Hetalia is the work of Hidekaz Himaruya and in no way belongs to me. All characters and musical references in this fanfiction belong to their respective owners, and will remain as such throughout the remainder of the story.
Los Angeles, California was a place meant for the rich and famous. High income businessmen brought their families simply for the easy access to their work and several perks that came with growing up in a city overflowing with opportunity. Hell, opportunity walked down the streets almost every hour in the form of black ties (sometimes red or metallic) and expensive shoes. With a sun shining on every head sweating hopes and dreams, it was easy to pray for your time to shine. Just sixty seconds of fame is all it took in this town to make it big. Sadly, it took the same amount of time to leave you black, brown, and blue in the streets.
Lowly office workers like Toris could only wallow in routine while the wealthy graced theaters and clubs on a daily basis, basking in the pleasure their wealth brought them. As magical as the city was, the plain brunette could only imagine copiers and tall buildings harboring stressed out suits whose highlight of the day was dramatized, equally drawl, employee gossip.
Toris loudly exhaled, his fingers cramping after spending nearly an hour typing a massive report on something he didn't particularly find interesting. His worn, black, padded chair creaked from the slightest movement, and the noise joined in harmony with multiple similar ones emitting from the cubicles taking up the brightly-lit , rectangular room. Although the noise grated on everyone's ears, it refused to make the room any more lively, and only left a stale silence with the occasional thump of footsteps or closing of a door to interrupt its repetitious unity. The only evidence of life other than the tired workers were dull posters advertising the coffee shop downstairs, or a useless event no one planned to go to, but some were unlucky enough to require their presence at. The room looked as cliche as any other office space portrayed in movies, only it did not promise an adventure with the entrance of an odd customer or phone call. If anything, it promised to entrap anyone willing to sign away their career a life of boring safety.
"Like, don't be like that Toris. You're totally going to make me depressed." Toris glanced from his computer to his childhood friend, Feliks, watching him from above his plain-white cubicle. The flamboyant blonde always seemed to be exuberant in their droll life, proven when Toris came into work one day to see the man with shoulder-length hair and proclaim cross-dressing as his hobby. His country-girl dialect and vulgarity didn't help. But, despite his...unique behavior, he remained top on his work and had no sympathy for Toris' sadness.
Toris stopped before another sigh could escape his lungs, embarrassed for his show of solemnity. "Sorry Feliks. Writing about these shallow people drives me nuts, I can't help it." He worked for the journalist department of EX Productions, famous for their top charts recording artists and musicians. Almost everyone they signed became huge, but it was their most recent success that exceeded even his expectations.
Arthur Kirkland – 'the Marauder', as he liked to call himself, was a recent singer whose voice and songs sparked unknown emotions in fans that only increased their love towards him. At his debut, a small concert performed at an outdoors party near a busy park, crowds flocked to hear the magical man whose voice called to them like a siren in the sea. What was to be a small show attracting perhaps one hundred people quickly ended up as full-blown concert with thousands of spectators. Kirkland was deemed an instant success, and his popularity only increased from there. Sporting short, messy blonde hair, impacting green eyes, and thick yet charming eyebrows; if the obsession did not breed from his looks or his music, even the most uptight bookworm would succumb to his charm from the words he beautifully sung in a soothing British accent.
Everyone was amazed someone in such a profession could write so poetically. His words trumped popular repetitious songs, inspired his listeners, and influenced quite a few public artists. At least seventy artists; ranging from sketchers, painters, and sculptors to programmers and video game designers; had sent samples of their Arthur Kirkland-inspired pieces featuring interpretations of his song lyrics, often including a letter of praise to the celebrity. Everyone assumed his British heritage was the reason for the stimulating lyrics, but Toris' dismissed that as ignorant American stereotypes.
While he appeared to be a nice guy from the one time Toris had met Arthur, he didn't feel quite the same about his fans and fellow celebrities. The mellow office worker felt sick writing up so much information about a person he'd met once, just so strangers could flock like birds to a feeder and have spasms to "a guitar tattoo on his spine and piercing on his navel."
Toris did not envy Kirkland, especially when the man attracted attention from both genders, so his fanbase was bigger than the normal pretty-faced celebrity. He had a lot more crazies because of the added size.
Recently, it was Toris' job to write more and more teasing facts about the man to keep interest going and heighten sales of his merchandise. CDs, posters, mugs, shirts...lingerie. Needless to say, Toris felt tainted and dirty for being a part of the process.
Why did he ever agree to let Feliks convince him to move from his cozy home in Lithuania, move to America and work in the entertainment industry?
Caught in his inner monologue, he could only catch on to the final words of Feliks' rant. "- don't complain. We get to go to all the parties and meet famous people! That's like, my dream! I just have to wait for someone to discover me and –"
"Feliks, it's been three years. I don't want to break your spirits, but we've met majority of the producers and agents, not to mention we work here, and no one has been interested. I just don't think anyone is going to hire you to be a model..."
"Just you wait, Toris. I will be the prettiest girl on that catwalk! No one can strut their stuff better than me! I'll show you what I can do."
Toris' protests were ignored as Feliks disappeared, reappearing at the entrance to his cubicle, and beginning to mock-walk a runway. His hips swayed too much and his back arched unnaturally, but Toris felt it best not to ruin his friend's moment. He sat there, corner of his mouth twitching as he tried to keep the smile on his face watching his proud friend embarrass himself.
"Um, excuse me?"
Feliks' confident gait halted and both men turned to the blonde standing at the opening of the cubicle. He looked slightly uncomfortable having walked in on such a sight, but quickly recovered and held up a stack of manila folders. "The heads told me to give this to you Toris. Some new info about Kirkland, I think."
Almost reluctant to go near the likely dirtied folders, Toris accepted them with a small smile. "Thank you, Alfred. Honestly, I wish I could switch responsibilities with someone so I wouldn't have to type up more of his personal facts, but I suppose someone has to do it."
Alfred chuckled, the cowlick at his hairline bobbing along with the movement. "I'm sure the guy doesn't mind. After all, he's the one giving the info to us. Most of it is harmless, anyway."
"Yes, but it still makes me uncomfortable. His fans are...eccentric."
"Like, that's how most fans are, Toris. Have you seen me at a Cool Kids of Death concert?"
"Unfortunately..."
Alfred cackled. "You guys are funny. Well, I'd better be heading back so have a nice...whatever it was you were doing."
"I was totally showing off my moves for when I become a model."
"You don't even have an agent, Feliks..."
"I can get one! I'm totally cut out for it, right Alfred?" The hyper Polish blonde eyed the American expectantly.
Grinning, Alfred gave the man thumbs up. "Totally! I'll cheer you on every step of the way. See ya later!" With that, he waved and walked away, leaving Toris to deal with an ego-boosted Feliks.
"See Toris? Even Alfred things I can do it! You're just being negative."
"Not to be rude, but Alfred doesn't have the credibility of someone like, say, a producer. You know he's always optimistic, no matter what it is." Toris liked Alfred. He was one of the few people Toris spent lunch time happily and conversed topics other than the shallow celebrities their job required them to focus on with. But with the blonde being a simple office-worker like him, not even one that was involved with the public eye since all he did was run errands and mix some music tracks when he was allowed into the recording studio, the brunette did not think he was the right person to judge Feliks' probability as a model. Always enthusiastic, it was expected of him to encourage anyone about their success. Alfred never allowed even the most emotionally inert near his proximity to feel down.
Toris thought it was inspiring, but also naïve. Feliks, never prudent even when given steps, didn't need someone blindingly steering him towards questionable futures when they'd already drowned so far into their dream after their move to America proved fruitless. Feliks may not miss his Polish home as much as he missed Lithuania, but waking up every day realizing how far you've fallen and having nothing to make it worth the trouble only depressed Toris further. He secretly harbored ill-will towards his friend for pushing so hard, but in the end they were too connected to stay mad at each other, and Toris wished some miracle would come to send his friend into the world he claimed to want him.
At least then his friend's happiness would make everything worth it.
Disappointed, the blonde deflated slightly. "Well, you got me there. What does he do here again?"
"Errands, as far as I know," Toris answered, turning his chair to face his monitor and continue his report with tired but experienced movements which added the tapping of keyboard keys to the symphony of office-sounds.
One blonde brow arched, questioning. "Who gets a job at a high-end production company as an errand boy?"
"He could be an intern, ...I think." Alfred never mentioned his position often, and Toris began to realize he honestly did not know why the young exuberant blonde decided to work in such a dreary place. The boy was young and lively, not to mention well-off in the looks department - bright blue eyes hidden under rectangular glasses, sandy-blonde hair that parted to the left above his right eye and ended at his ears, body barely under the level of masculinity yet still toned (as far Toris could tell from the hoodies Alfred always wore). Honestly, Toris would assume he'd be the one searching for model work. Did he fall under the spell of fame and end up at he bottom of the bowl like him and Feliks?
"Nah, I asked him once. Totally works too many hours to be an intern here, and he gets paid, too. You know how cheap our boss is. Like, there is no way Alfred is here on school time."
"Then what do you think?"
"I don't know! Why are you asking me?"
"You brought the subject up!"
"Well, when you put it that way..."
Toris sighed once more, his usual response when Feliks proved too much for him, and returned to his article. He glanced at his notes, messily scribbled on a pink lined notepad in fading black ink, and cringed.
Why did people want to know about Kirkland's navel? Just let the man take a shirtless picture already so he didn't have to write about how "soft the underside of his belly button is, and if you trailed your hand downwards you'd feel his -"
Ew.
Were Toris' sexuality not loose, the trash can might be filled with his regurgitated lunch. The man could only hope that the manilla folders Alfred brought did not have more intimate details.
"What took you so long?"
Alfred closed the door behind him, glancing at his childhood friend, dressed in his usual black leather pants complete with long-sleeved ripped black v-neck top that had some random design of what might be an angel, or a demon having a threesome. He was seated comfortably on a luxurious velvet leather couch across the room, drinking what Alfred assumed to be tea from a white mug. A mug with his face on it...
Alfred chose not to comment, already being used to Arthur's new egotistical nature after his rise to fame. In Alfred's mind, Arthur remained his friend. "Sorry Arthur. Feliks was being pretty fun and i got caught in his and Toris' conversation."
Arthur grimaced. "The Polish man? Honestly, I always wonder why the bloke is still working here."
"Hey, don't make fun of him. He's pretty capable, despite his...uniqueness," Alfred said, settling down rather harshly on the couch, earning a glare from Arthur.
The singer tsked and looked away. "That's like saying your voice could harmonize an angry pack of wolves. No matter how much confidence one has, it is eventually their skill that will decide their success. Like your dreadful voice, Feliks' talent will only burn someone's anatomy right off."
"Hey!"
"Oh relax," he sighed, "You know I'm joking. Partially." Arthur ignored the boy's hurt expression and picked up a random magazine from the coffee table nearby. "So have you finished the new song yet? I have a tour coming up where I'm supposed to unveil my new hit." He did not look at Alfred as he talked, but instead grazed his emeralds across the magazine pages. None of the articles were interesting to him, but ignoring Alfred's eyes informed Alfred Arthur was busy and did not want to be bothered. As a result, the childish 19 year-old would not open his mouth as much and talk dribble. News about comic book artists and movies did not interest Arthur in the least, so he'd practically trained his longtime friend to remain silent if he showed specific quirks. Which he did, majority of the time.
Visibly recovering from the earlier insult, Alfred walked to a brown desk near the door. "O-oh yeah! Here," he opened a drawer and pulled out a notebook. Flipping to a specific page, he returned to his friend's side and presented him with white covered in scribbles and the occasional doodle, all surrounding three stanzas of song lyrics. "This is what I have so far. I got inspiration after watching this really cool movie about this alien woman who's not really a woman but falls in love with this guy, and there is this whole battle about rescuing the guy because he's technically trapped there, and it's really cool because they have these powers that come from dead stars or something but that's not really that important and -" Arthur turned his head the slightest inch, his eyes concentrating on a poster of his upcoming concert across the room, completely uninterested in Alfred's gush.
Abruptly, the words stopped. Alfred cleared his throat before continuing with less enthusiasm."I-i mean, reading a book! Yeah..."
Turning his head back to the notebook, Arthur snatched it from the blonde's hands and read over the lyrics. "Hmmm...," he said no other words, silently reading over every word his friend had written in that horrid handwriting of his. Alfred watched him read, eager to know his friend's opinion.
Finally, the Brit handed the notebook back without so much as glancing at the avid blue eyes boring into the side of his face. "It's good. Have it done by next week so i can practice it with the vocal coach."
Although slightly disappointed at the minimal attention (he'd been hoping for a higher praise considering how much time he'd spent coming up with the lyrics) Alfred nodded and pulled out a pencil from his pocket, biting the eraser in thought as he read over the lyrics once more. They were easy enough to write when inspired, but editing them always took him at least two hours. Alfred may have been a typical jock in high school, but his sense of perfection had not dwindled in time or his current luxurious environment. He'd labored hours into perfecting his 'imperfect American drawl,' as Arthur used to call it, and would not allow his tutor's lessons to waste. 'Good' did not satisfy the blonde, so he focused his eyes on the words, searching his mind for alterations or more specific synonyms to replace the simple ones written. Alfred did not even notice Arthur leave until he looked up to ask the bushy-browed blonde's opinion and saw his form missing on the couch.
"He's like a ninja, I swear!"
Alfred looked around the empty, tan-walled room. Aside from the couch and drawer, the adjacent wall held a mini bar harboring several small snacks and refreshments, a six foot tall lamp, and two paintings from the same collection of black blobs Alfred never understood the meaning of. Considering all the artists that sent their works to the superstar, Alfred wondered why Arthur never hung any of them up in their little 'office.' He'd asked, after all they were his lyrics, but Arthur had refused. Instead, Arthur brought in three shelves on the opposite wall of the bar for his books. Alfred hardly saw the Brit read any of them anymore, but he figured that was because of the fame they'd garnered in the past two and a half years. The company wanted Arthur's appearance on almost every event they held, and he was sure it prevented his previously bookworm, sweater-vest wearing friend to choose priorities, officially abandoning his less important hobbies.
The thought saddened the American. He wouldn't dream of abandoning video games or comic books in favor of stardom. Well, maybe... but that dream died after learning his voice made people bleed out of their ears, so he had nothing to worry about.
If he finished the lyrics fast, would Arthur have time to read like old times? Maybe they could have a book club; Arthur always liked those, as much as Alfred did not.
Alfred grabbed his bag, a black cross-body backpack decorated with the America flag print, his notebook, and headed out to the recording studio. If fate wanted him to finish early, no one would bother looking in there and see him using their equipment.
A/N: This is just something i had in mind while writing Stardust Fighters. It won't be updated regularly, but it will be updated. I haven't written any chapters in advance for this since it's just spur of the moment idea i couldn't allow to slip away by simply writing the prompt down. I don't know what to do for the plot, so feel free to review if you want this to be half romance or something.
I'll research what LA looks like later. I tried naming a park, but when i looked up 'LA parks' a bunch of different ones came up; some without pictures.
If it gets enough interest i might be willing to dual-write. With school starting next week i'm going to have to set priorities.
- Cool Kids of Death: Popular Polish alternative rock band.
Cover will change once i doodle one. Current one is not mine.