Chapter Twenty-Six: The Lioness
"You really showed up," Arthur mumbled as he dragged a glove covered hand down his face. His green eyes lingered on the pavement, refusing to meet with her curious gaze. "What about work?" he muttered under his breath. "Is it really all right to leave it to come here? Christmas is the busiest time of the year, isn't it?"
She laughed like the jingling of bells. "Stop making excuses, mon cher," the Frenchwoman retorted playfully, poking Arthur in the ribs lightly. "You've gained some weight. Have you been eating regularly? That's good."
"Mm, yes, he cooks, you know," Arthur responded with a faint smile on his lips. "He's a bloody amazing cook."
"As good as me?"
"I would say even better."
"Je ne te crois pas!"
Arthur raised his eyes, staring at her with challenge in his emeralds, and remarked, "Would I ever lie to you?"
She sighed and crossed her arms. "Well, my profession is not fine cuisine, so maybe," she conceded reluctantly, "there could be someone better than me. I doubt it though. It's not hard to please your palate, mon amour. You do not have high standards, considering you can eat Marmite." At this, she visibly shuddered in disgust and repulsion.
"Oh, sod off, Marianne."
The blonde smiled and giggled, resting her head on his shoulder and fiddling with his hands comfortably. Marianne pulled off a glove, admiring how Arthur's hands were so much bigger than hers, before lacing their fingers together. She shivered slightly at the cool sensation traveling up her arms. Was she to expect more from her fellow kindred spirit? He was just as cold as she was. Just as twisted. Just as messed up. With this in mind, she asked Arthur, "Have you asked him on dates yet?"
"No."
"Have you asked him to be your lover yet?"
"No."
"Have you proposed to him?"
"Marianne, please, he's only sixteen! I've only known him for a few months now!"
"We knew each other for - what? - ten, nine months, and you were only fifteen when - "
"Marianne!"
The French woman pouted childishly. "Well," she responded shortly, "you'll never get far if you keep this up, Arthur. You cannot have this ambiguous relationship! It's not healthy!"
Arthur scoffed lightly. "Who are you to preach this to me?"
Marianne smiled wryly. "I understand you best. You understand me best," she responded sagely. Humming, she threw her hands into the air and exclaimed, "We might as well get married and leave all troubles behind! We are alike, you and I, Arthur. Finish your proposal from Halloween night and seal the deal, non?"
"Non," Arthur replied tersely with a bitter smile, "I'm sorry, but I can't do that."
She laughed. "Just as well! I respect your decision," the older woman mused, returning the glove back onto his hand. "You will face life as it is, I see."
"You can't avoid trouble forever, Marianne."
"Ah, but my suitors are all - " she waved a hand dismissively, grasping for a perfect word " - dull. They are not like you. I really do love you, Arthur."
"I know you do, Marianne."
"I will always love you with all my heart, Arthur."
"I know you will, Marianne."
"I love you, Arthur."
"I know, Marianne."
"Kiss me, Arthur."
"I won't, Marianne."
She laughed bitterly. "I lost to a little boy," she muttered to herself, kicking the pavement miserably with her Coco Chanel heels, stopping when she noticed the tip was getting worn. "Am I to be alone in the world, Arthur?"
"No, Marianne," Arthur answered honestly, giving her a gentle smile, "of course not. The world couldn't possibly be that cruel to a beautiful woman like you. You're intelligent - absolutely bloody brilliant - and you're creative... I mean, you have to be creative and assertive to be able to command an entire fashion line by yourself when you're not even twenty-one - not yet, at any rate! You're amazing, Marianne. I'm glad to have known you; no, I'm glad to know you."
She huffed crossly. "You are not abandoning me, Arthur."
"I don't plan to abandon you, Marianne." He grinned mirthfully. "Lions are social creatures, you know, Mademoiselle Lionne Rampante de France. You're always starting a fight, you know?"
"You remember my title!" Marianne laughed.
"How couldn't I? They gave me the same one!" Arthur remarked. "I can't believe the seniors gave a little first year punk the title of a spoiled, argumentative French princess."
"Honestly, the nerve of some people! After all, you look nothing like me!"
The two of them shared a laugh, and then they dissolved into an amiable silence before Marianne cupped his face and pressed a kiss to his lips. He didn't return it. She smiled. Of course, if she was in his shoes, she would have done the same as well. "Our last kiss," she whispered to him.
There was the sound of someone falling. Arthur shot to his feet. "Who's there?!" he called out indignantly. Marianne followed suit, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. His green eyes focused onto a slender figure as he escaped the scene, and - more importantly - the odd curl that protruded from rich brown tresses. "Bollocks."
Moments earlier, Lovino had been racing to the gymnasium, thoughts running amok in his head. He trusted Arthur to decline any invitations or to reject any confessions someone might give him. After all, the blond had never been interested in anyone at their school. He had only ever shown interest in - at this, the Italian blushed - Lovino himself. If there was ever anything or anyone that he didn't trust, however, it would be that fashionista of a French woman. She was a suspicious figure especially in regards to Arthur. Their relationship was hazy, fuzzy, unclear, and Lovino hated it.
Lovino had stopped behind the gymnasium and found the French woman from earlier. He had pursed his lips together, watching as they bantered playfully perfectly at ease, wondering if he was interrupting on something. It felt like he was intruding, like he was witness to something he wasn't supposed to see... Like he had opened Pandora's box. His heart had sunk to his stomach when he saw her drop her head onto Arthur's shoulder, and he had realized then that, maybe, they belonged together. They were both angel haired, ethereal beauties from another world with fairy-like laughter. That woman could probably keep up with Arthur - unlike Lovino, who was always stumbling over his feet and awkward. They were beyond his grasp. Arthur was beyond his grasp.
And then she had kissed him.
Lovino had tripped over his feet, taken aback by the action, and nearly cried out in alarm. He had managed to slap a hand over his lips to prevent any sound from escaping his lips. However, the sound of his fall was enough to alert the couple about his presence. Lovino wasn't going to stay around to face the music though. He didn't want to hear anything from Arthur. He didn't want to hear any excuses. They... They weren't lovers, him and Arthur. They never were! They never had anything to begin with! Tears pricked at Lovino's eyes as he scrambled to his feet. It was all in his head! Was it all one-sided on his part? Unrequited? Then why had Arthur told him he had no girlfriend? Why had he returned all of his kisses? Why had he promised to wait for him? Why? Why? Why?
H-How long had this been going on, dammit? How long had Arthur kept her a secret? What other secrets did he have? Even though Lovino believed that Arthur would never lie, he never talked either! He never said anything about his past! How could he trust him again? Again? Lovino questioned himself. Would he even trust Arthur again?
"L-Lovi?" Antonio inquired as he spotted the Italian rushing towards the front entrance. The Spaniard grasped hold of the younger boy, holding him in place. "Lovi? Are you crying?" Antonio had never seen Lovino cry other than that time at Francis' Halloween party - when Arthur had almost drowned and died. "Hey, what's wrong, Lovi?" The Italian could make out the worried expressions of the albino and perverted bastards behind the Spaniard. "We were all going to gather for the fireworks and the bonfire. You want to come with us?"
There he goes again, trying to erase the pain, pretending that it never existed. Lovino didn't want that though, so he swallowed his tears and pushed Antonio away. He didn't want that. He didn't want Antonio. He wanted A - The Italian choked on the name. He couldn't even think about him without hurting. Why did it hurt so badly? It was stupid, ridiculous! It shouldn't hurt so badly!
Pivoting on his heel, he turned away from the Bad Friends Trio - because that's what they were, dammit! They were nothing but a bunch of shit friends! - and elbowed his way through the crowd. He didn't give a damn if he looked rude or whatever. He just needed to get out of here!
"Fratello! Ve, Fratello, stai bene?!" Feliciano inquired as he sprinted to his older brother's side, abandoning the bonfire with Ludwig and Kiku. His two friends gave him concerned looks but didn't dare approach the brothers, knowing that they might be of little help. "What happened?"
"Nothing, let's just get out of here," Lovino replied shortly. He brushed past his younger brother, but Feliciano held tightly onto his hand. Glancing into the solid coppery eyes, Lovino knew that his brother wanted to talk, but this wasn't the place. He needed leave. He needed to get out of here.
"Fratello, after the Winter Festival," Feliciano reminded him, "winter break starts. You won't get to see some of our friends for a while. Do you not want to say goodbye?"
"No, dammit!" Lovino swore. "It's not like it's the end of the world! I'm leaving, alright?!"
"Lovino!" Arthur called out for the brunet. The blond had been stopped by that damn Carriedo, who had threatened to end his life. That wasn't anything new, but it was making him lose time. He didn't have time to spare for Carriedo's bullshit. He had to find Lovino and clear all of their misunderstandings. It was his fault, after all, that his... his beloved was so hurt. He had been pussyfooting all this time, and Arthur knew that was the last thing either of them wanted. Still, he kept avoiding the taboo topic of love. He was never a good lover, so he figured that if he stepped around the title of "lover" - left it as implied, suggested, and hinted - then trouble would not invite itself into his life again. He assumed that the two of them understood each other fairly enough, but he never gave Lovino anything with which to work. Lovino had trusted him out of blind faith, and Arthur had managed to botch that as well. "Lovino!" he cried again and again, reaching out for the Italian who was just so close yet the boy kept slipping through his fingers like the grains of sand, grains of lost time and opportunities.
Feliciano glared at him this time - viciously - and urged his brother to the front of the school gates. No, no, no, Arthur pleaded, please don't go! Don't leave me! I don't want to be left alone any more! As pathetic as it sounded, he couldn't bear the thought of being separated from Lovino. He loved the Italian with all his heart. He loved his company. He loved his eyes. He loved his blushes. He loved everything there was to love about Lovino.
In one final endeavour, the Briton quickened his pace and used a burst of energy to sprint to the Italian brothers, dashing vigorously, before reaching out for Lovino. Their fingertips brushed against each other, and Lovino immediately pulled his hand away. Hazel eyes flashed fiercely with only what can be called bitterness. "Stronzo!" Lovino snapped hotly, slapping Arthur's hand away. "Vaffanculo!" At a loss as to what to say to the blond, he cried in a slur of Italian and English, barking, "Che palle! Da quanto tempo va avanti questa storia, figlio di puttana?! Non mi rompere i coglioni! Go back to that - that - that donnaccia! Non me ne frego un cazzo!"
Hurt flashed in Arthur's green eyes.
Hurt?! Lovino softened a bit. Why the hell would he be hurt?!
"You're misunderstanding, Lovino," the blond whispered softly. "Please, let me explain; it's not what you think." Arthur held onto Lovino's shoulders, and they both tried to ignore the tingling sensations tickling at the end of their nerves.
"Che cazzo era quel bacio allora?!" Lovino snapped. "What the fucking hell was with that fucking kiss, bastard?! Answer me!"
"It was just a kiss - "
Slap!
Before Lovino even knew what came over him, the palm of his hand struck Arthur across the cheek. A thundering clap resonated in their ears. A sting burned Lovino's palms, the end of his nerves fraying as his flesh throbbed painfully in pure agony. He stared in disbelief, his heart cracking as he watched the Aegean sea ebb dangerously before rolling down white porcelain cheeks. A single drop trickled down the red hand print. Arthur kept his head turned where the force had directed him. His eyes were no longer on Lovino. It was clear the Italian did not want to see him, so Arthur would not see him either if that was what he wanted.
"If 'it was just a kiss,'" Lovino repeated in a whisper, sotto voce, but when his heart finally shattered, his voice broke, tearing just as his eyes were, "then what were all of our kisses? What are... What were we?"
"Fratello," Feliciano urged softly, "let's go home."
Lovino turned away from Arthur, whose gaze was focused solely on the pavement, fists clenched at his sides, trembling as he forced himself to still. If he had chased after Lovino, would he have scared him away? Should he chase after Lovino? He didn't want to let him go, but if he let him go, would it hurt the Italian less? Tears kept leaking from his eyes. God, he didn't know!
"Arthur," a female voice addressed him gently, "let's go home."
Home? Arthur almost laughed bitterly at the word. He had no home. His home didn't exist. He was exiled from it, and he was a refugee in an older woman's flat! He couldn't do anything, could he?
Then the fireworks!
He wanted to laugh.
Fireworks! Bloody fireworks!
What was there to celebrate?
Still, he followed her like a lost dog or a stray cat. She fed him. She clothed him. She kept a roof over his head. He would always feel indebted to her. But he didn't love her. Not like a lover. Because they were kindred spirits. She was lonely like him. She didn't love him either. Not like a lover. Like company. Misery loved company, and they were two miserable people on the surface of the Earth. They licked each other's wounds. Because lions were social felines, they travelled in prides. They lived in prides, and pride was all that he and Marianne had. They were two prideful, miserable lions in this world.
"Go change, Arthur," Marianne told him firmly, directing him to the bedroom. They manoeuvred around Elizabeth's little dance, the kitten trying to assuage her upset master. The Briton saw no reason to defy her, so he obliged. He stripped himself of his military gear and changed into grey joggers and a Beatles t-shirt.
Marianne had decided to avoid the bedroom for now, knowing that it was best to avoid any comforting touch while Arthur was in this sort of state. It was also best to keep him away from the alcohol. Sitting on the living room sectional, she pulled one of the few French classics Arthur kept in his library, Le Petit Prince, and began flipping through the pages, frowning when she heard the low plucking of bass strings resonate past the wooden door. It was a sorrowful bassline - blues, she recognized - heavy and smooth, improvised and raw.
She flipped a page.
The doorbell rang.
She set down her book.
The doorbell rang again.
She frowned, crossed to the front, opened the door, and promptly shut it upon seeing a familiar redhead. Unfortunately for her, Alistair expected such a reaction and had propped his foot at the threshold, preventing her from closing the door entirely. With a single hand, he pried the door open and grinned at her in pure and utter loathing and condescension. "Go away, go away!" she cried, shoving the door back to its closed position with all of her weight. It was useless, however, since Alistair had the physical strength of a rhinoceros and the stubbornness of an ass.
"Isnae 'at a bit harsh? Dornt ye miss me, darlin'?" he remarked sarcastically, narrowing his sharp green eyes at the French woman. Dropping his accent, he hissed resentfully, "Or are you too busy shagging my little brother?"
"Leave already! Je ne veux jamais te voir encore!"
The bassline stopped, and so did Marianne's heart. Arthur heard them, and he was going to come out of his room. He would see Alistair, and then... Then what? Alistair would finish what he came for? It's been two years already, so why now? Why - after so long - would he come back to haunt them?
"Marianne, what's - ?" Arthur halted immediately as two pairs of similar green eyes locked together. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What are you doing here?"
"How urr ye daein', wee brither? I came tae pick ye up," Alistair greeted Arthur casually, inviting himself into the flat. He glanced around the apartment and found Winston approaching him curiously. The Scotsman lowered himself on a single knee, patting the pet affectionately, before training his viridian gaze on Arthur. He dropped the accent again, picking up a more solemn, grave tone, "I figured ye might as well spend yer last Christmas wi' us."
Arthur backed away from his brother, nearly tripping over Elizabeth, as he cast a disbelieving stare unto the older man. Alistair was not the slightest bit fazed. "W-Why are you b-being so considerate now of all times? You... You never asked me to visit the other winter holidays," Arthur responded hesitantly, afraid of hearing the answer himself.
"Is it wrong tae wantae protect mah brother? Is it wrong tae tak' him back hame - whaur he belongs?!" Alistair snapped, reverting to his accent as he lost control of himself. "A' o' this time, Peter's bin asking us 'When is Arthur goin' tae come back?' or 'Is Arthur visiting this year?' or 'Where's Arthur?' 'n' Ah cannae even tell him, 'n' Aam tired o' this! Whit am Ah suppose tae say?! That Arthur is avoiding his own family? That he hates us?!"
"I don't hate you, goddammit!" Arthur returned just as heatedly, his hands flailing wildly in incomprehensible fashions, illustrating and demonstrating his frantic thoughts. "I just wan' da fightin' ter stop! That's all we ever do, Al... an' I 'ate it. I hate it. Peter doesn't need that; he doesn't need me there. I'm just the bloody black sheep ov da family, an' you know it! We all know it!"
"You're family!"
"I ruin family!" Arthur gestured around him. His accent was now flustered, a mixture of every little thing he knew, and chaotic. "Innit this a prime example ov that?! I'm here! In this bloody flat! Why am I 'ere, Alistair?! Tell me why I'm 'ere! You know da reason, an' I know da reason! Owain an' Seamus both know da reason, an' Marianne knows da reason! You're fucking delusional if you think we can go back ter that happy, hearty family after all ov that bleedin' shit! I always ruin the picture!"
Tears were streaming down Arthur's cheeks, and the blond was fully aware that he wasn't just talking about the incident two years ago now. There was more to it. He had blown his family's trust then, trashed the school like it was his own playground, fucked with the Wang siblings, gotten arrested on Francis' birthday, sabotaged Carriedo's relationship with Lovino, destroyed Lovino's relationship with his brother, and then betrayed Lovino! Fuck, the world would have been better off without him! He was a blemish in the picture, the single black sheep in a flock of white! He was the bloody anomaly! Without him, his family wouldn't have any problems, Marianne would have a genuine lover, the school would be safer, Jia Long wouldn't be rebelling against Yao every damn moment, Francis would have normal friends, Carriedo would still be with Lovino, Lovino would still be on good terms with his brother, and the world would make fucking sense!
"I always ruin shit, so why da bloody 'ell would you wan' me back in your lives?" Arthur seethed. "You said i' yourself, Alistair! I'm a bastard child, illegitimate, born out ov wedlock, a love child who wasn't even loved! I 'ave dirty blood in me veins! I'm fuckin' trash, yeah?" His voice fell to a tremble. "I'm just loike... like my father."
"Arthur..." Alistair whispered, reaching out for his brother. Marianne slapped his hand away.
"Don't touch him!" she shrieked, cradling the boy in her arms. "You're his brother, are you not? Then don't hurt him!"
"Mary Ann - " Alistair cleared his throat. "At least... Speak with Peter. He did nothing wrong. It's all he wants for Christmas, you know. To see you. All I wanted was - once you get back from college and all - for you to come home. At least once."
"I-Is that all?" Arthur muttered shakily, raking his hands through his hair in distress.
"That's all."
Arthur nodded, stepping out of Marianne's embrace. "Are you sure?" the French woman asked of him. "You went through a lot tonight, Arthur... You... You don't have to."
The disgruntled punk could only give her wry smile. "I make my own choices, you know, Marie-Antoinette. There are some things that I have to do."
She scoffed lightly, shoving him playfully. "Giving me such a nickname, really! King Arthur of Britannia! There is something off with your humor!"
Arthur turned to his brother. "Just let me grab a few things," the blond responded calmly before marching to his bedroom. There, Arthur stuffed his Gibson into its gig case, making sure it was properly protected, before shoving his cell phone charger, cables, tuners, and spare strings into the front pouch of the bag and zipping it shut. He reached for his sports bag, shoving three pairs of pants and trousers, three shirts, and a spare pair of socks into it. He changed out of his joggers, throwing on a pair of denim jeans instead, and pulled on a pair of socks before stepping into his motorcycle boots. He shrugged on an extra layer, a long-sleeved woven red plaid shirt, over his Beatles shirt as well as his leather jacket and wrapped a knit Union Jack muffler around his neck. Slipping on his leather gloves, Arthur snatched his keys off the bedside table, slipped his phone and wallet in the pockets of his motorcycle jacket, and set his helmet under his arm. Slinging the gig case over his shoulder, Arthur marched out of the bedroom.
"That's it?" Alistair inquired sceptically.
"It's all I need," Arthur responded as he elbowed his way past them. "Marianne, if you can't take care of Elizabeth and Winston, then ask Miss Jane for assistance. She knows what to do. Don't wait for me." With that, Arthur sprinted down the hall. Knowing that his brother could catch and corner him in the lift, the blond dashed into the emergency staircase, climbing down the steps haphazardly two or three steps at a time, unwilling to stop to the cries behind him. He needed to get away from all of this. It was earlier than he had expected, but it was better to do this sooner than wait later. Before his brother could stop him, he shoved his bag into the boot of his motorcycle, shoved his keys into the ignition, and started the engine. Without so much of a second thought or glance, Arthur burned rubber. Two years have already passed; that was a long enough time to wait and plan and contemplate. Now he could leave this all behind.
"Hey, Lovino, it's Arthur. I know you don't want to see me right now, but I know that I have a lot of explaining to do as well. It's fine if you don't want to hear it. It's fine if you hate me. Just... Will you let me talk? Call me back, all right? I'll be waiting."
"Hey, Lovino, it's me again. I know it's bloody rude to show up unexpected, but I'm heading to your place. A lot of shit has happened. You don't have to open up. I..." There was a sharp inhale and a shaky exhale, liking the stifling of a sob. "Please just let me calm down in front of your house."
"Hey, Lovino, I... I know you're ignoring these calls. I really am sorry, Lovino."
"I... I want to see you again, you git. I'm just talking to myself here."
"Lovino, I'm sorry. I..." There was a nervous gulp. "I don't know what to do. I don't know what to say. I don't know anything at all." There was yet another shaky exhale. As though he was trembling. Crying. "I'm such an idiot. Sometimes I wish I could go back in time and undone what is to be done. Make life easier. Simpler. For everyone. But it doesn't work that way." There was sheepish laughter, cracked with tears. "Bloody paradoxes, yeah? Inventing a time machine to go back in the past is impossible. Maybe I can go into the future then and build a new future... One with you."
"I really want to see you again, Lovino. There's too much to say that I can't say over the phone. That's... That's not how it works. I want to explain my actions, but I guess that will have to wait for another time. I'm sorry for being such trouble. I... I don't mean to do these things. It's just how it turns out. I've told you that I was a black sheep before, right?" He laughed in amusement. "Right now, your neighbours are glaring at me. I think they're threatening to call the cops."
"This is my last call, Lovino. I just saw the lights go out, so I won't bother you any more. Goodnight... I hope you have sweet dreams, little ankle-biter."
Lovino peeked out of the window, watching as a red light faded into the distance, a singular streak disappearing as quick as lightning. He held his phone to his chest, tears dripping down his chin. God, he was such a coward, a miserable coward but a coward nonetheless.
He had trusted Arthur, and he wanted to trust Arthur... But he knew nothing? Was it even possible to build a relationship on blind faith?
Shit.
He wondered just what was Arthur feeling at this moment, what pains through which he had undergone, what emotions he was suffering, what thoughts he was contemplating.
He unlocked his cell phone and stared at the background image of a well-dressed pirate before powering it off. It was time for bed, and he didn't need his phone going off every minute.
Arthur stuffed his keys into the pocket of his motorcycle jacket, zipping it shut, since he knew all too well by now about pickpockets easily nicking possessions in tight, crowded venues. The blond crossed to the bar shoved into the corner. The bartender, an dark skinned man of a towering stature, was serving only three guests at the moment, a pair of girls and an older man dressed in a cheap grey suit. Arthur occupied the shredded cushioned seat next to the girls and ordered some coke and rum. When asked for his ID, Arthur promptly presented his card before shoving his wallet into his back pocket, immediately sitting - albeit uncomfortably - on the round lump. The blond slapped his money onto the counter, telling the bartender not to bother with the change - in order words, keep the money. All of it. He didn't give a bloody damn.
"Don't see you around these parts often," the bartender commented as he watched Arthur drown his drink in only a few short moments after a short, dejected, "Cheers," with slight amusement. Seeing that he wasn't busy, the older man didn't see the problem in chatting with his clients. Thus, the bartender raised the rum bottle once to ask if the blond wanted more. The boy shook his head. He didn't need to feel any more muddled when he was going to on the road for longer than he'd like.
"I live close to the city centre," Arthur replied.
"Quite a ways from home, are you?"
"Hah!" Arthur scoffed at the inquiry. "If I had one, then, yes, I would be!"
"Yikes, mummy and daddy troubles?"
"I wish it was that simple. I have no mother or father."
"My apologies."
"It's no problem, Boss." Arthur slumped in his seat. "If life was that simple, then I'd probably be out of a job anyway. I'm a troublemaker, you know? A nuisance. World would probably be better off without me."
The bartender chuckled, shaking his head. "One drink and you're already blabbering about suicidal thoughts, boy?"
"It's not like you in particular care about me, Boss. What's it to you if I want to hurl myself off a bridge? Well, other than the fact that you lose one less customer, I don't see much of a problem for you."
"Not exactly, no. It worries me to see a youth drinking alcohol and speaking so easily of death, however."
"I doubt we will see each other after this, but if it concerns you so much, Boss, I assure you that I'm not going to be dying any time soon," Arthur vowed wholeheartedly, "I've got crap to do."
The bartender laughed at this response. "Well, that's good, I suppose. I can't give you any advice in life though, boy," he remarked, crossing his arms, as he leaned against the glass cabinet behind him. "I mean, look at me, I'm wiping bar counters clean and polishing wine glasses! I'm not the ideal role model, yeah?"
"It's an honest job," Arthur replied shortly. "It's better than a good lot of other options."
"Right. Hey, while you're here, why don't you play something?" the bartender suggested as he jerked his thumb towards the empty stage. He nodded towards the bass on Arthur's back. "You brought an instrument with you, didn't you?"
"Not tonight, Boss," Arthur declined politely. "I've too much shit on my mind. I don't think I could play properly."
"Rubbish!" the girl sitting beside him protested, jumping onto her feet. Arthur stared at her, flabbergasted, and inched slightly away from her as she approached him. The girl, who didn't appear to be much older than he was, although she and her friend may have been around his age considering the fact that most bars didn't admit patrons under the age of seventeen, had brown hair, almost auburn with the pink tinge, pulled into twin tails with black silk ribbons, curled into ringlets, and black bobby pins parting her fringe. Her eyes were the colour of baby blue robin eggs while light freckles sprinkled across her nose, contrasting her lighter complexion. She wore a peach coloured parka fashioned like a shawl with a hood lined with white fur over a white lace top with a floral pattern and a pleated pink skirt lined with lace ribbons at the end, settled on top of several layers of white petticoats. Blue and white striped socks stretched to her thighs while she donned black Mary-Janes. She pouted her glossy lips at Arthur, whining, in a North London dialect, "You can't just bring an instrument to a venue and say that you're not going to play! That just doesn't make sense!"
"Victoria - " protested her friend, who also spoke with a North London dialect. The other girl was around the same height and had the same figure as the first one. Her colouring was different, however, and Arthur could have presumed the two of them to be sisters. Her quieter, more elegant friend, on the other hand, had dark blond hair the colour of a dimly glowing moon pulled into straight twin tails, the fringe parted with bobby pins as well, and jade green eyes hiding behind a pair of wire frames. She wore a black cadet hat along with a black coat over a white lace top with a floral design matching that of her friend's. Instead of the pink skirt, the blonde wore a pair of blue denim shorts with black stockings and blue ballet flats. On her back, she carried a guitar case.
"Lisa, you know I'm right!" the brunette, presumably Victoria, turned to Arthur, narrowing her eyes in suspicion.
"Listen, I didn't actually mean to come here! It just sort of happened and - "
She tutted and wagged her finger at him. Without waiting for any excuses or explanations, Victoria began to pull him through the crowd much against his protests and throw him onto the stage. She climbed up there with him with a fairly innocent - yeah right, griped Arthur, like bloody hell she was innocent - smile and skipped to the drum set. With a sigh, the blonde girl had also joined them, revealing a beautiful turquoise Fender Stratocaster. She spared Arthur a pitiful smile before plugging in her cable to the amps that were already set on-stage, adjusting the volume levels, effects, and distortions. Arthur bit his tongue and began to do the same, taking out his Les Paul Standard-SG bass and cable. He plugged it into a Marshall amplifier nearby after confirming it to be compatible with bass guitars.
"Do you know Pink Floyd?" she asked him tentatively.
"You play Pink Floyd?" Arthur returned before recalling that it was rude to answer a question with a question.
"Ah, Victoria usually wants to play heavier music, so she can bang the drums that way. But... I don't think she minds right now. She just wants to hear you play, I think," the blonde girl explained. "What do you normally play?"
"Punk, normally," Arthur confessed, "some heavy metal, some rock 'n' roll, some blues, some progressive, some psychedelic, some post-rock or hardcore - anything, really, but pop. Too repetitive. It's like playing the bass or cello in Pachelbel's Canon in D - so repetitive it puts you to sleep."
"Pink Floyd, it is then," the blonde confirmed with an impressed smile, striking a chord that Arthur instantly realised as "Wish You Were Here." How ironic, he thought to himself as he listened to the female guitarist's smooth improvisation blending the two original guitars together, keeping up with the tempo and all, in a solo. Nevertheless, despite the sarcasm pooling in his stomach, the bassist played along. For now, he was dead to the world. For the rest of winter break, he didn't want to exist because winter break was always the worst time of year.
He hadn't realised when his fingers started moving on their own accord, plucking the thick metal strings fluidly as though it was second nature. He hadn't realised that he had lost himself to the music, harmonising with the girls' in the chorus. He hadn't realised that he had gotten sucked into another world, far, far away from his troubles.
A/N: I feel like I've used almost every canonised character in Hetalia, so I kind of switched to 2p! and Nyotalia. There will be more on names in the next chapter.
And, yikes, a lot of crap just happened.