Arthur can't remember the last time he was so comfortable. There's a blanket over him; the couch is nice and soft. Well, he can't remember exactly why he is on a couch, but it's nice nonetheless.
He shouldn't be comfortable, though, and that thought is what is waking him up. He should be very uncomfortable, because of something he did, but the part of his brain that deals in regret is still slumbering.
A distinct pain begins to bloom in the back of his skull. Ah, there it is. A hangover, and what a good one it's going to be. Arthur can feel the sickness spreading now, through his veins and seeping into his bones. Scotch always does this to him.
He knows he should stop drinking; the only problem is actually stopping.
Last night starts to trickle back, the memories taking their time. There's the bar, a quiet one, with the screaming fans outside ruining his solace. (They take annoying him as some sort of occupation.) He remembers drinking way too much, ditching Francis, and stumbling outside with the intention of smoking, even though he quit years ago; somehow, that was but a minor detail to his drunken self. His drunken self was absolutely gasping for a cigarette and wouldn't stop until he found one, no sir!
Yet even though he had never gotten a smoke, there's the distinct scent of it, attached to a person… Ah, yes, the man who carried him had smelled of tobacco. That man must have been a smoker himself.
The man who carried him. Arthur groans and tries not to open his eyes just yet.
Alfred. The man's name was— is, rather, since Arthur is still on the bloke's couch— Alfred F. Jones. 'F' stands for Franklin, after the fat Founding Father with syphilis, Arthur remembers, and grimaces. A face emerges from the fog of the hangover, a square jaw and wide eyes behind crooked glasses, a nervous smile and messy hair, complete with a total lack of social graces.
He had also had a camera.
Fucking hell, the photograph.
Arthur shoots up, throwing off the covers and promptly falling onto the floor.
"Arthur Kirkland, you are so graceful," he rages into the carpet, trying to ignore the throbbing in his left elbow.
He disentangles himself from the blanket. But… it's not a blanket. It's a leather jacket, and it smells like the city. He sits up and throws it aside carelessly.
Arthur's mouth feels like the Sahara and he probably looks like he's had the plague.
A man who is decidedly not Alfred is staring at him with a grave fascination. Arthur stares back, admittedly a bit frightened of the intense scowl on the other's face. The man looks a bit like Alfred, or what he can remember of Alfred past the alcohol; this man is taller, though, maybe even a bit fatter, with longer, lighter hair and darker eyes.
"Hello," Arthur greets feebly.
The man's scowl deepens. He has a death grip on the mug in his hand, which is trembling a little.
"What's your name?" Who the hell are you to look at me like that? is the part he doesn't vocalize.
"Um," says the man.
Arthur smiles gently at him, while inside he is screaming every swear word in his vernacular. "If you could kindly tell me where Alfred Jones is…"
"Wha'?" a sleep-thickened voice calls. Arthur follows the nervous man's gaze and turns around, where he sees two separate mattresses; Jones is sitting up on one of them, hair sticking out at various angles. He must have forgotten, or just hadn't bothered, to take his glasses off, and they hang crookedly from one ear. Squinting at Arthur (he must be really blind without the specs), he runs a hand through his hair in a vain attempt to smooth it.
"Um, hi," Jones says. He's wearing a white T-shirt and jeans, very dirty, probably from dragging Arthur around. Had he not even changed or bathed since then? Looking down, Arthur sees that he's even filthier, and figures that he shouldn't judge.
But, it doesn't stop him from judging Jones as much as he damn well wants.
Jones stands, stretches, and turns to the shy man. "Matt, is there anything for breakfast?"
Matthew mumbles something about cereal.
Arthur can't help but notice the little frown that cuts through the grin on Jones's face, but it's gone just as fast. "Can you—"
"Yeah," Matt cuts off quickly, and scurries off to the little corner of the one-room flat that serves as a kitchen.
Jones gives Arthur an apologetic look. "Sorry," he says, giving a little endearing half-smile that makes Arthur want to hit him. "That's my brother, Matt. He's… like this. With people he doesn't know, anyway. He's gotta measure you up for a while. Don't take it personally or anything. Just don't be an asshole and you should be all set."
Arthur gives a little shake of his head. He doesn't think he should even attempt to get a word in edgewise.
Jones opens his mouth like he's about to say something, but Arthur really can't afford to hear the photographer's voice again, not when he is so loud and talkative and Arthur's head feels as if it is steadily being sawn open with a butter knife. So he interrupts, "Can I bother you for a bath and a phone?"
Jones blinks. "In what order?"
Sighing, Arthur massages his temples. He is familiar enough with hangovers to know it won't help, but hope never killed anybody.
Has it?
He stops and draws his hands back to his sides, just in case.
No one knows where he is. Francis, a childhood friend and current co-star, is probably panicking and calling everyone he knows. Roderich, the ever-cantankerous director, is probably just furious that his lead actor has gone missing and they can't finish the film without him. Roderich's ex-wife and current lover (a long, complicated story that Arthur doesn't even know the half of), Elizaveta, is probably looking through the Yellow Pages for a good private detective.
He really should call first.
"Bath," says Arthur decisively.
"Okay. Door on the left." Jones points to one of two dilapidated doors behind the couch. "The one on the right's supposed to be a closet, but a family of owls've moved in and don't like to be disturbed. Learned that the hard way," he laughs, and he finally fixes his specs, his eyes bright.
They're blue.
"Mm," mumbles Arthur, disinterested. He stands and immediately has to quell the spinning in his head and the bile rising in his throat. When there's a crash, he can almost believe that it's him falling over, until he realizes that he's still on his feet.
Jones's scowling brother calls from the kitchen, "Al, the cabinet door fell off again."
The more outgoing of the two brothers makes a displeased noise, but puts on a smile again.
He doesn't let himself stay down for long, does he? Kirkland thinks dryly.
Turning to Arthur, Jones says, "About the shower. There's no hot water. Sorry. But you can, um, borrow some clothes of mine or something. They'll probably fit you okay."
"Thank you."
They stare at each other for a few awful moments.
"I'm gonna go help Matt, and then get you something to wear." Jones' voice cracks on his brother's name, and it's all Arthur can do hold back a laugh.
The photographer sees. Face red, he scurries off to fix the broken cabinet, and Arthur, with much care, chooses the left door. He doesn't need an owl attack to add to his troubles.
The bathroom is very plain and very clean, like the rest of the flat. There is a shower and a sink, but no mirror; a frame where one should be, certainly, but nothing within.
Sighing, Arthur carefully locks the door behind him, draws the tattered curtains (over a window that has an absolutely splendid view of the building opposite), and shucks his sullied clothes. The space is tiny, and he piles the ruined garments in between the wall and a broken space heater.
Even with the door and curtains closed, he still feels bashful to be so… so exposed in a stranger's bathroom. Hurrying, he turns on the water and hops into the shower, not waiting for it to warm up just because he knows that it never will. The cold is such a shock that he freezes for a moment before remembering to close the shower curtain.
It occurs to him how poor Jones and his brother are. They live in a place like this, for one, a one-room shithole without hot water. Arthur usually tries not to blow his extensive funds on material goods, but he can't help but feel a bit over-privileged as he stares at the should-be-a-mirror through a gaping hole in the plastic curtain.
Under the harsh, frigid flow of water that he never quite gets used to, Arthur thinks of the photograph and his half-drunken offer to prevent it from being released. This movie he's working on now… It has the perfect script, great cast (including himself, naturally), and a director who knows what he's doing. He is playing the lead role in what is bound to be an excellent film. "Excellent" as in "Oscar worthy." "Oscar worthy" as in "And the Academy Award for Best Actor goes to Arthur Kirkland."
He simply cannot afford for the public to see that picture, and they especially can't learn the story behind it. Alcoholism isn't an easy thing to hide when you're in the public eye, and Arthur has done a damn good job of it so far. He's not planning on blowing his cover now, of all time. He really will give the photographer anything he can; he just hopes that Jones doesn't choose his "anything" as endless access to Arthur's bank account.
Arthur wonders what time it is, and if it would be too unseemly to go somewhere and get a drink after this.
When he cuts off the frigid flow of water, Arthur notices that the air is even colder.
Shivering violently, he searches for a towel; his teeth are chattering by time he finds one in the cabinet under the sink. It's a child's towel, colored like the American flag, and, as preposterous as it may be, it will have to do. Even if Jones is a paparazzo— or ex-paparazzo, Arthur is still a tad unclear on the details— it's not like he can disrespect the man's hospitality.
Arthur really wants to dislike Jones. He does. He just hasn't found a strong enough reason to yet.
Arthur wraps the towel around his waist and unlocks the door. Taking a deep breath, he steps out and really hopes that Jones is standing outside like a butler, holding a change of clothes, just so he won't have to stand out there, half-naked like an idiot.
Yet, alas, Jones is not acting as a perfect servant. He's still in the kitchen, and there is the smell of fresh, cheap tobacco— he's got his hands on another cigarette, apparently— and the sound of a power drill.
"Al, you asshole, you're gonna break it!"
Arthur blinks, surprised that the voice he hears is Matthew's and not the loudmouthed Alfred's. While Matt is awkward around strangers, he is apparently completely comfortable with his brother; Arthur can't help but feel a bit jealous. Being the youngest and scrawniest in a house full of horrible older brothers and sisters hadn't left many doors open for good sibling-to-sibling relations. Years later, though, Henry is a plumber, and Erin and Siobhan both work in grocery stores.
And itty-bitty Artie is on top of the world.
The selfish thought really shouldn't be so comforting.
"Break what?" Jones laughs, the sound of the drill stopping. "The cabinet, or this old thing?" There's a whirr, whirr, like he's revving up a motorcycle and not a power tool.
"Both, fuckwad. If you break it, Gilbert will kill you."
"He won't kill me, brother o' mine. You're the one who asked to borrow it. The blame will be on you."
"But I'll tell him that you broke it!"
"You wouldn't have the guts!" Alfred guffaws. Matthew mumbles something, like he doesn't want to acknowledge the fact but knows that it's true. Jones continues, "Gilbo doesn't scare me, dude. He's just a big baby."
"Like you, Al?"
"I hate you, Mattie."
"Cocksucker."
"Canadian."
"Is that even supposed to be an insult?"
"Well, yeah. Who would want to be from Canada?"
A pause. "Your mother," Matthew finally says.
"Dude, she's your mother too."
"Trivial detail— ow."
Alfred laughs maniacally at his brother's pain, which was, most likely, purposely inflicted. Arthur thinks that maybe it is a good time to break up this conversation, before any more violence breaks out, and does so with a polite cough.
The laughter stops abruptly. Jones calls, "One sec, I've got the clothes right here." He runs out from around the corner, sees Arthur, promptly stops in his tracks, and blushes furiously.
Arthur crosses his arms over his chest self-consciously and looks at a rather fascinating chip in the paint above Jones's shoulder.
"Um," Jones says, ever so eloquently. A half-smoked cigarette hangs lazily off of his bottom lip, like he's forgotten about it. He holds out a set of clothes, complete with a shirt, jeans, and boxers. He, and the clothes themselves, smell pungently of tobacco.
Even after years of being clean, this man is making Arthur really want a smoke.
Giving a mumbled thanks, Arthur takes the set and scurries back into the bathroom.
What the hell has he gotten himself into?
He knows his drinking has been a bit… much, lately. Francis had told him so last night, after the first bottle of Scotch had gone cleanly down the hatch. His co-star had given him that I'm-concerned-but-till-sort-of-amused look over his glass of wine, and Arthur had told him to piss off and find somebody else to sexually harass.
Jones had been right about the fit of the clothes; they are actually pretty comfortable, even if the shirt is a rather tacky, touristy one. A giant lobster grins, frighteningly, above massive text proclaiming that the garment was bought in Boston, Massachusetts.
Alfred Franklin Jones, a paragon of class, Arthur thinks.
The jeans, however, are at least two sizes too big, and Arthur must salvage his belt from the wreckage of last night's outfit. A good rinse-off will have to do. His memory is still not quite all there, and he wonders what he must have been laying in to have his clothing coated in such muck.
When he steps out of the bathroom again, he is at least semi-presentable, if not in dire need of a shave and a good teeth-brushing. By now, the cabinet door in the kitchen seems to have been reattached, and Matthew and Alfred have settled in front of the telly, watching some film or another. Though there's no clock in the room, Arthur guesses that it's around nine in the morning.
If possible, his head has begun to hurt even more.
The bomber jacket Arthur had haphazardly tossed aside is now around Jones's shoulders. The photographer apparently doesn't care that it was, not that long ago, drowning in grime. Or maybe it just doesn't matter, since Alfred hasn't cleaned himself either.
Oh bloody fucking hell. How had he not noticed before that they were watching one of his films? An early one, too.
Which one is…? Oh, shit.
It's the first big movie he had ever acted in— what was it, three years ago now? It was the one where he played the lover of a poet. It had been a small role, but daring enough to garner some interest for an actor clambering for attention, after years and years of nothing.
Arthur sends up a silent prayer of thanks that they haven't reached the sex scene yet.
Jones turns around when he hears the bathroom door open, and gives Arthur one of those nervous little lopsided smiles.
Always searching for approval. Is he a puppy or a man?
"You said you needed a phone, right?"
Arthur nods, and he doesn't expect the mobile that is thrown much too fast and much too close to his face. Instead of catching it, he just gives a sort of yelp and bats it away.
Fuck you, Arthur thinks, seething, as Jones laughs. Why does he have to be so loud? Doesn't he realize that I am currently nursing the biggest hangover in the history of mankind?
"Sorry, dude," Jones giggles. Giggles. A man like him, at least six feet tall, with the build of a rugby player, and he's giggling. He swings himself over the back of the sofa and retrieves the phone before Arthur can even lean over.
Arthur grumbles his thanks, and Alfred gives an embarrassed, apologetic chuckle before retreating to the bathroom, probably to have his own shower. This leaves Arthur alone in the sitting room with Matthew.
Matthew pointedly doesn't look in Arthur's direction.
Elizaveta had made fun of Arthur for memorizing phone numbers. You have an iPhone, just put the numbers in your address book! she had teased. But when you get smashed at a bar, leave your mobile there, and end up in the tiny flat of an evil Canadian and his brother, an imbecilic paparazzo who has the power to ruin your entire career, Arthur knows that he was right to memorize all those numbers. Technology can fail you, but your mind can't.
Who's laughing now, eh, Liz? Arthur is feeling particularly vindictive today. He feels that it suits him.
It only takes half a ring before Francis picks up. "I do not recognize this number, so I am going to assume that it is Arthur Kirkland," says a lilting male voice, heavily bogged down by an absolutely hateful French accent.
"Yes, it is," Arthur drawls.
"Ah! I knew it. Where the fuck are you, mon cher?"
"That's not important, all right? I'm not dead. Just tell Liz and Ro—"
"I was awfully worried about you, Arthur. I think I deserve to know—"
"Look!" Arthur growls, surprising even himself with the ferocity. "I'll be in on set, on time tomorrow. It is a very long, horrible story and right now, all you need to know is that my heart is still beating and we can finish the film on time."
"Why do you insist on being so secretive? Arthur, we have known each other for many years, I do not understand why—"
Matthew is staring at him now. Arthur glowers back. "Francis… look, I can't—"
Francis is quiet on the other end. "I should have known better than to worry about you. Dear me, I do apologize."
"Oh, come on, Francis."
But Francis has already hung up, so Arthur sighs and brings the phone down from his ear.
The sex scene is on now. Matthew keeps flicking his eyes from the Arthur on his screen to the Arthur in his flat, as if unsure which is the real one.
Groaning, the Arthur who isn't currently pretending to have sex with another man in a movie throws Jones's mobile onto the sofa. He is done with this. The second Jones gets out of that shower, he is going to ask him what the terms are for not releasing that bloody photograph.
Fucking paparazzi, ruining everything.
Well, it's really the alcoholism that's ruining things, but Arthur will be damned before he admits that.
The actor flops down onto the sofa next to Matthew, to the other man's horror and Arthur's apathy. Matt looks like he wants to crawl out of his own skin, being so near to a stranger, and Arthur knows he shouldn't be so cruel, but he can't feel any pity for a man who acts like a four year old.
Arthur can feel it coming: the anger that builds up and up and up into a tower that only the booze can knock over. The problem beneath it all is that the alcohol destroys the tower, but not the pieces. The pieces are always there, waiting to be built up and up and up some other time, some other way. And that's when he has to reach for the drink, because the drink can corrode away the cement and mortar of the awful tower…
Stop it with the symbolism, Arthur. Everything in moderation.
A door opens, Arthur turns around; Jones steps out of the bathroom. In boxers.
Arthur turns back around. Even watching himself in a film (which he usually finds repulsive; all he does is criticize himself the entire time) is better than staring at a glaringly shirtless stranger.
"Matt, is the laundry done?" Alfred asks his brother.
Matthew nods curtly and glances over at Arthur again, who sighs.
"Mr. Jones," he says to Matthew, "I'm not—"
"Williams," Matthew interrupts.
"…Sorry?"
"Williams. My last name is Williams."
Arthur can feel Alfred watching him, coldly. The photographer says nothing, but Arthur can feel rather than hear an If you upset my brother, I will send you to hell myself.
"Mr. Williams, then. I must beg you to not be so…"
Matthew looks at him expectantly. Is he smiling?
What does he have to be so smug about?
Jones is still staring daggers.
The apartment is so fucking cold, and Arthur's head hurts really badly.
Fuck this, he thinks.
In fact, he vocalizes that thought.
Matthew, shocked, finally looks him straight in the eye.
Arthur glares right back. "All right, here's how it's going to be." He growls to Matthew, "You're going to stop acting like you're testing me. It's ridiculous, and, frankly, juvenile. I can't fucking think straight with you grading me every time I open my fucking mouth. See where I'm coming from? Good. You," he continues, turning his wrath towards the still-half-naked Jones, "will— for one, you'll put on some bloody trousers! Then you'll tell me what I have to do for you to not release that picture you took last night. Then I am going to give you what you request, leave, never come back, and you— both of you— will never speak of any of this ever again." He sucks in a huge breath, having lost all his air in the rant, and lets it all out just as loudly.
There is an immense quiet that Arthur rather wants to die in.
But then there's a timid chuckle: "Gentleman of Hollywood," Matthew says quietly.
Arthur blinks at him, shocked. But then Jones bursts out laughing, and what the hell, so does Arthur. He doesn't have enough dignity left to salvage, not around these two.
"I wasn't kidding about the trousers, though," Arthur manages to choke out before collapsing into another fit. He might still be a bit drunk.
Jones makes another quip that Arthur doesn't completely hear. At least he goes to dress himself, finally. He simply grabs some clothes from a laundry basket and throws them on, right in front of them. Does he have no shame? At least he is covering himself. It isn't long before Jones is dressed in almost the same outfit as he had been last night, except this time he is sans bomber jacket and the T-shirt is black. Walking in front of them, he snatches the remote from Matthew (who gives him a scowl of protest but nothing more) and turns off the telly. Sitting on the coffee table like it was just another chair he begins, "The terms."
"Yes," Arthur replies simply.
Matthew demands, "The terms for what?"
Has Jones left his own brother in the dark? How honourable.
"I got a picture, Matt," Jones explains, "and he doesn't want me to release it." The photographer motions to Arthur, as if it isn't obvious who he's talking about. "He's promising me anything, just so long as I keep the photo to myself."
"What anything could be better than getting us out of this shithole?" Matthew cries, and leaps to his feet. He looks like he wants to shake some sense into his brother, and Arthur doesn't really blame him for it.
"A big break, Matt," says Jones, quietly, like he's almost afraid to say the words. Matthew's face softens, and he sits down again.
"Okay," Matthew sighs. Alfred beams at him.
Arthur splutters, "You want to be an actor? I mean, I can put in a good word for you, but I—"
"Not an actor," Jones sighs. "Oh, God, no, not an actor!" And he's laughing now, and when he does it's with his entire body, his broad shoulders shaking like an earthquake. The quake dislodges his glasses, though, and he slips them back into place with one expert movement. When he looks back up, his eyes are shining so bright he almost hurts to look at. He's just so happy.
"Dude, I can't act my way out of a wet paper bag." He's giggling again; why does he do that? "No, man, I wanna be a photographer."
The word is like nectar to Jones. It slips off of his tongue, a reverent title that he longs for more than anything. Arthur had once done the same with "actor."
"I'm afraid I don't have many connections in the technical aspects of filmmaking," Arthur says carefully, "so I'm not sure—"
"No, no, no." Jones shakes his head vehemently but then focuses intently on Arthur. "I need a subject."
"Excuse me?"
A little thoughtful smile pulls at the corners of Jones's mouth. "You'll come around every few days for, what, two months? We'll talk, and I'll photograph you. That simple." He picks his camera up from its place on the coffee table next to him and waggles it, as if that is supposed to convince the actor.
Arthur, though, is dumbfounded. So is Matthew, who stares at his brother like he has two heads. Or maybe more, based on how wide he's gaping.
Jones is blushing now, disliking such attention. "I can't, like, pay you or, anything," he stammers, "but I'll keep the first picture secret. The one where you're drunk." He swallows thickly and continues, "The ones after that, I'll make up some story about how you agreed to be a model for me."
Arthur can't help but ask, "But why me?"
"Because you've got a nice face that could get me noticed."
Arthur can feel heat rushing to his "nice" face, and Jones shakes his head hurriedly. "I'm not trying to make this more awkward than it already is— because fuckin' hell, it is awkward in here— but the cameras love you and I'm interested to see what I can do with you as a subject. That's all." He holds his hands up in over-defensive, mock surrender. "Okay?"
Arthur gets the feeling that Jones isn't about to surrender to anybody.
When no one speaks, Alfred swallows and says, "Those are the terms, dude. Take 'em or leave 'em."
Ah.
So that's it, then.
At least it isn't a plea for money. Arthur had been scared of that.
"I'm crossing the Rubicon," he whispers, rubbing his eyes.
"Huh?" Alfred says. Arthur almost explains, but then he remembers that he is no longer a history student.
Plus, he is supposed to dislike this man.
Jonesey wants a model. It's almost laughable.
But does he really have a choice?
No, Arthur decides. So he holds out his hand. The smile Jones gives him is the biggest one he's ever seen in his life, so huge that it takes up the entire room and threatens to suffocate him.
"I agree to your terms," sighs Arthur.
If possible, the smile grows even more. "Wow, sound a bit more excited," Jones jabs, grinning like the idiot he is, "but good. Awesome." He grips Arthur's hand, shaking it enthusiastically. "Dude, you will not regret it."
Arthur tries not to scowl too much. "I'm sure."
A/N: Aaaaand there's chapter two. My Arthur is always a bit of a dick, but that just makes him more fun to write! As you all know, feedback is very much appreciated, so don't be shy to click that review button.
Plus, I want to thank everyone just jumping aboard for reading, and all the people who have left such kind reviews so far. You guys are the best, and you make writing this story such a joy. You'll most likely meet Francis, Roderich, and Elizaveta in the next chapter, so I hope to see you again!