I couldn't get to sleep last night, and decided some FrUK was the way forward. There's probably a few typos, feel free to point them out.
Just a lil warning, there will be a load of swearing, and a load of man love. But I imagine you already guessed that ahahaa.
...
The light was nearly gone.
This lack of natural daylight meant Arthur could no longer see what he was writing. With a sigh worthy of a Shakespearian epic, he moved from his desk to switch the light on. He stretched, feeling a muscle in his shoulder pop. May as well get another coffee while he was up.
Now, let's get one thing straight: Arthur was a tea drinker. First thing he did when he woke up – made himself a cuppa. If he was having some kind of family crisis, or if there was a good film on Channel Four, or if it was a little bit chilly, he'd head straight for the teabags. Therefore it may surprise you to learn he also had a weakness for coffee. Not a serious one, mind. It just made him feel more businesslike; professional. Like he could become the mind-blowingly brilliant writer he knew he was – if he could just get something published. And then there was the smell. There was just something about the smell of coffee beans and second hand books...
Five minutes later he was back at his desk, too-bright light bulb buzzing slightly above his head. The library was his favourite room of the house. Alright, 'library' may have been pushing it a little. More like a study really. There was a single large bookshelf, packed full of his favourites: his old Shakespeares and Chaucers from university, covered in his untidy (despite his best efforts) notes, his Isherwood for when then there was no one else to sit and share a cup of tea with, his Amis and McEwan, Nabokov and Hemingway, Dante and Beowulf (both practically falling apart) and, for when he really wanted to ignore the real world, Harry Potter. His other books were stored in various convenient spots about the house – under the coffee table, on top of his wardrobe, the floor. Whatever. If there was a flat surface, there was probably a book on it.
Kindles could go fuck themselves.
He tried to focus on the empty notebook page in front of him, tried to drag some words up from the grey and foggy depths of his brain and smear them on to the paper, but it didn't work. It stayed empty. Bastard.
Twenty minutes later, the page was still empty, and so was his coffee mug. But there were days like this every now and again. He'd get over it. Besides, he had to meet up with some work colleagues in less than an hour. Things at the office had not gone well this week; there was only so much effort he could put into a job he intensely disliked. His heart was not in the architecture company he worked for. Being an architect was nowhere near as interesting he had imagined; not cathedrals and mansions, but more frequently plans for council housing and extensions to dental surgeries.
The words would wait.
...x...
"S'up Eyebrows?" Gilbert grinned at his colleague the moment he stepped into the building.
Arthur said nothing, but briefly showed the other his middle finger as he took off his coat. They had originally planned they meet at the office, but somehow Gilbert's suggestion of the pub had seemed like a much better idea. The pub was warmer, and had squishy chairs. And beer.
"Don't be like that Arthur," Mathias spoke up, "It's a mark of respect. Shows he cares. He doesn't even bother to insult me anymore, do ya Gilbo?"
"Damn straight. So, what the fuck am I doing spending my Friday night with you two?"
Mathias punched him playfully on the arm, perhaps a little harder than necessary. "'Cos you know you we're the best you can get, dickhead."
The light buzz of conversation covered their conversation a little, but several customers still looked over to their table in disapproval at Mathias' insult.
"Why do you two wankers always have to use such fucking atrocious language?" Arthur said, digging his wallet out from his pocket.
"Pot, kettle, black."
"You know why we're here. It's because you," Arthur pointed dramatically to Gilbert, "Can't meet deadlines."
"Yeah Gilb – "
"And you," he turned to Mathias, "are too busy pratting about with that effing boyfriend of yours to get any work done."
"I..." Mathias hesitated, "He's not my boyfriend."
Arthur rolled his eyes. "Fine. You two want a drink?"
"Of course."
"Yep. The usual."
Ripping open the Velcro of his wallet, Arthur went to the bar. "Just one. Then we need to finish this bloody presentation."
...x...
An hour later, any notes they had managed to make concerning their presentation were covered in beer and rather ugly-looking naked women Gilbert had drawn.
"For fuckssake Gil," said Arthur, slamming his beer down on the table, "We can't fucking call our presentation 'How we are going to build a hospital so goddamn awesome people will throw themselves down stairs on purpose just to be able to visit.'"
Gilbert seemed hurt. "Why not?"
"Cos it's shit."
"Well, what do you wanna call it?"
"I... I don't know."
"Great." Mathias stood up, knocking over his chair. "We have a title. More drink to celebrate?"
"Hells yeah!"
"Sure."
Mathias bought them each another beer, although the barman had looked somewhat reluctant to serve him. By the time their glasses were half empty, all thoughts of concrete blocks, wheelchair ramps, and the cost of shatter-proof glass had been completely banished from their minds.
"So Eyebrows, written your best seller yet?"
Arthur sniffed. "It's getting there. And don't call me that, you tosspot."
"Pfft, you're a sucky liar."
"And you're a twat, but I don't say anything."
Mathias sniggered at Gilbert's expression of mock hurt. "Wow Arthur. You seriously need to get some."
Said man frowned. "Some what?"
"Some sex." Gilbert said evenly, flicking hair from his forehead. "Or at least someone to crawl up your ass and get that stick out for you."
Arthur gave the pair of them the best glare he could muster with too much alcohol pumping through his system. "Just because you two think sex is above food and shelter on the 'list of things we need to survive,' it doesn't mean we all feel that way." He took a sip from his drink. "Idiots."
"I think we touched a nerve," Mathias whispered loudly to Gilbert.
Before Arthur could retaliate, Mathias had stood up, knocking his poor abused chair over once more. "Well," he clapped his hand on Gilbert's shoulder, "I got to get going. The last bus is in five minutes."
"OK, cool." Gilbert finished his drink. "Oh, wait a sec, I forgot. Me and Lud are having people over tomorrow night."
"'Having people over?' What are you, married?"
Gilbert ignored him. "You two'll come yeah?"
"Will you have beer?"
"Will we have beer?" Gilbert made his best offended face. "Have you never met me and my bro before? Of course there'll be beer you arschloch."
"Gilbert, your German is showing." Arthur smirked.
"Whatever, but you're coming yeah?"
Intense light shone through the thick pub windows as the bus pulled up at the stop outside.
"Shit. I gotta get that." Mathias tugged on his coat. "Yeah I'll be there. See ya tomorrow." He flashed a grin before wrenching the door open, letting in a rush of cold night air.
"I s'pose I should get to bed too." Gilbert raised one of his eyebrows and his lips twitched in a quick smile. A look Arthur both dreaded and anticipated. "You coming?"
...x...
Gilbert gasped and flung out his arm, knocking his alarm clock to the floor. Arthur jumped and detached his lips from his friend's. "For fuck's sake Gilbert," he hissed, "be a bit bloody quieter would you? I could do without your brother barging in here again."
"He's out," said Gilbert simply, and pulled Arthur back down for another kiss. Their lips were dry, their breath warm and bitter from the alcohol; a taste that made Arthur feel sick in the mornings, but at that point he could think of nothing more enticing. The two ran their hands over each other roughly, all pinching and nails, a small gasp as one touched the other somewhere particularly sensitive.
All was familiar. All was safe.
Their movements got slower, their kisses less enthusiastic as the alcohol and the long week of work began to get the better of them. Eventually, they stopped altogether, their quick pants became slow, even breaths as they eased into sleep.
This was by no means the first time Arthur had drunkenly tumbled into Gilbert's bed. And, at the time, he wouldn't have believed it would be the last.
...
So, there we go.
Some spontaneous PrusUK there. I have no idea where that came from. There will be some Francis next chapter, I promise.
I should also mention I know precious little about architects and what they do.
Mathias is Denmark, btw.
Hetalia doesn't belong to me.
