Tampering With Mail Clerks Is Illegal

by Kita Kitsune

HIATUS. Unauthorized opening, inspection or tampering of mail is considered a federal offense and thus punishable by law. One wonders if this statute applies to the employees, as well. : College AU, US/UK/US main, Giripan, RusAm, PruCan, others. : Language & BL

1. September

This is AU. Really AU. So AU that some characters' names have been changed. Don't like it? Go read something else!

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, or any of its characters. Those belong to Himeruya Hidekaz-sensei, who made a lot more out of them than I ever could have. ^^;; I just do fanfiction for fun, and earn no monetary rewards for writing it. Reviews are, of course, worth as much as silver.

In honor of my birthday (which is today!), I'm giving the Hetalia fandom this present of a brand new fic~! [ I hope everyone likes it? x/x ]

Summary: Unauthorized opening, inspection or tampering of mail is considered a federal offense and thus punishable by law. One wonders if this statute applies to the employees, as well. (College AU)

Title: Tampering With Mail Clerks Is Illegal

Chapter One: September (English)

Chapter One: September

Word Count: 18,024

Page Count: 27

[Total Word Count: 18,024]

[Total Page Count: 27]

Anime: Hetalia
Pairing(s) in this chapter: Alfred/Arthur [America/England], Greece/Japan, Switzerland/Austria

Warning: Language (Arthur, mostly), Boy love/BL

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)
Date: Monday, May 24, 2010

Fic Recs: Almost anything by the authors EverythingIsMagic, Canadino, TechnoRanma and Abarero here on FF.

Also, I'm sorry, but when comparing America and England's hair colors… England and France are definitely blonds (France having a lighter shade, though). In official art, America has light/golden brown or possibly dirty blond hair, as does Canada (and yes, it is possible for someone to have blond hair when they're young and then have it darken to another color entirely as they get older). This fic will reflect that perception. I won't back down from what color my eyes see, I don't care what fanon says he is. In this fic, America will not be referred to as a blond. I won't hold it against you if you're one of those that do define him as a blond, though! :3 We all see things differently, after all~

Also! This is listed as America/England, but I really don't believe in denoting seme/uke roles (if it eventually comes to that… which it might [thus the M rating] ) with how you list a pairing. A little too anal, for me. So! This fic involves Alfred and Arthur in romantic settings, but for convenience's sake we'll just list it in the summary as USxUK. xD Because… Arthur's repressed about his feelings like that, and Alfred's just a liiittle more aware—and all. Nothing to do with the seme/uke roles, as I still have no idea what they'll be until I get around to writing those scenes. So… there. :/

[ …and, damn, after writing the ending bit of this chapter I'm craving a banana milkshake with honey. D: ]

This chapter was written to the music listed below.

Songs: World Is Mine (by Hatsune Miku), Pub and GO!, Absolutely Invincible English Gentleman, Country From Where The Sun Rises, Excuse Me I Am Sorry, Gee (by SNSD)

Important notes: I've changed some of the countries' human names because some of the original ones bother me/are rather hard to remember/don't fit the characters, in my opinion. I'll try to explain them as the fic progresses, though!

: : : : : : :

By now, nearly all the new students had moved in. The semester began in a few days, and here he was, already starting on the required reading for one of his upcoming classes. Some might call it anal, others, even unnecessary. However, Arthur Kirkland was not one to listen to them. Nor was he one to pay any mind to the little fairy creatures fluttering about his head, trying to gain his attention and the unicorn that trotted nonchalantly about the common room before him. He ignored their hallucinated voices and the sounds of nonexistent hooves clacking on the tiled floor, refusing to allow his condition to make him appear any weirder than he already was. Oh, when he was young he had created his own imaginary fairies, but these fae folk were different. Back then, they were of his own creation, and until only a few years ago he'd thought the fairies and elves that appeared to him through no imagining of his own were real. Real, mystical creatures—but, it became apparent when their appearances didn't change from one day to the next. Never was a hair out of place, the design on every fairy's wings was the same, they always said the same things, never moving on from the past—

They weren't real, and he had to have some form of schizophrenia to even see and hear them. He was old enough, after all. The disease hit in early adulthood, just about when he'd first started attending the uni.

Not that he had the money to get on treatment, of course. He'd not spoken of his realization to anyone, not one of his older siblings knew. They were over in the united Kingdom, anyway, trying to scrape by enough for him to finish college. More expenses wouldn't help the situation. Drawn slightly listless with the way his thoughts were turning, the blond rested a bored cheek on his knuckles, gazing out at the stragglers with their rich parents in tow to have them tote more useless junk they thought they needed to survive the coming semester. He almost snorted. College was different than primary school, but it seemed that everywhere, everyone always hated freshmen.

They were loud, uncouth, out-of-control spoiled prats, the lot of them. Their parents might have denied they were rich, but to be able to even afford throwing their money away on the ridiculously over-priced meal plans and housing in the on-campus dormitories it was obvious that they were quite well-off. Arthur muttered under his breath as another of those godforsaken carts assigned for moving in—the kind with the tiny wheels that clacked obnoxiously over every small, grouted division between the tiles—wheeled through the entryway door, breaking the relative silence.

It'd been nothing but hell since Monday. The little children were moving in, their parents practically breathing down their necks, and he'd been the unlucky one to serve in the morning for the first few days. At that point, he hadn't actually had to do any work but hand out the new residents' keys, tell them where they'd find the number for their mailbox combination, have them sign the contract for their key, and send them on their way. It was a simple enough job, but with the hundreds of students moving into this dorm alone in a matter of only a few days, it had run him rather haggard. He was still reeling from it and in any spare moment found himself wistfully wishing for a good cup of hot tea to calm his frayed nerves.

By now, though, things had calmed down a bit and while he still got a vague trickle of late-comers (it was Thursday already, and classes started after Labor Day next week) and it was much more manageable than those first horrendous days. Then again, it was always like this during move-in. He'd been at the uni for going on his fourth year, now, and he only prayed there'd be enough money for him to finish. As it was, there was still a mountain of required classes left for him to take—his 'general education' requirements, or simply 'Gen. Eds.'—and he highly doubted his ability to deal with it all. But, god damn it, he would try his best to not become one of those five-year-seniors he'd heard so much about! It was getting a little desperate, and due to complications he didn't qualify for financial aid. It was likely due to that inheritance from his mother, which neither he nor his brothers or sister could touch until they all came of age. Not that it was much, but certainly a few thousand dollars here and there could ease the strain of college tuition.

He was jarred out of his thoughts by a hand slapping down on the counter before him. He looked up, eyes squinting in annoyance over his reading glasses as his brow furrowed. After a moment he placed himself, and attempted a pleasant smile towards the newcomer.

"Ah, hello. Might I help you with something?" The brunet before him grinned, straightening and pointing a thumb at his chest, announcing proudly.

"I'm new here!" As though that weren't obvious, the blond mused, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

"Yes, yes. Have you got your student ID? You'd best go down to Campus Central, or else I can't give you your room key or mailbox number—"

"Nah, I'm good! Got those yesterday~!" He blinked, slowly lifting a hand to lower his glasses towards the end of his nose, to better focus over the lenses on the boy before him. Light brown hair, to be sure, and irritatingly shining blue eyes. Was that a cowlick, sticking up from the boy's fringe-line? One thick brow angled itself upwards in scrutiny.

"…Then why are you here?" The kid grinned at him, placing his other hand on the countertop and leaning into Arthur's personal space. Though uncomfortable, he held his ground, although he couldn't help but wrinkle his nose in disgust—too much cologne.

"I forgot my combination! Think ya can give it to me?" The blond dead-panned, at last giving into the urge to lean back, and pushed his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose, resuming his reading, his tone dry and bothered at having been interrupted for such a foolish reason. It brokered no argument.

"That's confidential information. Go to Campus Central and get it." The boy started to whine.

"Aw, but that's way down on lower campus! I don't wanna have to walk all the way down there just to get my combination!" Arthur could feel a corner of his left eye twitch. It was a fifteen minute walk, at best. He leveled his glare at the page before him, reminding himself to keep his temper in check. This was his job, after all. He didn't look up, despite the urge to, and tried to keep most of the irritation out of his voice.

"Then perhaps you shouldn't have forgotten it in the first place." You dolt. He added silently, eyes skimming the page in feigned reading—he couldn't concentrate with that brat still standing there, leaned over the counter as though he owned it. Nevertheless, he couldn't encourage him with any attention. It'd make the fool stay longer. He heard a loud, dramatic sigh. He expected the boy would give up and turn around, at this point. However, he heard the scuff of a sneaker on tile, and then a light 'thump'.

He looked up.

"What on earth are you—" The brunet blinked at him, grinning from his place half-kneeled on the top of the counter, arms straight and supporting his upper body weight as one knee perched on the high counter. Presumably, his other leg was dangling down on the outer side of the counter, keeping his balance.

"Gettin' my mail. It's easier this way!" Arthur's cheeks went hot in outrage. The Brit set his book aside and stood in front of the American—despite the fact their eyes weren't at equal heights—placing his arms akimbo and blocking entry into the mailroom proper.

"Get off of there!" He remembered himself, this time, reigning in his temper. Already a few people had started to stare. The blond glared up at this infuriating idiot. The stupid youth only grinned at him, again.

"But I gotta get my mail, ya know! There might be important stuff in there~!" Arthur only continued to glare, not daring to give into the urge to bodily shove the kid off the counter top. He didn't need to lose this job, and he certainly didn't need a lawsuit from this chap's rich parents.

"Spoiled twat…" He muttered, turning to face the large grid of metal boxes on the long wall beside them that stretched to a little ways above his head. The tiny steel boxes—only just large enough for a small, square package scarcely taller or wider than the height of a regular-sized envelope to fit in—were arranged flush with each other, their combined height easily stretching to six feet above the ground from the floor. Each box was open on the Brit's side of the wall, but on the other side there were individual hinged doors with combination locks for students to pick up their mail. On each side there were room numbers—for obvious sorting and retrieval reasons. They very rarely changed the names each year or semester, it just got to be too much with people moving in and out all the time. There were over six-hundred students in this dorm alone, after all!

Arthur shot a still-smoldering glare behind him at the self-centered student waiting thereand the boy seemed surprised for a moment, before sheepishly smiling and jumping down onto his proper side of the counter. The blond sniffed, mildly placated, allowing his arms to fall to his sides in a noncommittal move of compliance.

"What's your room number."

"Wha—? Wait, don't ya need to know my—" He got right in the boy's face, then, jabbing the kid's chest with an angry finger. He was running out of patience, and no doubt the fury in his gaze told volumes about it.

"I don't want you know your name. If you're going to insist to put me through this, I might as well get themail for your entire suite!" Arthur glared again, just for good measure—although he had refrained from using any impolite language (this was his job, after all!)—and the boy seemed slightly cowed by the look. Perhaps his irritation was finally starting to sink into that thick head.

"Five-fourteen…" Paying no mind to the meek voice, the blond turned on his heel to once again stomp down the line of mailboxes stationed permanently in the wall.

"Right, then." He ticked off the numbers in his head, eyes running along the familiar lines as he strode down towards where the five-hundreds were. He lifted a finger, running it down the separating bars between the boxes, muttering the number under his breath.

Ah… five-fourteen. According to this, there were six students rooming there—

Must be a suite. He nodded, upon checking this, and gathered all the mail from the five boxes-one box was empty, must be only five students living in the suite, then—scarcely glancing at the names. He brought the load of new-resident brochures—honestly, did the uni really have to waste all that paper on information that could be found online?—and sorted through them, to check for any of the slips of paper that signaled a package too big for the small metal boxes had come in.

"Oh, bugger." He muttered it, finding one and squinting at the name on it. He peered over his eyeglasses at the brunet smiling a little nervously at him, now. Arthur sighed. Might as well try—he had a one-in-five chance of getting it right, after all.

"You wouldn't happen to be Alfred Jones, would you?" The boy's face lit up, and the blond winced mentally as he knew what was to come.

"Hey, yeah! What's that little piece of paper mean—?" Wonderful—he had to put up with this tosser for even longer. Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Arthur massaged the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses, prominent brows knitting together.

"Just show me your ID. You'll need to sign on the screen here. You've got a package it seems…" He went through the usual routine, checking the signature on the ID with how the boy signed, before disappearing into the back room armed with the slip of paper to find the package attached to it. He did find it—and had to stare, for a moment. It was… rather large. Arthur grit his teeth, stomping towards it and stubbornly picking it up around the bottom edges, careful to use his knees. He staggered out, cursing under his breath for a moment before he managed to master it and finally push it onto the counter, glaring at the box heatedly. He plastered on a bright smile that wasn't all fake—he'd be left alone, now that that was sorted!—and hummed cheerily at the boy as he handed him his ID back.

"There you are!" The kid grinned at him, oblivious to his now-hidden irritation (the bloke likely just thought he was moody and weird—everyone did) nodding a bit as he—curse it all!—easily shouldered the huge box Arthur'd had so much trouble with, waving with his other hand full of mail behind him. He didn't glance back, and so the boy didn't see the blond's astounded expression.

"Thanks, man! See you around!"

I should certainly hope not.

The Brit shook his head. Of course, he would see him eventually—the boy lived here after all—but at the very least the brunet should learn to remember his combination. With luck, perhaps when that bloke next had a package in, he'd come to retrieve it on somebody else's watch.

: : :

"Hey, Gil, I got a box from my folks!" He strode into his room, grinning wide and still with that box shouldered carelessly. He tossed the mail in his other hand haphazardly onto his bed as his room mate looked up, whistling at the size before showing teeth in a wolfish smile as he called out to their present suitemates.

"Damn! Hey, Vash, Siggy, we got a rich kid's care package in the house!" The sound of a door opening could be heard, and not a few moments later a rather ill-tempered blond with arms crossed over his white tank top appeared in their doorway, glaring at them.

"Do you want to die? One of my professors has already assigned readings for next week. He e-mailed us this morning." The boy's tone was even, but he was almost twitching in annoyance at being interrupted. Waving it off, Gilbert motioned to the large box settled in the middle of the room between his and Alfred's beds—which the brunet was currently ripping into with a pair of scissors.

"C'mon, Vash—semester hasn't even started yet! Live a little!" The blond snorted, not moving even as one of their other suitemates poked his head around the doorframe, adjusting his glasses with a muted blink.

"Already? My, Alfred, they really are rather anxious about you leaving home…" The dark-haired boy mused, stepping quietly into the room. The old black—almost grey, by now—turtleneck fit him loosely, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows while his blue jeans sported two almost worn-through patches at his knees. The other, more light-haired brunet looked up from where he was bent over the care package, grinning.

"Nah, Mom's always been like this! Besides, the van was packed full when we moved in, so—" The cultured boy simply shook his head, turning to head back to his own room.

"I see. Well, if you'll excuse me, I need to practice." Vash jerked a bit as the taller boy passed by, glancing towards him nervously for a split second before snapping his gaze back to the other two. The momentary look went unnoticed, both Gilbert and Alfred already tearing into the innards of the box with echoing declarations of "Awesome!"

"…I'm going to listen." His suitemate paused in front of his own door, blinking at him curiously and Vash turned his back on the ruckus behind him, frowning towards the Austrian. "Besides, whatever you're doing has got to be better than what these idiots are up to." The musician offered him a slight smile, at that, nodding before opening the door to his room and heading inside.

"Of course. You're quite welcome to join me." Pushing down his anxiety with a firm stride, Vash uncrossed his arms, sticking his hands in his baggy camo pants' pockets (tucked neatly into the tops of his steel-toed boots) and following after him.

"You guys are welcome to anything in this box, y'anno! I'll leave it out for ya!" The last word of the American's call rang out just before the door closed completely.

: : :

He passed his Friday afternoon shift in the mailroom by finishing the first chapter in his psychology book. Most of the new students here at the uni tried to schedule their classes four days out of the week, leaving the last one free. It was the unofficial goal of every so-called 'self-respecting' student—at least once in the course of their undergraduate career—to have a semester with no Friday classes. Of course, that was all American rubbish. Arthur had one class on Fridays, caving to campus pressure only a little by allowing himself an early vacation at the end of the week. That class—a psychology recitation—ended at noon and his mailroom shift at Waltman Hall started at one. His schedule give him just enough time to snag a quick lunch before heading leisurely to the dormitory building located on upper campus. He didn't really see his job as a chore—it helped him live, after all!

The Brit congratulated himself for the umpteenth time for being so smart in planning his schedule, this semester. He had at least an hour between each class, so there would be no harried sprinting in the ten blooming minutes the uni gave as a break between them. Certainly, had it been primary school, this amount of time would be sufficient—but in a city-based uni (where one had to dodge around traffic lights and race clear across campus or up and down stairs because the lift was too crowded, ancient and slow) it was far from it. He recalled those years rather poignantly, and was satisfied enough that he'd learned, by now, to space his classes at least an hour apart. The break was good for him, at any rate.

His musings were interrupted by a soft, happy voice.

"Excuse me~" He jerked his head up—and up. Unnaturally purple eyes glimmered at him in mean amusement over a cream-colored scarf, but he chose to ignore it. Arthur didn't allow this man's stature to intimidate him, instead smiling nicely and politely rising to a stand behind his side of the counter.

"Yes, sir? Might I help you with something?" The looming man gave him another of those creepily harmless smiles, holding out a slip of paper before him.

"I checked my mail, and found this~ It says to give it to the clerk?" Ah… another package. The blond pushed the familiar bitterness from his mind, instead taking the package slip with a nod.

"Yes, sir. Please show me your ID, sign here on the screen, and I'll go get your package for you." The tall student watched him for a moment, and Arthur shifted a hint uncomfortably, but his expression remained firmly professional.

"…Da. If that is what must be done, here~?" The man—Russian, apparently, from the accent he could finally place as well as that little 'da' slip—smiled just as suddenly as before, handing over his ID and doing as he'd been asked. A little apprehensively, Arthur turned his back on the student, heading into the back room to retrieve his package. He made a valiant effort to ignore the chills tickling down his spine as he felt those eerie violet eyes trying to bore through the back of his skull while he walked away.

: : :

Barring that rather odd run-in with the Russian student, yesterday, his shift had gone rather pleasantly. And now… now, it was the last Saturday before the semester officially began, and he had decided to take up a new weekend tradition. Ren had opted to stay at the apartment—something about finishing a project he'd been working on, all summer—so, here he was. Alone, jogging through the city, with red sweat-absorbent protectors each decorated with a white English Lion on his wrists, a red jersey (one of the two or three he had) identical to the English Away-game uniform, and white shorts lined in red at the sides that stopped just above his knees. He'd taken his jacket off a while ago, and at the moment it was stuffed in the English Lion-print gym bag thumping gently on his back with every step, alongside his soccer ball (an Umbro Stealth Replica, of course) and other necessities.

It had just rained before he set out, and so the air was quite pleasant as he approached campus. He closed his eyes a moment, relishing the feel of the clear air—free of city pollution, for once!—before opening them with a small, unconscious smile. It reminded him of England, really. The crisp cut to the air, the slight fog lingering in the sky, the summer season just about at its end but still warm enough to go about in said summer clothing. He noted the large on-campus park as he approached it, sandwiched between two familiar and unmistakable landmarks. Arthur didn't care about them right now, though. His sights were set on one of the many fields sprinkled out over the vast expanse of green grass (except for the large patches of dirt that had been worn with too much rough-housing). Apparently, he hadn't been the only one to have the idea of venturing out, today.

Two of the (unofficial, otherwise some sports team would be practicing on them) fields were taken. There were only really three, all of them separated by a staggered line of trees, the first two next to each other on flat ground and the third situated in line with them at the end, separated by a moderately steep hill. On the one currently nearest him a bunch of guys were yelling and practically swimming in the mud they'd made with their game as they played American football. He rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he passed them by with a wide berth, eyes drawn to the crowd of boys on the middle field, playing something that looked like a mix between Frisbee and—American football. The blond twitched. Didn't these yanks know how to play anything worthwhile? Rugby—lacrosse, even? He ignored these mud-spattered chaps with a proud toss of his head, making for the only abandoned field and carefully sliding down the hill. The Brit shouldered off his gym bag, digging out his football and tossing it into the air.

In another moment he was after it, dribbling it along his feet as he leisurely made a lap around the field, getting a feel for the terrain. Satisfied enough with the consistency he found, he popped the ball up onto his knee with the top of his foot, brows furrowing in concentration as he focused on juggling it, relishing in the slightly stinging smack each time the hard, spherical surface hit his exposed knees. He fought a cocky grin as he counted how many times he managed it in a row, at last letting it roll onto the ground. Arthur took off after it again, a bit less leisurely as he dribbled it in longer strides, now, giving himself a good workout when he kicked it too far and had to race to catch up to the ball as fast as he could. Ah, this would make quite a nice Saturday tradition, wouldn't it? He had a feeling he'd be craving this sort of physical release after a long week of studying and work. Nearly beaming, he continued in his play. It didn't matter he didn't have anyone to play with, or against. The blond was just enjoying the feel of the grass beneath his cleats, dancing around and twirling with the football as though it had a life of its own and wasn't merely directed by taps from his feet. Arthur didn't know how much time had passed—his mobile was far out of danger of jostling, safely tucked away into his gym bag with his other things.

Just for fun, then, he whacked the ball with all he could, and it soured back towards the tree his satchel was leaned against, hitting the bark of the trunk a meter above it with an echoing thud that made him smirk in satisfaction. He had jogged about halfway into the center of the field to retrieve it, when he noticed a lone figure watching him from atop the hill that separated the second and third fields, and furrowed his brows, squinting. The bloke was beneath the shadows of the trees overhead—this early in September, they still had their leaves, after all, but at a distance his hair almost looked dirty-blond. He narrowed his eyes toward him—he could certainly tell that that yank had either been one of the ones playing American football, or the Frisbee knock-off of it. He was covered just about head-to-toe in mud. It was lHe was coverikely they'd gathered more guys, and had too many for their one field. So they were kicking him out? He sniffed. Bloody Americans and their primitive football.

Ah, he hadn't noticed he'd slowed to a stop as he noted the lad on the hill. Arthur glared towards him before tossing his sweaty head and continuing on his way, grabbing his football with vehemence and tucking it under an arm. By this time he was a little muddy, too, having had a few slips in the soft ground despite his cleats, so it didn't really matter if the grass blades and such coated his clothes, by now. He would wash them when he got back to the apartment. Gathering up his bag—blast, but his legs were killing him, after that workout!—he fished out his mobile and primly checked it, all the while ignoring the figure still staring at him from atop that hill.

He blinked. He'd been at it for over two hours? He'd only meant to be here until noon, and it was well into the afternoon, already. He'd missed lunch. Shaking his head, the Brit stuffed the device back into his bag, then pulling on his yet-pristine red training jacket and slinging the satchel over his shoulder as he began to climb the hill, pointedly ignoring the wanker still watching him. As he reached the top, though, he at last glanced towards the boy—beneath all that mud, a pair of smeared glasses gleamed at him. He scowled, and turned to briskly walk away when an annoying voice pierced the air.

"Hey! Hey, wait!" He heard footsteps, and had to smirk when he heard a yelp and a sound thud. The blond looked over his shoulder, that smug look only growing as he spied the young American on the ground on his back, having slid in the mud with his haste. He'd avoided a concussion by propping his elbows beneath him at the last moment—although those joints had to be aching, now.

"You'd best watch out, there. It's rather muddy, still." His voice was dripping with condescension, and he noted the frown he got in return as the boy gazed up at him, his smirk curling up a hint more at a corner of his lips. To this, he turned, back haughty and straight, and began to stride away. He heard the sound of scrambling behind him, but paid it no mind until a hand roughly grabbed his elbow from behind, accompanied almost instantaneously with a too-loud, excited voice in his ear.

"Hey, whoa! Hold up, I—" The Brit immediately sent a glare back towards him, trying to jerk his arm out of the idiot's grasp. That tosser was strong, damn it all!

"Let go of me, you sodding—" Blue eyes, partially obscured by the lenses flecked with grass and mud, beamed up at him as the infuriating chap had the audacity to grin as he interrupted him.

"No need to get hostile, man! I just wanted to say you pulled some really cool moves back there. It was awesome! I've never seen anything like it! Well, except on TV—" Involuntarily, he felt his face heat up at the praise, but covered well by yelling, playing it off as an angry flush as he tried to jerk his arm away from the guy with more insistence, now.

"L-Let go! Is it a commonly-accepted practice in America to assault someone you don't know?" He pulled his best scowl, furrowing his intimidating eyebrows as he at last managed to jerk his limb away from the stupid kid, turning, shoulders tensed, and starting to walk away again, muttering under his breath about divvy yanks and their issues with personal space. He heard light footfalls, once more, though, and looked up just in time to see the idiot walking a few steps directly in front of him, facing him with another of those bleeding grins. He frowned, stretching to peer behind the boy for any obstacles he might not be able to see.

"You're more of a pillock than I thought, walking like that. Are you aiming to crack your skull open?" He fumed the words in a bad temper—he was hungry and a bit tired from all that running, damn it!—striding forward to catch up with him and placing a hand on the idiot's shoulder, forcibly turning him around with a brisk scoff. In return, he practically felt the cheeky grin as the boy propped an arm around his shoulders and fell into step with him, laughing.

"Nice to know you care~! What's your name, anyway, man?"

"As though I'd tell a git like you." He snorted, then paused, glancing back. The second field was empty, and although there were still a few boys playing American football on the first one—none of them seemed to remotely care that this boy was hanging off him. If the irritating bloke were with them, they'd likely have waved at him to rejoin the game, but this… Arthur felt his brow knit, turning back to eye the American hanging off him suspiciously.

"Where are your friends?" At this, the guy actually looked embarrassed, and slid his arm off of him to rub the back of his head with another laugh—this one sounding not so self-assured, though.

"Ah, yeah… our game actually ended a while ago." The brunet—for that's what he was, this close up, he could tell his hair was really a light shade of brown beneath all that mud—looked down, kicking at some of the grass by his feet. "I sorta… got distracted." Heat bloomed on the Brit's cheeks, again, and he quickly turned his head away, lifting a fisted hand to hide a cough.

"Well." He searched for words—then simply shaking it off, squaring his shoulders and making to, at long last, leave. "They're likely missing you, then. Best be off." He heard a surprised noise behind him, and sure enough soon the boy was jogging alongside him, waving one hand a bit as though to try to cajole him into something.

"Hey, hey, don't be like that! I was… y'nno, wondering—" The chap pushed a tentative smile up towards Arthur that made his heart beat a little faster, but he ignored it, keeping his fast pace. "I mean… you've gotta be hungry after all that, right? I've got extra meal passes, so—" All at once, he felt offense and bashfulness well up within him. He went with the more familiar of the two, puffing up his chest and glaring hotly towards the sodding tosser following him around like a puppy.

"Thank you, but I'll kindly inform you I don't need charity!" He sniffed, holding his head high like a proper, proud Englishman. "And we're both a right mess, so I don't see—" The blond froze, mid-sentence, practically kicking himself in the arse for giving the American that opening. Sure enough, the brunet's face lit up and he grinned, slinging another arm around his shoulders with a joyous laugh as they continued to stroll along.

"Really! Maybe when we're not all dirty, yeah?" He leaned a bit too much of his weight on the blond, though, and Arthur had to sputter to regain balance for a moment before turning an even more pissed-off glare to the one beside him, who only kept grinning at him like a loon.

"No!" He hissed, desperate to clear up that little misunderstanding. "I don't even know your—"

"Alfred." There was the hand not currently cupping his shoulder, right in front of him, waiting for a handshake. He gaped at the pretension, but didn't have much of a choice as the brunet—Alfred, apparently—grabbed his hand and shook it with a touch too much vigor for his brain to process. Arthur felt a vein pop in his head as the boy then stared expectantly at him in his ensuing stunned silence, and his verdant eyes glimmered with vicious rage. He sucker punched that stupid yank with the hand he'd shaken, out of nowhere, taking off before the wanker could recover and cursing under his breath as his legs protested the quick speed of his getaway.

He pushed down the thought that tickled a corner of his mind, saying he'd met the lad, before.

: : :

The first week of classes went smoothly enough, and by Friday he found himself sitting in on his afternoon mailroom shift. It was a little after one, and he was skimming over the syllabi that had been handed out for each of his five classes, considering taking his fifteen-minute break now when a hand suddenly thumped down on the surface of the mailroom's front desk. Twitching slightly, he looked up over his reading glasses towards the offender, opening his mouth to— He stopped. Blinked. The guy blinked at him, too, adjusting the strap of his bag over one shoulder as he frowned and leaned into Arthur's personal space. Before he could react, his reading glasses were yoinked off his face, and a sound of triumph lit through the air as the American pointed at him—scarcely a centimeter away from his nose.

"I knew I'd seen you, before!" That daft brunet was grinning, waving Arthur's precious reading glasses about in the air with his other hand. He laughed again, pounding on the counter with a fist before slouching over it, face confident as he lowered his voice to a more normal volume, this time pointing at the blond with his captive spectacles. "Hey, you pack a pretty mean punch—and kick, I guess, by the way you handled that soccer ball!" Alfred winked at him from behind his own lenses, and the blond found himself at this, scowling as he stood, neatly plucking his glasses from the boy's grubby fingers and setting them aside.

"Yes, well—Might there be something I can help you with, sir?" He said, stiffly, arms crossing over his chest as he glared at the loopy yank. Just get your mail and be done with it, you idiot. He prayed silently in his mind, hopes crushed when the brunet completely ignored his statement, instead leaning his chin on the heel of his hand and staring up at him with a smile.

"…Ya know, you look better when you're in that jersey, all sweaty and covered in grass and mud." He bristled, and the American laughed, straightening and lifting two fingers towards his face. Arthur recoiled slightly, only stilling when the tips only sought to tap his eyebrows, lightly. "I thought these were mud, too!" Another infuriating snicker. "Those're some caterpillars you've got, there—" That vein in the Brit's head burst, again, and he snatched the boy's wrist, shadows falling over his glinting eyes as he tightened his grip with barely-restrained rage.

"Sir. Did you need help with something?" His voice was low and ominous, and it seemed to register in that thick head for a moment as the bloke gulped. The brunet aimed a weak smile towards him.

"I, er… I still can't remember my combination…" He glared at the kid, releasing Alfred's wrist with a shove.

"Then you'd best get to Campus Central. I told you before, we don't have that information here." But the chap was already leaned on the counter, again, staring up at him with those startlingly blue eyes and another smile, his momentary fear apparently forgotten.

"Can't ya get it for me, again~? I haven't checked back in a week, so there must be a lot of stuff." He sputtered at the boy, narrowing his eyes as his brow furrowed and hissing under his breath—so as to keep their conversation relatively private.

"You prat! I'm not some—My job isn't to—Oh, for the love of—" That smile quirked, cheekily so, and the American still hadn't deigned to move from where he was slumped over the counter. He looked perfectly comfortable with his elbow set against it and the adjoining hand propping his face up.

"You're cute when you're mad." His mouth dropped open, at that, words forgotten as he felt the temperature in his face easily go up a good twenty degrees. The American winked at him, further rendering him speechless at his audacity. "Room number's five-fourteen, gov'nah~!" The Brit seethed, but seeing as he could think of no proper comeback, he turned, stomping down the grid of metal mailboxes and snatching all the mail from the pertinent ones—before taking a slow breath to collect himself, then sneaking a glance down back towards the desk.

The American was leaned over further than he'd been when Arthur'd departed, and grinned at the look, waving enthusiastically like the fool he was. Steam practically erupted out of the blond's ears, at this, and he marched back, thrusting the mail—a good collection of envelopes, as well as various campus brochures about safety and other bollocks—onto the counter with a flat-palmed slap.

"There's your bleeding mail." He growled, narrowing his eyes towards the brunet who merely continued to gaze at him in amusement, now leaned rakishly against the wall and showing off his full height (a good head taller), hands in his pockets. Alfred made no move to take the pile of paper crap he'd been coerced into fetching. The blond's brows lowered in anger once more, and a half-smirk seemed to sneak onto the yank's face.

"Hey. What's your name?" Rather displeased with the response to his fearsome scowl, he gave the boy his back, arms crossing as he glared at his own knapsack, slung over the one chair a little ways back from the high counter.

"Why should I tell you, you nasty yank?" He snapped, lifting his chin up proudly. He heard a sigh, the shuffling of a bit of paper, and chanced a look over his shoulder. Sky blue eyes bore up on him with a bit of melancholy as the kid collected his mail.

"Hey… you really don't think I'm all that bad, do you?" It registered, vaguely, that there might be a different connotation for the word 'nasty' in America, but he brushed it aside, frowning at that sad face before moving to pick up his glasses from where he'd set them on the counter, near the wall, gaze falling off to the side.

"You're a loud, rude, absolutely intolerable moron, is what I think." He stated bluntly, pushing the lenses up his nose with yet another glare towards the American that only intensified when the kid started to chuckle, gazing up at him with a crooked smile.

"I'm rude? You haven't even told me your name, Mr. High-And-Mighty British Gentleman!" There was a bit of truth and a bit of teasing in there, and he narrowed his eyes behind their lenses, suspicious of how fast the kid's mood had switched. The blond straightened, studying this chap for a moment. A leather jacket, jeans, T-shirt, glasses, blue eyes… An all-American kid, likely spoiled beyond repair. He chastised himself, for a moment, though. Alfred was right. It was rather rude of him not to say, but— The Brit lifted his chin, arms crossed over his front as he angled his face away from the American on the other edge of the counter beside him.

"I'll tell you my name if you leave me alone for the rest of my shift." He heard an excited sound, and peered back towards the lad. His face was all alight in anticipation, and Arthur found his cheeks tinting lightly pink in response. He held his ground, though.

"Just the rest of your shift? Hey, then afterwards can we—" He raised his hackles, snapping a bit.

"The day, then! Just let me get back to work!" The kid grinned, nodding and holding out a hand.

"Sure! It's a deal!" Eying him warily, he nonetheless slowly faced him, reaching out his own to seal their agreement with a firm handshake. Those too-blue eyes bore up on him, waiting eagerly. He forced down another wave of embarrassed heat on his face, frowning slightly as the boy didn't let go of his hand. Squaring his shoulders, he stood up straighter, stubbornly refusing to look away and curtly answering, all the while glaring firmly into the queerly-intimidating gaze that glimmered hopefully up at him.

"It's a pleasure to meet you." He half-hoped the dry humor in the wording would catch on the American's sensors, but it apparently didn't, as he didn't react.

"My name is Arthur."

: : :

The boy had been true to his word, only giving him another beaming smile before releasing his by-then-clammy hand. The American had turned, then, waving behind his back as he skittered off to the Waltman Hall North entrance, handing his ID off to the security guard who checked it, slid it through the card scanner and sent him through.

He didn't see Alfred for the remainder of his shift, and was mildly placated that the American had held up his end of their 'deal'. His walk home after a few hours of studying in the library once work ended was moderately pleasant and in peace. In fact, he could almost enjoy the late summer dusk and foliage hanging around him, and blot out the ever-present sounds of traffic and sirens—the curses of living in a city.

"! Hey, hey, look what I can do, Arthur! Look at meee~!"

Almost.

The blond pointedly ignored the nonexistent fairies spinning in their crazy loops and dives around his head, not focusing on them and keeping his gaze straight and dignified. Some people may have noticed he was striding rather quickly—as though to get away from the little imps—but most likely attributed it to the busy life one tended to have while living in the city. The dragon was a bit harder to ignore, though. It always just sat like a giant whale in the parking lot of the hospital he passed through as a shortcut home. Arthur still had to fight the urge to flinch when it opened its mouth, spewing flames at him as he crossed—every time, without fail. He'd had experiences with this before, though—he'd always come out of it unharmed. It was simply another reason to prove that all these creatures were really just hallucinations. He made his way to the small apartment complex full of a few interconnected two-to-three story buildings, stepping lightly down to the door to their ground-basement-level apartment.

Unlocking the door—it was habit, living in the city as they did, to always lock the door whether someone was at home or not—, the Brit strolled inside and closed it, absently slipping off his shoes and sighing in mild content as the bamboo terry slippers he had stashed in the entryway swallowed up his stocking feet in comfort. Curses, but he loved mystical things… Arthur supposed it was the universe laughing at him, by the way it made his imperfect mind taunt him with daily images of creatures that didn't actually exist. They could have actually existed, but he'd never know. How would he ever tell the difference from his own hallucinations and the real thing, after all?

Locking the front door behind him, he heard the seemingly ever-present typing pause in one of the inner rooms—not that there could be much doubt, as there were only two small bedrooms, the bathroom and the living/kitchen/laundry area. It was small, but sufficient for their needs. He cast a slight smile around at the mixed decorations—a united Kingdom flag here, a few woodblock prints blown up into reasonably-sized posters throughout the room as well as the Welsh flag hanging above the couch, and a little Hello Kitty welcoming scroll against the wall, there. It was all very homey, he thought, and rather welcoming and peaceful to come back to after a long day.

Truth be told, he'd been very happy that that bloke had put an ad in the uni's newspaper about wanting two people for a small apartment only about twenty minutes walking distance from the center of campus. He was never good at making a stellar first impression, but he and the Asian lad had seemed to hit it off, right away, and they'd similarly impressed the landlord, who gave them a very good deal for rent—despite the fact it didn't include utilities, so they were stuck paying gas, electric and internet on their own. They'd sat down and discussed their needs, both agreeing on the basics, and that cable really was an outdated mode of entertainment—after all, what couldn't you see on the telly that wasn't already online? As a result, they'd happily agreed to merely have a television around for a random movie or video game. They'd only moved into this place a fortnight ago—beating the majority of the campus move-in crowds—and so were still feeling it out. Neither of them were too social, though, so they didn't know the neighbors too well, just yet, but—

"All right, Ren?" He knocked on his room mate's door, waiting to hear a soft sound of confirmation before cracking it open. The Asian lad liked to work in dim lighting, and dark brown eyes stared back at him, his pale face lit by the eerie glow of the monitor screen. Arthur resisted the urge to wince, instead frowning like a mother hen and flicking the light switch, flooding the room in illumination. "You shouldn't work in the dark, like that. It's bad for your eyes." The Japanese boy's gaze slipped to the side, and a small, bashful smile leaked onto his face.

"Ah, yes, I'm sorry. I didn't realize how late it had gotten…" The Brit merely shook his head, turning to head for the kitchen.

"It's fine, I suppose. Did you want to nosh up anything? I could—" Somehow, the small bloke beat him to it, and Arthur had to blink, brow furrowing. That was fast, especially for someone who was a bit of a nerd, like himself. Ren was smiling at him from in front of the stove, but he swore he could detect a hint of nervousness around the edges of that expression.

"Ah, no, Arthur-san, I'll do it—" He huffed, grabbing a spare apron from one of the clandestine closets hidden in just about every spare bit of space, slipping the upper cord over his head and tying the strings behind his back.

"Come, now, I can't let you do all the work around here! Your cooking is lovely, it certainly tastes better than mine, but at least let me help!" Ren looked at him, studying him a moment before smiling, just slightly.

"…Yes, you're right. Forgive me? If you could—" The boy turned, as though examining the small stove and kitchen area they possessed. Then he seemed to brighten, glancing towards his room mate with a shyer smile. "There's miso in the refrigerator. Could you start measuring out the paste and I'll start the broth? Would you then be so kind as to start cutting up the tofu, then the spring onions? It would really help me very much, if you wouldn't mind…" It went unsaid that Arthur was banned from touching the stove (except to boil water for tea)—at least until his skills improved. He truly was very lucky to have Clarence as a flat mate—he was so very understanding and patient. Surely his own cooking would improve as a result of such good coaching! The blond rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, smiling grandly—now, measuring and cutting things up, that he could do!

"Certainly! It would be my pleasure!" A few of the usual little elves scurried around his feet—playing tag with one another and being generally underfoot and annoying—but he ignored them, concentrating fully on improving his skills and not allowing himself to be distracted by their high-pitched giggles. He'd get to the point where Ren would let him use the stove, he was sure of it! There would be no repeats of his early attempts, the first few days they'd lived here, of those poor pancakes and eggs that had only ended up as crispy, charred remains sticking to the bottom of the frying pan. Perhaps the first step to him becoming a better cook would be to learn to relax a bit in the kitchen and therefore be not so nervous that his hallucinations actually ended up affecting him.

: : :

Perhaps he should have made the deal that Alfred leave him alone for the entire semester, because a day later Arthur found himself with an unwanted audience waiting for him at the field he had claimed for two hours the weekend before. The brunet grinned and waved at him even as he ignored the fool and set about in keeping up his usual routine—which was nothing, as he was merely allowing himself a bit of fun with his old Umbro Stealth Replica football.

It really wasn't his fault if, more than once, the football found itself slamming into the tree trunk above Alfred's head enough to shower the American with a few autumn leaves—no, not at all. He was simply out of practice. It had been a few years since he'd played for his high school team, after all. Again, afterwards Alfred offered to take him to a late lunch, and again he sniffed and made it obvious he was in no need of hand-outs. Nevermind that the rent was due in a few days and so money was a little tight, at the moment—he still had enough to take care of himself!

About the same time (around one in the afternoon) during his Friday shift at the end of the second week of classes, that insufferable idiot strode through the front doors of Waltman Hall, a grin on his face as he approached the mailroom desk. There was no mistaking that purposeful gait, even if the Brit had yet to look up from his reading and could only peg it through his peripheral vision.

"So, hey, Artie! We're havin' the first party of the semester at my room, tonight!" The brunet had sidled up to him with his usual cocksure grin, laying an elbow on the counter top of the mailroom's front desk and leaning to peer at him over it. "You comin'~?"

Thank goodness there were no students waiting, at the moment. He glared sternly over the rims of his reading glasses at the American, before letting his gaze fall nonchalantly back to his book. It was chemistry, this time.

"I'm afraid I'll have to decline, as I'd rather keep my eardrums in proper working condition, thank you." The kid started whining again, and the Brit spared him another scathing glance.

"C'moooon, man! You need to loosen up! Playing soccer once a week by yourself doesn't cut it!" Alfred grinned, then, and leaned further onto the counter, stage-whispering conspiratorially. "There'll be boo~ooze~" Arthur snapped his gaze up and kept it up, at that, narrowing his eyes towards the oh-so-irritating one.

"Are you even old enough to drink, you twit?" Blue eyes went wide, and the brunet jerked back, slapping a hand over his mouth.

"Oh, shit! You're not gonna tell anyone, are ya Artie?" For a moment, he enjoyed the panic in those normally-confident eyes, and allowed the beginnings of a smirk to sneak over his face as the blond languidly went back to his reading, turning a page smugly.

"Ah, I'm not sure I couldn't. After all, the uni might well get sued if there were underage drinking taking place in one of its dormitories—and as I am employed by them I would be rather obliged to act in their best interest…" He enjoyed the barely-strangled sound jutting from Alfred's throat far too much, and couldn't resist the urge to gaze evilly over his lenses at the poor boy.

"B-But everyone does it, Artie! You can't tell! You can't, I'll—" Those blue eyes went bright with an idea, suddenly, and Arthur reflexively scowled, opening his mouth to cut off the idea before it could take root.

"Whatever you're planning on—" His chemistry book was snatched from his hands without further pretense. He gaped, stuttered—and, unfortunately, this allowed Alfred to retreat to a safe distance, grinning in success and waving the textbook about in the air.

"Ha~! Now you've got to come tonight, yeah? I've got your book~"

"You—you—" He stood slowly, still partially in shock, and splayed a hand on the counter top. His gaze burned towards the—that insufferable git! "Give me that!" Arthur snarled, whipping out that hand to try and take it back. Alfred just grinned and hopped away, continuing to wave the text above his head.

"No way! You've gotta come tonight, or I won't give it back~! C'mon, Artie, it'll be fun!" Green eyes darted around, checking if many people were staring (there were!). Damn that American, damn him!

"No! I have a chemistry exam next week, Alfred! Give me my bleeding book!" His response was pushed through grit teeth, and he was making an effort not to shout. This was a public place, there were other students who lived here who saw him every day, and if it were well-known that he was so easily incensed, he'd never hear the end of it! As an added annoyance, Arthur couldn't go around the desk to chase after the stupid yank—he was being paid to man the desk, damn it all!

"Noooo waaay~! You've gotta come, Artie! You'll have fun!" His fingers curled into a fist at his side, wanting desperately to punch the idiot for making such a scene. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, holding it as he counted to ten in his head. Nevertheless, when his eyes opened they were still very angry, but his voice was much calmer—almost oddly quiet. Arthur raised the hand that'd been resting on the counter top and stretched his arm out towards the source of his dilemma, the palm facing upwards in simple request.

"Give me my book, Alfred." He almost sounded resigned, he thought. That textbook alone had been over a hundred dollars. He couldn't really afford to buy a new one, not with the rent and bills coming in a few days. Not to mention, over in England, Ken was sick. Who knew how he'd fare? There really was no extra money or time for foolishness like this. And what of his own problems? The fairies and creatures that only he could see—they were a daily challenge to ignore. Even now, as he thought of it, he could see a few tittering along with Alfred's teasing, spinning around the captive textbook and pulling faces at him as they jetted through the air, leaving multi-colored trails of neon stardust in their wake. The troubling thoughts only continued to circle and escalate, no doubt spinning a tired glint into his eyes.

Perhaps Alfred saw it, because he stopped dancing around like a buffoon and stared at him. There was something—Arthur frowned, identifying it as pity, and jerked his hand back, turning around to stomp back to his knapsack. At least he could still make use of this time.

"Hey, Art—?"

"You've had your fun for the day. Leave me alone. I've a psychology quiz, tomorrow." He whipped out that subject's notebook, glancing over his shoulder and scowling when he noticed the brunet just standing there, arms down at his sides, still staring at him.

"Well, what are you waiting for! Get lost!" He snapped, beyond irritated. Let the tosser keep that book, then, fine! He'd just contact one of the other lads in his class and borrow theirs to finish the chapter—or, read the chapter in the campus book store, even! "I've no intention of coming to your foolish little get-together tonight! Now, kindly leave me in peace so I might get some actual work done!" He kept up his glare a few beats longer than usual, and watched as the brunet seemed to bite his lip, then nod, and turned to wander off and bother someone elsewhere. Likely his dorm. Arthur snorted, sliding back into his seat and flipping open the notebook to begin skimming his crisp handwriting.

: : :

When he returned from his bathroom break at the end of his shift, he blinked. There, sitting perfectly innocently in front of the metal blind he'd pulled down when he left (to show the mailroom was closed)—was his chemistry book. The Brit shook his head, forcing back a relieved sigh, and went over to retrieve it. As he picked it up, he noticed a piece of paper sticking out of the top, and, curious, flipped open the cover to inspect it.

Art-

Party starts 8. I get that your prolly really pissed me but u seriously need to chillax, man. Text me if u come so I can let u in, yeah?

555-555-5555

-Al

For a few moments, all he could do was stare at the note. He twitched a little upon noticing the spelling errors and blatant use of questionable vocabulary (chillax?), but… It was thoughtful, at least. He felt his cheeks get a little hot, and scoffed, stuffing the note into his pocket, marching primly to the door, unlocking it, and stepping inside to reclaim his knapsack and coat. Once out of the public eye of the common room, he hesitated, pulling the note back out of his pocket and leaning against the door. He smoothed out the fresh wrinkles, staring at it as his brow furrowed in thought.

Certainly, he had a mobile—they were all-but-required in today's world, and without the bill for cable or a landline it was just barely affordable. The blond slowly pulled it out of his pocket, fumbling around the worn edges of the device and glancing back to the note in his other hand, pausing in indecision. He didn't really text anyone, didn't have a plan for it—so the charges would be hefty if he did… but the other option was actually ringing the boy or (god forbid) posting it on his Facebook that he'd come. He winced. Who knew how often Alfred checked that site, anyway—and he didn't need everyone on there knowing what he was doing, tonight.

God, was he actually planning on going, now?

Arthur checked his watch. 4:30. He'd been standing here for twenty minutes debating this? He shook his head, making to shove both of the items back into their respective pockets and not give that do another thought, but…

The Brit paused—then, slowly began to navigate his phone.

Contacts.

Options.

New Contact.

Name: …

He paused, again, thinking lightly—before smirking a bit, and thumbing in a suitable name.

That Daft Git

He chuckled to himself, punching in the phone number before saving. Arthur exited out to the main screen, then re-entered into his Contacts list, checking the number against the one written in the note for the third time and that it had saved correctly. It had, so he closed the handheld and stuffed it and the scrap of paper back into his pocket with a sigh. He leaned his head back on the closed door behind him, setting his palm against his forehead to tangle fingers in his fringe as he stared vaguely up through the gaps between the digits, half-muttering to himself.

"…What the hell am I thinking."

: : :

7:30 PM

"Hello, you have reached Clarence. Please leave your name and number and I shall return your call at my earliest possible convenience. Thank you for calling."

"Ah, hello, Ren! This is Arthur. I simply thought I'd let you know I may not be back, tonight—not to worry! I'm staying over at a… friend's house, and it may run a little late, although I'll do my best to get back fairly early. I'll bell you if anything changes, but definitely by morning. Good-bye!"

: : :

7:40 PM

Clarence blinked lightly, emerging into his bedroom with a towel wrapped halfway around his neck. It kept the moisture from his yet-damp hair off his dry clothes, after all. What caused him to blink was the lit screen of his cell phone, it buzzing every now and then. The Japanese boy padded quietly over to the device, scooping it neatly into his hand and pressing a few buttons with his thumb. He canted his head to the side in a bit of curiosity, seeing a missed call from his room mate, and pressed a few more buttons before holding it to his ear. A few moments passed in relative silence as he listened to the message, at last pulling the phone away from his ear to stare at it in contemplation.

Well, certainly that wasn't an issue, it was good of Arthur-san to be making friends. Not that the British man was unwelcome company, but the solitude would be a nice change. Of course, Arthur had already done that. Thoughtful as he was, the blond had arranged to have an evening philosophy class every Thursday for about three hours—three hours during which Arthur-san knew he didn't have class. A slight smile tugged at his lips, and he gently set the phone back beside his computer keyboard before wandering off in search of his brush, planning to settle in for a few hours of simple relaxation.

It was about a half-hour later, when he was settled before his computer in all manner of comfortable clothing, a cup of still-steaming green tea in a mug atop a coaster and a piece of pocky dangling from his lips, that a knock at the door caused him to glance up towards the sound, with another blink. A few moments later, and there was another knock. He frowned, slightly—who would be calling, this time of night? He chided himself, then. This was America, after all—any time before nine was not seen as unreasonably late. Sighing almost sadly, he stood, placing the now-abandoned pocky stick carefully atop the napkin settled perfectly in line with his mousepad. He shuffled in his bamboo-lined slippers (they reminded him of walking on tatami mats, really) over to the door, peering out the peephole only to see the blurred figure of what looked to be someone, holding something that appeared to be… a covered dish?

Blinking again, the youth was startled out of his thoughts by yet another knock. A bit flustered for his hesitation—he didn't wish to seem rude!—he hastily unlocked the door and cracked it open, dark brown eyes lifting with a polite smile towards his guest as he peered around the edge of the door. A stranger was still a stranger, and he'd best be careful. Warm, kind green eyes settled on him beneath a shaggy smattering of bangs, although the man's expression barely shifted from slight anxiety to a hint of relief. The Asian boy's own smile softened a bit, and he opened the door a little more, nodding his head slightly in a reflexive greeting.

"Ah, good evening. I am sorry to have kept you waiting." The man paused a moment, nodding.

"It is fine. You are new around here, am I… correct?" Something about the way he phrased it, the pacing—he couldn't help but relax, straightening a bit and nodding once more.

"Yes. We just moved in, a few weeks ago—my room mate and I." He offered politely, eyes sweeping subtly over the covered dish in the man's hands. His guest seemed to notice, and stared at him not unkindly for a moment before slowly edging the thing towards him. The dark-haired boy glanced up, locking gazes with him—hesitant to take it but not wishing to seem impolite.

"It is a house… ah… apartment-warming gift. For you… and your room mate." The green-eyed man smiled at him, but it was so slight, more detectable in his gaze than anywhere else. "I am sorry… I have not had time before now to visit and properly welcome you to the neighborhood." The Japanese boy flushed, flustered for some reason, and moved aside to allow the man to enter, babbling quietly.

"Oh, no, really, it was rather rude of us. We should have gone around introducing ourselves—it's just with the university's semester starting, we've both been rather busy and—"

"It's fine." The calm voice cut gently through his fretting as the taller man stepped inside and seemed to take note of the shoes lining the hallway. He rather awkwardly slipped off his shoes—they were only slippers, it seemed—before lifting his head to smile at the shorter boy beside him. "Thank you, for inviting me in." He raised the dish, only slightly. Clarence couldn't help but smile, both at the offer and how conscientious the other man was of his traditions. Goodness knew it had taken Arthur-san a bit of effort to adjust—even if the British man hadn't been obvious about it, and Clarence certainly hadn't tried to force him to follow his own traditions. In fact, Arthur-san had said something about it making sense—taking your shoes off right when you came in, and thus bringing less dirt into the house.

"This is… galaktoboureko." At the sharp blink from the Japanese man, bringing him back to the present and out of his musings, the taller one smiled, leaning down slightly to make better eye contact. "It is a Greek dessert. I am Greek. My name is Melecio."

"A-Ah, I see. It is a pleasure to meet you, Melecio-san." He bowed his head, flustered again for some unnamable reason and making to accept the… dessert, then. "Thank you very much. Would you like to sit for a bit? I can make some tea—" He stopped as he straightened, noticing the man smiling almost dreamily down to him.

"If you would like, my new friend." Clarence bowed again, quickly, before scurrying off to set about doing just that.

"Y-Yes, yes, please follow me, we only have two chairs, thank goodness Arthur-san isn't here otherwise there wouldn't be enough—" He heard quiet footsteps behind him, and an almost absent-minded voice, as though the speaker were distracted.

"Is Arthur your room mate?" Pausing at the stove, the Asian boy smiled over his shoulder at his new acquaintance, nodding a bit as his guest slowly took a seat and set the covered platter of—galaktoboureko, was it?—on the table before him.

"Yes. He called earlier, and will be coming back rather late, tonight." Turning back to the stove, he turned the knob for the burner settled beneath the teapot. His guest was silent for the moment, and Clarence only made to face him when he had set aside two cups for tea and procured two plates for the… galaktoboureko (he would have to work on that). He was mildly surprised to see the Greek man's eyes travelling over the decorations on the walls. Melecio soon noticed his gaze, though, and turned his attention back to him with another smile. He returned it with a hesitant one of his own, slowly sinking into the chair opposite his new neighbor.

"…are you Japanese, my friend?" Blinking in surprise at the astuteness—most Westerners mistook him for Korean or Chinese, often enough—he nodded. Melecio nodded, as well, pausing a moment before speaking again. "…do you have a Japanese name?" To this, Clarence blushed bright red, it suddenly brought rather obviously to his attention that he'd never given this man his name! He jumped up, bowing hastily at the waist before him, clapping his palms together vertically in supplication and just missing the beginnings of a shocked look on the other's face due to his speed.

"I-I do, but—E-E-Excuse my rudeness, Melecio-san! There is no excuse for forgetting to introduce myself! I deeply apologize for—"

"It is all right, my friend." That voice was almost fondly amused, and he dared a glance up to see kindly glimmering jade watching him peacefully. "Please, sit… but, if you wouldn't mind—"

"O-Of course not!" Clarence slowly edged into his seat once more, gazing bashfully at the ground. "Many people here call me C-Clare. O-Or—" He stuttered, trailing off self-consciously as a bit of curiosity entered into those too-deep green eyes.

"Claire? Is Claire not usually a female name?" Ah, Clarence just knew he was blushing, again, looking down as Melecio paused to think. "…You said you had a Japanese name. I do not think Claire is Japanese, either?" There was no accusation in that tone, mere curiosity and an honest wish to understand. Taking a slow breath, Clarence lifted his head up with a weak smile.

"N-No, Melecio-san. My full name is Clarence, but many people call me 'Clare'. As for my Japanese name…" Here he paused, glancing away as his hands tightened against one another, neatly folded in his lap. "Many people here have trouble pronouncing it. To make it easier on them, I introduce myself with my adopted English name." Here he chanced a smile towards his new friend, just a bit. The Greek seemed to be deep in thought. Moments passed like hours, although the silence was not uncomfortable. The Japanese boy felt himself begin to relax, and so did not start too badly when his guest chose to speak again, green eyes locking with his own darker ones.

"…I would like to know your Japanese name, my friend. It was the name you had… before your English name, if I understood you correctly… ?" That dark, shaggy head tipped to the side, only a bit, in inquiry—and he had to smile, nodding in a polite half-bow.

"My Japanese name is Kiyoshi, Melecio-san." Clarence iterated slowly, enunciating the sounds of his name carefully as he said them. Melecio nodded, brow furrowing but then clearing as he looked up to him.

"Ki. Yo. Shi." The Japanese boy blinked, then smiled in encouragement. It was a very good pronunciation for a first try!

"Yes. My name is Kiyoshi."

The rest of the night was spent pleasantly, with Melecio asking him about Japanese culture and sharing his own in return. They also shared a good amount of the custard-filled slices of layered phyllo, but mutually leaving enough for Arthur to partake in some when he returned. The slightly bitter tea was a lovely complement to the sweet dessert, and neither thought their current company—or the way the evening was spent—could have possibly been better.

: : :

7:50 PM

His palms were sweaty, and he tugged at his green sweater vest—the same one he'd worn all day. He'd taken his tie off in an attempt to be more informal, stuffing it in his knapsack, which rested between his feet on the floor. He'd also rolled his white button-up shirt's sleeves to his elbows, and now his hands didn't know what to do with themselves. After he was finished in the mailroom, he'd gone to the library, as usual, and spent the hours quietly studying. He hadn't been nervously indecisive and watching as the hours rolled by, really! It's not as though he hadn't been a freshman, once, hadn't been to a drinking party…

Except that was a long time ago, and I just stayed in my room the entire time while everyone else was in the living room. He admitted, slightly guiltily.

His first year here, he'd managed to maneuver a deal with on-campus apartment housing. They gave him a discount, and he'd ended up living in an eight-room apartment with three other boys. Each had their own room, and there were two bathrooms, as well as a storage closet and the living room/kitchen area. Two of the boys had been rather close, and rather social, as well. They were polite, at least, and asked (warned) their other flat mates when they were planning on having a party. They'd only had three or four, the entire semester, but every time Arthur had raided the pantry just before it started, and holed himself up in his room except for quick trips to the bathroom. He avoided the loud voices and laughter in the main living area, thankful his room was at the end of the hall and that at least one of the bathrooms was reachable without having to venture into the sight of his flat mates' guests.

And now he was waiting to go to an underage drinking party (it utterly inconsequential that he'd been legally able to consume alcohol in the United States for almost a year, now). He was sitting on one of the regulation lounge chairs—the kind seen at every lounge on campus—in the common room of the building where he'd been serving as a mail clerk for going on three years. In fact, the metal blinds visible across the room were just where he'd left them after his shift, almost four hours earlier. Arthur put his head in his hands, shaking it.

What am I thinking?

He didn't know anyone who lived here, except Alfred, and even then the brunet was pushing an acquaintance, at most. What if they wanted him to drink? Could he refuse—especially given that he was old enough? He'd avoided the peer pressure for all the years he'd been underage (an unavoidable side-effect of being a loner), and old habits were hard to break. He'd turned twenty-one, had the brief thrill of elation that age brought, but—he found, sadly, that by then he had no one who wanted to go drink with him (not that he'd asked, he'd just known they'd refuse, so why bother?). Drinking alone was a state he would not lower himself to. What was so great about it! Alcohol dulled one's wits, and he needed them about him all the time.

Why was he going to this party, again?

He really couldn't think of a reason, but at this point he'd already contacted Ren. If nothing else, he had his pride, and to go back to his apartment now—it would seem pathetic. Dishonorable, too, because he knew the boy liked his alone time. As did he, but the library was usually good enough for him. Ren seemed the sort to like to hermit himself in his room with his computer or game systems, never to emerge, but he was different. Arthur didn't mind venturing out into the world, but a good book with a hot cup of tea was always preferable to a good conversation.

The blond's hands found each other, and he squeezed them together, bowing his head and resting his forehead on his knuckles, closing his eyes. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad?

8:02 PM

He was staring at the phone in his hand like it was a live snake. His hands were shaking, and he swallowed—before putting it to his ear. It was still ringing, maybe he could hang up and—

"Helllooo~?" He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. "Eh, hi? If this is a prank call, I can hear you breathing and I've got caller ID, so—"

"H-Hello." The babbling American paused. A few seconds ticked by.

"Who is this?" He gulped, attempting vainly to swallow his nerves. Why was this so hard?

"I-it's Arthur, a-and I—" The phone practically exploded. He winced, holding it away from his ear to let the exuberant voice on the other end continue its ranting without doing damage to his eardrums.

"ARTIE? You actually called? Why didn't you text! –HEY, so you want to come up? That's AWESOME, just give me a sec and I'll be right down to sign you in! Don't go away!" The phone clicked, leaving him with a dial tone and his shoulders trembled as he gazed down at the device in horror.

What have I bloody gotten myself into?

8:06 PM

Arthur swore the last four minutes were the longest of his life. He'd contemplated getting up to stand, but the butterflies in his stomach wouldn't leave him alone. Perhaps it'd be better just to wait? He fidgeted, frowning at his anxiety. It wasn't like him. Sighing, he shook his head—only to start, badly, when he was as good as full-on body-tackled from his chair to the floor by a blur of brown and blue.

"ARTIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIE~! I'm so glad you're here!" The Brit sputtered, anger rising to the surface as he flushed bright red!

"G-Get off of me you git!" He roared—more like squeaked, as his throat had seen fit to almost close up on him what with the shock of the surprise tackle. The blond lowered his eyebrows in a fierce scowl, although by the way Alfred drew back to beam at him, the expression didn't do much good.

"Sorry, guess I got a little excited~ It's so awesome you came, though!" The brunet chirped and Arthur sighed, mentally—outwardly only frowning more and shoving the kid off before sitting up and straightening his collar. His face was still red, he knew it, but he trudged on bravely to spite it. Just his luck, before he could say anything to regain his dignity, Alfred grabbed his hand with another grin and pulled him up and over to the security officer seated behind the (presumably bulletproof) glass just on their side of the entrance to Waltman Hall North.

"C'mon, we've gotta sign you in~!" He went through the procedure, offering up his ID for scrutiny as the old wizened man squinted at him and checked his name against a list of those prohibited from entering the premises. He rolled his eyes. This uni could be so pretentious, at times. Besides his name, Arthur had to jot down his current place of residence on the sign-in sheet, which he uncomfortably did—all-too-aware that Alfred could be taking it down on his phone behind him (and thus show up at his apartment unexpectedly… he did not need that, thank you very much!).

Once he got his ID back, Alfred toted him through the entrance, the locks beeping as they unlocked only long enough for the door to open. The yank made a beeline for the lifts, pushing the upward-facing arrow before turning to smile at him, squeezing the Brit's smaller hand.

"Thanks for coming, Art, really." Green eyes slid to their corners, narrowing slightly as he gazed at the kid in suspicion. The brunet blushed a little, looking down and releasing his hand to rub at his own arm. "You… you got your book, right?" He blurted, too-blue eyes bearing up on him nervously. The Brit raised a brow (if he'd known to come at eight, wouldn't it have been obvious he'd gotten his book?), inclining his head just slightly before averting his gaze to the ground beside him, feeling a little bit of red sneak back into his cheeks for some reason.

"I-I did. Thank you." Beside him he guessed Alfred nodded.

"S-Sure. No problem." The doors dinged before them and it was like it never happened—the brunet was laughing, again, greeting a few people he knew before dragging Arthur in after him and pressing the button for his floor.

: : :

At first, they hadn't really done anything. In fact, the first two and a half hours involved Alfred and his flat mate screaming at each other as they pounded each other's guts in a video game. Eventually they switched to a four-player, and one of their suitemates appeared, taking Gilbert's side and leaving Arthur with Alfred. He actually held up rather well, given that Ren liked to play such games so much—so, while he was nowhere near the level these 'true gamers' were on, he could at least play well enough to avoid embarrassing himself. He wouldn't deny the proud flush he got when he managed to kill Vash's character in a stroke of luck, Alfred clapping him on the back with a proud shout. The other blond hadn't looked too happy, but nodded briskly in his direction in acknowledgement. Vash pounded him ruthlessly into the dirt in the next melee, though.

10:44 PM

Alfred mentioned that while Gilbert was old enough to buy alcohol—how else would they have gotten it?—they'd have to be careful, as the RA lived just across the hall from them. In fact, just as they pulled the cans and bottles out from under the bed, said RA waltzed in with a debonair smile and utterly eerie timing, gesturing to the room around him.

"You would not be zo zelfish as to not share, non~? Perhaps if you were ze good little boys wiz your alcohol, you would not get eento trouble, oui~?" Arthur gaped, then surged forward—all nervousness forgotten as the ice had been broken a while back—plunging his index finger in a deadly poke to the Frenchman's chest, brows furrowing menacingly.

"What the hell, you damn frog? They're underage! Shouldn't you at least be a little more—" The blond had waved him off, gesturing once more to the room around him.

"Ah, eet ees een ze stars, mon cher~! One cannot stop ze young boys from drinking any more zan—" He'd then shouted to cut him off, grabbing the infuriating, flowery guy by the front of his shirt and shaking him!

"You're the bloody RA! Resident Advisor! You're supposed to show some bleeding responsibility! What kind of divvy role model are you—" The bastard had had the audacity to wink at him, then, tipping forward to kiss him on the cheek. He spluttered, eyes white with bags showing under them in pure rage and shock, and the man smugly purred at him.

"I zink our dear rosbif could use some of ze wine. Judging by your reaction, you areold enough to drink zis, non~?" That bleeding frog waved a large bottle of opened vodka procured from seemingly nowhere as he said this, smirking around his words. "Why not show zeese young ones how we do eet een Europe~~?" Arthur stuttered, again, eyes wide in nervous fright as the man had, unerringly, hit on the one thing about this evening he'd most been dreading. He tried to laugh it off, releasing the man to wave his hand as though it didn't matter at all.

"I-I-I don't need to—" Like a tiger about to enjoy a very satisfying meal. That's what that damned Frenchman's eyes looked like, right now.

"Unless you are… how you say… 'chicken', just like ze rest of les goddams Anglais~?" He saw red. The Frenchman was goading him by insulting his entire race, that's what he was doing. He was fucking goading him with that nickname the French had stuck Englishmen with since the Hundred Years War, but, but—he couldn't let him win!

"Hey, Art—I think you need to calm down. You're right, you don't have to prove anything—" He barely heard Alfred's voice, oddly muted, in the background, or registered that there were hands on his shoulders, trying to tug him backward. He didn't really see that some dark-haired man he hadn't even met yet had snagged the frog's arm and was trying to draw him away with a couple of calm words. None of that mattered, though, because in another moment Arthur had lunged forward, wrenching out of the light grip on his shoulders as he grabbed the open bottle from the Frenchman's hands.

He leveled the blond's shocked face with a smug grin and upended the bottle over his face, lips sealed to the small opening. The first gulp burned, and he had to shut his eyes to focus past the contorted expression wanting to break over his face. God, it tasted awful! This was irreversibly stupid of him, but he couldn't help it. Something about that damn frog's face and words had gotten to him, and his English pride wouldn't stand aside as his people were insulted!

There were yells around him, and the world gushed back into existence, the bottle wrenched from his hands after who knows how long. He gasped, lurching forward and coughing wetly as a little went into his windpipe, throat sore from the sting of the alcohol as a rush of heat abruptly engulfed his face. With a look up—a crooked smirk slowly overtaking the unavoidable grimace from the bitter taste—and a little unintentional swaying on his feet, Arthur raised the two-fingered salute towards the shocked-looking blond only passably restrained by the dark-haired man looking just as surprised beside him.

"Don't bloody insult the English, you cheese-eating surrender monkey! You wanna punch-up? Argy-bargy? Come 'ere, I'll rip off your tonker, stick it up your arse and kick you back to France!" And he lunged for him, again, but he didn't get far before strong arms were holding him back, a voice shouting something and soon that Frenchman was whisked out of sight. He roared in anger, throat still sore from the vodka as he was lifted off his feet. He started shouting curses to the man behind him, kicking his legs.

"Bugger—let me go, you fucking nosey parker! Shit! Goddamn spacker! Let me at that frog! I'll take your bollocks and send them through a meat grinder if you don't! Bleeding wanker! Sod the hell off!" He heard a burst of laughter and had to pause, turning his head to blink blearily behind him. There was a hundred-watt grin in his face, and the brunet holding him shook his head.

"Jeez, Arthur… I'd heard that the English and French didn't get along—but damn! Never saw that one coming!" He laughed again and the blond groaned, sinking back against the yank's chest.

"Well, that was bloody brilliant…" He ended up mumbling it, placing a hand to the side of his head and shaking it in an attempt to dispel the dizziness setting in. He was slowly set back on his feet, but those arms around him didn't move, settled on either of his sides and around his middle as he felt someone's chin lean to rest on his shoulder. There was silence for a moment. Then—

"Hey, Artie… You've never had alcohol before, have you?" He gave a limp shake of head, still muttering.

"Couldn't let that fucking French bastard win…" Arthur heard another chuckle, and he could've sworn there was something thin and metallic—like frames?—pressing into the side of his cheek. The voice he heard sounded like its owner was smiling.

"That was pretty cool, though—you know? I mean, we would've gotten into real trouble if you'd actually gone at it, but…" Another laugh, and the Brit smiled vaguely at the air in front of him, settling back against the warmth behind him with another mumble. "Pretty neat that you've got that much honor in ya, Artie!"

"Mmhm…" He mumbled, not really drunk (not that he knew what it felt like), but unused to the fluffy feeling spreading throughout his body. It was warm. Pleasant, that. The blond shook his head, though, blinking again at the wall in front of him as it shifted lazily.

"I'm going to be utterly pissed by the end of the night, aren't I, you plonker?" Another laugh was barked into his ear, and he could've sworn Alfred hugged him closer to his chest in response.

"Yeah, that vodka's probably going to knock you out, pretty fast…"

"Bugger all."

: : :

He really hadn't expected it, not at all. Arthur's face had just gotten so mad, and then he'd been drinking before anyone could really stop him. Too shocked to move, Alfred'd just stared before shouting and grabbing the Brit, dragging him away as Gilbert plucked the vodka from his hands. He'd coughed, then, but after that the blond'd spewed the weirdest-sounding insults that he guessed he'd really meant—because damn if he hadn't been intending to do something that sounded really horrible to Francis!

"Bugger all." That low curse brought him back from his moment of reflection. There was a pause, after it, and somewhat-hazed green moved to glare at him suspiciously. It was hard to take seriously, though, because Arthur's eyes kept sliding unfocused and crossing themselves. "You didn't… plan this, did you, you git?" Those jade eyes were currently crossed, but it didn't stop the brunet from grinning a hint nervously, shifting to sit on the edge of his bed with the more slender man between his legs.

"Err, I… I wasn't—I mean…" He paused, thinking—then nodding. "I didn't think you'd never had anything to drink before, ya know? I figured you woulda mentioned it…"

"Prat." Was the mumbled curse, and he had to chuckle. Why did British vulgarity sound so much like a kid's word game gone wrong? "Nnn, my head…" He didn't have much choice as the blond propped against one of his inner thighs shifted, resting his head against his shoulder as his eyes fell shut. Alfred felt himself blush.

"Uh, Arthur, you're kinda—"

"Shut it. My head hurts and it's your fault, you sodding yank." He had to laugh, at that, wrapping an arm around the blond's waist so as to prevent him sliding off.

"My fault? How did I force you to down almost half that bottle of—"

"You invited me, I'm your guest, 's your room—your fault." It was muttered in what sounded like a sulky tone, and the teen could have sworn Arthur was nuzzling into his shoulder, just a bit. He tried a glance and blushed more when he realized the blond's eyes were closed, his head angled back, those eyebrows knit—likely a testament to his headache. He echoed another anxious chortle, tipping his gaze away to focus on something—anything!—other than the too-warm body pressed flush against his own.

On his bed.

Alfred flushed, darker, upon realizing this, and almost involuntarily glanced back towards the foul-mouthed Brit in his lap. How could he still think Arthur was cute, after what he'd said? It didn't really make sense, but then again his continuing to contact the guy didn't make sense, either. He knew when Arthur's mailroom shift was—well, the Friday one, at least (right after his philosophy recitation!)—and he could've easily avoided him. He'd then run into him, randomly, caught up in the way the blond effortlessly handled his soccer ball, that day. He'd just about asked Arthur on a date, twice… The American felt his face grow red again, subconsciously wrapping his arm a little more around that slender hip.

No one was that dense, but the alternative made him cringe.

After all, it was quite possible that Arthur simply wasn't into men.

(Their current almost-cuddling predicament notwithstanding—he was drunk, after all!)

11:15 PM

"C'mon, Artie, gotta help me out, here…" Alfred grunted, half-pulling the drunk Brit along as they made their way out to one of the benches in front of Waltman Hall. The streetlamps were glowing brightly above them, giving him a sense of security as they waited for the cab he'd called, a few minutes ago. His hand curled around the small slip of paper in his pocket, sporting Artie's street address (which he'd copied down from the sign-in sheet as he'd paused to sign his friend back out).

6402 Mallard Avenue

He shook his head. Who named the streets in this crazy city? He didn't think the blond was sober enough to even contemplate paying for his cab fare, and he really wanted to make sure he got home safely, so—said companion flailed a bit, interrupting his thoughts once again as he gestured wildly.

"Y-Yer a soddin' yank, you know!" Brows creased together fiercely as Arthur prodded a hard finger into the younger man's chest, declaring his opinion rather loudly as he swayed slightly from where he was seated beside him. "Youu… invite me here—" Another prod. "—get m' mullered—" Another. "—'nd then take m' outside to rape me in the street!" He flushed as that hand flung out in a wide sweep, grabbing Arthur's arm with a hiss.

"Be quiet! I'm not! We're just waiting for a cab so I can—"

"Yer takin' me to a bloody hotel to shag me?" He winced, pulling the blond back down and firmly setting his hand on the other's nearest shoulder to both steady the man in his seat and keep him in place, glaring seriously into those glazed, lime-green eyes.

"No! Arthur, listen to me! I'm just taking you home to sleep this shit off! Now sit down and shut up!" Alfred glared, and held it even as the Brit gazed at him vacantly, head tipping a little bit like a side-to-side boggle-head doll.

"Ohhh…" The blond muttered, thickly, swaying until he somehow managed to bump his forehead against his friend's shoulder and rest there, again. Pretty green gazed up at him through fair, sweaty bangs, a trembling, tiny smile slipping carelessly onto the Brit's flushed face as the drunkard poked at his chest, drawing big circles in the fabric a little playfully.

"Maybe yer not a soddin' yank, then…" It was almost a sultry purr, what with how husky that accented voice was, and he—he couldn't help but flush, lifting a hand to rest on the middle of the blond's back as he coughed, pointedly looking away and begging for the telltale lights of a yellow taxi to appear down the street.

"E-Eh, yeah, Arthur, the cab should be—" Something soft trailed along his neck and the words died in his throat, hand tightening on the fabric of the other's sweater vest as he froze. "A-Art? What're you—"

"'s warm." It was practically cooed, muffled against his skin as the Brit nosed into his collar, Arthur's bangs gentle against his neck as the intoxicated man sighed warmly with an absent hum. Alfred coughed, again, lifting a hand to rest on the guy's shoulder and firmly push him away, ignoring the raging heat on his own face as those glazed eyes settled on him, red rosy lips parting to protest—

He swallowed. Hard.

Dammit!

"A-Arthur, we've gotta wait for the cab, okay? Could you not—" The rolled-up cuffs of the blond's button-up shirt brushed his ears as his friend moved only closer, linking those slim-but-strong arms around behind his neck with a ridiculously happy half-smile fixed on that reddened face.

"Yer… pretty fit, yeah?" He swallowed, trying to lean away but Arthur just moved with him. They ended up with the Brit's weight pressing the bookbag slung over his shoulder into the small of his back and against the bench armrest behind him, their chests flush with one another. He could feel the heat of the vodka raging through his friend's body, with the close proximity—and began to stutter only more as Art's eyes went half-lidded, and he began to lean down.

"A-A-Ah, yeah, Art, I t-try to keep in shape, y-you know how it is…" He smiled nervously, using the hand still on the Brit's shoulder to try and push him back, just a little. The blond relented, sliding his rear back onto the seat beside him but not giving up his hold, drawing Alfred towards him with another of those must-be-unintentional purrs in the back of his throat.

"Yeah, Al? That's well good…" Oh, god. He just knew his face was too red, at this point. His eyes kept flickering down to Arthur's mouth, made only worse when bad timing caught him—the Brit's little pink tongue sneaking out and wetting his own lips with a flirty little smirk as he was pulled closer with an accompanying warm mumble. He felt a clumsy hand raking its fingers through his hair.

"A-Art, I don't think—" He heard a throaty sound of irritation, and a light pull on his hair as he was tugged closer, those expressive brows furrowing in front of him as cloudy jade ate at him, the blond mumbling something—

"Codswallop." Just like that, he found the muttering lips pressed against his cheek and shuddered, fingers tightening on the other's shoulders as his eyes shut tight while heat curled in his stomach. Warm breath beat over his face in small puffs as Arthur angled his head a bit more, digits curling through his hair, rubbing against his scalp. Bright lights on his closed eyelids made them fly open as the light-haired brunet jerked back into reality, and he shoved the Brit well away from him, face red as a fire engine and breaths heavy.

Did we almost just… ?

Alfred shook his head, grabbing Arthur's arm at the elbow for better leverage and pulling him up and over to the waiting taxi. He opened the door, putting a hand on the top of the Brit's head as he pushed him inside, slipping in after and reading off the slip of paper for the address. The cabbie nodded, and after he wrenched the door shut they started to pull off into the street. He had to fight with Arthur a little bit to get his seatbelt on, but at last succeeded and flopped into his own side of the backseat, snapping the little clip neatly into place by his hip with a weary sigh.

He practically jumped out of his skin when a weight thumped onto his shoulder, snapping his gaze to the source. But Arthur's eyes were just closed, although his face was red, and he was still mumbling a bit, only more subdued. The ride passed relatively quietly, and he tried to ignore the hand nudging and pawing at his thigh. They pulled into the street, and then a small condominium parking lot. His brows knit, glancing around at the numbers. The American checked the slip of paper in his pocket, again.

6402.

So, was that the apartment number, or… ? Firmly guessing that's what it must be, he told the driver to wait. He'd be back, he just needed to drop his friend off at his apartment, first. The guy waved at him, setting the car to idle and Alfred gave him a grateful smile in the rearview mirror before tending to his drunken companion.

"All right, Artie! We're here! Let's get you inside…" He let himself out and closed the door behind him, walking over to the Brit's side of the car. He managed to maneuver Arthur out, slinging one of the blond's slender arms over his shoulders and half-dragging him to the sidewalk, the guy's footsteps at best clumsy and slow. He gave a quick glance around, seeking out the numbers—aha! He spied the 6390s a little ways down, keeping a close eye on how the numbers went up to his right. Relieved that 6402 happened to be a basement apartment, he carefully descended the steps with his friend in tow. He glanced at the door, deflating a little. Half-hopeful, he tried it. Locked, of course. It was almost midnight! He winced, glancing at the blond practically hanging off him and… dammit, again nuzzling into his shoulder! Alfred cursed, giving up all hope and just banging on the door, hoping Arthur had a room mate.

There was no way in hell he was digging through the pockets for the key to the apartment of the drunk Brit who'd just tried to fucking kiss him! –Well, unless it was an absolutely last resort! He shook his head, yelling a little in case they were asleep.

"Hey—Hello! If anyone's in there, could you—" To his great relief, the lamp clicked on behind him, flooding the doorway in light and soon enough it opened, revealing a rather perplexed-looking Asian man in pajamas, quite a bit shorter than him. Those mild brown eyes widened when they shifted to his companion, a hand coming up to politely hide the man's open mouth.

"A-Arthur-san!"

"Oh, thank god." He grinned as best he could, stepping into the threshold and the dark-haired man skirted skillfully out of the way, shutting the door behind them as Alfred managed to stumble down the hallway with the half-asleep blond trailing behind him with a few more muttered British curses under his breath. Arthur's room mate darted in front of him, then, gesturing towards what he guessed was the correct bedroom. They made it, and he deposited the by-now snoring mail clerk onto his bed with not an ounce of grace, only sparing him a glance to make sure he didn't roll off before dropping Arthur's backpack on the floor beside the bed. The American then turned with a friendly-if-tired smile to the poor man he'd woken in the middle of the night, sticking out a hand.

"Heya! I'm Alfred. Sorry to bug ya so late, Artie just had a little too much to drink, is all." The man blinked at him, glancing towards the slumbering Brit behind him before hesitantly extending his own hand in greeting and giving a light shake, as well as nodding his head a bit, politely.

"Ah… I see. Thank you, Alfred-san. My name is Clarence." He smiled, clapping the kid on the shoulder.

"Nice to meet ya, Clare! Well, I've gotta be getting back, taxi's waitin' outside!"

With that, he headed out of the apartment just as quickly as he'd come, speeding off and paying the driver the twenty-some dollars for the round-trip fare when they got back to the dorm. Getting up to his room was a blur until he at last collapsed onto his bed in exhaustion, groaning softly when his face buried itself into the soft, cool pillow.

Man, what a night!

: : :

Naturally, he didn't venture out to play soccer that day. He had a terrible headache, and couldn't remember much after he'd so stupidly downed half a bottle of vodka in less than a minute. He'd been utterly smashed last night, that was for certain, but he'd woken up in his own room with Ren hovering over him like a worried hen. The Japanese boy had chided him about drinking responsibly. He waved it off, grabbing some painkillers for his headache before Ren had swatted them out of his hands, handing him a banana milkshake instead. He didn't ask too many questions (they hadn't had bananas before this morning), just sipped at it quietly as he suffered another soft-spoken (and politely brief) lecture from his flat mate. The shake seemed sweeter than usual, but it did quench the awful thirst raging throughout his system. Really, he'd been rather irresponsible last night. It wasn't like him, but that damn French frog had just set him off… Arthur sighed, setting the empty glass on the table beside him and curling back up in bed, stuffing the pillow over his head to block out the daylight.

Ugh, I'm never drinking again!

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He had his nose stuck in his linguistics class' PowerPoint print-out, this time, looking over the IPA symbols and musing over their pronunciations when he heard the telltale clearing of a throat. He made the mistake of looking up, and sat a little straighter as he saw the sheepish, embarrassed smile strewn all over the brunet's guilty face. It'd been a week since that fateful party, and while he'd noted a few missed calls from 'That Daft Git', he'd been lax in belling him back. Classes, studying and work tended to get in the way of a proper social life, after all. Sliding his reading glasses off his face, the Brit rose to a dignified standing position, setting them aside as he lifted his gaze to the yank before him—bright blue on wary green. For a beat, there was an awkward silence.

"Five-fourteen, right?" It was crisp and professional, that tone, and he made to go get the stupid tosser's mail—but was stopped, a hand lightly grasping his forearm and attached to none-other than the yank who'd reached across the counter.

"Hey, Arthur— We're… we're still friends, yeah? I-I mean before you… er—before that happened, you were having fun, right?" He spared the brunet a scathing glance, snapping irritably.

"If you think I'd want anything to do with you, you bloody yank, after you got me completely sloshed and toted me home, you're barmy!" He wrenched his limb out of the boy's grip with another hard glare, stalking down the grid of mailboxes with a few muttered curses. He returned not a minute later, pausing a few steps away as he noticed that Alfred hadn't moved too much, staring dejectedly at the desk before him. Frowning, he strode forward, sharply flicking the boy on the head with the week's worth of envelopes in his hand. The kid jumped, too-clear eyes locking on his own.

"Completely barmy." He couldn't quite quash the smile that was threatening to curl up a corner of his mouth, glancing down at the mail as he held it out, expecting it to be taken. To his surprise, a hand grasped his own (still holding the mail) and he blinked, looking up to catch a wide grin before he was drawn into an enthusiastic hug (pulled halfway over the counter!), relieved laughter echoing breathlessly in his ear.

"Yeah, guess I am! To have a friend like you~" Oh, and that voice was warm, and… He blushed a little, awkwardly raising his free hand to level a few brisk taps on the brunet's back, clearing his throat.

"Yes, yes, now if you'll excuse me…" A tad flustered, he immediately retreated to the back room as Alfred released him from the impromptu embrace, hearing a few chuckles echo out behind him until he closed the door. He leaned back against it, casting a strange, tiny smile towards the piles of packages waiting to be delivered.

He really is daft, isn't he?

The Brit chuckled, shaking his head and sliding a hand to his pocket, grasping his mobile lightly.

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Reviews would make me really happy! [Birthday presents~? :3 ] Might also make me update faster…

You have no idea how much effort and time went into this monster. x/x -Fox