A/N: I'm an idiot. I know neither real life jobs nor a publishing company works. I don't even know how they look like.
Please forgive my errors.
Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Himaruya Hidekazu. My story and plot belongs to me.
Chapter one:
Arthur
I fumble through my clothes as I reason myself not to fume. It's so hard not to since I'm a very short-tempered person. And I'm running out of time!
"Lyanna! Where are my socks?!" I bet my voice reaches the neighbour's walls.
A few objects banging later, Lyanna comes through the bedroom door. Her soap-dripping hands perch on either side of her hips.
"I told you it's in the third drawer! Have you really looked through them thoroughly!" I can tell my annoyance irks her; she often receives the shorter end of my rope. I feel the rise to apologize but I'm in too much of a hurry to properly do it.
"Why did you move my things? I told you not to touch them!" I slam the current drawer shut shoddily. "I have certain ways to keep things." I try not to sound too agitated while I bend down to the third drawer, pulling on the latch. "You know I can be quite forgetful sometimes."
"Most of the times," I hear a mutter from behind me.
The socks are all there, folded and tucked organizedly in rows. I take out a pair. Lyanna huffs loudly and leaves me to my ongoing - She must be heading back to the kitchen where the dishes waited, soaked in foams.
I feel sorry for her. I feel sorry for myself.
As soon as my socks are on, I grab my office bag and hurry to the foyer where my shoes and Lyanna's are stacked on, neatly and orderly: the left section of the rack is mine while the right is hers. What can I say, women are always right, right? I've joked at one time, and Lyanna huffed with a big smile on her face. Nowadays, she is mostly cold and indifferent to my jokes. She used to think they're the funniest things in the world. But I guess I'm just losing my touch.
Anyway, after securing my shoelaces, I gather everything up – which is my bag and coat respectively – and took the door handle. I pat the left pocket of my suit to check my keys.
Yep, they're there.
"See you later, Lyan," I say before stepping out of our flat. It's early autumn now and the weather is picking up. The sky is grey from the over cloud and a soft cooling breeze kisses my cheeks.
I find this kind of weather suits me; they bring a flutter in my stomach. Like a wish of good luck from Mother Nature, or a foretelling of something.
Either way, I have to get going, I'm terribly late!
Despite all of my effort to stay optimistic, I feel like a failure, a disappointment. I could see it through my colleagues' and boss's eyes even though they tried their best to comfort me. They can never lie by looking sympathetic; their eyes are too loud for that. I stare into my tea, the brown liquid staring back at me.
If only I haven't been late and get well-prepared before the meeting, I might make a better presentation. I might not stutter and forgot my planned speech and lose compose and flail and make a fool out of myself. I feel so embarrassed right now!
"Heya Arthur," a familiar voice approaches me from behind. I turn around to see Kiku, a Japanese girl in her third year of internship.
"Hi, Kiku," my eyes fall back to the tea in my hand. I try not to sound crestfallen though I have already disappointed myself with that. Kiku is quiet, she merely smiles at me once I glance up at her to see what she's thinking. I never managed, however.
Kiku is generally a shy introvert who sees things others don't or deliberately avoid. It's like she has special built-in radar for sensing troubles or issues, and as an introvert, she just watches from a side and keeps them to herself. It makes her sort of a creeper, but her information are useful at times. She has the typical Japanese vertical-hairstyle, and her eyes – like most of the Asians, disguises themselves in a shade of brown so dark that I mistook it as black when we first met. Kiku is smiling at me with her proficient creeper smile like she knows something that I don't - which I think I really don't if I never ask.
"What?" I look at her curiously. She shrugs and smiles some more.
"Nothing. Just…don't push yourself too much. Don't over think. You're a very excellent worker, Arthur, don't let one mistake upsets you," Kiku moves her way to my side and begins making herself tea. The kinds that she brought along from her home country.
I cast down again. "I don't know. I feel like I can do better. Everyone has expected me so."
Kiku turns around and leans against the counter top. "But you're not perfect. You can never satisfy everyone's expectations," she sips her tea thoughtfully. Every now and then I would wonder if she really is 23. Her intelligence speaks so much more.
I shake my head.
"I'll try." I turn to her. I hope what I gave her is not a sheepish smile because I do feel better now and I want to show her that I'm grateful to her words.
She smiles back at me with her depth-withholding eyes I have yet to reach. Straightening up, I finish my tea.
And blanch at the taste. It has turned cold, as usual.
I step out of the kitchen after washing my cup, rubbing away some lingering drops of water on my trousers. I am supposed to head back to my office corner to continue the work of the day, but as you can see, the commotion near the entrance ultimately caught my attention. Instead, I have let my feet reign over before my brain gets a chance to decide.
I wouldn't say I have noticed the number of women working here is much larger than the men, but the ones surrounding the entrance could about sum it up. I have to push through the chattering women to find myself standing face to face to a man - A young blond man.
I consciously swallow the spit in my throat.
Like something new in a wardrobe, he shines dazzlingly in his (possibly) new light blue shirt with a darker blazer on top to compliment his seemingly sturdy physique. It matches his eyes, which oddly reminds me of a soft-singing creek – which I don't even remember seeing it in my whole life.
His entire existence screams attention. And undoubtedly, with his appearance doing ten folds the effort than it should, everyone's eyes are on him. But there's something bugging me, in fact.
As you can see, he is obviously young. Might as well be a bit too young to look like an experienced, working business man in my opinion. So perhaps it is the intelligence he wears in his eyes that stares out stealthily through a thin metal frame perched on the bridge of his nose; or his slight chubbiness that keeps giving me mixed judgment on his age. Or the way his brows move up and his irises glisten in apprehension of my scrutiny. I pretend to look away but realized that it's too late. My gaze is drawn to a rather stern-faced Mr. Williams.
Simultaneously, we both seem fit to clear our throats just in the same time, albeit for two very different reasons.
"Kirkland? Earth to Mr. Kirkland." says Mr. Williams in his usual quiet, patronizing voice. With a distinct sharp edge in it.
Obviously, I would have been more composed if I didn't stare too hard at the boy and unintentionally tuned out my boss's several addresses. Thus unfortunately, I am met with him standing right beside the blond, his arms akimbo and tempers crossed. I nervously crossed my heart too, inwardly praying myself out of trouble.
"You were saying?" I sort of stuttered.
The blond beside him raises his eyebrows further up. Mr. Williams himself isn't the slightest bit amused, however. Shaking his head, he says gravely with a little addition of worried disapproval.
"Mr. Kirkland, I expect you to be more alert and aware since this morning's event. I pray you are not losing your touch now after having been working so hard over this current position?"
I shake my head quickly and a little fearfully. Mr. Williams may seem like a harmless, gentle dove, but if he wants, even a dove can drives away an unarmed man.
I sigh, earnestly concerned. "I'm sorry, Mr. Williams. Please, what is it that you were saying?"
That eases Mr. Williams out of the unsuitable frown he was developing, followed by a small smile that is mostly accustomed to all of us, his employees.
"Finally. Now back to our previous topic, this is our new intern standing for an editor's job. He had noted specifically to be under your" – he nods at me – "supervisal, which I really don't know what is on with the two of you."
He scrutinizes us up and down. "Have you two met somewhere before?"
I am easily ready with a denial on the tip of my tongue; though after a short glance over to the man, he seems to hold an alternative answer. An unknown sense of dread creeps up the back of my neck.
Before realizing, I respond quickly without giving the poor man a chance. It sounds oddly choked.
"I don't think so, sir. If I do, I would recognize him."
The man's shoulders somewhat slump a tad bit. Mr. Williams, on the other hand, seemingly neither satisfied nor even care, shrugs and continues.
"So, Jones, this is your senior, Kirkland. Within today, he will be showing you around the premise and explain the details of your post requirement. Naturally, he will be guiding you through your works starting tomorrow," he eyes him suspiciously with a vague hint of wit. "If there's no delay, I honestly hope?"
Jones stands taller, nodding attentively. Mr. Williams beams and brings his palms together. "Right, then. Kirkland, off with your job if you may. If anything more, I hope to see you again tomorrow, Mr. Jones," he flashes a professional smile and holds out his hand. Jones takes it and they shake with genuine pleasure.
"By the way, Jones," Mr. Williams pipes up before sauntering away.
"Try to co-operate with each other and have fun." he adds with a lopsided (but astonishingly proper and polite at the same time) grin while retreating to the front of the watching crowd and turns around. "Welcome to Signal Press!" he gesticulates ceremoniously in his typically calm and meek voice. Then he left, moving with authoritative steps through the gap between parted audiences. The women around us cheer and applaud like we were some newlywed couple.
Or not.
I carry my eyes up to Jones, where he stands cheerfully with both hands plant comfortably in his pants pockets. He grins at me when our eyes locked, and I have to take shade under my eyelashes to keep from getting burnt by that silly, intense glow he keeps emanating. What the hell is it with the stupid amount of passion coming from his eyes?
Luckily, the crowd disperses soon after Mr. Williams' impressive exit, leaving the two of us hanging awkwardly waiting for the other to take the first initiative. With my responsibility senses kicked into action, I walk to him with a hand held out. Mr. Jones shifts and stands straightly. His knees seem indistinctly ready to unbuckle underneath him – which I have absolutely no idea why the image would bring my lips up to my cheeks.
Maintaining a pace width between us, our hands touched. His palm wraps around mine. It feels extremely comfortable and smooth and warm; like the quilt you'd use during Christmas nights. Nostalgic.
And then a silent acknowledgement is shared.
Though it doesn't feel like a life-changing affair, I imagine somewhere deep in the great universe of the unknown, a supernova has erupted.
Surely this must means something, notwithstanding how normal and trivial it seems. Though what exactly is it that persistently persuades me to believe so?
The man before me pulls away and ruffles the back of his hair. A soft smile effortlessly swims its way into his sodalite-colour irises. (I like his eyes; they're the perfect shade of blue.)
I use Kiku's name as Nyo!Japan's because I always prefer her name that than Sakura. And it feels more...real and serious to fit in here. Maybe it's just me though.
Continue?