Pairings: US/UK with bits of Canada/Russia, Sweden/Finland, Prussia/Austria, Hungary/Liechtenstein, and Denmark/Norway
Rating may change depending.
(Disclaimer: Have some common sense, I don't own Hetalia.)
Chapter One: New Employee
"And the weather is overcast today with highs at about ten degrees and lows at around sev-" Arthur shut the television off, annoyed at the droning voice that filled his living room only a moment ago. It wasn't as if he needed to be told the weather would be overcast anymore. It always was. Gray, dull, and unchanging, the heavy clouds would blanket the city and eventually lighten their load by dumping sheets upon sheets of rain onto London. God, he wished he lived somewhere sunny, but it was far-fetched. London was all he knew, and it was all he would ever know. Here, he knew how things worked, and he liked it that way. Everything was calm, orderly and controlled. He woke up, turned off the television in frustration, went to work, went home, ate, slept, and did it all over again, every day, every year, it was the same.
But today would not be like all the others. Today would be the start of a huge upset in Arthur's routine.
Arthur was not aware of this.
Arthur lived in a dingy apartment building in a sketchy neighborhood in the borough of Southwalk. He was not fabulously well-to-do, and so he lived in a cheap condo with no central heating and rats living in the ceiling. Arthur was less than content, but he was not miserable, and so he lived on, without lovers or family or pets. The few friends that Arthur did have were rarely more than drinking buddies or coworkers, and he had once had a lover for a brief time, a Frenchmen named Francis, but Arthur did not think of Francis much, as their relationship had been short-lived and primarily physical. Francis still came around from time to time.
Arthur straightened his thin black tie in front of the long mirror that hung in his hallway, slung his messenger bag over his shoulder, and walked out into the dreary morning. Passing a spider's web that had been bedazzled with the early morning dew, he was reminded of a poem by Emily Dickinson that he had been taught in school.
A Spider sewed at Night
Without a Light
Upon an Arc of White
If Ruff it was of Dame
Or Shroud of Gnome
Himself himself inform.
Of Immortality
His Strategy
Was Physiognomy.
Arthur hadn't the faintest idea what Physiognomy was, but he didn't really need to, in his line of work. Arthur had once dreamed of being a great poet like Emily Dickinson when he was a young lad. He was, in all actuality, a piano player in a cocktail lounge, although he disliked saying that he worked in a cocktail lounge. He thought it sounded rather feminine for a grown man. Arthur was twenty-nine years old, an age at which one was generally considered to be a grown man.
Arthur didn't actually begin playing piano in the cocktail lounge (which was called The Cat's Cradle) until six o'clock. During the day, he was a secretary in a small law firm. Secretary, he thought as he walked, also sounded unappealingly feminine. He would prefer to be called a desk manager in the future.
The only coworker that Arthur really interacted with at the law firm was a timid Canadian boy named Matthew. Matthew was quite a bit younger than Arthur, maybe by six or so years, and Arthur enjoyed guiding him in working and living in general. This was ironic, because after being around for twenty-nine years, Arthur knew littler about working and living than he would care to admit.
By coincidence, he and Matthew arrived at the law firm simultaneously. They walked in together, chatting of the weather and whatever it was Matthew had seen on television the night before. Arthur never spoke of his life outside of work to Matthew. He was ashamed of his job in the cocktail lounge, secretly, and so he allowed Matthew to do most of the talking, occasionally interjecting with an opinion or a word of agreement. This was easy, because once the timid Canadian began to talk, he didn't stop until he was asked. Arthur had always found this to be an amusing and uncharacteristic trait of Matthew's.
As they walked to the desk, which they managed together, a few people greeted Arthur. Matthew, however, was only acknowledged by Ivan, a large, intimidating Russian bloke, who incidentally was the only person in the office who ever greeted Matthew. Everyone else in the firm seemed to forget about him more often that not. Even Arthur, on a rare occasion, would forget about Matthew. Arthur suspected that Matthew was the type of person that would be forgotten by an absent-minded parent.
By the way Matthew's faced changed hue when they passed Ivan, Arthur guessed that there was, or had been, something between them. This did not sit well with Arthur, and his mind was poisoned with images of such interactions between the huge Russian and the petite Canadian. He shook his head, as if to clear it of such things. But he couldn't. Oh, god, now he would think about this all day.
He and Matthew settled into their seats at the front desk and continued their chat. As secretaries, they never really had much to do unless the phone rang, or someone came into the office, or needed supplies, etc. The majority of their time was spent sitting and waiting for someone to require their services. Not that Arthur minded, of course. He would gladly do nothing all day and still get paid. As if insistent as to disturb their conversation, the telephone buzzed, and Arthur picked it up grudgingly.
"Hello?" It was Arthur and Matthew's boss, Mr. Oxenstierna, or Berwald, as most of the staff called him. Berwald mumbled something incomprehensible in his thick Swedish accent. "What do you need, Berwald?" Arthur asked as nicely as possible. He pitied Berwald sometimes. No one could understand him.
"Th'res a new 'mpl'yee 'nd h' n'ds h'lp g'tt'n up h're." Arthur understood that well enough, but...
"Sir, why can't Tino do it? Isn't it his job?" Tino was Berwald's Finnish, rather girly personal secretary. Arthur heard Berwald cough, his accent much thicker when he spoke.
"H's, er, b'sy." A soft moan of Berwald's name could be heard, and Arthur blushed in vivid understanding. His mind was running amuck with disturbing images this morning. He stood from his chair and walked down the stairs as quickly as his feet could carry him to the lobby of the building, where a handsome young blond was trying to get through the rotating doors in the wrong direction. Arthur sighed, rubbing his forehead in exasperation. "What the bloody hell..."
He hurried over to the boy to assist him. Arthur guessed that he couldn't have been over twenty-five, and he certainly bore the enthusiasm of a teenager. Once he maneuvered his way around the rotating doors, he trapped Arthur in a firm and vigorous hand-shake.
"Thanks a bunch, pal! Never would've gotten outta they by myself!" he laughed and pushed his stunning golden hair away from his forehead. "I'm Alfred by the way." He extended his hand again, but drew it back once he realized his error. Arthur was confused. There was something so blinding, so bright about this boy; he could have lit up an entire room just by walking in. Arthur's thoughts were jumbled, and he made the only connection he could find with the fog of information he had been given: "Alfred..." he said slowly. "Hitchcock?"
Arthur was now thoroughly embarrassed, his cheeks a bright red as he led a still giggling Alfred to the law firm's offices on the third floor of the building. Alfred shot him a devious grin, and Arthur furrowed his thick eyebrows and scowled.
"You can stop bloody laughing now, you know," he mumbled indignantly, crossing his arms over his chest. Alfred wiped a small tear from his left eye and waved his hand in Arthur's direction.
"Sorry, sorry... It's just... Why Hitchcock?" He still chuckled slightly at this, earning a glare from Arthur.
"I don't bloody know!" the Englishman growled through gritted teeth. "It was the first thing that came to mind when you said that your name was Alfred, and I was …distracted!"
Alfred suddenly looked puzzled, and he cocked his head inquisitively.
"What was distracting?" he asked, genuinely curious in his inquiry, or so it seemed. Arthur suddenly felt very hot, and he pulled at his collar nervously, mumbling, "Well, I... I don't know, you I suppose..."
He said the last three words very quietly, uncertainly, and Alfred didn't appear to have heard them. They didn't exchange a single word until they reached the office.
Arthur stood again in his apartment, examining himself in the hallway mirror. He was dressed differently now, in a slim black suit, accompanied by a shiny black dress shirt and the same thin tie that he had worn this morning. He sighed, already fatigued at the prospect of working all night. Enjoy the piano as he did, it was still tiring to work thirteen hours a day. At the moment, he wanted nothing more than to sleep.
The interesting thing about Arthur's hours was that he didn't really have to work at the cocktail lounge on top of his secretary job, but he had taken the piano job in college, and after spending so much time there, he just didn't have the heart to quit. The extra money wasn't bad either, of course. He had formed friendships with his two coworkers, a handsome German man named Gilbert, who was the waiter, and Mathias, the Danish and completely psychotic and alcoholic bartender who didn't really belong as an employee in a functioning establishment. According to his story, the Dane had come to drink one night, been unable to pay for it, and Gilbert (who had been the bartender at the time) suggested that he work it off and hired him on the spot. Mathias, who preferred to be called Denmark (for national pride reasons) was wasted on the job more often than not, but no one minded. He spilled a few drinks, but he was infinitely entertaining to the customers, not to mention his good looks an charming personality.
Arthur arrived at the cocktail lounge at six PM on the dot. Denmark was attempting to drunkenly clean a glass with his bartender's cloth, and Gilbert was setting up for opening. He grinned as Arthur entered, his red eyes flashing mischievously.
"You're punctual, as always, Arthur," he said in a teasing tone that made Arthur uncomfortable. "There's someone I want you to meet. He's real cute, exactly your type I reckon, and-" Arthur's mood soured.
"For the last time, Gilbert. I don't need you setting me up with kids half my age. I'm perfectly content being single, and I-" Gilbert cut him off obnoxiously.
"No dude, I'm absolutely certain that you guys will get on awesomely!" Gilbert retained his usual enthusiasm, gesturing widely with his arms and knocking Denmark's glass from his hands. "Whoops! Sorry, dude!"
In his drunken haze, Denmark hardly noticed, and went about his merry business, grabbing another glass and continuing with his polishing. "No problem man! S'all cool!" Arthur winced as Denmark and his glass fell to the floor, but Gilbert paid the drunk no mind and grabbed Arthur by the wrist firmly and dragged him into the back room. The space had once been a kitchen, but the Cat's Cradle had long since ceased to serve food, save for the customary jar of pickled eggs that Gilbert kept on the bar, and now the kitchen was a resting place for the employees. There was one other waitress, named Elizabeta Hèdervàry, a beautiful Hungarian woman with hair the color of walnuts that hung past her waist. Now, Elizabeta sat in a plush leather chair in the corner of the room, sewing yet another lewd costume for her cute little teenage girlfriend, Lili. It looked like... nurse cosplay? Arthur's face distorted slightly, but he continued to walk with Gilbert. They turned a corner, and a handsome young blond came into view, grinning wildly. Arthur's jaw dropped. He stuttered and stammered, "Al-fr-fred? What the bloo- bloody h-hell are you..." He allowed his sentence to trail off. Alfred beamed and gripped Arthur's shoulder firmly.
"No way, man! What a crazy coincidence!" He laughed, rendering Arthur speechless and Gilbert utterly confused.
"You know each other?" he asked in amazement. Arthur nodded weakly.
"We're colleagues elsewhere..." he mumbled, pushing his hair back in agitation and sighing loudly. "Well," he groaned. "Welcome to the Cat's Cradle."
A/N: Hey guys! Hope you liked this first chapter. I'm really psyched about writing this story. I mean, what's more awesome than UK, US, Prussia, Denmark, and Hungary all in one cocktail lounge? Am I right? The story and side plots are still somewhat open, so feel free to leave suggestions in a review.
Imagine Liechtenstein in a nurse costume.
Review!