Masterpiece
D. E. Gibby
Arthur Kirkland is a professional painter who dreams of creating a masterpiece, when he meets a young Alfred F. Jones, who is everything he had ever imagined, and instantly wants to paint him. But soon, Alfred is gone, and Arthur struggles to create a painting worthy of the man he saw that day in the park.
_"Bollocks," Arthur grumbled as he stared at his canvas. He had been trying to paint a landscape for hours, but every time he tried to paint a lake, he had to re-do it, frustrating him greatly. Everything looked beautiful, the trees, the clouds, the daffodils gracing the luscious grass, but no matter how hard he tried, his lake looked awful.
"That won't do at all," moaned Arthur. He pushed back his blond mop of hair and wiped his large brow, unknowingly smearing cerulean paint on his forehead. His art studio, which was a simple refurbished attic, was almost as messy as he was, with photographs, paints, brushes, and art strewn about precariously. The mahogany wood floors creaked and groaned, and the tall ceilings caused the entire attic to be drafty, but the cold wind and smell of drying paint comforted Arthur. Still, he was knackered from a grueling session. He looked down at his emerald apron sighed.
"I'm a mess," he muttered aloud. He had been working so furiously that he hadn't cared to noticed the time or state of his clothes. Arthur groaned. "I guess now would be a good time to clean up and take a break."
Alfred put down his palette and palette knife, took off his messy apron, and hung it on the rack next to the door. Once downstairs, Arthur made himself a calming cup of peppermint tea, and sat down at his table, lost in thought. He had been working so hard all day that he hadn't taken some time to clear his mind.
The faint smell of paint wafted down from the attic, and Arthur breathed in heavily. Arthur had lived alone since he was nineteen, so he had made his home quite cozy in the five years he had been there, and he loved it. His home was a slight small and old, in a secrete part of London, but Arthur liked it. The red roses scattered outside, the way the sun came through the vine covered windows, the old fireplace, even the off-white, peeling paint of the walls added a certain charm that made Arthur quite comfortable, even if his family lived quite far away. He was alone for the most part, but he was quite content living secluded where no one could yell at him for splattering paint on the attic floor, or for spilling bourbon on the rug. It meant he could do things his own way, and that pleased him.
After a bit of thinking, Arthur decided it would be best to take a walk to clear his mind and relax. He put on his coat, grabbed his house key, and hurried out the door to take a walk to the nearby park. It was a great place to think, take pictures for his landscapes, and take in the sunshine, when it wasn't rainy, and today was particular beautiful.
After a while of wandering around, Arthur heard a familiar voice. "Good day, Mr. Kirkland," an older woman smiled. Arthur nodded his head politely and smiled.
"Hello Mrs. Johnson," Arthur beamed. Mrs. Johnson lived near Arthur, and had once helped take care of him when he had a bad cold, which made her like a grandmother to him. "How are you today?"
"I'm quite well, thank you, Arthur," replied Mrs. Johnson, her wrinkled face smiling happily. "Oh, that reminds me, I made too many cookies yesterday, would you like be to bring some over later today?"
Arthur nodded. "That's sounds wonderful, thank you," Arthur said gratefully. He was sure that a warm snack would help his progress on his latest painting. Her warm chocolate chip cookies always made him feel better and motivated him to keep going.
"Well, I'll bring them around sometime tonight, I'll see you then," said Mrs. Johnson, winking cheerfully.
Arthur smiled. "Thank you, I can't wait to try them!" Arthur gave another polite nod to Mrs. Johnson and continued on his way, turning around to look at her once more as she hobbled cheerfully away.
Suddenly, Arthur felt someone bump hard into his shoulder, knocking him back and making him jump. "What the-" he turned around and came face to face with a bright faced man who was picking up his glasses.
"Sorry about that!" Said the young man, smiling at Arthur. Arthur stared. Judging by his accent, he was probably American, but Arthur couldn't get over how handsome he was. His blond hair was messy, and his bomber jacket and glasses gave him a certain air that almost made Arthur's mouth hang open.
"It's alright," Arthur stuttered. He quickly attempted to brush if his coat and straighten himself out. He's looks like a model, Arthur thought.
As if on cue, the American laughed. Arthur couldn't tell if he had done it to lighten the mood, or if this strange man laughed as a natural pastime. The American finally collected himself and spoke up. "The name's Alfred, Alfred F. Jones, what's yours?"
"Arthur Kirkland," he replied embarrassingly. Then, to his great surprise, the American winked at him. Oh no, Arthur though. Has he figured me out? It's not that bloody obvious, is it?
Alfred laughed again. It was a loud, boisterous laugh, but with every laugh, Arthur just became more and more entranced by him, though he hated to admit it. "That's a nice name," Alfred said. "I have to ask though, what's a man like you doing in a place like this?"
Arthur scoffed. "I could ask you the same thing," he replied. "You are American, aren't you?"
"America the beautiful," Alfred said, winking again. "I actually came here for a late senior trip, although, I happen to be by myself."
Arthur was stunned. "Senior trip?" He asked. Just how old is he? Arthur had assumed he was at about his age, but perhaps he was mistaken.
"Well, very late senior trip," Alfred said. "I've always wanted to see London, but I had no one to come with me, so I just decided to buy a plane ticket and check it out by myself."
"How old are you?" Arthur asked. As soon as he said it, he wished he hadn't. I'm getting a little to familiar with him, Arthur thought. You just met him, calm down.
"Nineteen, how old are you?"
"Twenty four," Arthur said. Five bloody years old than him, and he's American. So why am I still talking to him? Arthur felt strange conversing with him, but he wanted to know more. Please, tell me everything.
"Twenty four, huh?" Alfred replied. Great, now he's going to stop talking to me, Arthur groaned inwardly. But to his surprise, Alfred did that wink again. "That's alright, he smirked," making Arthur gulp. "I don't mind."
To Arthur, it would have been bad enough to have this American say something like that, but the wink made it even worse. Now, he was more embarrassed than ever. Get out of here before you do something stupid.
"Well, I better go," Arthur stated somewhat blankly. "I have an, um, appointment later today, sorry." What appointment? Arthur knew very well the only thing on his schedule today was a wonderful batch of cookies from Mrs. Johnson. But he had to get away from Alfred, he was too...
He couldn't quite think of what word described this extroverted American. Handsome? Annoying? Boisterous?
"Masterpiece," Arthur breathed. Alfred gave him a confused look.
"What did you say?"
"Ah, nothing, forget about it," Arthur muttered. "Just thinking to myself. Pleasant meeting you."
Get out of here, Arthur thought. Something about Alfred was too much for him to even comprehend, and every minute he had spent with him just drove him further and further down into a never-ending dream that he had to wake up from.
"You too, Arthur Kirkland," Alfred smiled, breaking Arthur's train of thought. Arthur shuddered inwardly. It felt so good to hear him say his name.
"Good bye," Arthur said hurriedly, rushing quickly past Alfred so that he could go home. He wanted that face, that voice, those eyes, to stay in his memory. He longed for nothing more than to see those beautiful, icy eyes again. Everything about him seemed to dance in Arthur's mind, driving him mad with happiness.
Arthur had never quite felt this way before, and he wasn't quite sure how he felt. All he knew, all he cared about, even if it was just that moment, was Alfred.
Finally, Arthur rushed into the safety of his own home, locked the door, and closed his eyes, his heart beating furiously in his chest. "Alfred F. Jones, I will make you my masterpiece."
Author's note: Well, that was a rough first chapter. Thank you to anyone who actually stuck through to the end! If you want to look up the imagery I had for the park near Arthur's home, I suggest looking up Postman's Park, in London, England.
A big thank you to those on Instagram for giving the motivation to attempt my very first USUK fanfic! I hope it wasn't too terribly dreadful so far.