Note (February 2013): This fanfiction is currently being revised and edited; please see latest chapter (entitled "PSA") for further details. Thanks!

Full Summary - Arthur Fitzwilliam Kirkland was an average man; cynical, unfriendly, and poor as dirt, perhaps, but still your everyday blue-collar worker. He works two jobs and has two loves in his life: books and music. Arthur may not have it all but he's happy as it is: everything is set how he likes it, and he doesn't want that to change.

However, Fate is of different intentions when her winds blow Francis Bonnefoy over from the other side of the Channel. Brilliant. Because Arthur could use another problem in his life; a problem in the form of an overpaid, arrogant lawyer whose sole purpose in life seems to revolve around money, drink, and sex.

Warnings: Language, alcoholism, drug abuse, language, violence, a small bit of sex, and language.

Enjoy!

Trudge

Music pounded through the small room, the air rich with sound, sweat, and alcohol. A constricted mass of people swayed to the violent beats that were being thrown at them, creating a rhythmic vibration that rocked the stage's worn floorboards. Arthur smiled inwardly as he felt it, blaring out the song lyrics with a renewed energy. He was warm, his clothes were dirty, and his hair was sticking to his face, but the pure hate and condescension coming from all the youth below the stage was radiating off them, feeding the angry song that shook the club.

Anarchy?

He spat out the word, grimacing at the few cheers its simple uttering provoked. Most of the kids at the club knew very well his opinion of the stereotypical anarchist punk.

Hell no!

Good-for nothing, uneducated, and just going with the flow. Rubbish. Nonsense. Those types were even worse than the elitist and the oligarchs they were supposedly rebelling against.

I just hate the status quo that's painting me into the symbol of bigotry!

It was quite sad – or rather, thoroughly infuriating – how his preferred form of rebellion had been turned against him, pieced apart and put back together into a completely new monster, unrecognisable from its original form. Where were the days of telling off government and tearing away from societal standards? Of picketing and shouting and crying for change? Gone, Arthur grimaced as the music continued to flood around him, his fingers trailing the well-known strings of his guitar. And he, with his half-torn clothes and self-administered piercings, offered a poor resistance to that 'status quo' he was wailing so angrily about. Pathetic, really.

As the song ended with a violent brush of the guitar strings though, a chorus of praise and claps rose, making the room shake even more with the unbroken noise, and the leading man's thoughts were cut off entirely.

Running a hand through his wet hair, Arthur smiled to his audience and waved.

"Thank you! Bloody hell, just... Just thank you! Glad you liked it!"

Leaving the rest of his band-mates to clamour in the fan's adoration, Arthur slipped out, nodding a quick goodbye to his bassist, and entering the relatively quiet backstage room. It was a box-like compartment, meant only for quick makeup retouches, and outfitted with a chair and mirror. Still panting from the singing, the blond simply sat down and stared at his reflection.

His hair was a shade darker, glistening with sweat that occasionally rolled down his forehead. His cheeks were spotted with a rosy hue from both the sultry heat and choleric words that had been surrounding him only moments ago. His eyes, though half-lidded and encircled with dark sleeplessness, still gave off a brilliant gleam that he had rarely seen those past five or so years; time changed a person. He wondered, as he gaped emptily at his reflection, lips slightly open to take in large intakes of breath, if his mother would still recognise him like this; shadowy and sinewy and angular, and not at all the once stout studious boy she had so loved. And his brothers?

He gave a small smile.

If only they were to see him now, oh, the things they'd say... probably something along the lines of him being an absolute disgrace to the family, a failure at life in general, etcetera, etcetera. He'd heard it all before.

And, to be perfectly honest, he could only agree.

Anyone who had thrown away the chances he had been offered deserved to be called a disappointment.

However, Arthur's small self-pity party was quickly ended as a pair of icy hands slapped over his eyes, making the small man jump and flail his arms around, almost toppling off of his chair in the process.

"Guess who, prinzessin!"

The familiar scratched voice made him stop in mid-motion.

Oh. Of course.

Casually, the blond regained composure and slowly crossed his legs, tone as languid as his movement, "Gilbert, remember that one time when I told you I'd cut your hands off if you did that again?"

"Yeah?"

"I wasn't joking."

The albino cackled and let go of his band-mate, choosing instead to seat himself comfortably on said blond's knees and looking into the mirror in an attempt to pat down his militarily straight-cut hair, despite the punk's (rather violent) protests. "Sure you were, Art! If you really did that, who'd be awesome enough to play bass for your band?"

"That's right," Arthur smiled drily, having given up on regaining any sovereignty over his legs. "You're the only bassist who'll take such cheap pay."

Gilbert's hands immediately shot up in protest, "Hey, hey! Music's music, liebling, and if I gotta work with some deadbeat with a Napoleon complex and his awesome beer buddy to be able to play what I want, then so be it!"

"And me who thought you rather enjoyed our company. I'm hurt, Gilbert, I'm really, truly hurt," the sarcasm poured evenly out of Arthur's lips.

"You two aren't that bad either, I suppose. It's all relative, right? I mean, compared to, say, a pack of starving wolves, your company is pretty damn great!" The German man chuckled, swinging his strong arms up to stretch his back. "But ya know, it's a good gig you got us here, Art."

"Arthur," the other corrected. "And I know, the guy here pays well enough. Plus, we've got an audience, which I suppose is more than I can say about the usual fine, fine establishment we frequent."

"Yeah, and what an audience! Not to mention the pay almost makes up for the gas the van eats."

"You mean the piece of junk you bought off of that old lady?"

With a look of utter pain in his eyes – all fake, Arthur could tell by the smile that was tugging at his lips – Gilbert turned around to face his bandmate "Dude. Don't insult my beautiful van! It carries all your shit; it's practically part of the band!"

"Oh yes, I forgot you had an odd love for the thing. Have you named our new 'band-mate' yet?"

Gilbert looked thoughtful. "Well, I was thinking, since I'm awesome and all, about calling it 'Mein Kampfervan'." He smiled and waited.

"Really?" The blond deadpanned. "Really, Gilbert?"

"Oh, c'mon, man! Don't leave me hanging! Say it!"

"No."

"Come on!"

"I refuse to."

"Be cool for once!"

The Englishman rolled his eyes and sighed. "Fine, fine. 'I did Nazi that coming'. Happy?"

The albino laughed and quickly ran his hand through the singer's already ruffled hair. "Very!"

"God damn it, Gilbert! Stop that!" The smaller man cried as he tried to get Gilbert off of him, albeit with little success. However, in the midst of his effort, he suddenly hunched over, a grappling cough clawing its way up his throat; It wasn't until a good minute after that he stopped, short of breath and panting heavily.

"Birdie...?" Arthur looked up to see two concerned red eyes looking at him.

"It's nothing. And the name's Arthur," the blond grunted, voice still hoarse.

With an exasperated sigh, Gilbert took a firm, almost bruising, hold of Arthur's chin and tried to keep his voice steady as he spoke, "Listen, Birdie, I know we've already discussed this, but can you get the fuck over your pride and let me help you? We can share my flat, and you'd have some food, and—"

At that moment, the door of the room was thrown open, and Mathias, an ever-excited Dane, walked in, booming. "This job was amazing! The chicks here are so into drummers, they were all over m—" as he saw the scene in front of him, Mathias paused in his sentence and gave out a snicker, already accustomed to his band-mates' antics. "Am I interrupting something here? Because hey, if you're about to get all naughty in that chair, I'll just take my coat and leave," he added with a wink.

Blushing, Arthur stood, leaving the German to fall on the floor with a loud thump, and got his own jacket. "No, this is just part of Gil's goodbye ritual, you've obviously never had the pleasure of experiencing it. In any case, I'm off. Put my guitar in the van, I don't feel like carrying it home." He turned and got to the door, before turning back for a second, "Oh, and Gilbert? I'll be fine. But thanks."

And with that, he went out, leaving one slightly confused Dane, and one fuming German behind.

Revised!

Well, I feel as if that went rather well; it feels good to have this be somewhat more acceptable for myself.

For the past readers, the changes here were purely grammatical, although it is worth noting that the song lyrics now (hopefully) make more sense and give way to Arthur's feelings about his music and the world in general. He seems rather stuck in the past, if you ask me.

I feel I must still apologise for the tastelessness of Gilbert's joke; I will forever see him as a mix of loser and genius who laughs at his own jokes. I am deeply sorry. I love him, really, and I see him as organised and military and all of that, but I can't seem to veer him away from being loudly awkward. I wonder why...

Anyways, hope you enjoyed it and thanks for reading! :)