Arthur was born with a silver spoon in his mouth-clothing pressed free of wrinkles and, as a child, every toy he could ever want. His only complaint with life was that he had more brothers than he would like, but one couldn't change their family and for the most part he could tolerate is kin. His mother, when not with her clique of glammed up hens, wanted her songs to partake in some sort of the arts.

Violin was what Arthur got stuck with. Countless lessons, bleeding fingertips, classical music always in his head. But he enjoyed it, finding the instrument would relieve his stress and given that his life was filled with it. From a young age, he knew he would be going into some sort of business-like profession. By the time he was done with high-school, he had made his decision: law. At age 26, after a loan from the bank (which he promptly paid back as soon as possible), he opened his own firm. Kirkland Attorneys and Associates.

While at first it was tough, his law firm began to grow. The team grew larger, more cases were taken on, and Arthur felt content with his life. At least, his work life. He spent more hours in the office or the courtroom than he did his own home and he hadn't gone a date since college. The only time he was bent over a desk was when he was filling out forms, and every time he shook hands with a colleague he had to hope they didn't notice that one hand was smoother than the other.

Before he knew it, nearly a decade had gone by and he was approaching 36. His life was scheduled down to the minute and he was used to the routine and the structure. There were only a few things he didn't appreciate-interruptions to his beloved schedule, and one of his employees, François. An annoying ass, but one who did his job well, so it wouldn't be beneficial to fire him.

Arthur had been driving out to the bar, carpooling with François in order to get some celebratory drinks for winning another case. Then there was a loud 'pop' and the car beeped, alerting a decrease in tire pressure.

"Turn left up here, there's a car shop nearby and we can get there before the wheel is useless," instructed François, pointing down the road as Arthur swore under his breath-he'd had the car for five years and not once had he had problems with it, so why now? He just wanted to get drunk and then sleep for a good couple of hours before he had to go back to work and pretend like he didn't have a hangover.

Pulling into the parking lot of the car shop, the duo stepped out of the vehicle and walked inside. He saw a pair of legs peeking out from underneath a car, clearing his throat before speaking, "hello?"

The owner of those legs slid out from beneath the car and stood up and-hot damn. The mechanic in front of him had to be in his twenties but he looked like a god. Broad shoulders that strained against the material of his jumpsuit as he stretched, a grin that could make anyone weak in the knees, and his eyes were such a pretty shade of blue that Arthur was sure that even the best painter could never replicate the color.

Arthur was rendered speechless. He had known he was gay but any doubts he had ever had were washed away by the man in front of him. Then his thoughts were interrupted by the mechanic beginning to speak.

"Hey, nice to meet ya-don't think I've seen you guys around before. My name's Alfred, if you want you can call me Al. I'd shake hands but," he held up his arms, showing his palms were covered in grease and oil.

François took notice of Arthur's shock and bit back a laugh, instead allowing himself to smile as his eyes crinkled around the corners. "It's a pleasure to meet you, but I can't deny that I wouldn't mind those hands meeting some other places at another time," he purred, tone flirtatious as he winked and ignored how Arthur clenched his jaw.

The tip of Alfred's ears went red, surprised by the remark, but he allowed himself to laugh. "Maybe another time," he said with a teasing hum, grabbing a rag and cleaning off his hands, "so what brings you here?" fuck off hum is a word

Now, Arthur had never found the southern accent anything remarkable, but Alfred's drawl threatened to melt him like butter. He managed to keep composed, but only barely as he spoke, "we, uh, got a flat tire. There was enough air in it to drive it over here, but-" he was cut off as François spoke.

"It's the old Jaguar parked outside," the Frenchman said, pretending not to notice the fact that Arthur was glaring daggers into his back.

Alfred followed the two men outside to where the car was-old and clearly having seen better days, but to Arthur a car was a car. His only problem with it was that right now it couldn't drive. "Do you want me to replace all the tires? The tread on the other three have worn down pretty much all the way and it'd be better to get them replaced now unless you wanna keep coming back to get them fixed."

Arthur had to bite his tongue to refrain from saying that he wouldn't mind coming back several times, instead opting for the words: "you can go ahead and replace them all. How much will it cost?" He took out his checkbook, glancing at Alfred impatiently whilst waiting for a response.

Once the check was written and set to the side for after the repair work, Alfred began his job. He'd take off one tire, put on a new one, then move onto the next. He was surprisingly efficient with the task and Arthur couldn't help but admire his form as he moved around, the slightly-too-small jumpsuit giving him a nice view of every movement.

François took advantage of Arthur's cowardice, making the first move. He stood by Alfred as he did his work, cracking jokes and slipping in the occasional pick-up line. By the time the tires were all replaced, François had slid a scrawled number into the pocket of Alfred's uniform with a sly grin.

On the drive to the bar, Arthur pretended like he didn't care, that he didn't feel jealousy burning in his veins at the thought of his colleague hitting on the stranger. Afterall, Alfred was merely a stranger. A mechanic who had fixed his car, and that's all he'd ever be. An incredibly sexy stranger.

Arthur couldn't enjoy the drinks as well as he usually would, still bitter by François' move. So by the end of the night, he wasn't nearly as drunk as he would have liked, too busy having muttered under his breath about how François could say 'open sesame' and someone would spread for him.

After returning home, Arthur changed into a pair of briefs, running a hand along his chest before climbing into bed, hoping to get some well-deserved sleep. But before he could doze off, his phone chimed. Grumbling, he picked it up, assuming it would be work-related. Wincing as his eyes had to adjust to the brightness of the screen, he found himself flabbergasted by what the message read.

{Hey there, hot stuff.}

Blinking rapidly for a few moments, trying to figure out who it was (as it definitely wasn't François' number) before sending a response.

[May I ask who this is?]

{Playing hard to get, aren't we?}

Now Arthur was frustrated-who the hell was this person?

[No, I genuinely don't know who this is. I haven't given my number to anyone as of late.]

{Oh, shit, man, I'm sorry, I must have been given the wrong number.}

[It's alright. Who were you planning to text this evening?]

{Some guy named François who I met today while fixing his and some other guy's car.}

Arthur paused, torn between embarrassment and anger. François had acted as, what he believed it was called, a wingman. So he was angry that François would do such a thing and embarrassed that he had been deemed too shy to be able to flirt with someone he found attractive.

[Ah, that's my colleague. I was the other man there at the shop today. The blond with the Jaguar? I don't know why he would have given you my number since you're quite a catch.]

Feeling bold, Arthur sent another text before Alfred could respond.

[Would it be alright if I took you to dinner tomorrow night to make-up for my coworker's little prank?]

It was a few minutes before Alfred responded and Arthur was worried that he had fucked up, his heart leaping to his throat when his phone chimed again. God, he felt like he was a 9 year old trying to ask out his babysitter. Or a teenager, that might have been a more appropriate comparison.

{Sorry, was cleaning up-I spilled my coffee D: but I'd love to go out for a bite to eat! Would tomorrow at seven work?}

[That'd be perfect. There was a quaint cafe nearby the car shop, so maybe there?]

Arthur didn't want to pressure the lad with a fancy dinner, especially as it would be a first date-was he allowed to call it that? He didn't know what constituted as a date.

{Yeah, that place has some bomb-ass food. I'll see you there, and I'll make sure to clean up beforehand so we can actually shake hands this time ;)}

Feeling his cheeks burn red, Arthur sent one last text before turning in for the night.

[I look forward to it.]

He found himself sleeping quite soundly, a foreign excitement filling his stomach as he thought about being able to go out on what he believed was a date.

It was rare that Arthur didn't wake up to the sound of an alarm, but he had a precious day off and wanted to sleep in. Upon awakening, he panicked, thinking it was later than it was before calming as he saw the clock read 11:03 A.M.

Then he spent the next few hours fretting over what to wear. It was a casual date, but he still wanted to look nice, and he'd only ask François for fashion help when pigs flew. Eventually settling for a pair of form-fitting, dark wash jeans and a black button down shirt, he set them to the side before moving to take a shower. He scrubbed his skin raw and lost count of how many times he washed his hair. Arthur shaved the slight stubble on his face and even tried to tame his hair (the key word being tried). By the time he spritzed himself with cologne, he was surprised to find that it was nearly 6:30.

Arthur grabbed his keys, stepping out of his home and towards his car, starting the engine. He took a moment to look at himself in the rearview mirror, giving himself a weak pep talk. "You can do this. You're not an acne-ridden teenager with crooked teeth anymore. It's just a date with a mechanic who looks like a god. No big deal." Feeling more anxious than he had been prior, he drove off towards the cafe, nearly having to tear himself from the seat in order to walk inside.

With a glance around, he saw that Alfred hadn't arrived yet, so he took a booth near the window and ordered some drinks for when he came. He sat down, resisting the urge to chew his nails-he was sure he had gotten rid of that habit back in pre-law.

When Alfred arrived, Arthur cleared his throat, standing and outstretching a hand. Alfred clasped it firmly, calloused fingers rubbing against Arthur's white-collar smooth skin, "it's nice to see you, Arthur. I've been looking forward to coming here, since I've not had a reason to stop by and grab a meal here."

Arthur found himself smiling, "well, I'm glad," he said, motioning for Alfred to take a seat before sitting back down himself. "I ordered drinks, if that's alright with you."

"Yeah, that's fine." Drinks came, and then shortly after that, entrees, the two learning the basics about each other.

"I never attended college-," the comment piqued Arthur's interest and he couldn't help but interrupt.

"Why not?"

"Didn't have the money. Grew up on a farm, didn't do well enough in school in order to get a scholarship," he said with a shrug, "but I liked cars and I don't mind getting my hands dirty, so I took up a job as a mechanic."

"I'm sorry-," Arthur began but was cut off as Alfred shook his head.

"No need to apologize, you were curious. But what about you? What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a lawyer, Kirkland Attorneys and Associates."

"Fancy job for a fancy man," Alfred teased, motioning to Arthur's attire whereas Alfred was dressed in a graphic t-shirt displaying some video game and jeans; it was just a cafe, after all. No need to dress up.

Arthur blushed but continued to eat, praying that the other didn't notice his embarrassment about overdressing for their date. Awhile later, entrees were finished and Arthur paid the bill (allowing Alfred to pay the tip after some light argument), then they headed to a bar for drinks.

The lawyer was determined to hold his liquor for once, if anything to keep his mouth shut and private thoughts exactly that-private. Though, Alfred, who he learned was 24, still held his youth, ordering shots for the both of them.

Arthur tried not to grimace, meekly clinking his glass with Alfred's before downing the liquid. He'd much rather down some scotch over whatever attempt to mimic a fruity taste the shot was, but he didn't complain. He found himself holding his bitter attitude for once, just happy with Alfred's presence.

With the strong liquor and Arthur's lack of capability to handle it, it wasn't long before he was, as the kids put it "drunk off his ass". He was slurring, cheeks red and eyes already bloodshot as he joked with Alfred, the younger man not quite as drunk but feeling his own buzz as well.

Arthur didn't remember who made the first move, but they had begun moving closer to one another and then all of a sudden their lips slammed together in a hungry kiss, teeth knocking together and fingers tangling in hair. It was only when the bartender cleared her throat that the two paid and left, snickering like school-children who had put a pin on their teacher's chair.

They were drunk, so driving wasn't an option, but Alfred was still sober enough to lead Arthur down the few blocks it took to get to the auto repair shop, which was closed due to the later hour. Alfred had the keys to the place however, unlocking the door and letting them stumble inside to the front service desk, grasping Arthur's hair as they continued to make-out.

Clothes were soon shed, Alfred sheepishly revealing the bottle of lube he had in his pocket (thankfully not the lubricant meant for cars), before they were at it again, kissing and groping, only parting when their lungs demanded it.

Arthur was always sure he'd be the one bending someone over, but he didn't argue when his chest was pressed against the cold wood and slick fingers pressed at him. Under normal circumstances, Arthur would have never done something like this, even when absolutely hammered. But with Alfred, he didn't mind, merely raking his nails along the desk as pleasure shot through him over and over.

When they both had finished, relishing in the afterglow, they slowly pulled clothes on and while Arthur's back was turned, Alfred grinned at the security camera, always recording-he didn't care if people saw, Arthur was worth it.

After cleaning up the mess as best they could, Alfred pulled Arthur into another kiss before speaking, "can we do this again sometime?"

And voila! I may or may not add a second chapter at some point that delves a bit more into their relationship and how it continues (I probably will, who am I kidding), but if I do, rest assured, it's more than just a fling. They'll end up happy. Probably.

Written for my friend, Suds. nowgivemedystopiasuds