Cold silence rang throughout the room, and now that Francis was gone, it was surprisingly lonely in the house. Soon it wouldn't be too lonely though.
For a brief moment, Arthur reflected on the thought of having kids, and then shook his head of the idea. The time would come soon enough; right now, it was time to get to work.
Arthur was able to work at home, as he was currently writing a book on Cryptozoology, and about why most people these days hadn't seen many, as the general populace called them, 'mythical creatures'. The Englishman knew they were real of course; it was just that a lot of people didn't understand. Thus, he had decided long ago to teach people about the existence of 'mythical creatures'.
He even ran his own blog site, where he got a small but steady income of money from the people that had become premium members of the site.
The Englishman picked a relatively new laptop from the coffee table, where it almost always sat. Arthur opened his manuscript with a sigh; it was already at sixty-seven pages. Not that much, he had to admit, but it was better than nothing.
The problem was, he had been putting the dreadful thing off. He wanted to write it, he really did, but he was having a little problem with writers block.
For an hour or two, he typed, read, reread and edited his manuscript, revising sentences, and fixing errors; but by the end of that, he found himself only two pages farther than when he had started. He stared at the computer for a few minutes, not being able to immediately produce any kind of ideas to continue, he decided to mull over it with some tea and biscuits.
Sighing once more, the Englishman saved the document, and placed the computer lightly on the table. Arthur strode over into the kitchen, rifling through some of the cabinets. Pulling out a fairly large jar, he plucked open the lid, and peered inside. "Blast…" he murmured. No tea. He sighed again, and replaced the lid, setting the jar down on the counter. Pulling out another jar, he glanced into it, hoping there to be at least one biscuit. A lonesome shortbread cookie sat at the bottom of the jar. Feeling pity for it, Arthur took it, and placed the now-empty jar onto the counter next to its brother.
The Englishman took a bite of the cookie, walking back out of the kitchen. These cookies were always too dry to eat alone, and they were always best with tea. He would have to run up to the store, but he needed to anyway, so there was no problem.
Arthur walked outside, pulling on his brown jacket, suddenly remembering something as he stared at the empty driveway. Francis had already taken the only car that they owned. The Englishman swiveled around on his foot, and walked back up the staircase and toward their apartment. However, he bypassed the shared apartment, sliding in front of the neighbor's door instead, and hesitated.
Honestly, Arthur disliked Antonio. He was infuriatingly laid-back and lazy. Probably another reason was that he was always over, talking with Francis. Both of them were way too touchy-feely. According to Francis, Antonio had actually been his best friend in high school along with another boy, and they had always been this intimate. That didn't change the fact that it bothered the Englishman. Especially after finding out that Antonio was also gay.
Slowly, Arthur reached out and reluctantly knocked on the Spaniard's door.
The handle clicked a little as it turned, and Arthur stepped back to make room for the door. Antonio's eyes met Arthur's and a little confusion flashed through them, eyebrows twitching downward. The next second, the Spaniard's face had returned to his normal, carefree smile. "Si? What is it?"
Arthur sighed, a little irritated at the man already, but tried to be polite and said, "May I ask a favor of you?"
"…¿Què es?"
"May I…" Arthur gritted his teeth, and lowered his voice, "…borrow your car?"
Antonio's eyebrows shot up in cool surprise, "…What for?"
"Francis has the car; I need to… go somewhere."
"…Where?"
"If you must know, I need to go to the store!" The Englishman snapped, losing his patience with all these questions.
Antonio smirked a little, but just nodded, "Si, you may borrow it. Just bring it back in one piece. ¿Me entiendes?" And with that, he disappeared into his house, going to get the keys.
Arthur nodded, giving a little sigh, a bit relieved Antonio actually agreed to something like this.
When Antonio returned, he held out the keys, dangling them on a finger, "Here." But as Arthur reached out to take them, Spain pulled them up out of the Englishman's reach, "But, you owe me," the Spaniard said with a smile. Scowling, Arthur snatched the keys out of Antonio's hand, "I'll return the car in a bit. Good day," he said curtly, turning away and leaving Antonio at his door.
Arthur was once again outside, and he scanned the parking lot for Antonio's car. He had forgotten to ask what it looked like in his annoyance, but he knew for a fact that the license plate was "TOMATOS". He remembered Francis laughing about it once, and how outrageous it was. Spaniards and their tomatoes; they even had a national festival for it. From what he had heard from Francis, it was quite disgusting.
As Arthur entered the farther end of the parking lot, he spotted it almost immediately. It was a shiny red car with silver wheels and crystal clear windows. Overall, it was very flashy; too flashy for Arthur's tastes, but Francis would probably like it. Arthur unlocked the door and slipped into the car, breathing in the smell of hot leather and, strangely, baked dough and cinnamon. What was Antonio doing in here? Eating churros?
The Englishman rolled his eyes, relaxing in the driver's seat. Other than the almost overwhelming smell of churros, Antonio took pretty good care of his car. The seats were clean; the paint wasn't scratched and looked fairly waxed, and the windows looked like they were washed every day. Arthur hated to admit it, but he was slightly impressed.
After turning the key and the ignition started, Arthur pulled out of the parking lot. The ride was smooth, and it was a nice change from his and his husband's car, which was small and blue and didn't always work well. Once, it even broke down. Not any fault of Arthur or Francis, though. Arthur liked to think that he was a pretty decent driver, and he knew Francis could drive well just from sitting in the car with him. Even when Francis was in one of his perverted moods, his eyes never left the road. He was thoughtful like that.
Arthur rotated the steering wheel as he turned left, cheeks a little hot from thinking about Francis. He could be mature and intelligent, when he wanted to be; which was never, as far as Arthur had seen. Of course, when he was judging wine, he probably acted mature. Then again, the Englishman wouldn't be surprised if he did flirt with every skirt (or, really, in Francis' case, skirt or pant) he saw.
Finally he reached the closest convenience store. It certainly wasn't the cheapest, or the cleanest; but it would do the job. All he needed was tea, biscuits, and some things for dinner. He was thinking a Yorkshire pudding would be good. It was filling and tasty; and not to mention the wonderful savory sauce that was poured on it.
Arthur combed the shelves until he found a tea he had wanted to try out; 'Bicester Leaf Tea'. It was new in this particular store, and Arthur was curious to see what it tasted like.
Ingredients for dinner were next.
Arthur needed eggs. There was a single egg at the apartment, sitting all by its lonesome in a little carton and was definitely not enough for Yorkshire pudding; that required four. The Englishman drifted over to the store coolers, and pulled out a half dozen pack, and quickly checked them to make sure they weren't broken.
Next was milk. Arthur was sure Francis must've used up the last of it on that soup the previous day, and he didn't want to return home to discover that they didn't have any. Honestly, he didn't particularly like the milk here; it had a slightly funny taste, like it was left in the carton too long. Arthur wasn't that picky though, and he was sure milk was milk, and his Yorkshire pudding wouldn't be ruined by a little carton-tasting dairy.
Flour, salt and vegetable oil; now Arthur knew they had those. Slowly, Arthur carried the quart of milk, the half dozen of eggs, and the bag of tea to the counter.
A cheerful-looking man stood behind the counter, and he greeted Arthur as the Englishman walked up to the cashier, "A-naa~ welcome~ how may I help you today?"
Cracking a small smile, Arthur just gave a polite response, "Just buying a couple items today, thank you."
The cashier smiled brightly, and glanced at the items before tapping some buttons on a calculator that, apparently, was bolted into the checkout station. "Um, is this all?" the brown haired, brown eyed man said, with a little tilt of his head.
"Yes," Arthur replied smoothly.
"Hm, it'll be five pounds and twenty-nine pence."
That was pretty reasonable. Arthur pulled out his small coin purse, pulling out a five pound note and fifty pence piece. "There you go, fifty p'," he said, dropping the money into the cashier's hand. The man behind the counter gave Arthur his change, and Arthur left.
For a moment, the Englishman wasn't sure where his car was, and then he remembered he had borrowed Antonio's, quickly striding over to it. Slipping into the bright red car, Arthur sighed a little, placing the groceries in the passenger's seat.
Arthur drove the vehicle back to the apartment complex, parking it in its usual place – in a slot under the relentless shade of the apartment complex. Antonio probably liked that spot because the cars red paint wouldn't fade as quickly.
The Englishman grabbed his groceries and headed up to his apartment. Arthur passed Antonio's front door, gritting his teeth at the memory at the Spaniards parting words, 'But, you owe me.' Who did he think he was? That bloody wanker…
Not feeling in the mood to talk to Antonio again, Arthur unlocked the front door with a crisp click, marching in. He dropped the groceries on the kitchen counter, and pulled off his brown jacket. Quietly, Arthur draped it over the back of the dining room chair he usually sat at, and returned to the dinner he was suppose to be making that night.
Arthur glanced at the clock. It was only about 10:30; it was probably best to start now.
The Englishman set to work. After washing his hands, he pulled out all the necessary utensils; mixing bowls, a large rectangular roasting pan, three measuring cups, and a strainer. He unloaded the recently bought ingredients onto the counter; he rummaged through the cupboards until he found flour and vegetable oil. The salt he collected from the kitchen table.
The recipe Arthur had was for six people, and that was far too many. So, Arthur decided to cut the recipe in half. The first thing the recipe called for was to measure out the eggs. Four eggs it said, so Arthur cracked the first egg in the measuring cup with no problems. The second, though, he must've begun to crack it with some added vigor, because the egg crushed slightly in his hands, and some of the shell slipped into the measuring cup with the whites and the broken yolk. The little pieces of shell settled at the bottom of the measuring cup, and Arthur sighed, looking at it for a moment. No one would notice if he left them in there… he didn't want to undergo trying to fish those little pieces out… He could just leave them there, yes, of course Francis wouldn't notice, it would be consumed and no one would notice. It was fine.
So Arthur tossed out the rest of the shells, and washed his hands of the whites. If Francis was here, he would've surely made some perverted joke about it.
Arthur returned to his meal. He pulled the other measuring cup over next to the one with the eggs, and poured out an amount of milk equal to the amount of eggs. With the third measuring cup, he did the same with the flour.
As he didn't need any more eggs or milk than he already had, he put them into the fridge.
The measured out eggs and milk were dumped into his large metal mixing bowl, and he stirred them a bit, before reaching over for the salt, and looking at the recipe. It said a pinch of salt, but Arthur figured he could just do a little bit more than a pinch. A pinch just didn't seem enough. So, the Englishman took the salt shaker and turned it upside down over the mixing bowl for a couple seconds, before setting it at the dining table once more.
Following more mindless stirring, it was time to put in the flour. Arthur took the strainer, and with a puff of powdery smoke, poured the flour into it. Though, he forgot to put it over the mixing bowl before he did, and about a sixth of the initial amount of flour sieved though the porous mesh and made a mess of his brown pants, and the edge of the counter nearest him. Arthur cursed silently under his breath, now he would have to change his pants to hide the evidence, or Francis would tease him about his cooking skills. Arthur sifted the rest of the floor into the bowl, but ended up spilling some anyway. So, as it looked like the amount he had in the bowl wouldn't be enough, Arthur dumped some more flour in the bowl, eyeballing it. Okay, maybe it wasn't perfect, but that was good enough, right?
Arthur stirred for a while, possibly about ten minutes; the batter turning smooth and creamy. Though, it did seem a little thick and lumpy in places, but it was supposed to look like that, right? Now it was time to let the batter sit in the refrigerator for a couple hours, so the Englishman had some time to kill. Most of it was probably going to be spent cleaning up the kitchen, and himself.
The Englishman placed the bowl in the fridge, covered by a bit of cellophane.
Wetting a cloth, Arthur wiped down the counter of flour, and then proceeded to do the same for the floor. When he tried to brush off the flour from his pants, it only smeared and made his situation worse. Sighing a little bit, Arthur placed the flour back in the cupboard, and put the three measuring cups into the sink; he would wash them once he changed his pants.
Slipping into the back bedroom, Arthur opened the drawer of the shared dresser, and flipped through the clothes. Scowling down at the contents, he realized none of the other pants in there were even remotely brown. So Arthur slipped out of his soiled pants, and tossed them in the laundry bin. The Englishman felt a sudden chill, remembering that it was November, and that it was probably only going to get colder here on out. So after slithering into a pair of dark beige slacks, Arthur rummaged through a lower drawer, finding a green knitted sweater vest. Francis always complained about it, but to be honest, the Englishman quite liked it; liked it so much, in fact, that it was his favorite.
Arthur walked back out into the living room, and glanced at his computer. He didn't really want to do anymore writing today. Maybe he'd check up on his website.
Plopping down on the couch, he pulled his laptop toward him, and opened it slowly, pressing the power button. It loaded up quickly and quietly, like always. The computer wasn't state of the art, but it wasn't slow either. And Francis didn't use it at all, so he had it all to himself usually.
Arthur opened MochiN, an internet browser that was made by an acquaintance of his, Eduard von Bock. He typed in the name of the site in the search bar, 'DoYouBelieveInFairies'.
Arthur logged onto the site under his username, 'FlyingMintBunny'; though most people on the site referred to him as FMB, or Mint. The man quickly glanced over his ever-full notification box, deleting some of the spam but mostly answering the questions of many people around the world. Usually they inquired about if he had ever seen them, or if they would ever see them in their area, and sometimes even how to deal with their friends or family members that bullied them about believing in such things as fairies. Arthur understood these things very well, and answered them honestly; especially the bit about family. The Englishman had four brothers, all older except for one, Peter, who back-talked him anyway. Mostly all of his older siblings had tormented him since the day he was born, and he had fundamentally disowned them when he was old enough to move out of the house.
Arthur shook his head, getting the thought of his no-good brothers out of his head. He was glad Francis had never met them. His oldest brother was the scariest, but he practically oozed pheromones, and Francis would've been all over him if the two ever met.
Speak of the devil. Well, one of them. Peter had sent him a notification through DYBIF's website. Arthur knew it was Peter right away, because of his username, 'Iamaman'. Rolling his eyes, the Englishman clicked on the note, and read it, cringing:
hey thar JARK ARHTUR
i bet u don't even know who this is hehee
well ill see you later JEKR ARHUTR :DD
pS IO AM AMAN!
Arthur closed it, not feeling like replying. It was like no one had ever taught him English…
The Englishman then proceeded to look through all the forums that had been recently posted in, and noticed, 'Iamaman' had spammed in every one of them. Mostly poorly written posts about being a man, or how mythical creatures were real and everyone who didn't think that was stupid. Sometimes Arthur was embarrassed to even call the boy his brother. Now he really would have to private message Peter. Many of the posts, Arthur flagged as spam, but some he just left. They were close enough to the topic to be considered legitimate.
Opening up a 'Compose Note' page, Arthur typed out the following message to 'Iamaman':
Iamaman –
If you continue to spam the forums with posts unrelated to the topic, I will have to ban you from this website. Please understand many people here are serious about what they are talking about, and you are only irritating them with your nonsense.
Thank you for your cooperation. – FlyingMintBunny
Sent.
Arthur sighed, and glanced at his computer clock, noting it was about three o'clock. It was about time to cook the Pudding. Setting the laptop on the coffee table, Arthur strolled over to the kitchen, opening the fridge, and retrieving the mixing bowl that still held the yet-to-be-baked batter. The Englishman stripped off its plastic covering and disposed of it in the same bin he had earlier scrapped the egg shells in. Pulling over the large roasting pan, Arthur hesitated. There really wasn't enough batter for this whole thing. So, instead, Arthur searched through the cabinets until he found a smallish, square, porcelain bowl. It was perfect.
Arthur poured the contents of the mixing bowl into the porcelain one, scrapping the residue out with a spoon, making sure none of the mixture was wasted.
Swiftly, Arthur put the porcelain pot into the oven. They had a timer, but Arthur felt like he didn't need one, and it was only ten minutes. He could watch the clock.
So he cranked up the oven to 230°C, and wandered back into the living room, plunking down on the couch with sudden exhaustion. It was kind of a busy day for Arthur. He sighed, and closed his computer after noticing he had gotten three more messages, all with the title, 'JHERK ARHETR'. He could deal with those later.
Arthur picked up a book on the coffee table, and leaned back on the couch. It had been a while since he had picked up a book, with the manuscript and Francis and everything. Curling up, the Englishman let his imagination run wild as he dove into the novel.
Ah, I'm sorry it took so long for this one. But it is significantly longer than the other ones.
Also, rejoice! I have found out the way to put lines in such as this one!
Let's see... The cashier man, the "A-naa~" he says is a verbal tic of his. Kudo points if you know who he is.
I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, I hope you enjoy it too!
