his loose papers he had strewn on the second desk, having made it useful to him during his time working alone.
Arthur was a firm believer in first impressions and Francis made an excellent first impression.
Or so he thought.
Cheerful civility between the two lasted less than a week. Their working relationship degraded to petty insults and daily bursts of heated arguments. Something about Francis put Arthur on edge as soon as he rounded the corner in to their office and would stay coiled in his gut until he left for home at the end of the day. He both dreaded seeing the Frenchman and thrived on the energy that would crackle in the air whenever they occupied the same space.
Their strange dynamic quickly became a hot topic throughout the entire Edelstein Publishing building. Company-wide meetings were not quite so dull for anyone around them, the two providing easy entertainment.
"Monsieur," Francis would sigh wistfully, "I suppose you are entitled to your own wrong opinions. But must you inflict them on the rest of us?"
"I'm dedicating a whole research article to you, Francy-Pants," Arthur would say, "It's called, 'The Idiocies and Dangers Associated With Promiscuity'. I was thinking of making it a multiple-part series, what do you think?"
"Oh, rosbif, you honor me! But, surely, this piece is simply a jealous manifestation of your own inability to woo anyone?"
"I'm very skilled at romancing, I will have you know, Frog."
"Oho," Francis would delicately chuckle, "the only ones you can successfully romance are teenage girls with those fluffy fiction pieces you somehow get published. Truly," Francis would continue, "you are a brave man, for you churn out shit you call romance and attach your name to it."
"At least I have job security," Arthur would snap back, "there are only so many times you can write about dish patterns, table placements, and the importance of a well-paired wine."
"You simply do not have an appreciation or understanding of class."
"I heard the burger shack down the road is hiring, I'd happily give them a glowing recommendation for you."
"At least I don't have two monstrous caterpillars for eyebrows."
"At least I'm not a smelly, baguette-loving Frenchman."
"Rude! You are a poor specimen of an Englishman!"
"Frog!"
"Crétin!"
While they had a tumultuous relationship, and argued nearly constantly, as soon as someone else was involved they would band together. If someone insulted Arthur, Francis would hurriedly defend him, "non, you simply misunderstand him, he is a kind man at heart! He is so full of love for those that are close to him, you just have to get through his defenses. His opinions are meant to make you think!" And in turn, Arthur would defend Francis, "His articles are important. The next generation needs to learn a thing or two about class and tradition. I refuse to accept eating microwave dinners on a sofa in front of a TV as normal practice. I, for one, am glad he is making an effort to educate our readership."
At home, Arthur never disliked when his alarm would go off at 6:00 in the morning. He would wake, sometimes wishing he could sleep a little longer, sometimes rising out of his bed without a backwards glance. He would shower, find his way to his kitchen and make himself coffee and toast. He would sit in his small, sunny kitchen at the table beside the large glass doors that lead to his patio and read the newspaper. He enjoyed watching songbirds in the birdbath he had placed in the centre of his modest yard. He would holler and shake a rolled-up newspaper at the glass when he noticed a neighbourhood cat getting a little too close for his comfort. At ten past 7, he would rise from his spot in the kitchen and start to prepare to leave for work. He was out the door by half past, and would arrive to work with five minutes to spare. That was his routine. It was simple, familiar, and just the way Arthur liked it. He had absolutely no intention of changing it for any reason or for any person.
Even as a young child Arthur had been quite solitary. He preferred to play by himself than with the other children, whom he found to be quite loud an obnoxious. He did not often have much in common with his peers, anyway. His imagination was much too wild, and other kids didn't seem to be able to keep up while he daydreamed entire adventures up and lived them out in his pretend play. They boys his age were more interested in pretending to be heroes or digging in the dirt. Arthur much preferred to pretend he was being captured by dragons and he had to figure out how to escape – no one ever came to rescue a prince, after all. He had many imaginary friends that would keep him company when the other kids would call him strange.
Even as an adult, before his mother had passed away, she had fret about him and his solitary lifestyle. "You need to make more friends, Arthur," she'd fuss, "perhaps you could go live with your sister?" she'd suggest.
He'd respond, "I have enough friends. And, I love Elizabeth dearly, mummy, but I cannot even be in the same room with her for longer than absolutely necessary, never mind sharing a living space." And it was true. He did love his sister, but they were as similar as black is to white. She would sigh, of course, and mutter something along the lines that she wasn't going to be around to keep him company forever.
"You need to meet a nice girl and settle down, Artie," was another one of her favorite topics. He would regard her over a cup of tea and roll his eyes, avoiding her distressed gaze, refusing to comment. "Or perhaps a nice young man?" she'd query, Arthur nearly spitting his tea out, red-faced and choking.
"Mum!" She'd smile sweetly and ruffle his hair.
"You were always a bit different, pet." The conversation never progressed past that point.
Routine. Even his past conversations were rooted in it. He thrived on routine.
Then Francis Bonnefoy happened and threw a wrench in to his life.
At first the changes were subtle and Arthur hardly seemed to notice. But, when he did start to pick up on these things, he only grew more restless and discontent. He would sleep a little less soundly, he would wake a little more groggy. There were days when his alarm would go off and he would be positively furious at the noise. He could no longer enjoy reading his newspaper in the morning, sitting alone in his kitchen. Why? That was a good question. Frustratingly, Arthur did not have an answer for himself. The only thing that seemed to be consistent was his hatred for the cats stalking his birds in the yard.
He would arrive to work, sometimes on time, sometimes a few minutes late (which resulted in raised eyebrows from his editor if they happened to run in to each other in the hall on his way to his office). He would storm in to his shared space and wait to see what expression was on Francis' face – you see, that would determine the kind of morning they were going to have.
If Francis was smiling widely, he knew he was going to spend much of the day furious. If he looked perplexed, Arthur could expect to have an enjoyable day. If he looked focused, and hardly even acknowledged Arthur as he slid in to his office chair, he knew the day was going to be quiet and work would actually be completed by the time 5 pm rolled around.
Lunchtime was usually a welcome break from whatever kind of day he was having. Lunchtime, thankfully, was still normal.
"How is your office-mate?" Kiku asked Arthur one afternoon as the two walked to the park for lunch. Arthur very much enjoyed his time with Kiku. Kiku respected routine and never did anything too unexpected. Kiku was normal.
Arthur thought for a moment about the Frenchman. "He is a constant pain in my ass."
"You could ask for an office transfer."
"No," Arthur sighed, "it would be unkind to inflict him upon anyone else. I am used to dealing with him by now."
The two fell in to thoughtful silence as they walked, then settled themselves on a bench overlooking a field where couples were walking dogs, young families were playing with small children, a pair of friends tossed a Frisbee back and forth. Finally Kiku broke the silence, "I think he has inspired quite a bit of your recent writings."
"What? Hardly!" Arthur froze in unwrapping his sandwich and looked at the small man next to him. "Where on earth did you come up with such a notion?"
"Ah, I apologize, Arthur." Kiku ducked his head, focusing on his own sandwich. There was a moment of silence again before, "he just seems to have ignited a fire in you. Your writing has been a lot more, ah," a horrified expression suddenly passed over Kiku's face and he looked up at Arthur warily, who arched his eyebrow, urging him to continue. "You have always been a talented writer, Arthur," he said, clearing is throat. "Ever since you started sharing an office with Francis, your writing has been a lot more... impassioned."
"What?"
"In a good way!" Kiku added, shaking his head wildly. "I have thoroughly enjoyed reading your most recent articles. The short story you had published last month was incredible."
"I suppose he gives me a lot of things to have angry opinions about. He is certainly a lesson in patience." The two ate in silence for some time. "How is your book coming along?"
Kiku put the last bit of sandwich in to his mouth and chewed thoughtfully, "I am too old to be so worried about deadlines in the middle of the night," he said at last, "I suppose I enjoy it, though. It is a lot more work than articles."
The rest of their lunch was spent in pleasant conversation.
Upon returning from his meal, Arthur considered what Kiku had said. He would not have thought of Francis as an inspiration in his writing; however, later that afternoon, he was keenly aware of how the Frenchman flooded his thoughts. He recalled how he kept wondering what Francis would do in specific situations, and casually asked his thoughts on certain subjects while researching for his current piece. No sooner would he scold himself and think, 'don't ask Francis-' his mouth would already be posing a question. There would be a beat of silence as Francis would mull over his answer, then his eyes would pop up from behind the computer monitors between them as he gave a soft-spoken reply. This would often lead to a violent debate when Arthur disagreed with him.
Perhaps Kiku was right, those debates often found their way in to his writing. Looking back at his most recent work, there were often references to his office mate and his thoughts on whatever he had written about. "My desk-mate thinks...", "The other day my office-mate said...", or "My coworker suggested...", and perhaps to a casual reader, these could all be about anyone, but Arthur knew that they were all of Francis.
How annoying.
"I had a reader write in a question about single parenting," Arthur casually brought up later that day as he stretched in his office chair.
"Hm?" Francis didn't look up over the monitor, the sounds of him typing on his keyboard paused to indicate that he was listening.
"A reader wrote in the other day. She was saying something about having a career opportunity that would potentially cause her to relocate, but she has two young sons."
"Oh? What was her question?" His eyes appeared above the monitors now, locking on to Arthur's.
"If she should accept the job and uproot her young children."
"Let me see this letter." A hand of slender fingers was reaching across the desks towards Arthur, palm up and waiting. Arthur rummaged around his desk until he found the crinkled piece of paper, passing it over. Francis idly played with his hair as he read:
'Dearest Brash Opinions,
Long time reader, big fan ("Aw, Arthur! You have fans! How quaint!"). I am wondering what your thoughts might be on a personal issue I am having:
I am a single mother of two young boys, their father is not in the picture.
I struggle to balance their needs and my own life and job in order to provide for my boys. I love them dearly, but I feel I have lost so much of myself in raising them alone.
I was recently offered a position across the pond, a fantastic job opportunity that could open up a lot of doors for me and my boys in the future. This job would also be a personal dream come true!
However, taking the job would mean moving. My boys are sensitive, and I don't want to uproot them from the lives they have here, but I could do so much for them if I take this job.
Do you have any advice?
EK'
Francis handed the letter back and shrugged, "since when are you an advice column?" he asked. "What do you think?"
"I'm not sure," Arthur let the letter fall in front of him. "I was thinking of responding to it and maybe doing an article on parenting." He looked up at Francis searchingly. "I feel for her situation, it must be hard to give up your dreams, and a difficult decision when they become obtainable at the cost of family."
"I think as soon as you have children, they should become your dream." Francis said, shrugging again. "If she already knows that it would be a bad choice to move them...?" he did not continue his thought. "It's hard to give an opinion when you do not know the family and have such little parenting experience."
"I have nephews!" Arthur defended himself. If this EK though he was good enough to go to for help with such a sensitive issue, then he must be qualified enough to share his thoughts on the matter, at least in her eyes.
"I would be careful with you how respond, nugget de poulet," Francis sighed, eyes disappearing behind the monitors again. "A topic like that could easily backfire."
"Everything I write about could backfire, frog." Francis didn't take the bait and stayed silent, the typing of his keyboard continuing after a moment. Arthur sighed.
'Dear EK,
My advice...'
Maybe Francis was right? Maybe he should leave this one alone? On the other hand, it was not often readers wrote in and actively sought out his opinion on something. He usually responded to current events or wrote about his own life and musings on the world around him. While he did have nephews, he hadn't seen them since they were born, he wasn't even sure how old they were now. And the last time he'd seen his sister was Christmas several years ago.
'Do you have any family you could turn to?' This seemed like a safe, neutral direction to take his response. 'Perhaps they could watch your boys while you go on ahead and see if this job is really what is right? If it looks like the right decision, you could prepare for them to come join you later. If it doesn't work out, then you haven't uprooted your sons and you can easily return to life here.' Best of both worlds. He could give parenting advice! Arthur continued to flesh out his response, before sending it to his editor. He didn't think it would be the best thing to publish in the magazine, but perhaps Roderich knew how to get in touch with the woman and they could at least mail her his reply.
To be continued...
AN: Here's a little thing I'm working on... whoops! Please drop a review, they encourage me to keep going!
Arthur's sister is named Elizabeth. This is not Hungary. I chose the name because he's England and Elizabeth SCREAMS British to me for obvious reasons haha
Please see my profile for a detailed update schedule for my fics.
