A/N: Thank you all for reviews/favs/alerts! Sorry that I couldn't reply to all of them, I've been banging my head on my desk writing Sketching Out Memories Ch. 1. Omgod, when did writing become so constipated? XD
Anyways, sexy-tiems insue, Arthur panics. I do enjoy my rapist!Francis. Luciana differentiates between the Vargas brothers by referring to Lovino with Signore, and Feliciano as Mister (because Lovino is her boss, she feels the need to be all Italian, iouno).
Sp/grammatical errors, DM-linked words, and possible plot holes will be fixed after publication.
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.
Arthur was really counting on Feliciano forgetting about what he'd said the night before, seeing as the boy could never remember when his papers were due, but apparently he woke up bright and early (for possibly the first time in his life) to get dressed and pull Arthur out of bed. At ten o' clock, Feliciano had the Brit in a tow and the two were heading towards what could be the most trendy and expensive shopping center in London.
In other words, Arthur was screwed, walking around this part of town in his year-old sweater vest and ratty jeans.
But whether Feliciano had some magical power that made passers-by look to him instead of Arthur, or if these Gucci-bag-loaded, fashion-obsessed socialites just didn't deem Arthur important enough to be noticed, at least he didn't have to worry about people staring him down as if he were some sort of alien. Maybe he was supposed to feel offended at this.
Whatever.
Another wish that Arthur made on the sidelines was that hopefully Feliciano's brother's shop was not too fancy; he was sort of praying that it would be akin to some outlet store in which overweight grandmothers would look for khaki pants for their grandkids in college, and five-year olds would scream at each other from across the aisles while shop assistants filed their nails behind the counter.
How wrong he was. In fact, the assumption was so morbidly off that Arthur felt a slight urge to slap himself.
The moment Feliciano stopped in front of the largest shop in the square he should've know that he was in trouble. Through the glass, he noticed that all of the employees were beautiful women in tight, black skirts and white ruffled blouses, their hair piled up into either neat buns or curly ponytails (although Arthur got the feeling that they could snap him like a board if they really wanted to, looking at the way they stared contemptuously at the ill-dressed passers-by on the street). There were no ripped jeans allowed, no sweatshirts, no cheap earrings from some no-name mall's Christmas sale, and definitely no khaki pants. Smiling, the brunette shoved Arthur inside, causing him a near-collision with a tall, stern-faced woman.
"Luciana!" he exclaimed, greeting the lady with a kiss on both cheeks. "I haven't seen you in a long time, bella!"
She accepted his endearments gracefully, but pushed him away the moment he was finished.
"You saw me last week, Mr. Vargas," she said in a rich, accented voice; she turned to Arthur in obvious scorn. "And who is this?"
Shouldn't shop assistants be friendlier? "My name is Arthur—"
"He needs something to wear to the Autumn-Winter fashion show and the after party. With me," Feliciano added quickly, as if afraid that Luciana would lash out some hideous insult at the Brit.
Truthfully, she probably would have, judging by the look of distain on her face, but she pursed her lips and nodded stiffly.
"Very well," she said, turning to Arthur. "Please come with me. Adrianna!" She shouted at another girl standing at the counter in a succession of rapid Italian. And even if Arthur didn't understand a word of it he was quite positive that it didn't refer to him nicely.
As Adrianna scampered off in search of clothing that probably would cost Arthur his whole life savings, Feliciano waved cheerily at the two.
"Bye, Arthur! You're going to look great! And oh, yeah…" He checked around the store. "Have you seen my fratello anywhere, Luciana?"
"Wai—Feliciano! I'm not going to the show with you! I only said—"
Luciana briefly whipped around, her hands still gripping Arthur's arms like iron clamps.
"Signore Vargas is busy making the final adjustments on his models' outfits. The first show is tomorrow, so I am afraid you won't see him until then," she said.
A flash of real disappointment crossed Feliciano's face, so sudden that Arthur thought he might've been imagining it; however, the Italian's original pleasant expression returned just as fast.
"Oh, okay then. Luciana will help you pick out something casual for the show and the party." He added in a short whisper, "Don't worry, Arthur, she's actually really nice, even though she looks scary. Like Ludwig, but a little worse—"
Arthur wasn't sure if the way Feliciano tapered off was a good thing or not.
"A little worse, my arse," Arthur muttered, unbuttoning his jacket. "And why the hell are you waiting outside of my dressing room?"
Eight outfits and six disapproving faces endured from Luciana later, his outlook was grudgingly considered as satisfactory by the woman, although Feliciano gushed over each one with the same enthusiasm. As for now, the brunette fiddled with the cuffs of a blue dress shirt. After chatting with the ladies at the front desk he had slumped into a couch right next to Arthur's changing room, holding on to the rejected clothes and making faces at the opposing mirror.
"Because you're taking too long," he said.
Arthur shrugged.
"I'll take as long as I want," he retorted. "You're the one that brought me here, after all."
"I know, but there's nothing for me to do," he whined.
"Go talk to Adrianna or what's-her-name. And also…why are all the women here so…" He couldn't quite find a word. "…harsh, I suppose?"
Feliciano bit back a yawn.
"They're trained," he said.
"Excuse me?"
"Everybody in this store knows at least some sort of self defense," Feliciano explained. "Since the employees are all female, sometimes we get some really strange customers." He paused, as if remembering something. "Fratello gave the managers of his stores in America tasers, just in case."
…Tasers?
"Is that even safe—agh!"
"What's wrong?"
"Don't do that," Arthur hissed back.
"Don't do what?" Feliciano asked flatly.
Arthur stuck his head out from inside, gripping the curtains to the wall.
"Don't touch the curtain like you're going to open it!"
Feliciano sunk back even further into his couch; it was becoming apparent that he was getting increasingly bored.
"Why not? It's not like you have boobs or something…"
Arthur's face burned. He grabbed a handful of shirts and shook off his glasses, thrusting one arm outside to the Italian.
"Why don't you make yourself useful and hold on to these for me—"
He had meant it as a joke, but it seemed like Feliciano couldn't tell that he was being sarcastic. The items were immediately whisked off his hands in one swoop.
"Hey, careful with my gla—"
"Okay, Arthur!" Feliciano said brightly. "I'll bring these to Luciana. Be right back!"
Arthur sighed in exasperation and rubbed his eyes. It wasn't like he was completely blind without spectacles; it was only that his face felt naked without them, and for some lame, wimpy reason he used to believe that the glasses could hide him from everyone else.
He turned to the mirror, straightening himself. Luciana had made him throw on a grey vest (surprise, surprise) over a white dress shirt and nearly choked him when she was yanking on his scarf. That, plus the black leather jacket and jeans the color of smoke, Arthur didn't think he looked like himself.
He thought he looked like the people who used to make fun of him.
"Goddammit…"
Arthur blinked and shrugged off the jacket, pulling the vest off and fumbling with his buttons. He couldn't believe he had to dress up just to give some spoiled rich boy his keys. Who was he, the guy's babysitter? The more he fumed about it, the darker his mood got, and while cursing at his buttons that refused to come undone, Arthur failed to notice another shadow that had slunk into his dressing compartment and was creeping up behind him.
The moment Arthur felt someone's hands traveling around his waist and wrapping around him, he didn't dare to move. The guy rested his chin on Arthur's right shoulder and breathed into his ear in a very French, very froggish, accent.
"I have not seen you around here, mon cher. Surely I couldn't have missed someone as lovely as you—"
Oh God, oh God. This must be what Feliciano meant by "strange customers". What the hell was he to do now?
Arthur had meant to whip around and holler at the man in the loudest, manliest damn voice (for that matter) he could muster, but what escaped his throat was a high-pitched squeak when the French bastard's hands wandered lower and slowly unzipped his jeans.
What. The. Fu—
"W-what the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" His voice wavered slightly as he pushed backwards, trying to wrench free.
Wrong move. If anyone had come in, they would've thought he was grinding against the taller man. And apparently that was what the creeper thought too.
Frog gave a low chuckle.
"I am only helping mon petit lapin, can you not tell?"
Arthur seethed at him as he slapped away an arm.
"You can help me by dragging your arse ten feet away from me, you sodding idiot—ah, let…go…"
The git had the nerve to bite his ear. He was actually being molested, and by a man, too. Arthur slammed his head backward and hit the guy right on his nose. The Frenchman groaned and released Arthur, staggering back and cupping his face in agony.
Feliciano chose that moment to skip in with Luciana, holding a bundle of jeans.
"Arthur!" he called out. "Are you done—oh, Francis! What are you doing here?"
Luciana glanced at Arthur, then back at Francis, analyzing the scene.
"Mr. Bonnefoy, I thought I had politely asked you to refrain from visiting for a week."
Francis composed himself, leering from Arthur to Feliciano to Luciana.
"I just wanted to see how Lovino was coming along with organizing his models, with him arriving so late and all, I thought he might need my help—"
"Signore Vargas is not available, and he doesn't need your advice," Luciana said coolly. "The rest of the store would appreciate it if you le—"
He glided next to her and made a move as if to kiss her on the cheek.
"Alright, whatever the manager wants—ugh—"
In that split second, an ugly expression crossed Luciana's face; she sidestepped and punched Francis in the face, sending him flying back onto a hapless Arthur.
"I'm sorry, Arthur! I'm really sorry, I didn't know big brother Francis was going to be there—"
Arthur whipped around, indignant.
"He's your brother?"
Feliciano looked sheepish.
"Well, not by blood. He insisted we call him that, but…" The Italian pouted and readjusted the five bags he was carrying. "I'm sorry, Arthur, please don't get mad. I'm already carrying your stuff too…"
"He tried to touch me! And that was after Luciana hit him, too!" Arthur protested crossly. "Who is he anyways?"
Feliciano murmured quietly, "He's one of the featured designers for this year…"
Arthur's eyes widened.
"That means he's going to be at the show and the after party. You little—"
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
Arthur continued irritably, but without as much heat, "You're the one dragging me to your fashion show when I made it very, very clear that I am only going to return Jones's keys."
"Keep telling yourself that…"
"Excuse me?"
Feliciano shook his head rapidly.
"Nothing, nothing!"
