A/N Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, but the name of Arthur's band and any song lyrics you might see in this fic are mine (except for the ones at the beginning of each chapter, those are property of the artist and noted as such with the song lyric in quotes, followed by the artist name and song title). The title is a play on one of David Bowie's stage personas, Ziggy Stardust. The chapter titles are song lyrics/titles. Obviously this fic, like so many of my others, will include music references. I tried to keep everything time period specific, meaning nothing after 1987. To better understand/familiarize yourself with the mood of the story, I encourage you, gentle reader, to check the songs out via the YouTube or the iTunes or good ol' fashioned record store (if any still exist). Geography note: Birkenhead is a city in England. It's across the Mersey River from Liverpool. Rated T for language, drug references, adult themes. Thank you for reading and enjoy!
"'Tis then when the Hurdy Gurdy Man comes singing songs of love." ~ Donovan, Hurdy Gurdy Man
September, 1987
The train ride from London to Birkenhead should have lasted only two and a half hours, but between the lorry smashing into a bridge abutment and the train ahead of theirs stalling, the journey took the better part of a day. Arthur spent the time humoring a couple of West German tourists who seemed all too eager to practice their English on him. For his part, he hardly uttered a word, keeping the largely one sided conversation flowing with a few shrugs or shakes of the head. When he felt particularly bold, he managed a nod. It wasn't that he found tourists annoying - on the contrary, he found their enthusiasm a bit endearing - it was more due to the fact he was annoyed with Germans in general at the moment. Well, maybe not Germans as a whole. More like Austrians, to be specific.
He had spent the week playing host to an up and coming Austrian composer who seemed rather indifferent to the idea of expanding his musical career beyond the borders of Europe. Hell, he barely conceded to cross the Channel and even meet with Arthur. After what seemed like endless negotiations, he finally deigned to make the trip to tour the studio and discuss production of his next album.
Needless to say, Arthur was more than thankful to be ending this week, even if it meant being stuck on a train with German tourists.
When he finally disembarked, the sun had well past set. His whole body ached as he hefted his bags up to the taxi stand. Arthur was always amazed to discover how much he hurt after sitting so long. Like his joints decided to seize up. He probably should just walk; his flat wasn't that far, and the night was mild...
But he was dead tired.
As he approached the cab stand, a group of rowdy teens ran past him, snagging the last cab. Arthur sighed and lit a cigarette. Well, that settled it.
He adjusted the strap on his briefcase, shifted his duffel, and started walking.
.
When he got to his flat, he let the bags drop just inside the door as he leaned against the wall, catching his breath. He needed to quit smoking.
A blinking red light on the hall table caught his attention.
Arthur peeled himself off the wall and shuffled over. The number five blinked incessantly up at him. Five messages on his answering machine. Most likely from Francis. He was supposed to have been at the pub four hours ago. Arthur groaned, pressing his fingers to his tired eyes. It was Sunday. He doubted very much his pub was seeing any action. But he had promised Francis he'd stop by after his trip. And Francis liked to check on him...
Arthur went into the living room to have another smoke. He deserved a small rest after that trip. Besides, Francis could wait another five minutes.
Arthur inhaled deeply and sank back against the couch cushions. A wistful grin flitted across his lips. It never changed. The smell of his flat. Rather, the smell of his parents' flat. For that's what it was. Their house. His house from childhood. One of the only things they ever gave him, aside from the pawn shop guitar that started his music career. The smell never changed. His mother's cooking. His father's cologne. Sunk deep within the fabric of furnishings and clinging to the wallpaper.
It had been ten years that month since his parents passed. Automobile accident. On the M6, heading up to Blackpool for a weekend. Terrible. Arthur still remembered the phone call and the endless insomniac nights spent on Francis' couch. He stopped driving his own car shortly after. Never had much luck when it came to automobiles...
Ten years, and Arthur had watched the march of progress turn his once working-class town into upscale restaurants, commercial centers, and housing replete with all the amenities of modern living. He kept the flat, realizing its property value and needing a getaway from the hectic pace of London life. The only change he dared undertake was to turn his parents' old room into his own recording studio.
The clock in the hall chimed half past eight. Arthur's cigarette had burnt out. He tossed it into an ash tray and stood. Francis, no doubt, would be worried.
The pub Arthur owned was only a short walk from his flat. It had been his first business venture, before his recording studios, before the production company in London. He bought the pub on a whim, needing a distraction and not really caring if it would prove a success. But it did. And Francis had been there, keeping the bar, since the beginning.
"Arthur! Mon Dieu! Where have you been?"
Francis was on him the moment he walked through the door.
"Train," Arthur grumbled, settling on a stool.
Before he even could ask, Francis was already pulling his favorite lager from the tap.
"I was concerned," Francis said, setting the pint on the bar top and fixing his friend with a hard look.
Arthur shot him an eye-roll that said I know.
He downed half the pint before asking: "How's it been?"
"How d'you think?" Francis asked, gesturing past the bar.
Arthur spun in his seat.
The pub was crowded. How had he not noticed when he came in? Probably because he was so used to seeing it dead on a Sunday night...
And everyone's attention fixed on the corner where the jukebox stood. But the juke had been pushed off to the side, its space now occupied by a young man on a barstool with a guitar and amp. It seemed Francis had taken it upon himself to book music acts in Arthur's place.
Arthur turned back to Francis just as the singer belted out some lyric from a Billy Joel song.
"You have shit taste when it comes to talent," Arthur quipped. "Though I must say - " he peeked back over his shoulder - "I'm betting you were listening with something other than your ears when you hired him?"
"You're such a snob. So what if I think he's cute?" Francis said with a playful smack to Arthur's hand. "The kid's not that bad. And in case you haven't noticed, this place is near capacity. It's been that way every weekend this month."
"Is that how long you've booked him?"
Francis nodded with a superior look on his face. "And I just might keep him on the roster 'til Christmas."
Arthur rolled his eyes and returned to his beer. The music, no more than a buzzing background echo. He was dully aware of it - and even less so when it stopped and was replaced by a punctuated applause.
What he was aware of, however, was a bright voice behind him saying: "Hey, Francis!"
Arthur groaned into his pint. It was bad enough the kid played Billy Joel, but did he really have to be an American, too?
"Evening, Alfred," Francis returned. "The usual, I presume?"
"Nah," the kid called Alfred said, swinging a leg over the stool beside Arthur. "You got any bourbon back there? Nineteenth Century European Politics is already kickin' my ass this semester, and I'd really rather forget how I did on that last test."
"You know, if you ever needed any - ah, what is the word? - tutoring, I could be of help. I'm a bit of a history buff," Francis smirked.
"Yeah? No kiddin'. I'll keep it in mind."
Arthur snorted at Francis' horrible flirting attempt, and the kid who seemed wholly oblivious. "Is he even old enough to drink?"
Alfred turned his gaze on Arthur as if he were seeing him for the first time. "You wanna see my I.D., old man?"
"He's twenty-two," Francis tutted.
"Well, if he's doing so poorly in school, perhaps he should be studying instead of here," Arthur scoffed.
"Hey! 'He' is sitting right here, man," Alfred said.
Arthur shot Alfred a withering gaze, taking in everything from the tousled hair to the glasses and Harvard t-shirt. Frat boy, Arthur sneered. "Shouldn't you be across the river, chatting up some co-eds with your extensive Beatles knowledge?"
"Nah. I was always a Stones fan, myself," Alfred said smoothly.
"Right. And I suppose you really do go to Harvard and aren't just following some trend?"
"Sure do! Except this semester, of course. Study abroad program."
Arthur knocked back the rest of his pint, irritated he had yet to strike a nerve. He didn't know why, but something about this American was pissing him off - more so than the Austrian.
"You have shitty taste in music," he said snidely, hoping that was the right button to press.
"Bite a guy's head off for playin' some Billy Joel, why don'tcha. Why're you bitching? Got a request?"
"Yes. Why don't you just fuck off."
"Jeez, Francis, who is this guy?"
"I happen to be the owner of this pub, thank you!" Arthur bristled.
Francis smirked as he set Alfred's drink down and refilled Arthur's pint.
"What? Really?" Alfred said, genuinely curious. "How come I haven't seen you before now?"
"I've been in London. On business. Not that it's any of yours." Arthur took a swig.
Alfred turned his tumbler thoughtfully on the bar top. The ice clinked against the glass.
"Ice, too?" Arthur sneered. "If you're going to put ice in your whiskey, why don't you go ahead and finish the abomination and add the soda."
"Excuse me. I know it must offend your sensibilities to like my drinks chilled. If you'd ever been to Texas, you'd know why. Can't help it your English blood runs cold."
Arthur ignored the jibe as Alfred sipped his bourbon.
"I don't particularly like Billy Joel," Alfred said after a pause.
"What?"
"I said I don't - "
"I know what you said. I heard you. I only said 'what' as a - a reflex, of sorts. I didn't mean for you to keep talking."
"Oh," Alfred said, a look of hurt flitting across his face. "Well, I - I just thought you should know. Considering this is your place and all...I only play it 'cause, y'know, it's what the crowds like. Music they don't really have to pay attention to. If you want me to play somethin' else, you can let me know."
"Just as long as you don't play any of that arena rock crap, I think I'll be okay."
"What about Steely Dan? Grand Funk Railroad?"
Arthur made a derisive sound.
"Aw, c'mon! 'I'm Your Captain' is a classic! What about Supertramp? They're British..."
"Good God, is that really all you listen to?"
Alfred laughed. "Nah. I'm only messin' with you. Although I just might play 'Captain' for you. If I told you what I really liked, you wouldn't believe me."
"Oh, wouldn't I?" Arthur said drily as he took a sip from his pint.
Alfred chewed his bottom lip, an eager look on his face. His knees bobbed up and down on the stool. He sat perched on its edge, an inch from falling off.
"Okay fine, I'll tell you," Alfred said. "Scandinavian heavy metal." He paused, waiting for a reaction. When none came, he pressed on. "And Kraftwerk is...interesting. But oh my god, there's this one band - they were from, like, the sixties, and...oh my god, if you heard them, I swear they'd change your life! You might know 'em. They were British. Only put out one album, but man, oh man! I swear to god, dude...life changing! They were called HissyFitsKill."
Arthur felt the color drain from his face. He was glad the lights were dimmed.
Behind the bar, Francis made a noise like a strangled cough.
"Have you heard of them?" Alfred pressed.
Arthur sniffed and reached for a cigarette. "'Course I have. That band actually put out two albums, though the sophomore one never made it across the pond. Hardly made a dent over here either, as I recall."
"Seriously? Oh man, I would kill to get my hands on that second album! So, like, you've heard of them, right? I mean, you've heard their stuff? Am I right...totally mind blowing. Their sound was unlike anything out there at the time. It was punk before punk was punk, y'know? Just think, if they'd've waited like five or seven years, they could have been something huge."
Arthur gave a solemn nod. "Indeed."
"Alfred," Francis said gently, "your break's nearly up."
"What? Oh. Okay, thanks, Francis!" Alfred finished his drink and turned once more to Arthur. "So, before I go, you got any requests?"
Arthur shrugged, taking a drag from his cigarette.
"What about Clapton? You like Clapton?"
"Sure," Arthur murmured. "Just...play anything but 'Layla'. I'm sick of that ruddy song."
"How 'bout 'Crossroads'?"
"Yeah. Okay." Arthur tapped the ash into a tray. "Something bluesy'll do."
Alfred grinned and headed back to his corner, oblivious to the change that had come over Arthur.
.
.
.