I am made of fail. I should be updating the others but no, I just had to get inspired by copious amounts of Lady Gaga and Adam Lambert. XD For once, this isn't a kink meme fill or a fill for a request, so I'm hoping it's well-received. XD Please please please leave a review and tell me what you think!
I need to put a disclaimer for the entire fic: I don't own Hetalia, the Venetian, Macau, or any of the places mentioned in this chapter and probably in the next ones too. The descriptions of Macau are all true except for the airport because I've never been there. However the beachfront, the casino exteriors, and all the descriptions of the Venetian are written down from experience, so it's as true as far as I can remember. Peaches is really playing, and Zaia is still showing at the Venetian. I did research on Princeton and MIT for real courses. Later chapters will have plots & strategies that I myself cannot implement, but they are heavily researched and I'll be portraying their application as accurately as possible.
Arthur Kirkland leaned back in his seat, heaving a sigh as the man in front of him rattled off places to go for their monthly excursion. As usual they had left the planning late, and though it didn't really pose a problem for them, Arthur hated to procrastinate.
"There's the AirCruise," Francis Bonnefoy said, waving a hand in the vague shape of a kite before bringing his wineglass to his lips. He smoothed a hand over his elaborate blue crushed velvet shirt- casual wear, lovingly created for him by his mother, who owned one of the world's most renowned designer brands. Arthur personally thought it was the tackiest thing he had ever had the displeasure of seeing.
"It isn't open to the public, is it?" Arthur's finger twirled lazily around the rim of his glass of water- Francis had wanted him sober for the discussion, much to Arthur's dismay- as he rested his chin on his hand. "I hate to mingle with the masses."
"It's quite a thrill," Francis laughed, and Arthur's lip curled in a sneer. "But no, at the moment it is not. It goes from London to New York in 37 hours. Long, but the facilities are passable."
"By whose standards?" Arthur wondered aloud, then shook his head. "Knowing the way these people price things, it would cost a few grand each. Perhaps it would be measured in millions. No, thank you."
Francis threw a couple of their notes in the air, miming throwing bills. "When has the cost ever stopped us?"
Arthur and Francis had been best friends since childhood, although "best friends" was a term loosely applied- "rivals" would have suited them much better. Francis had been about six years old, and Arthur just a toddler, when the Kirkland family had become acquainted with the Bonnefoys, whose designer brand had taken the whole of Europe by storm. The Kirklands were an old, wealthy family in the business of manufacturing machinery and equipment, and had recently branched into toys. They had contracted the Bonnefoys as clothes designers for their more upscale dolls and plush toys. Arthur had been the recipient of their very first test- a plush unicorn with a silk mane, luxurious white coat, and a dark green, ruffled shirt. Arthur had thought the clothing hideous, and had chucked it straight at young Francis' face as soon as he figured out how to remove it. It had been the beginning of a more than twenty-year friendship.
It was a testament to how close they were that despite the numerous fights and declarations of hatred, only Francis knew that Arthur still kept the slightly battered unicorn and slept with it every night.
"I don't like this cavalier attitude of yours," Arthur grumbled.
"And you should change that rudeness of yours. It's unbecoming on you." Francis looked him over with a critical eye. "In fact, you should change your whole face. It's an eyesore."
"You bloody frog-!"
"Anyway," the Frenchman said airily, waving aside Arthur's protests. "If you truly don't like the AirCruise, what do you suggest?"
Arthur thought for a moment. "Somewhere hot. The tropics, perhaps. Somewhere in Asia."
"Phuket is always good-"
"Thailand?" Arthur raised a brow at him.
Francis shrugged. "Perhaps not. Singapore?"
"The last time we were in Singapore, you left me alone, without my mobile, in Chinatown while you hopped between bars, picking up girls in Clarke Quay. I had to take a fucking taxi."
"Hm." Francis tapped his cheek. "We've never been to the Philippines. I have heard Amanpulo Island is nice enough."
Arthur sighed. "Just because I want the heat does not in any way mean I want to go to the beach."
"Because you simply sit there under the shade, drowning in sunscreen. Fine then. China? Indonesia? Malaysia? Make up your mind."
The British man thought for a moment, raising his eyes to the ceiling. "Macau," he said suddenly, drawing a surprised look from his friend.
"Why Macau?"
"Grand hotels, casinos everywhere. It's something you'd like, and I've heard the Venetian is wide enough not to be cramped even when they're full. Give me a minute." Arthur pulled out his mobile and checked something online. "Ooh, Peaches is performing."
"Ah, the electro-pop woman." Francis didn't sound impressed.
"It's punk, you daft bastard." Arthur clicked a link with his stylus. "They're also showing something called Zaia. It's by Cirque du Soleil."
Francis smiled. "Now we're getting somewhere."
Three days later they were touching down at the Macau International Airport in the Kirkland's private jet, going through immigration away from the chaos of the main floor, by virtue of being too rich and famous to ever not cause a scene. One of the personnel on break had, in fact, jaw-dropped and squealed when she saw them, having just opened her magazine to a magnificent centrefold picture of the two friends.
"You're an excellent model for our pieces," Francis commented as they sat in the hired limousine, being taken to the Venetian resort. "Pity about those eyebrows, though. They're terrible."
"Shut up. I quite like them," Arthur said stiffly, and Francis made a pained noise.
The limousine was driving along the beachfront, and Arthur took his time to look around. It was a pretty place- all green and quiet, though they had been unlucky with the weather and the sea was a disconcerting greyish colour. Despite the peacefulness of the scenery, Arthur had spotted more than five casinos on his side of the road, and had no doubt that once night came the place would be bursting with life.
He pressed a button beside him and spoke into the microphone. "Richard," he called to the driver. "Could you drop us off at a side entrance, if any? I don't really want to go through any crowds."
"Of course, Master Kirkland."
They pulled into a large parking lot, with hotel buses dropping off guests beside them. The two friends stepped out of the car when Richard opened the door for them. The Venetian from this angle looked tall and modern, with many glass windows and very little decoration.
"What do you think?" Arthur asked Francis as they waited for Richard to bring out their bags from the trunk.
Francis sniffed. "It doesn't look like much. I hope the interior is better than this."
"It had better be, for the price. But to be fair, it's a side entrance."
They strode to the entrance, Richard following behind them, Arthur nodding curtly to the bellboy to take their bags from their chauffeur. The small lobby was moderately crowded, but the slack-jawed stares they received from the other guests ensured a clear path to the reception desk.
"Francis Bonnefoy," the Frenchman said disinterestedly, checking his nails. "I assume the room is already prepared? I paid extra for that."
"Of course, sir." To her credit, the receptionist acted completely normal, and was quick and efficient with her work. She brought up the details of their reservation in less than a second, surprising considering that all of the 3000 suites were booked. "One Royale suite, is that correct, sir?"
"One?" Arthur hissed, but Francis didn't look fazed. "This is the last time I'm letting you make the reservations, you filthy pervert."
Francis ignored him in favour of sending a smile and a wink at the receptionist. She blushed brilliantly as she handed over their keys, telling them that another hotel employee would be with them shortly to escort them to their room.
Arthur and Francis exited the lobby and climbed the stairs leading to the main body of the hotel, barely sparing a glance at the gawking rich tourists and hotel staff. When they reached the top of the stairs, they stopped, gazing around at the sheer opulence.
The long, wide corridor was painted and tiled in refreshing creams and red-browns, light green accents subtly emphasizing the best areas. Ornate gold carvings decorated the place, strategically set to catch the eye. The fresco on the ceiling was tasteful and elegant, and expensive designer shops lined the whole corridor.
"What do you think now?" Arthur asked, smirking.
Francis broke into a wide grin. "It feels just like home."
Alfred F. Jones was having the time of his life.
He and his friends had just checked into the Venetian, and it was the grandest place he had ever seen. He could only dream about riches like this, and to be a guest at the megaresort was simultaneously exhilarating and humbling. They had just seen a pair of VIPs waltz into the lobby- Elizaveta had said that they were Europe's top male models, and one was the sole heir of Bonnefoy Fashion. Even Alfred, who never really bothered with things outside of America, recognised their faces, though he didn't know their names.
Alfred flopped onto the bed of the Bella suite that they had booked, stretching his arms out and yelling out his excitement. Elizaveta Hedervary looked fondly at him bouncing around in excitement, but scowled when her long-time rival, Gilbert Beilschmidt, flopped onto the other bed in a graceless heap.
"Gilbert-san," Kiku Honda chided softly from where he had seated himself on top of a suitcase. "Be more polite in the presence of Elizaveta-san!"
"Yeah, Gilbo, your flab's showing," Alfred said, laughing.
Gilbert hastily sat up and pulled down his shirt. "It's not flab!" he said indignantly. "They're abs. You're all just jealous of my awesome body."
The four friends were top students from America, although Alfred was the only real American there. Kiku was his schoolmate at MIT, transferred from the Tokyo Institute of Technology when his parents decided to migrate. Elizaveta and Gilbert were from Princeton, both international students from Hungary and Germany, respectively (although Gilbert insisted that he was Prussian). Elizaveta majored in computational biology, Gilbert in materials engineering, and Kiku was a genius with any sort of physics. Alfred himself was immensely proud of his course- aerospace engineering- and considered everyone else's to be a waste of time.
"We're here for four days," Elizaveta said, clasping her hands together and grinning widely. "So we have a lot of things we can do. I don't want to hit the casino tonight; this hotel's too nice to not explore. We'll start tomorrow instead, around nine or ten, then we'll work our way till morning." She gave a pleased little squeal, and bounced on the balls of her feet.
"Aw, man, what're we gonna do until then?" Gilbert groaned, stretching out and yawning.
"Shopping, of course!"
It was only after two and a half hours of straight shopping that Alfred and Kiku were finally able to escape, leaving the other two when they had been distracted by a particularly vicious argument. The Grand Canal was awesome, Alfred had to admit, being a replica of a Venice canal, complete with painted blue sky and gondola rides. But there was only so much shopping a guy could take, especially when Elizaveta and Gilbert were having one of their infamous spats.
Kiku had retired to their room, but Alfred had gone up to the recreation floor, trying to relax after a tiring day. The sun was still out, but he knew that it would begin to set soon, so he had brought out his towel and trunks to make use of the multiple pools the hotel had. Curiously enough, there weren't very many people in them- in fact, only the one with the Jacuzzi was being used. He dropped his stuff by the heated lap pool, and dove right in.
Swimming wasn't really one of his favourite sports, but he found it relaxing, and soon enough the slow but sure pace he had set was beginning to relieve the stress of the past few days. College had been difficult lately, and his grades were beginning to slip. Even though he knew he should be studying, this vacation was sorely needed.
He broke the surface as he reached the end of his fourth lap, gasping for breath and smiling, before he heard voices wafting in from the Jacuzzi-equipped pool.
"...so we watch Zaia tonight. We should be heading up soon," a distinctively British voice said, haughty and commanding.
The reply was delivered in a light French accent, and Alfred wondered absently who these people could be. "Ah, but the pool is so relaxing! Surely we can spare a little more time?"
"If you hadn't reserved the one room, we'd have more time in the bathroom for ourselves, you sick pervert."
"Non!" The French man sounded shocked at the accusation. "Not at all, my dear. That was nothing of the sort! After all, I didn't do this-"
Alfred heard a girlish shriek, and the sounds of violent splashing and thrashing in the water.
"Don't you dare- you fucking frog! Don't touch me! Get your disgusting hands off-!"
Alfred heaved himself out of the pool and all but ran to the source of the commotion, stopping dead at the sight of a slim blond struggling furiously against a taller and obviously stronger man. Alfred snapped, reaching in and hauling the shorter blond from the pool and out of the Frenchman's grasp, running to the other end of the lap pool.
"Are you alright?" he asked the man when he set him down, not even sparing him a glance. He was too busy watching the French guy as he got out of the pool and leaned against a post, wary of a sudden attack.
"You bloody git, who the hell you think you are? What the fuck do you want with me?" An angry voice replied, and Alfred turned, startled, to meet a pair of stunning emerald eyes. His jaw dropped in shock.
It was one of the VIPs from earlier, one of Europe's top models if Elizaveta was right. He brought his gaze up and down the man, marvelling at how he was meeting an actual supermodel. He could hardly believe what he was seeing- the man before him screamed celebrity, with his glittering eyes, pouty lips, and such a slim figure-
He was snapped out of his star struck thoughts by a surprisingly strong slap on the cheek. "Just let me the fuck go, you wanker, or I'll call my security on you!"
Belatedly Alfred realised that he still had a solid grip on the other man's arm, and he released him, mumbling an apology. It would probably bruise in the morning; he wasn't known for his strength control. "I'm sorry, but he was trying to- to..."
The model sighed, glancing over at where the other one was still leaning against the post. "Francis always does that. Fucking pervert, that one, but I've known him forever and he wouldn't do anything more. Bloody git didn't even follow us. Bet you could have been a rapist and he wouldn't have batted an eye." At the shocked expression on Alfred's face, he sighed. "No, he's not that evil. I hope."
"I'm sorry, I just wanted to help." Alfred was more humiliated than he'd ever been in his life.
The model sighed again. "I know. You're an idiot for it but... thank you. It's nice to know your intentions were honourable." There was a bright blush on his cheeks, as if he were embarrassed by what he said, and Alfred was entranced. When he started to walk away, the college student held him back with a light hand on his shoulder.
"Wait. What's your name, please?"
He turned, surprised. "You don't know me?"
Feeling even more mortified, Alfred began to babble. "Sorry, I don't, but I know you're a model and I've seen you on covers-"
The other man cut him off. "It's Arthur. Arthur Kirkland." But he offered a small smile as he said so, before he turned away to join his companion, who must have been Francis Bonnefoy.
Alfred watched Arthur go, still reeling from the fact that he had just talked to a major celebrity- saved him, even if the threat was completely harmless and kind of stupid- and had actually gotten a personal thank you. He turned back to get his things from the side of the pool, a giddy smile on his face.
Arthur Kirkland. He'd never forget that name.