Disclaimer: Use of funky language and I don't know why but, rollie-pollie-ollieness... Still don't own Hetalia! :D
Although he had been awoken by the dense weight of his sleeping leg, Arthur couldn't help but to have a little spring in his step this morning. He was going to get drunk. Well, after traveling to the town square five miles away and then the required eight hour trek back, but as long as he got plastered it was good enough for him.
Drinking had long since been a coping mechanism for the down-on-one's-luck lad, ever since he encountered his first bottle he had been hooked. Alcohol, and books, were his two only friends. He didn't mind it though. They never betrayed him, or mocked him like his brothers had, or expected anything out of him and that was all he could ask for. The only people he could get along with were fellow social pariahs like himself and there were not many, if any at all, where he lived now. He met one named Elizabeta in the past, she was a wild broad from Hungary who would boast how manly she was despite being a woman in drag. She had threatened to end the Brit's life with her cast iron pan if he told a single soul the extent of her gall, to which he unsurprisingly acquiesed whilst providing some helpful advice because, really, her long tresses almost always gave her away to the authorities by a hair's breadth. Essentially, his life constituted wholly of drinking, reading and splendid isolation. Add magic to that list and by George you've got it, he snorted in self-derision.
His magic was a delicate subject to touch upon for countless reasons: firstly, it reminded him of his deceased parents who had died to keep their family fed and clothed and just alive, which in turn reminded him of his old village and its eccentricities and how he would never get to see any of it again, which in turn depressed him further... You see where this is going. It was a constant teeter-totter of emotional turmoil he would drown in booze, forget about as his hangover clouded his memory and overlook like a fool in blissful ignorance. He couldn't control his "gift" anyhow. With his luck, he would create a new ice age and that wasn't even his power. All that reading in his spell book had only left him with a chronic migraine, some destroyed heirlooms and disenchantment in all things magical; high and dry in a strange place without anyone on this cursed planet.
Not like he cared or anything.
He'd show them all how fine he was with that or his name wasn't Arthur Kirkland II.
Colorful obscenities glossing over the blonde's absorption in his own troubles, Arthur surveyed the enviornment as he moseyed on over to the source of commotion in the familiar marketplace known as the Grove.
The cleverly named Grove was just that and more. An open market boxed in by modest sized forest, the woodland acting as a border between the market and the otherwise remote town nearby. It was where hardworking farmers, craftsmen, blacksmiths and businessmen went to sell their goods and hear of the latest scandals told by busybodies with too much time on their hands. Several stands were set up right next to the other, garnering crowds to observe the daily antics involving vendors and return clients that had become a recurring show to the regular schmucks not yet used to it. Owners of their respective stands called potential patrons to their station with blasphemous promises, made soley for the purpose of outweighing their competitors' equally false assurances.
The scent of tomato sauce and fresh dough graced Arthur's nostrils, causing drool to pool in the emaciated boy's mouth. That's new, he noticed a stand he had not seen before, being managed by a dark auburn haired man with an unusual curl resting on the right side of his head. He was gesturing determinedly with his hands and cursing in accented English to a man who laughed off his insults, infuriating the impatient Italian by putting a hand on his shoulder to stay upright whilst he howled in amusement.
"If tomatoes are fruit, like you say, then how come Boss don't make wine outta 'em?" The Italian huffed and puffed, shoving the man off his shoulders and scowling as the man continued to chuckle boyishly on the ground.
"'Cause he's probably an uneducated chowderhead bastard with shit for brains like you!" the taunt fell on deaf ears as the man was far too into his fit to care, he tried standing up but the Italian started kicking his sides in agitation. The man caught a bright idea after the kicks had gotten more solid in force, grabbing the irate Italian by the ankle, he rolled around like a trundle whilst positively beaming in merriment. Arthur, who had been enraptured in imagining what the pizza pie in front of him would taste like, hadn't paid any attention to the ball of limbs heading his way.
As the Italian man attempted to pull away from the other, he grabbed blindly onto Arthur's leg, dragging the startled Brit down with him. The three smashed into a stand selling baked goods, powdered sugar and pastries from around the globe dousing sticky sweetness on each member of the tangled trio's figures as they collided with the earth.
"Fucking shit," the Italian man fumed from underneath the puta who had started this whole mess in the first place. He was laying facedown beneath the chowderhead who just sat there like he didn't have anywhere to be. His back was going to break under that fatass' weight. He felt an arm graze past his ass and he wasn't okay with that. "Antonio! GET OVER HERE RIGHT NOW, YOU BASTARD!"
A throng of people had gathered to watch the scene unfold. Pretty women giggled as they walked by while men just gawked at the awkward position the three were in, toddlers pointed at them and asked their parents what it meant. Noise, noise, noise. It was driving Arthur mad. He couldn't think with the ceaseless cacophony waging war on his eardrums, nor notice as a pair of hands disentangled him from the pile of pain. Nor did he notice the gentle prodding of a boot against his foot. However, he did notice the rough smack of a glove on his forehead as a bespectacled blonde's face studied his own.
"Don'cha move. I'll have tha' vermin offa yer face in a secon'," Arthur raised his eyebrows at the odd man's behavior before being smacked on the face again. "Ah, hold still! Darn ca'erpillar!"
The bespectacled man was a sight to behold, short dusty blonde fringe (with a strange curl on his head, as well) accentuating his positively dreamy sky blue eyes. He had taut muscles that flexed whenever he moved and a somewhat conceited air about him. He looked tall enough to be close to six feet in height and well fed. He could even afford to wear the biege linen cravat he was sporting, with a pleated cuff shirt of the same fabric and maroon knee high breeches. The only thing Arthur got to wear was the same pair of pantaloons, button down shirt and Hessian boots that his father had worn when he was his age. The misfortunate misfit felt a twinge of envy just studying the man, though he would never tell the other this.
"W-what are you doing?" Arthur's examination was interrupted as calloused hands began fondling his thick eyebrows, his breath caught in his throat instantly.
"Tryin' to find out why you twitch when I touch these." the blue-eyed man replied without hesitation.
"A black eye and a fat lip is what you'll get if you don't let go!" he smacked the other's hands away, trying to catch his breath. The other seemed to get what was going on and stopped suddenly, leaving the flustered Brit's face alone to stare at him, an unidentifiable emotion passing over his countenance.
"Sorry... Thought they were ca'erpillars at first a-an' I... Oh shoot..." he trailed off. Confused, Arthur followed his gaze to find a fancily dressed blonde trailing behind a brunette whose face alit in joy once he spotted the Italian.
"LOVI~~!" the brunette called, running excitedly to the man who proceeded to cover his face in embarrassment, hugging the living daylights out of him.
"Get off of me, dammit! Chigi!" the Italian successfully headbutted the brunette after many failed tries, surely giving another injury to the cheerful tomato farmer's internal organs. While they repeated their daily routine, the posh blonde headed straight for the bespectacled man before seeing Arthur and flouncing up to the two with an unnerving leer.
"Alfred, who is this you are speaking to?" Alfred's boss wore a violet greatcoat which swished elegantly with every step he took. His golden waves were swept back into a ponytail, a few stray pieces gracing his gorgeous jawline and framing sparkling sapphire irises.
"Oh, well, I hadn't asked him his name-" Alfred started.
"Then what is your name, mon petit?" the man, who he would assume is French from his accent, questioned Arthur. He didn't know what a "mon petit" was, but he didn't like the way this guy was saying it.
"Arthur. What's it to ya, frog?" the shocked expression on the Frenchman's face was just too rich. Instead of crying about it like the Brit had wanted him to, the smirk on his face seemed to have doubled in intesity. The wavy haired blonde chuckled weirdly and offered the emerald-eyed boy a rose. Arthur checked the rose for thorns and finding none, ripped the silky petals off using his teeth. Petal by petal. Spitting them onto the ground by the fancy Frenchman's boots.
This savage behavior only made the Frenchman more intrigued by the Brit as Alfred observed the situation cautiously, waiting in anticipation of action from either of the two to prevent damage with his steadfast strength. Thankfully, both blondes quit their showdown and brushed themselves of imaginary dust on their clothing, watching the other from their peripherals with annoyance or in Alfred's boss' case, smug satisfaction.
"Come along now, mon chou~ We leave tomorrow and I'm sure mon petit wouldn't want to make us late." Alfred's boss chirped in all his saccharine sweet Frenchie Frenchness. The taller blonde returned to his boss' side, hoping not to aggravate his boss any more.
"Yeah, you better run..." Arthur muttered to himself, glaring at the retreating figures' backs.
"We shall meet again, Arthur~!" came Alfred's boss' reply. Did he hear me just then? he frowned. No, no. That's impossible.
Shaking his head to clear the unimportant thoughts, Arthur promptly found the wine stand past the art exhibit, stood by until the owner left for break and stole a large bottle of the best kind they had. It was called Fraîche.
Whatever that meant, he needlessly shrugged. It might have been imported from France but as he had no ale, it was this or nothing.
With his stolen booty under one arm, he fled out of the market and soon found the trail leading back to his shack. Running wouldn't guarantee that nobody saw him, but at least then if they had he would be twenty steps ahead of them.
His victory trumping any other sense of reason, the Brit drank and drank until dawn that night once he got home. Indulging all by his lonesome, but awaking with a faint recollection of a pair of orbs so hauntingly blue, that he felt as if he was being watched by the creature of his dreams in that very moment.
FYK (For Your Knowledge) Words:
Chowderhead is an old 1800s slang word meaning "foolish, incompetent person"
Puta is something you can Google yourself ;)
Mon chou means "my sweet bun" in French, unless the French website is wrong..
Fraîche means "fresh" in French (Again, Google)
That must be some real strong wine, Art. He's such a wino. Also I'm pretty sure if you felt like you were being watched, that you would, oh I dunno, call the authorities! But this isn't that kind of time period (it's like 1865; and he's not the type of person), so... I keep telling my mom about this story and she says I shouldn't make it too wordy/difficult to understand for the "common folk". Is this hard for you to understand? I hope it isn't.
I feel like I'm making Francis a weird voyeur or something.. Uh, more acquainting between Art and Al next chapter! Thanks for the views and the review! :)