Chapter 2

Two less troubled souls

I was right when I said his awkwardness disappears over time. Since the next meeting in Sociology, I was reaffirmed that scratching the surface only takes a little time.

From sharing seats, we now progress to sharing a light on cigarette breaks (honestly, who smokes without a light?). The bloke even asks for a spare stick at times, for goodness' sake! But before he gets the impression that I approve of his getting thoroughly comfortable with me, I draw the line on a perpetual last name basis.

"Time to go back to class, Jones," I say, crushing my finished stick underfoot.

"What? We have three minutes left," he says. He frowns at his wristwatch. "And I don't really feel like going back to class."

You must be blind not to notice how this cruel November weather brings temptation. Still early in the month, the temperature goes on a steep decline day by day, leaving the city at the mercy of a grey darkness while giving everyone an excuse to flaunt their designer overcoats. A girl with an 'I heart rain' umbrella tiptoes through the heavy rain and passes with a smile.

"Can you not, like, go back to class? You know you're bored with it," he says with a casual puff.

See what I'm talking about? His awkwardness? Gone!

It's all on the surface.

Telling him my opinions about institutional requirements is a mistake. Yes, I don't comprehend the significance of including such subjects to the curriculum, but that doesn't mean I must abandon and fail them. I may be idle with disinteresting matters, but I can be competitive as fuck if I want to.

I must admit that I'm still in my adjustment period months after coming home, still reflecting whether or not it's a brilliant idea to go back to studying. Decisions, decisions...

"Have to play the Teacher's Pet sometimes." I give him a pat on the shoulder. "I'll see you later.

The following week, he invites me to parties and introduces me to his fellow Business majors. Truth be told, I'm happy he's making a lot of friends like I expect in the first place, and I appreciate that he's asking me to tag along, I really do, but I rather spend the nights by myself.

"Hey, are you coming tonight? We can take my car," he tells me, ready to hop on the usual pub.

"I'll pass," I say. "I've got something to do."

His face catches what seems like a shadow of disappointment. "Alright then," he replies. "Enjoy the night."

"You as well."

We part ways in peace. He walks to his car while I head to this bookshop and coffee bar I discovered a week ago. It's more of a past time, really, discovering new nests around the city for rest and relaxation. I like bookshops in particular because they make me feel at home. This bookshop's homemade ice cream and cosy, vintage sofas keep me coming back.

I take this table with adjacent seats, chucking my bag on the empty seat across. A wall displays a dry rose, old coins, toys, and diskettes – separately framed little mementos from the past years. Silver spoons and forks dangle from the ceiling, linked together by strings, shining through the dim reading light. Time flies fast into my private literary world until a voice steps uninvited, putting the concept of time on hold.

"So you're a Tom Hiddleston."

Alfred Jones's physical form appears out of thin air.

"'Scuse me?"

"Tom Hiddleston," he repeats. "The ever well-dressed, attractive, literature aficionado." He points to a group of girls huddled together near the entrance. "See those ladies? They're giggling about you."

I blink, at an utter loss of words. "Are you jealous?"

I close my book and take my leave, ignoring the curious eyes of mentioned ladies as he follows me outside.

"What do you want, Jones?" I ask. "Go back to your friends."

"Stay for a while," he says. "Please? I just," – he heaves a sigh – "Look, I just want to talk to you, okay?"

The fact that it takes him a lot of effort to say those words amuses me. We sequester an outdoor table; I sit opposite him, folding my leg over the other. "What's your game?"

"I'm sorry?"

"What's your game? Why are you stalking me?"

"I-I wasn't stalking you! I saw you when I passed by outside," he says. And hesitates, fidgeting with his hands. "Tell me about yourself."

He's tongue-tied while I'm tongue-in-cheek, my nonchalance dissolving his intentions. He better produce a good reason to convince me why I must waste my time on him, but it seems like we're back to introductions. I give him a brief review on my coming back to uni in case he already forgot about that.

"What?"

Alfred Jones is looking at me strangely. Why is he looking at me strangely? I don't think my indifferent statement warrants a dreamy grin.

"I like your eyes," he says, holding back his grin that only grows wider.

I breathe out a harsh laugh. "Are we playing that card now? Really?" I challenge him. "Is that all you can do?"

"Oh, come on," he protests. "I'm serious!"

"Well, thank you."

"Are you always this mean to your new friends?"

"Are we friends?"

Friends don't usually say they like each other's eyes.

"Come on!" he says again, defeated. "We spent the past few nights together. Doesn't that count?"

"Oh, alright, we're..." I pause to feign deep thinking. "Almost friends."

The senseless grin returns to his face. I can't remember knowing anyone who smiles that much.

"That's good enough for me," he says. "But you already told me about that. I want to know more. Tell me why you quit school. You never told me about that. Why do you prefer spending Friday night on a bookshop rather than a pub?"

I raise an eyebrow. "You got something against that, mate?"

"N-No! That's why I'm asking you about it," he says, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "Jesus Christ."

I light a stick before I begin, buckling up for the long ride. I guess there's no turning back now that he's asked what people always want to know about Arthur Kirkland.

"For years, books were my only escape," I say.

He nods attentively.

"I immersed myself with reading because it was the best way I could visit places. My family could barely afford vacations, not with five boys to support, so I've always waited for my friends to come back and tell me about their trips," I continue. He doesn't interrupt nor does anything annoying, which I find odd knowing his short attention span. "I constantly wished I could be somewhere else. Don't get me wrong; I love this city. 'When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life,' as the quote says, and so here I am."

London will always be my home, but at that time, there was the entire world to see, and I wanted to see it for myself.

Flicking my cigarette on the ash tray, I tell him, "Why are we talking about this? I get too philosophical and shit."

He has his chin on his palm, his eyes holding that dreamy look again. "Go on. I like it."

I offer him the box of cigs. "I gave up uni some x years ago with visions of a promising career and the world waiting for me," I say. "I was the odd one out in the family. I often clashed with my brothers because they couldn't get me. My life was a labyrinth and I wanted to escape it. I wanted to see the world and so I grasped the opportunity as soon as it came."

As an inexperienced university dropout, I had nothing to offer but myself. I stared modelling for a number of clothing lines, and from there, I worked to make a name for myself, earned my own money, and created connections.

I had come across some reflections along the way. At some point, I watched how everyone seemed to develop an obsession with money, working just to sustain their fancy, materialistic desires. I figured that I didn't want to be a sell-out. I didn't want to compromise my worth for money, and thus began my soul-searching, my seemingly unending journey from city to city in pursuit of satisfaction.

Nostalgia visits me like an old friend as I walk down memory lane. As he asks from time to time which city I prefer – Paris or Barcelona, Los Angeles or New York, Tokyo or Sydney, I quench his interest in my silly (mis)adventures. Telling him little stories from my previous jobs and side trips with newfound friends and boyfriends (things that I've told other people before, nothing new), I watch him from start to finish, his eyes gleaming with the same, inviolable longing I've had before.

"What about you?" I ask. "Tell me your story."

Each of us has finished two cups of espresso by now; discussing matters that are commonly talked about over alcohol.

He dwells in silence, unsure where to begin. "I have a twin brother... He's in Amsterdam right now," he says, fiddling with his cigarette. "I already told you about the gap year. We spent it together and travelled around Europe. Both of us didn't know what to take up for college, but we happened to slump back to good ol' double degree in Business Management and Marketing Communications."

I reach for another stick, but the pack is already empty. "You owe me three packs now."

He chuckles. "Do I?"

"Yes, you do," I say. "Before I demand you to fetch me one, continue with your story."

He holds back from telling me more, claiming that he doesn't have many stories to tell, but I drag him along memory lane because it's unfair to retrace it alone. He's quite good at detours, I must say, ceaselessly diverting the conversation towards me. I don't know how we got into this part where I start telling him off to leave my Facebook alone after he asks about this Cadbury commercial video that was recently tagged to me.

"I'm sorry, I just can't believe it was you," he says, looking at me like I'm a myth. Blimey, does he ever stop smiling? I won't have second thoughts if he asks me to help him zip his mouth.

"I remember seeing that commercial when we were here for vacation. I was like, ten?"

I have never wanted to slam my head on a wooden table so quickly.

Bloody wanker.

Once I formulate an Alfred Jones Escape Plan, I venture to my friend's pub for our rendezvous. What a happy coincidence it was to come across him on our last pub crawl. We haven't seen each other for ages!

The wavy blond behind the counter looks at me with recognition the moment I enter.

"Arthur, it's so good to see you again!" he greets me with a subtle French accent.

Meet Francis Bonnefoy (Frahn-CEES Bunne-FWAH), my aromantic asexual ex. It's actually François, but he prefers Francis when in the UK. And yes, he's my ex. He's only come into terms with the whole aromantic asexual business after we broke up. Now, he's happy floating around and giving love advice to the needy as we remain good friends, keeping tabs on each other.

He calls a bar staff to take his place and serves me a pint of bitter as we catch up on the past few months.

"What made you stay in your most detested city?" I ask him, looking at the Thursday night pub goers. "Serving English beer to Englishmen who drink themselves into oblivion? How charming."

"What possessed you to go back to uni?" Francis strikes back.

Aside from the long history of platonic understanding that we share, our relationship is mostly made up of healthy insults and deeply-rooted hatred towards each other. You know, the typical Anglo-French friendship.

"The main goal is getting a diploma, which will possibly earn my peace of mind because honestly, I'm worn thin from years of homelessness," I tell him, hoping to proceed with another topic.

He nods and bombards me with his next question. "So when did you start dating?"

I feel the ale invade my nasal cavity. "Pffwhat?! We're not – we're not dating!"

"Why not? He's cute," – he wiggles his eyebrows – "L'Américain."

Francis makes me want to reconsider all my life decisions when he talks like that.

"Oh, please, you can keep him," I say. "He follows me around like a puppy and he doesn't let me leave without buying me something since the day I told him he owes three packs of cigarettes!"

He plays with his precious hair, twirling some strands around his finger as his lips curl to a smirk. "Looks like you found yourself a new toy, non?"

I exhale sharply and down my last shot.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

I'm logging off from real life for a while bc I'm super stressed out rn. ;u; Hope you liked the update. I decided to turn this into some sort of drabble series. Expect drastic time skips and painstakingly slow updates because 1) I'm working on another multi-chaptered fic at the same time, and 2) I'm going away for a three-month trip v soon. I'll be on hiatus most probably, but I assure you I won't abandon this story. If you have some questions, you can find me on Tumblr. uwu

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