I'm back, and with (finally) a brand new series! ^v^ Unlike the last, I'm planning to publish the chapters in sets of three (not all in one big lump) so the wait is shorter! Basically, don't let the description deceive you, Alfred's not doing anything malicious. In fact, it's the exact opposite. cx So! Since I'm still in the planning stage for how the story'll twist and turn, i'm keeping the rating at a T for now. It might lean toward an M rating near the end *wink wonk* but for now, I've decided to keep it SFW. For now.
"Dude, you can't be serious!"
Two cousins, twice… No, thrice removed? Anyway, the matter was not their relation (neither really had a feasible idea, in fact, if you asked each of them alone in turn, they would provide completely different answers), more the fact of their current situation. The younger, Alfred F. Jones, was positioned behind his slim MacBook Air, fiddling with the camera angle and simultaneously trying to ward a certain large, white cat away from his freshly salvaged burgers with his sock. The smell alone seemed to be enough to put the poor animal off. If only he could do the same with the typically irate male plastered across the grubby screen, launching into a full-scale rant regarding, as usual, everything about Alfred's opinion that was wrong.
"Why yes, yes I am. There's nothing wrong with differing from the norm, though I doubt you'll ever experience the pleasure."
"Pleasure? Artie, man, you're lonely as crap!" Through a mouthful of crisps, he barked out a laugh. Not out of spite, no, it was unconfirmed whether he could even feel anything of the sort. Mocking, perhaps?
"I am not, idiot! I simply prefer isolation, that's all. Whatever keeps me away from your sort, I find rather agreeable."
"You're totally getting defensive again, y'know."
"I–That's not the point! What I'm saying is that your calls are growing tiresome!" The conversation had reached its point where the latter seemed rather keen to disconnect. And do what? Old man things? Alfred would never get that guy.
"C'mon, man! Anyway, I gotta tell you somethin'!"
"What? I would like to think that you don't see me to be so desperate for interaction that I would pause all that I'm doing for my daily dose of inanity. For Christ's sake, it's three in the morning!"
"What're you talkin' about, brah? It's freakin' eleven! Anyway, the thing! Mattie says some new guy is gonna rock up to your restaurant some time!"
Despite insisting that Alfred was the peak of mediocrity, the one he was addressing had adopted the minor job of a waiter/dishwasher. He wasn't too sure what the name of it was. Something French-y.
"I'm perfectly aware of that; not one of the sodding cooks will shut up about it. Anyhow, what would you suppose its distinction entails?"
Eyebrow wiggling ensued on Alfred's part. Not one of his calls had revolved around any topic straying from the fact that his…cousin? Oh, forget it, friend, needed to be hooked up with someone, and fast. Of course, his efforts only ended in turmoil or arguments, but you couldn't blame a guy for trying. Especially with someone as emotionally stifled as Arthur Kirkland.
"Do you really assume that I'm the sort to latch myself upon whatever wanker waltzes through my door?"
"Think it through, man! There's no way anyone'll go out with ya if you wait! Oh, by the way, you still owe me a dollar for winnin' that bet." Long story short, the Briton's limited romantic history had become infamous during their high school days, in fact, it had inflamed to the point where people gambled on whether or not anyone would talk to him. Unlike his half-brother, Alastair, Arthur did not find it amusing.
"Quite. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an acquaintance with my pillow to see to."
"Acquaintance? As in friend? No way! Where?"
Before drawing a heaving sigh from the irate blond, the screen went dark almost at that precise moment. Well, hardly instantly, as such; it took him a good ten seconds or so to find the right button.
On the other side of the coin, Arthur sat, slumped up against the bedframe. He checked the digital clock on the right hand side of his old laptop (severely beaten up; to be fair, it was a miracle it could operate the camera). 3:25 Am. Except that was wrong. He was no longer in England, unfortunately, nor had he been for a good two months. Another thing he was notorious for was terrible jetlag, it seems.
He raked a hand through his hair, sticking back from a coating of grease. If he could get back to sleep after that, it would be a miracle.
The kitchen was his new target, the kettle whistling ferociously. A cup of tea was in order if he were to regain some sense of normalcy. After all, he still had paperwork to complete. Not the most riveting of activities, but it would do. Especially when the alternative was dealing with his own cat, a Scottish Fold by the name of Alice, who seemed absolutely livid that he had interrupted her sleep. For now she would have to do with an astoundingly awkward apology instead of raking her claws down his leg.
He supposed that now, the only sound being the clinking of his spoon against the cup, the American had a point. It was freakishly quiet. But that didn't mean he was lonely, he would never admit to that. The works of great literary artists were all the company he needed.
Taking this into account, he did not expect to spot a white, rectangular envelope on the doormat. Even without a new address, aside from bills, letters were an uncommon presence.
Arthur quickly discarded the cup and decided to investigate, turning the paper over in his hands as though it were precious to him in some form. It wasn't a prank from the students across the hall again, was it? No, the scrawl seemed vaguely familiar. Plus, this time he could not smell traces of whatever stink bomb would be within it.
What's up, brohaus?
As if he even needed to guess who sent it at this point.
Alfred told me that you are still a scrawny little loser, so the awesome me decided to send you an awesome letter!
Gilbert Beilschmidt. The two of them had started a terrible garage band somewhere along the line, though no one really spoke about it, save for the former. He probably only did it to remind Arthur of his punk phase, and all of the rather…questionable times when he had been drunk. Perhaps it was for the best that he had ended up moving back to his brother's house.
Anyway, what is that loser's place you work again? Something weird, foreign and unawesome? One of my weirdo friends is going to be coming over there or something. He is not as awesome as in 'me' awesome, but ja, he is kind of easy to get along with.
P.S. – Tell Eliza she still sucks balls!
"Charming as ever, I see." He grumbled, placing it to the side. His tea was now cold.
Arthur Kirkland's morning routine started with a slice of toast, more charcoal than bread, and utterly burnt to hell (if it hadn't ascended from there in the first place, as most of his cooking probably had). It then accumulated into a shower of approximately three minutes, and ended with him fully dressed and out of the door at 10:30am (contrary to the belief of the many clocks he was supposed to have set back, which all read 3:30pm).
The journey to work itself was short-lived, convenient, at a stretch. One of the few reasons his job was remotely enjoyable was that it was only a ten minute walk away, and was positively littered with pubs on the way there and back. Not that he would catch himself entering if what he was supposedly like when he was intoxicated was true, but still, a useful tit-bit should he ever find reason to visit.
He never had been one for loud masses of people, let alone small social groups. This was exactly why, as soon as he had entered through the dingy backdoor, not a soul looked up from their dishes to comment.
The entire place was buzzing with life, chefs dashing from corner to corner yelling out the names of various ingredients for nervous assistants to hand, the boss, Wang Yao, brandishing a ladle and yelling at some poor Korean part-timer, and finally, a gangly Russian watching with an eerie smile: Ivan Braginski. Nobody was quite sure what he did, or how he even got hired in the first place. Not that they were willing to get up and complain to him directly, mind you.
In fact, everything seemed so average, so painfully normal, that he almost didn't notice a new addition to the kitchen, flinging spices around as though he learnt cooking in a ballet class.
Almost.
Well, it wasn't exactly easy to miss him, what with the crowds watching over his shoulder (including Elizabeta Héderváry, who Arthur didn't think he was going to pass Gilbert's message on to).
He was around the same height as Arthur himself, though presumably a few odd years older. Moving on from the basics, this man had strikingly golden hair (a definite alteration from Arthur's grubby bird's nest), and warm, sapphire eyes, the irises adorned with the occasional fleck of gold. Or was that amber? It was confusing, really, how they could have so many colours within them. More astounding still was that he had actually taken the time to notice.
"Hey! Arthur! Get to work, hǎo? I am not paying you to stand around lazy, like American!"
Luckily, the barking voice of his boss roused him from his musing. Just as well.
With that final thought, he turned to roll up his sleeves and tend to the ever-growing pile of dishes. He did not notice the stifled chuckles of the previously chewed-out part-timer, or, for that matter, the very pair of eyes he had been inspecting from a distance boring a gaze into his back.