As Oliver bit into his chocolate muffin, staring out at the bright blue sky which beautifully collided with the Mediterranean sea that stretched out before his eyes, he tried to rest his tired mind with the breathtaking sunrise that seemed solely for him.

Turning away to take a look at the sweet he held in his hand, he lazily let the thoughts flood his brain.

By golly, seven hours straight of driving had been so very tiring, especially since he'd forgotten his emergency sweets pack… And of all places, only McDonald's was open at this time, but he acknowledged that settling for a muffin like this was the only way to get the sugar flowing again.

Wishing he were back home, he also regretted ever leaving his beloved kitchen in England! His poor teacups must have been so lonely up there in the cupboard...

Slightly pouting as he pondered his kitchenware, he was suddenly shaken back into reality by the enormous racket that came from further down the street…

Large, red banners with the well-known yellow M crossed out by a thick line of sloppy black paint, signs with an ironic "I'm not lovin' it" were crowding the French Riviera, held up by the swarm of furious protesters that was quickly making its way to the fast food restaurant Oliver had just sat down at.

As he squinted his eyes to observe the unruly crowd which angrily approached, he spotted the leader; a tall, chocolate brown haired man sporting a pair of sunglasses that perfectly matched that cocoa shade.

A worn out bomber jacket hugged his figure deliciously, showcasing broad shoulders and some well-defined biceps, along with a pair of blue denim trousers that just looked so damn perfect on him… Oliver blushed slightly, wondering what train of thought had brought him to those conclusions.

Closing in further, the Englishman could finally hear the general outbursts, although he'd immediately concentrated on the man who led the whole party and seemed to be crying out loudest of them all…

"Come on, people! We're here to get those motherfucking McDickheads to give in to our demands! Those goddamned little shits can't stop us, am I right?!"

The crowd literally seemed to drink in every last word the leader snarled, enthusiastically shouting their approval in return and stomping their feet to the ground to further emphasize the excitement that was building up in every last protester's chest.

Oliver watched them get closer and closer, staring intently at the handsome brute who led the way, blinking away the dreamy gaze in his eyes as the man stood proudly in front of the restaurant, just a few steps from him…

He happily got up and skipped towards the leader, lightly tapping his shoulder to get his attention; as the other turned around, glaring venomously at the far too elegantly dressed Oliver, his heart skipped a beat and he'd almost lost the courage to actually speak.

"H-hello there, might I ask what exactl-"

"What the fuck do you want, ya limey fag?"

Struck by the rude response the man, who seemed to have a rich American accent and a deep-rooted hatred for the English, had given him, Oliver narrowed his eyes and turned away immediately, regretting ever thinking about that boorish, crude young man who'd also appeared far too enticing in his tight denim…

He quickly slapped himself mentally, just as the American had decided to do the same to his shoulder.

"Hey, listen, I was just playin' around, don't gotta be all that sensitive about it, dude. So you in this with us? The protest I mean. It's all us vegans an' shit against those McDonald's assholes. They don't stand a chance."

Furrowing his thick, blond eyebrows, Oliver had barely had a chance to utter a "Well,…" before the American sat himself down at what previously had been his chair, continuing his uncouth monologue.

"Alright then, we got another supporter. Fuckin' awesome, man. Oh yeah, I'm Al, an' who are you s'posed to be?"

Oliver straightened his blue bowtie, cleared his throat and cheerfully spoke up, reaching his hand out for a handshake.

"I'm Oliver, very nice to meet you, dear!"

Al frowned in distaste, grabbing the man's hand gingerly and immediately producing a grimace that was supposed to appear as some kind of smile.

"Right… So uh, Oliver, you heard what this was all about yet?"

The young Briton shook his head and pursed his lips, signalling for the other the go on.

"Basic'lly one guy found some shitty horse meat in his muffin, kinda like that one ya… Got… Right there.."

If the blanching on Al's face followed by a furious expression was any indication, Oliver had just completely lost the man's trust.

Lovely.

"Fuck, dude! You sit out here all willy nilly and I think you're protesting with us, an' instead you're actually supporting these douchebags! You gotta be frickin' kidding me, I mean what kinda game are you playing?! Just—

"Pardon, but you're th—"

"Just get outta my fuckin' sight!"

The Brit's eye twitched almost imperceptibly.

Count to ten, Ollie, he's nothing but a small annoyance.

"Hey, you even listenin'? I told you to move your ass, kid."

Nostrils flaring and bottom lip getting mercilessly bitten.

Keep calm, dearest. Don't let anger seep through your demeanour.

"Dammit, would ya leave?"

Teeth gritting, nails digging into his palms.

"Last fucking time I'm saying it. Move."

"No."

The edgy response hung between them, challenging the American to return his attention to Oliver.

"The fuck did you just say?"

"I said no, you pissy American."

Al turned around slowly, swivelling his hips and stretching his back menacingly to show the other just who he'd messed with. You'd better be ready for an ass whoopin', kid.

His intentions died then and there, along with his words. Pink and blue swirling irises bore holes into him; they were distractingly colourful and bubbly, almost fairytale-like. You couldn't tell whether you were staring into cotton candy, with those fluffy and comforting pastel tones, or a man's eyes. There was some kind of underlying danger, but Al just gawked back with the same intensity, unable to sense it. Swallowing dryly, Adam's apple bobbing, throat tightening with each passing moment of that exchange of gazes, the American inhaled heavily to repress the threatening landslide of thoughts.

"Are you by any chance going to say something coherent instead of grunting in my face? Or is that your habitual speech pattern, love?"

Those eyes hypnotised him, rendered him useless, like a puppet on a string. As though a sort of sinister magic trapped him in its grasp, left his mouth agape and diminished the bravado he'd shown up till few moments ago. It was the dark attraction of Oliver's spinning orbs that numbed his brain.

There was no reflection upon them, just a whirlpool of bright tints which sucked him in and softly whispered to him…

Come closer. Yes dear, closer.

Al nodded, unaware of how alarmingly small the distance between them was becoming, and of the fact that Oliver was brandishing a pocket knife, pointing it straight at his jugular.