Arthur had his clip board clung close to his chest, and his mouth pressed in a thin line. He turned around and placed a hand on his hip, probably looking more American than British. Feliks Łukasiewic, the Polish kid in the Fashion Club, had been pestering Arthur for at least half a semester now, and Arthur would give anything to get rid of him.
"I told you," said Arthur, annoyed, "No, I'm not interested in modeling. No, I'm not interested in updating my wardrobe either. Now leave me alone before I assign you a bloody detention!"
Feliks' brows furrowed, "But you're shaped like a pretty mannequin! Oh, for the sake of my pink ponies, why of all people in this world God gave you that body and instead of, like, me or Eliza? Total waste." he exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air. Arthur wanted to point out that God wouldn't have given Elizaveta his body anyways because she was a girl, but he had made guesses that Feliks probably didn't know how to differentiate between the two genders anyways.
Arthur turned away then, continue walking down the stairs to the gym locker rooms. Feliks trotted beside him, chattering away non-stop about the benefits in being in the Fashion Club. Arthur tuned him out straight away, and pushed open the boys' locker room door as a whole horde of baseball players were coming out, loud and sweaty and shirtless. Arthur raised an impressive brow as Feliks stopped talking and instead exclaimed, "Ooh, aren't they totally gorgeous!" and ran after them, yelling, "Hey, pretty boys, any of you want to join the fabulous Fashion Club?"
Arthur sighed. He felt sorry for those boys but he was happy to have Feliks off his tail. Once again he pulled open the door to the locker room, closed it gently after him, and found it deserted except for lost caps and unclaimed baseballs lying in various corners. He made a mental note to remind Alfred to tell his team mates to put the lost things into the gym lost-and-found.
"Ano...Alfred-kun, is this really okay?" Asked a meek voice from a far corner, dark and isolated by walls of lockers. Arthur instinctively hid behind a wall of lockers as well. Pressed close to the metal, he saw from the corner of his eye that Alfred, dressed in his baseball uniform with his bomber jacket on, had Honda Kiku, also in the baseball uniform and had a cap on, pressed against the wall. Practice had just finished and both of them were covered in dirt.
Kiku's eyes were wide in shock and Arthur felt an urge to go to over and yank Alfred off him, half out of pity and half out of jealousy - but instead he just watched. He had promised Alfred that he would control his temper the second they started dating, and so far Arthur hadn't broken his promise. It was an accomplishment considering they've been dating for more than half a year already.
"We'll be fine," said Alfred, quietly and reassuring, "Nobody's here." and he took off Kiku's hat, setting it gently down on the bench beside them.
Arthur felt his blood pounding in his brain when Alfred leaned closer and his lips nearly met Kiku's. Kiku turned his face just in time so Alfred kissed his cheek instead. Kiku turned bright red and started stuttering.
"I-uh, I thought, Alfred-kun and Asa-Aruthur-san..." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, something that Arthur himself did frequently in Alfred's presence to calm his racing heart, "I...I thought you are...a c-couple?"
Alfred grabbed Kiku's face and kissed him quickly before he could react. Kiku slid to the floor, Alfred descending with him. When Alfred broke the kiss Kiku's eyes were half-lidded, and he reached up a trembling hand to touch his mouth.
"We are," explained Alfred, taking Kiku's hand off his mouth and kissing him again, "But we're just kinda fooling around."
"'fooling around'...for seven months?" Kiku asked in disbelief.
The question lingered in the air. Arthur was frozen on his spot, clutching his clip board close to his chest.
"I'm the captain of the Baseball Team," said Alfred dimly, "He's Student Council president. Neither of us have time for a serious relationship." he kissed Kiku again, and Kiku simply closed his eyes. "We just get together sometimes to do couple stuff. Nothing more."
Kiku stared Alfred in the eye, as if looking for proof that Alfred was being honest. His eyes flickered with uncertainty. "So it's like a playing a dating game...Just in real life and not on a DS?"
"Sort of," answered Alfred shyly,"A game that he's good at too."
Kiku looked away, cocking his head sideways. "...I see." he said, and lean upward, closer to Alfred's ear, whispering. "In that case, we can 'fool around' too...right? You see, I...I've been afraid to tell you this because I thought you loved him but I-"
Alfred covered Kiku's mouth with his own, and Kiku silenced. Alfred shook off his bomber jacket, and as he turned his head slightly, Arthur finally saw Alfred's expression. It was mostly lust - but there was definitely something genuine. "Let's play a game, Kiku." he said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet voice echoing in the nearly-empty locker room, "The first to fall in love loses."
Kiku's eyes widened, but then he reached his hands up to touch Alfred's face, any signs of romantic interest perfectly hidden. "It's on." he breathed.
Arthur's head was blank for a while, but after realizing what they were going to do next, he took off without a second glance.
The International Association of Elite Fashion Designers and Models, commonly known as the IAEFDM, hosted a week-long Fashion Fair annually, inviting only the top designers and models of the world to the show. The designers would present a small collection specifically for the show, with a theme they could decide on their own based on the models assigned to them by the IAEFDM. Each of the designers had their own station where they could store their works and make the final touches, as well as 10 to 15 minutes on the catwalk for each of them to present their collection. Coming to the Fair was a special privilege to both the designers and models, but those who were not invited were allowed to come too - they just had to pay a huge sum of money and sign paper works and also agree to be trailed behind by security guards the whole time they wold be there.
Most agree that it isn't a very good deal, which is why the people who attended the annual Fashion Fair were always familiar faces: Elizaveta Héderváry, designer specialized in women's fashion and always modeled her own best works. Lovino Vargas, model who walks with his own style and loved by the designers due to his constant moody expression. Im Yong Soo, designer who had designed for many South Korean boy bands and invented the most iconic Korean fashion trends. Gilbert Beilschmidt, often collaborating with his tall model brother, Ludwig, displaying military fashion. Feliks Łukasiewicz, designer who graduated from the same high school as Elizaveta and also modeled his own best works...whether they are for men or for women.
Francis Bonnefoy also attended the Fashion Fairs regularly since his graduation from the Ecole de la Chambre Syndicale de la Couture Parisienne, a famous fashion school in Paris. He was a celebrity for his designs which were often said to "lead the world", but also for his ability to flirt. He had led on many of the world's most beautiful men and women, only to toss them aside later on. However, barely anyone objected to his ways, because they all knew knew that being Francis Bonnefoy's lover was a compliment, however temporary it might be.
The Frenchmen did not have any competition. Most people agreed that Francis Bonnefoy was the only man who could seduce anyone in the world, but merely a year after his debut Arthur Kirkland arrived - an Englishmen that could seduce people even without trying.
Arthur Kirkland had built up a reputation since his time in an international high school, after quitting as Mr. Student Council President abruptly in the middle of the semester. He had came out as gay in the beginning of that school year, announcing his relationship with Baseball Captain Alfred F. Jones to the whole school, but nobody really caught them interacting as a couple. After quitting as president, he joined the fashion club and his social status skyrocketed.
Born with a slender body, golden blonde hair, a child's face, bright green eyes, and a natural ambition to want to do everything well, he became the best model in the club, which consisted of more than a hundred models and roughly forty designers. He never neglected his schoolwork, however, and graduated from high school as a 4.0 GPA valedictorian.
Over the course of high school, boys threw themselves at him and he dated each and every one of them for a brief and equal amount of time. He never flirted unless someone did first, and was always worshiped afar like a God. Nonetheless, his popularity increased by the hour.
The summer of his graduation he was sent an invitation. The following fall he became the youngest guest ever to appear in the Fashion Fair, and also quickly earned the status of Francis' only rival in the universe.
Ironically, they never interacted, and nobody knew what would happen if they did. Many guessed that it would turn into something very disastrous, others guessed that they would start dating, but to sum it up everyone was curious. The crowd saw their opportunity this year when the list from the IAEFDM - the one assigning which model to which designer - was sent to all those invited and and they saw Arthur's name underneath Francis'.
This year the Fair was held in London, England. Last year it was in Berlin, and Gilbert got so many of his models drunk they had to postpone his runway show to after Elizaveta's, who rescued him at the last second by switching his runway time with hers. The IAEFDM made sure to either never invite Gilbert again or to never hold a Fair at Berlin again, in which they chose the latter because despite how much of a troublemaker Gilbert was he was still one of the elite...unfortunately.
Francis arrived in London a few hours before his friends did. He set off to the hotel on his own, while blowing kisses to the blushing ladies in the street. He had his golden invitation in his pocket, and on it was the address of the five-star hotel reserved by the IAEFDM for the designers and models to live in. He showed the taxi driver his invitation, and the driver's eyes widened when he saw his name.
"Mr...Bon-ni-foy?" mumbled the driver, then he looked up, "The Francis Bonnefoy?"
Francis laughed. Oh, Englishmen. "'t iz Bon-fwah, not Bon-ni-foy." Francis faked a heavy French accent, though his accent was actually relatively light because of all the international traveling, "And yez, ze Frrrancis Bonfwah, monsieur."
He was going to start flirting until the man said, "I see. My wife is very interested in fashion and follows up to your every movement." he explained as if he were bitter that his wife liked Francis more than him.
Francis laughed again. Oh, Englishmen.
When he finally exited the taxi, he paid the driver, scribbled for him an autograph (with a heart as the dot of the 'i') and told him to give it to his wife. The man mumbled something about frogs and drove off.
Francis checked in, already seeing some designers drinking at the bar, and ascended to his room at the 15th floor. The night descended like a heavy curtain, but the city of London was lit up with lights and traffic. Francis liked the city lights; the best romances always happened in the cities. He entered his room, placed his luggage at the floor, and stared at London's busy streets through his huge glass window until he received a call from the front desk saying Mr. Carriedo and Mr. Beilshmidt were at the bar and making a scene.
Francis descended through the elevator and saw Gilbert in a suit, the tie pulled off and tied around his head like a bandana. He was shouting at Antonio who had the world's biggest drunken smile hanging on his face as his head swayed in all directions, the glass in his hand also swinging relatively dangerously. When Francis approach he greeted him with an "hola", and the next second he was sound asleep on the table.
"-You know what she said her theme was?" shouted Gilbert, slurring and drunk out of his wits but wouldn't admit it, "She said 'Austro-Hungarian Alliance'. She said it all cute like 'I'm collaborating with Roderich this year, he designed for men and I designed for women. We're going the elegant style because he likes it.'"
Francis doubted the headstrong Elizaveta actually said that; it was probably just Gilbert's drunk talking. He kissed his friend in the cheek and earned himself a slap across the face. "Stop it! I'm not done yet." Gilbert was standing on his chair now, a beer in his hand and the other hand jabbing accusingly at the air, as if he was offended by the universe. "She's always been for feminism, and then the stupid aristocrat says to go 'elegant' and she gets obedient. What happened to her frying pan?"
Francis rubbed at his face and ordered a wine. "She only uses her frying pan on you, mon ami."
"YOU KNOW WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF THEY HAD SEX!? SHE WOULD PROBABLY BOTTOM BECAUSE 'HE LIKES IT'." Gilbert threw his arms in the air, "SHE WOULD DO ANYTHING HE WANTED BECAUSE 'HE LIKES IT'. BUT YOU KNOW WHAT!?" He stomped a foot on the table with a loud bang, and the bartender who was watching winced at the sound. "I CAN CARE LESS BECAUSE SHE ONLY LIKES HIM BECAUSE HE'S AN UNAWESOME PUSS-"
Behind him came a frying pan and Gilbert was unconscious on the ground. Elizaveta Héderváry stood with blazing wild eyes and a pan in hand that she had stolen from the kitchen of the hotel. Roderich Edelstein stood behind her, looking grim, and a chef chased after her but stopped dead when he saw the body on the ground.
He looked to the bartender, who turned the other direction, a napkin in hand polishing the glasses, looking like he'd rather go die in a hole than be associated with the situation.
Elizaveta looked to Francis with a controlled grin, "Hello, Mr. Bonnefoy. Next time please do me a favor and control your fucking douche bag of a friend if you're sober."
Francis lifted up his glass and gave her a charming smile, "That is a magnificent dress you're wearing, darling."
Elizaveta didn't reply. She dragged Gilbert into the elevator, trailed after by Roderich with a disdainful look in his eyes.
When Francis turned away from the elevator he saw a figure approaching, somehow standoffish against the rest of the people in the bar, with fairy-green eyes and the thickest eyebrows he'd ever seen. The man was wearing a beige overcoat, his hands tucked into the pockets as he looked Francis up and down.
He held out a hand reluctantly, "I'm Arthur Kirkland."
Francis smiled, "I am aware." he shook Mr. Kirkland's hand, and realized that Kirkland's hand was ice cold.
"I was told to come meet you because an unknown Yank on twitter threatened me that she would recreate the bloody Boston Tea Party if I don't, completely aware of my utter hatred for the American Revolution." said Mr. Kirkland, his eyes dim, bored and apparently unaware that Francis was checking him out, "I believe that all tea are innocent and should not be treated in such a way."
Francis snorted but tried to played it off as if he had done it on purpose, "You have an odd sense of humor."
Kirkland eyed Francis' blue-and-red suit. "Well, you look quite like one of those cheap 3D glasses that came in DVDs back in the 2000s which were about as useful as tits on a bull."
Francis laughed and patted Gilbert's old seat beside him, "Come and sit down with me, Mr. Kirkland."
"Tell me first why you're saying that seductively."
"Ohonhon, if you would like to come to my bedroom, say so earlier."
Kirkland pressed his mouth to a thin line. "No, thank you. I'm going home." and he turned, putting his hands into his coat once again, but Francis leaned over to catch his hand before he did. Kirkland whipped around and pulled - or rather yanked - his hand free.
"Do you not have a hotel room here?" Asked Francis, "so I can visit you in the middle of the night?"
Finally Mr. Kirkland was catching on, and his green eyes twinkled with amusement. "Oh, I do." he said, "But I prefer the bedroom in my flat over this one, " he smirked, "It's more private and convenient, you see."
Francis grinned, amused as well. "Come sit down with me, Mr. Kirkland. Let's see who can hold their liquor better."
Kirkland then sat down beside him, and took off his coat (while making sure that Francis was looking at him). He wore nothing fancy, just a green cardigan that looked like it had been through hardships and a white shirt underneath. Francis cringed at the Englishmen's horrible sense of style - This man calls himself a model?
Said man leaned in and whispered in Francis' ear, "Francis Bonnefoy, you get to call me Arthur." then he turned around and ordered a brandy.
Francis kissed Arthur on his ear, and told him that he could call him Francis as well.
Arthur slapped him playfully and cooed, "If you want to get with me, you better try harder than that, Mr. Bonnefoy."
The next day Francis woke up at noon and found himself severely hungover. He also woke up without his shirt and with Arthur Kirkland sleeping on his chest. He shook him awake and when Arthur woke he clutched at his head. "Shit," he muttered painfully,"Shit."
They sat like that for a full minute before the events from last night caught up to them. Apparently both of them got drunk, started making out in the bar, stumbled to Francis' room (since Arthur never checked in so he didn't know where his room was), Francis took off his shirt, and then they both crashed unconsciously on the bed, Arthur still fully clothed.
"I'm warning you, git." threatened Arthur, "Tell anyone what happened and I yank off your beard."
But it turned out that everybody knew because by the time both of them were at least halfway presentable and were walking down for lunch, models and designers and even workers in the hotels spied at them from various corners of the hotel. Videos of the two making out were viral on Twitter.
When they entered into the restaurant downstairs on the other end of the bar, Feliks and Elizaveta dragged Arthur away to their table with evil grins on their faces. Arthur protested and nearly looked to Francis for help. Francis simply laughed, blew him a kiss, and sat down at his friends' table, his head throbbing. He laid his head on the table when he found his two best friends were also doing so.
"If I die tonight, tell Lovino Vargas I love him." Antonio mumbled into the table cloth, as if he was still drunk.
"Tell me, mon ami, when was the last time you talked to Lovino?" asked Francis, tuning out the chaos of the crowd in the tiny restaurant.
"Two years ago. I bumped into him and he said 'watch it, bastard', and I said 'sorry'." he answered dreamily, "Too bad I only design Flamenco dresses, or else he could have been one of my models."
"You can still make him model one of your dresses. Just imagine him tapping to Flamenco music." offered Francis, picturing the exact scene in his head. "Hmm, yummy."
Gilbert lifted his head up from the table. "Mein Gott, shut up!" and he whined, "I woke up in a damn closet this morning. Elizaveta threw me into the closet in my room and stuck a note to my forehead telling me to 'come out of the closet so I can ship you with Roderich.'" When Francis started to laugh Gilbert frowned. "What the hell does that even mean?"
Francis giggled, lifting his head to face his friend. "She found out about yaoi manga from a Japanese boy during high school." he said, "She introduced it to me a few years ago and par bleu, it's amazing!"
"That doesn't answer my question, and Yao what?" Gilbert asked, puzzled "like the model? Im Yong Soo's model?"
Francis waved a dismissive hand. He signaled for a waitress and she brought all his friends water.
"So how was sleeping with Arthur Kirkland, Francis?" Asked Gilbert, grinning deviously, as Antonio chewed on a tomato and stared at Lovino Vargas, who was sitting in a distance with his brother and Gilbert's brother, Ludwig.
Francis thought for a while, and said, "Nothing yet, but he is a lovely angel when he sleeps."
"that's the famous 'Britannia Angel' for ya, though of course not as awesome as me, kesesese." said Gilbert, referring to Arthur's nickname after being dressed completely white for a runway show for Lukas Bondevik. "Look, he's staring at you." Gilbert nodded toward the Elizaveta's table.
Francis turned around, and indeed Arthur was staring. Francis mouthed 'You're cute' and Arthur blushed a bright red, about to spit out a swear, but then mouthed 'you're cuter', as if putting on an act. Francis blew a kiss at him and he pretended to catch it.
The crowd saw their exchanged and went wild.
It was fun to put on a show for the people to watch, that was a silent agreement between the two men involved. When the designers and models entered into their Fair, a huge one-story building with a runway in the very front, glowing in the dark when the lights were out, Francis, as the best of the best, had the privilege of owning a station that had the best view to the catwalk and the most space for him to store his pieces. As he laid out each outfit and placed them on the long portable hangers, he felt arms circling around his waist and heard girls whispering excitedly. He smiled to himself and turned around, kissing Arthur on the top of his head.
Models, free to watch the designers as they worked on decorating their stations, came crowding in front of Francis', either wanting to see Arthur or wanting to see Francis. At one point Francis started chatting up a Vietnamese model, and found out she could speak a little French. He kissed her hand and Arthur came over, whispering loud enough for the others to hear, "I thought I was the only person you're kissing this week?"
The Vietnamese girl who always had on a blank expression suddenly blushed. Arthur then pushed Francis away and kissed the girl on the cheek. He winked at her and said, "That's for Bonnefoy. He doesn't get to cheat on me."
Francis noticed that the Taiwanese model beside them was recording the whole conversation on her phone.
Later on in the day, Francis asked Arthur out to dinner in front of the catwalk, therefore in front of everybody. Arthur declined just to play hard to get. Elizaveta shouted "Just kiss already!" from the audience, and Francis wrapped his arms around Arthur's waist, tilt him toward the ground, and kissed him.
The photo of the dip kiss went viral in Instagram along with the conversation recorded by the Taiwanese girl.
The rest of the week consisted of a lot more public affection. They flirted when the other flirted, usually because they had spotted paparazzi. Every night someone caught Francis and Arthur going into each other's rooms (Arthur decided to live in the hotel room after all), but really, all they did was drink French wine and talk, or more like argue about life. There was no need to flirt for the public in their rooms and Francis found out that Arthur was actually someone with pride and easily embarrassed, and that when Arthur was tired, he actually wouldn't try to pick a fight, but instead would stare at his lap and spit out sarcastic remarks that he obviously did not mean. Francis found it terribly endearing.
Francis also learned that Arthur had graduated from Imperial College London last summer, and recently started master's at the University of Cambridge. Arthur majored mainly in English Literature and even had minors on Poetry, Philosophy, World History, and European History.
"A man like this is a model?" chuckled Francis, sipping his wine."Big Brother Francis is impressed."
Arthur scowled and looked away, "It's not like I'm telling you because I feel inferior or anything," he mumbled, rolling his eyes, "Just because you graduated from a blasted fashion school..."
Francis set his wine down. He had the curtains opened up, revealing a perfect skyscraper view of London at night. Since the light illuminating from the outside was enough for a midnight drink, Francis didn't turn on any lamp post. The room was dimly lit and Arthur sat in a small couch across from Francis, barely visible except for his bright green eyes and the sides of his face reflecting back a warm glow. Francis looked at him, secretly admiring how he looked. Arthur was a renowned beauty in the IAEFDM, but in the shadows he seemed to have a charm that Francis couldn't quite put his finger on, much like a Greek marble statue, pale and beautiful.
"Tell me," said Francis, not taking his eyes off Arthur. "How did you get into modeling?"
Arthur's green eyes met Francis' blue ones with a slight panic, wide and nervous. His lip quivered, and he looked away stubbornly. Francis picked up his wine again. He didn't want to push Arthur but he was overwhelmingly curious. This was Arthur's fifth year in the Fair but nobody knew exactly why he suddenly started to model.
"Feliks asked me." said Arthur flatly, staring at his lap. "And I got sick of being student council president, so I thought, why not."
Francis waited for him to continue, but he didn't."Is that it?"
Arthur sat still for a long time. "Yes." he replied at last, then added wittily, "Why would there be more?"
Francis leaned back on the couch, staring outside to London. It was merely a gut feeling, but: "I would not have guess that this is it." he said, "But I won't asked further, if you're uncomfortable."
Arthur shifted in his seat, "I'm not uncomfortable, you stupid frog." protested Arthur. "I'm not avoiding it...it's just...something...I-I don't...Why do I need to tell you anyways? Bloody hell, It's just like..like..."
"...Like the American Revolution, the Fourth of July, and the Boston Tea Party?" suggested Francis, "I suppose it's got something to do with bloody Americans, oui?"
Arthur glared at his lap. "Something like that."
They spent the rest of the night staring at the street and nighttime sky until Arthur fell asleep on the couch and Francis carried him to the bed, his fingers lingering for a little too long on Arthur's sleeping face.
The sixth night, before everyone left to go back to the hotel, was Francis' runway show.
The IAEFDM always put the best ones at night and now all the lights were out as the catwalk glowed a bright white. This year Francis' theme was "Parisian Punk Rock", developed solely because Arthur was his top model. Perhaps if Arthur had not been student council president, he would have been a punk rock singer - he certainly did have the looks for it.
The model presented for Francis' opening act was Natalya Arlovskaya, quiet and terrifying Belarusian model: Dark wire-rimmed sunglasses, over-sized black leather jacket, spiked on the shoulders and lapels, zipped in on the side and rolled up on the sleeves. Silver crop-top with a pattern that matched with her massive silver skull earrings, as well as high-waist ripped-jeans completed with a metal embroidered black leather belt. On her feet were platform knee-length combat boots with silver buckles. Her lipstick was glitter metallic as well, and her fingernails glistening black. Various bracelets, metal and spiked and silver and leather, covered her wrists and a huge Eastern Orthodox cross hung from her neck.
Francis saw all the models from Eastern European countries grin. They knew that Francis had thought this through and planned it on purpose.
Natalya sashayed various poses in the very front of the catwalk, and from behind her shades she saw Francis do the signal. She took off her sunglasses and flipped her straight platinum blonde hair, revealing a few black star tattoos on her cheekbone as she winked at a particular model from the Eastern European crowd. She turned back, flipping her hair again, and Francis saw Toris Laurinaitis smile while Ivan Braginsky stifled a cry.
The crowd was intrigued: everyone stopped what they were doing and watched the runway show. Francis noted with triumph as more and more people started taking their phones out to record. They were all top models and designers here, and yet everybody was interested in Francis' designs.
When Arthur stepped into the scene, all the camera lights were on him. His normally untidy blonde hair was gelled back in a free-spirited kind of way, and his bright eyes were enhanced by liquid eyeliner. Silver earrings, two very-realistic lip piercings, no sunglasses. He wore a black leather jacket, spiked just like Natalya's, and inside a splatter-painted tank top of the Union Jack. He also wore loose black pants with hanging chains tagged onto each little zipper on the pockets. His pants were tucked into black combat boots, opened on the top and laced only halfway on the bottom. Two dog tag necklaces hung from his neck and his wrists were also covered in bracelets.
He stepped to the front of the catwalk, posed, turned around, and shrugged his leather jacket down half way.
The back of his tank top wasn't the British flag - But the French one.
The crowd started cheering and Arthur flirtatiously winked at Francis, who also winked back.
The next day, the last day of the fair, Francis found himself surrounded by cameras and interviewers. The seventh day was the only day that the IAEFDM allowed interviewers to come in and write their newspaper articles. All of them were waiting outside of the gate, and the minute 3 o'clock hit they stormed into the building, and straight to Francis' station.
"Mr. Bonnefoy, Mr. Bonnefoy, how did you think about this year's Fashion Fair?"
"What about the 'Austro-Hungarian Alliance'?"
"What was your inspiration for 'Parisian Punk Rock'?"
"Mr. Bonnefoy, are you and Mr. Kirkland official?"
"Is the rumor true, that the two of you sleep together everyday?"
"What is your view on British food?"
"Do you think that your relationship with Mr. Kirkland is going to last?"
Francis held his arms out, trying to keep all the interviewers from stabbing his gorgeous face with microphones. Arthur was sitting on a stood beside Francis' portable hangers, book in hand and a massive eyebrow raised. He wasn't reading; he was listening to Francis' conversation.
But nobody had to know that, so he just flipped his pages with a constant smirk on his face.
"I think this year's Fashion Fair is magnifique!" he nearly shouted above all the noise, "The 'Austro-Hungarian Alliance is one of the best collections I have ever seen. Ms. Héderváry's green ballgown in the end is a superb fix with Mr. Edelstein's Mozart-inspired navy blue outfit, both very elegant."
Eventually Arthur closed his book and decided to give the media some juicy news to occupy their audiences about. He came over to lean on Francis' shoulder and all the interviewers instantly took a step back to take pictures.
"My inspiration for the 'Parisian Punk Rock' is Mr. Kirkland here." Francis stroked Arthur's hair, noting with satisfaction that the cameras seemed to flash a little more when he did that, "Otherwise I would not have done something that different from my usual style, something with more color and French influence. I was thinking doing something about French pastries but then the list came into the mail and I saw Mr. Kirkland's name."
Arthur beside him blushed a little, but he tried not to show it. Francis also paused for a second as he pondered how to answer the next question. Arthur seemed to be uneasy, and he wasn't flirting at all.
He kept the corner of his eye suspiciously fixed on Arthur as he answered, testing the waters. "I don't know if we're official yet, but I would ask him out sooner or later." Arthur's wide green eyes turned to Francis, not bothering to conceal his shock, "And we do sleep together everyday, just not the way you are all picturing." Arthur looked down again, and Francis placed an arm on Arthur's shoulders, "You see, a romantic conversation at midnight while watching the London night view can go a long way."
The interviewers started to shriek happily while Arthur scowled in attempt to hide his blush. Francis noted that Arthur looked a lot cuter when he was embarrassed than when he was flirting.
"British food...is awful." announced Francis, continuing on his questions and answers. "It doesn't compare to French gourmet at all, but I suppose if my relationship is going to last with Arthur I should probably get used to it."
The crowd gasped, "Really? It's going to last?" Asked an interviewer, shoulder length-blonde hair with star-shaped hair clips, "Dude, that's awesome!"
The crowd was in celebration until Arthur pushed Francis' arm from his shoulders. Francis looked over, alarmed. Arthur wore an uneasy expression, and he wouldn't meet Francis' eyes. But a short while later he looked up and smiled, his eyebrows twitching uncomfortably and unnaturally.
"Aw, how sweet of you, but..." His smile accidentally turned into a grimace, highlighting the fear that he couldn't conceal in his eyes, "It's just meant to be fun, right?"
Francis was about to answer something reassuring, but Arthur grabbed his collar and pulled him down. He whispered harshly through clenched teeth quiet enough for only him to hear, "I'm warning you, Bonnefoy. If you're going to treat this so seriously, I'm not participating. It's not going to bloody last because it never bloody started."
He then pushed him away and played the act off as a kiss to the media. Lens flashed as turned away and retrieved his book from the stool. Jane Eyre, that was the book he was reading. He pushed past Francis and the interviewers without a glance, toward the enclosed designated resting place for the models, underneath the catwalk and hidden away by a black curtain. Chattering among the interviewers started again, and Francis was occupied once again against his will, watching with frustration as Arthur pull the curtain open and let it drape down behind him, closing himself out from the outside world.
For the rest of the day no interviewers got to Arthur. According to Wang Yao, he just sat there and read his book for the rest of the evening, not even talking to the models. Elizaveta and Feliks went in to talk to him, but he just waved them off. That was when Francis realized that Arthur was serious about what he said in the afternoon.
That night, Francis knocked on Arthur's room. Arthur opened the door, saw Francis, and slammed the door in his face. Beyond the crack of the door Francis saw that Arthur was packing his suitcase.
"Well, that's not very nice!" protested Francis, shouting through the thick door in between them. "And why are you packing? We still have one night here and only till tomorrow we are meant to leave. Some people are even staying longer for sight-seeing!"
Arthur's muffled voice replied not very patiently, "I'm a Londoner, you git. Why would I continue to stay in a hotel when I have a flat right here in London? Sight-seeing? Why would a bloody Londoner go sight-see London?"
He burst open the door then, a beige coat on and a suitcase in hand. He glanced at Francis one last time before setting off to the other end of the hall, and closing the elevator before Francis got in.
"Merde!" muttered Francis, and he ran for the stairs.
When he finally got to the lobby, he saw Arthur checking out in the front desk. He gave the counter lady a forced smile as she did the procedure, and started toward the door. Francis ran over and caught his wrist, breathing hard.
"Blimey," exclaimed Arthur, "Did you seriously take the stairs down from the 15th floor?"
"One...one last drink," panted Francis, catching his breath, "Just stay for...one last drink, mon ami."
Arthur shook Francis' hand off his wrist, and clutched his hands to fists. He turned around, looking like he was leaving, but then he stopped and turned back.
"Fine, one last bloody drink." and he turned to leave again, and before Francis reached for his arm, he added, "I'm just going to put my bloody suitcase back home, you dimwit. Go flirt with some girls while I'm gone."
Francis watched him go, and under his breath he muttered, "Jamais."
Models weren't suppose to drink alcohol, in fear of gaining weight, but Francis realized that it seemed no matter how much Arthur drank, his body stayed the same. Perhaps that was what made him such a natural model.
"You French bastards, thinking that your wine is the best in the world." spat Arthur, already a bit tipsy, "Just like those bloody Americans with their bloody McDonald's."
Francis didn't realize that Arthur was so unattractive drunk, but since he himself had got him into it, he supposed that he couldn't complain. The last time they got drunk was on the first day of the Fair, and Francis wondered if Arthur was the same way back then and even more horrifying, if he himself was the same way.
"What is it wrong with you and the Americans?"asked Francis, also a bit drunk already, "It's like you came out of the womb and the first thing you cry about isn't being hungry, but the American Revolution."
Arthur slammed his brandy on the table, and the bartender looked surprised to see that it wasn't Gilbert. "They betrayed the Great British Empire! If it weren't for them Britain would still have all the glory!"
"Well, the British were one of the reasons why the French Revolution happened, that doesn't mean I should hate the British." Francis pointed out, then he pondered a little, "Even though I do, because you Brits had ruined the beauty of wine. And you're God-awful fashion. And food. Mon dieu."
Arthur completely disregarded his last statement, and instead replied to his first. "That's because your bloody king was stupid enough to help the rebel Americans during the Revolution, or you would have had the money to feed your bloody people!" Arthur pulled on Francis' jacket, "You should hate the American wankers too!"
Francis rolled his eyes, and ordered more of the awful English wine. Nothing was able to stop Arthur when he was on a roll, emphasis on the bloody British swear word.
"Americans, they don't care about fidelity." Arthur complained, quieter now, "Half of their marriages end in divorce, and they always do whatever they like." He laid his head on the table, "They don't care about other people's feelings."
Francis raised an eyebrow. This drunken conversation seemed to be getting somewhere.
"My first boyfriend was American," said Arthur casually, "And he cheated on me with a bloody Japanese boy, half a year into our relationship." He took another huge gulp of brandy, emptying the glass. "Hey, bartender! I want more!" The bartender took his glass silently.
"I'm sorry for your loss, mon ami." said Francis, wincing at the way Arthur was drinking the brandy. Brandy wasn't suppose to be drunk in huge gulps. "If it makes you feel any better, I once dated a beautiful women who ran away with a man to Monaco."
"He wasn't serious about me at all." continued Arthur, disregarding Francis' last statement again. "I know, high school relationships weren't suppose to last, but he told the Japanese boy that the two of us were just playing a stupid game. And he told the boy to play the same game with him, and you know what's even more awful?"
Francis felt a buzz in his brain. He didn't know if it was the alcohol or because for the first time Arthur actually mentioned something about his love life. "What?"
"He definitely was in love with him. It's written all over his blasted face. And Kiku, he loved him too." Arthur rubbed at his eyes, and let his hands remain there, "They loved each other and they knew that I was serious about Alfred too." Francis reached over to touch Arthur's hands. Arthur swatted him away. "They probably thought that making their relationship and our relationship unimportant would hurt all of us less, but...it didn't." his voice cracked.
Francis remembered back in University when he met Mona. She was nicknamed Mona Lisa not because of her name, but for her personality. Calm, intelligent, kind, and beautiful, if one were to paint her portrait she would have an expression just like the Mona Lisa. Eventually she found that fashion designing was not enjoyable, so instead switched to interior designing in another school. There she met a man from Monaco, and a while after that, she disappeared.
Even till today the memory tightened his chest, but seeing Arthur like this wretched his heart. He was crying about a relationship in high school eight years ago, a relationship that he was serious about but his counterpart wasn't. A relationship where his counterpart never really did love him but loved someone else, and the third party loved him back. All three were too young and dumb and too reckless to really know how to deal with something like this.
From Arthur's story Francis gathered that this American wasn't a bad person, neither was the Japanese. They just didn't realize that their method of execution meant more pain for Arthur and their relationship forever deemed as an affair, or at least started out as one.
"This is why you became a model," concluded Francis,"To prove to the American kid...Alfred, is it? That you can play better love games, non?"
Arthur took his hands off his face and drank the rest of his brandy in one shot, "It didn't work." he whined, frustrated."He's been with Kiku since then, on and off, on and off. Ha, who knows, they might be dating right now."
Francis gulped down the rest of his wine, too. "You still love him." he stated, the thought surprisingly bitter, "All this time you still love him. That's why you hate the Americans. You complain about the Boston Tea Party. You get sick around the Fourth of July." He reached an arm to hug Arthur, but he swatted his hand away yet again. "Big Brother understands, Arthur." He thought of Mona.
Arthur wrapped his arms around himself and sulked, "Why do you understand? You're handsome, you're charming, you're a better flirt than anyone I've ever met. Why do you understand?"
Francis smiled then cupped Arthur's face and kissed him. He felt tears on Arthur's eyelashes, and the sweet taste of brandy on his lips. Arthur didn't pull away, and instead grabbed his shirt to pull him closer. He wasn't flirting now, and he wasn't his usual prideful self - he was honest tonight.
Francis broke the kiss and whispered in his ear, "Let's get drunk tonight, Arthur. For Alfred and Mona."
"Who's Mona?" asked Arthur cluelessly, but then he shrugged, "Bartender, more brandy and wine! We're getting drunk tonight!"
The bartender, polishing the glasses, turned around slowly with dread in his eyes.
Francis fumbled for the hotel card and stumbled into his dim lit room. They door shut with a bang, and Arthur pushed him against the back of the door. His hands then cupped Francis' face and kissed him like there was no tomorrow. He was still in tears, completely drunk, and also completely defenseless, both emotionally and physically.
Cute, thought Francis, as he grabbed Arthur's wrists and pinned him to the door instead.
They stayed like that for a while, sharing each other's breath and warmth and the alcohol lingering in their mouths. Then they stumbled toward the bed, where along the way Arthur pulled on Francis' jacket and he shook it off. The bed squeaked as they felt breathlessly on it and Francis laughed when he realized Arthur was on top. Arthur kissed Francis' chin then his throat. Francis breathed in, then out.
The curtains were halfway open, kept that way because Francis still liked looking at the London streets. The lights seemed darker outside all of a suddenly and all Francis could see was Arthur's tender green eyes, and the damage hidden in them beyond the tears. It was a sort of hollowness, like an endless pit that could never be filled. Something that if you break once, you can never repair it again.
Unbuttoning was difficult, considering both of their visions were blurred, so Arthur simply pulled his tie free, threw it aside, then pull his shirt over his head and tossed it to the ground. He was slender, pale skin the color of the moon, and Francis wondered why he hadn't stripped this pretty boy before when he had all the time in the world to do so.
"What are you staring at?" Asked Arthur, whispering and embarrassed.
Francis touched Arthur's bare arm, and he flinched. Francis raised an eyebrow, "You actually don't really do this often, do you?"
Arthur's speech slurred, "No...Not really." He admitted with great difficulty.
Still so embarrassed when he was drunk, Francis knew that he did it less often than "not really". Once again he grabbed Arthur's wrist, and spun around to pin him down on the bed post. Arthur gasped when Francis kissed his neck hungrily.
"Let Big Brother lead the way, then."
The next morning Francis woke up to a splitting headache, and he also woke up in bed alone. He looked around; there were no traces of Arthur ever being here and the supposedly scandalous things they had done the night before. It felt right, though. He didn't know if it was because he was used to it or simply because it was Arthur. He didn't want to think about the latter - it reminded him of Mona. He was confused when he saw that his clothes, scattered all around the floor because of last night, was folded neatly on the couch, beside the table where he and Arthur drank fine wine and talked about life.
There was another bottle on the table, but only one glass. Francis squinted his eyes and saw that it was brandy. Beneath the glass was a note.
His head still pounding, Francis reached over to retrieve the note, and he saw that on the note was cursive writing, scribbled with perhaps a fountain pen.
Good Game, Francis.
Arthur Kirkland.
Francis crumpled the note up, angry and sad and frustrated. He ran a hand through tangled blonde hair, threw the note against his closed curtains, and tried to go back to sleep.
Arthur couldn't sleep. Not after leaving Francis' hotel room at 6 o'clock in the morning. He thought of the night before, each touch a blazing fire, and he couldn't sleep. Usually he never let his relationships get to the bedroom, because his boyfriends from before all knew that Arthur wasn't serious with them and would refuse if they offered anyways.
Lying on the bed, he thought of Alfred. He thought Kiku. He thought of Francis. And he thought of Francis' Mona (he had made guesses of who she was). Then his thoughts drifted to Francis again and he closed his eyes.
He was in his flat in London, eyes closed but his mind wide awake.
He didn't regret the note he left for Francis. That was how he broke up with every one of his boyfriends since Alfred. He was used to breaking up with people this way. It gave him satisfaction to know that he was breaking other people's hearts and not other people breaking his.
But today he felt exhausted, and his chest was aching in a way that reminded him of Alfred and Kiku and their love game back in the locker room. He wondered who won and who lost, but then remembered that both of them had lost right from the start.
Arthur realized that he lost this game, too, his game with Francis. He didn't know how Francis felt, but for all he knew, he had lost the love game and was too afraid to admit it. So afraid that he couldn't sleep.
END.
A/N - Written a few months ago on Wattpad. Revised and edited.
~Ume-chan