Edit: Hi! It's been a while. I'm back to edit a few stuff that is cringeworthy...Though some parts are still cringey for me. Especially about how Arthur behaves in here. I feel like he has become slightly OOC under my hands.

I hope it's not a major problem...

Btw, the changes are mostly minor grammar errors throughout the entry, but there's a slight twist at the end. I tweaked it to accommodate my next chapter as Chapter 3 is a huge change and I hope it's for the better.

P.s. If you're wondering what happened to Arthur, he has a reason for being like that. It's the plot. It'll soon unravel if you follow up my crazily slow updates [Yeah, shameless hinting x') ]

Anyway, hope you guys enjoy reading. I'll be back more constantly after my huge exam on October. Wish me luck! :)

Please forgive my errors.

Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Himaruya Hidekazu. My story and plot belongs to forgive my errors.

Chapter 2:

Arthur

"So…Kirkland?" Jones rubs the back of his neck. He was blushing lightly. I eye him oddly from my lower point of view.

Jones turns out to be quite a tall young man than I am – maybe a few inches taller (That bastard). He has a strong jaw line, and his height is making me very self-conscious. But I am not easily intimidated. Jones seems like those who can fall into the "adorkable" category without difficulty.

"Yes?"

"Uhh, so…what do you think of lunch?"

I can't help but stop and squint. Firstly, I admit we have been walking around for a while through the decently huge company, introducing him to a series of rooms and people and whatnots. But if I am terribly conscious of the time, we had only spent about fifteen minutes or so. It is still relatively early for lunch, but perhaps some prefer this particular time. I scan Jones up and down as he stops beside me, his eyes roaming everywhere but on me. Then, there is this question impulsively forms on the tip of my tongue lingers. I find it hard to spit it out, so I tease instead. Casually, of course.

"Well, not that I've ever fussed about it." And I fold my arms and smirk, "But you can be the first to make me."

The blush turns a darker tone. He begins to stammer, and I chuckle playfully as well as to ease him.

"It's okay, I'm just teasing. I haven't shown you our office yet. And you need to catch up quickly for tomorrow."

Jones' tensed shoulders relaxed. He smiles appreciatively at me and I return the gesture. We begin walking again. Side by side, his longer strides falling in rhythm with mine.

Is he doing it on purpose?

Anyway, when we finally reached my – our – office, I open the glass door and welcome him in. I am an organize person and working in a clean environment is absolutely my stipulation. When Jones walks in, I feel the urge to tell him that. I don't know why it occurs to me and why it feels important to do so, but I keep my lips shut since it seems like a random and rude thing to say.

It's not like I don't trust him to keep my office clean and tidy, it's just…a gut feeling.

Jones stands aside awkwardly when I close the door. He looks around warily as I observe him from side-glance. The room is a generous space enough to fit in a bookshelf filled with bound papers and documents; a large expensive desk with chairs on both side; and a small cupboard in the corner of the room. The table sits in the center while the bookshelf eats up the entire wall of my side of the room. I move to a chair and motion him close.

"So this is your seat," –I indicate with my head – "while I'll sit across you. We'll be doing a lot of reading first and once we have decided our selections, we can finally proceed to editing. It may start off as rather tedious, but it is an important step since we have to make sure the books are in quality for the right amount of profit." I pause and frown at myself. Sometimes, even I have to cringe at my own choice of words, because even as an editor for years, I still couldn't get over the idea of the picking process. It feels rather unfair for the writers who spilt their hearts and time out for this one piece of work as we pick and compare among them for the worthiness of publishing.

Jones casts a worried glance at me. "What's wrong?"

I shake my head and walk to the other side of the room.

"This is the bookshelves, as you can see, of course…" I am babbling. Jones shrugs and I sigh before straightening up to continue.

"The selected ones will eventually earn a place on these shelves. Some of these are still in the process of my editing while the others are on waiting cue." I turn to Jones and say, "But since you're here now, your job is to assist me in these piles of work. Come over and have a look."

Jones grins and eagerly crosses the room. He stops just beside me and commence to flipping through the stapled papers. It seems like he understands what he is expecting; I grin to myself and scan through the papers. Then I found one I'm currently working on and pull it out.

"Here. I just started on this days ago and the author possesses an interesting writing style I seldom seen from others." I hold it out to him as he hesitantly puts down the one he was skimming through to grab mine. I watch him as his royal blue orbs glide through the words still somewhat dubiously.

Minutes later, I can tell he has already immersed himself in the pages; his eyes shine with an excitement that mirrored my own when I first came to contact with it. I can't help but feel proud and pleased for the author; it makes work much more exhilarating once in a blue moon. Moreover, the pleasure to witness the birth of a published book when it receives its final touch to attain a shelf life is incredibly satisfying. I always feel so honoured to be the one polishing them.

Next to me, Jones sighs through his nose in content, his breath blows lightly on my left cheek. I can't help but chuckle quietly as it tickles down my chin to my throat, dissipating on the bone of my collar. Despite how oddly it sounds, it reminds me of coffee. I look down at my wrist.

Maybe lunch isn't such a bad idea after all. Or perhaps, a brunch. Since the moment seems perfect to bring it up again, I turn around and clap once, startling Jones from his deep focus.

"So, I heard someone mentioned about lunch."

Jones looks at me confusedly. I inwardly roll my eyes and ask, "Where are we going then?"

And then slowly, his face lights up, his grin so wide it occupies the entire face. It makes me wonder whether he is excited for the meal or for going there with me – an impulse tells me it's both. Suddenly, I feel my stomach turn weak. I squeeze my eyes, trying to clear a growing thought away; and found myself musing over that tiny flowing creek.

Great. An irrelevant image in an irrelevant time. Why do I feel so queasy inside when he smiles like that?

Jones reaches a hand out. It feels so distorted and far away.

"Are you okay?" His voice is a banging gong in my head. I shake it and step back, feeling light and woozy in my steps.

Colours swirl around me, everything that claims definite shape fails to convince me as images fly haphazardly around. My vocal chord seems to malfunction altogether too at the same time. A clench in my stomach tells me I am going to gag. Consequently, I double over, my eyes tightly shut and hands clutching a handful of my green cardigan. I could hear Jones's frantic calls and his big, warm hand holding my shoulders while the other caressing my back as to ease me from my pain. I shake my head and lift a shaky hand, weakly pointing to my desk – in which I hope I am. I try taking deep breathes and calm down, but the previous head motion had brought more dizziness. Plus, I can feel the food from breakfast began easing upward to my throat.

My mind begins racing. At one point, Jones hands aren't on me anymore but I couldn't care less. I grab wildly at my table, trying to reach a certain drawer for my emergency supply until – a paper bag is presented before me.

Within minutes, I have snatched it away and pour all my morning contents into it without further restraint. Although I am busy abiding to my physical distress, I could sense a tense, anxious aura radiating from Jones. A belated wave of sympathy washes over me once I am close to finishing; I hope I haven't scared him already in his first trial, albeit also making a nuisance off of myself.

Finally, after being given some napkins to clean myself, I instructed Jones to wait while I dispose of the full paper bag and take a short thorough inspection in the washroom. I return later, finding Jones sitting hunched over in his seat, deep in thought and unaware of my presence.

I clear my throat. "Uhh, pardon me for the trouble minutes ago."

Jones whips around, both hands wrap protectively around me as soon as his feet hit the ground. I blink, posture stiff and still in his arms.

"Err, Mr. Jones – "

"Are you okay? Are you hurt? Are you ill? Why did you throw up? What happened?" His arms tightened around me, breathes tingling on the back of my neck as he spoke. An addition of wetness on my collar doesn't reduce my level of worry and confusion.

"M-Mr Jones…?"I push a little, carefully prying myself away from the overly close and abrupt contact. Jones hesitantly lets go, his eyes red and glistening.

"Wha-whatever happens to you, Mr. Jones?" I stand a pace away, hands involuntarily fiddling on the hem of my cardigan.

"What…whatever happens to me?" Jones sniffs. He gives me a look of pure confusion with leaky eyes. His orbs are like a pool of blue mirroring a calm sea before storm.

"Arthur, are you ill?" He says. "Why did you throw up? Is it a regular thing?" He steps forward, I step back. The edge of the desk bumps into my side.

"W-well," I lean against the counter, "I am diagnosed of a rare disease…But don't worry! It's not contagious." I hold my palms out facing him. Jones gives me a dubious overall scan. I straighten myself.

"Look. It's just a side effect I got from a road accident. It's only been showing minor symptoms. Nothing big. So don't worry, I can still work perfectly fine."

Jones wrinkles his forehead. I don't know why, but he seems more worried and guilty now than being doubtful. Though the keyword here is guilty. Because, why should he be?

"Mr. Jones. Really, it's nothing – "

"Do you think I should leave?"

I jerk upward, my eyes round and wild. "Why would you do so?"

Jones trains his attention on the rug. His lips pursed and tight like a clam.

I consciously bite my lower lip. I am so tempted to demand for an explanation since none of these are his fault; though I suspect he will tell me right away. He looks like he has many things to hide. Honestly, I could, the main constraint is that this situation is getting weirder by the moment and it's unnerving me.

I sigh. "Mr. Jones," I say, "let's forget about this for now."

Jones peeks through his fringes. My breath hitched soundlessly in my throat.

"What do you say?" I exhale slowly, regarding my choice over again – and also ignoring how damn adorable and annoying Jones is right now – before reluctantly saying: "McDonalds?"

A glimmer sparks in his beautiful eyes.

I chance a smile as he hesitantly loosens his shoulders. I can tell he must be wondrously built under that moderately fit shirt; his shoulder blades are trying to peep through his slightly ajar collar.

"If that's fine with you?" He says quietly.

I assure Jones with a more relaxed, genuine smile and a nod. Jones returns it.

He may thinks he has persuaded me with that childlike façade, but I am not one easily fooled. I have mentally noted his queer question, hoping I'll still remember it the next day or the day after - As long as I get the chance to properly prod for an honest answer.

I open the office door, gesturing him to go before me. We walk through the corridor and down the stairs – the company is big enough for a flight of those grand, winding stairs with red carpets; only that this one is more of a faded, reddish-brown rug than a carpet.

Jones keeps his hands in his trouser pockets, looking cool and aloof and humble and friendly all at once. How he does that is beyond my comprehension, though I can tell he is merely pretending. As if he is trying to convince people he doesn't care for petty things and is above everyone else though he just literally cried over my sudden health outburst. I know he is hiding something under his sleeves or behind that zipped up mind and resolute stance.

If he thinks it consoles me, I am as equally disturbed as from my last nightmare. How do you explain when you just know that something is up and you couldn't prove it in black and white? I could argue it's because of the frankness in his eyes, but then people will think differently of me. And they wouldn't take me seriously.

We reach the entrance of the company, walking out into the cobble street. People file through us as we look around, deciding which way to go or just…waiting the other to lead the way.

"Well – "

"Well, " both of us start at the same time. I raise my brows, letting Jones to speak up. He looks back and forth at the moving people then back at me, stammering slightly.

"Uhmm, so…which way?" He smiles, showing rows of white, perfect teeth. I grin and shift my footing, crossing my arms.

"You're not from around here?"

Jones smiles awkwardly, his hand reaching to his neck again with a small sign of pink surfacing to his cheeks. He tends to do that a lot when he gets nervous, like a reflex to calm himself.

"Well, I…I wasn't from around here before. I just came to this town a few years ago."

My eyes widen. I shouldn't be surprised after hearing that. I mean, he does looks American, what with the easygoing accent and handsomely tanned skin – you don't get to be that tan around England, the sun wouldn't allow you anyway. Still, I have a nudging feeling that he is telling half of everything; a mere piece of puzzle from a big picture. The fact that he keeps avoiding direct eye contact while we speak annoys me most. It distracts me from relaying my thoughts precisely after organizing them – I need his attention, but he pays no heed in giving me his.

I look around and clear my throat – and am quickly interrupted by a buzz in my pant pocket. I reach in and fish out my phone. It's Lyanna.

I press on the green button and bring the device to my ear. "Yes, Love? What is it?"

Jones perks up, curiosity and something else burn right through me. He is apparently showing absolute interest in our conversation and is not going to pretend evading it. I raise an eyebrow and turn the other way.

Lyanna is asking for some re-stocking in food supplies. She hoped I can do some grocery whenever I could before going home. Well, I guess I could stop by at the supermarket on my way back...

As I end the call and swerve back to Jones, he visibly jumps in surprise and blushed in embarrassment.

"Is that…"

"My wife," I say without delay. Somehow, I fail to capture the sincerity in it, as if it is more of a habitual answer than stating what the term truly means. I try to tap into it by adding elaboration.

"Lyanna and I have been married for six years," I gaze at Jones without really seeing him. "But we already knew each other since high school. We're like best friends and rivals; there's nothing we wouldn't share about and we shared at least one similar subject in class. We fought fiercely – and peacefully – for the same goal in these subjects, though in the end, none of us took the first place as we wanted."

I chuckle, feeling the nostalgias flashing before my eyes. "But it turned out all good. Lyanna was sweet to accept me years later after graduation. She is a woman of her own, and I hope she's happy staying with me."

Jones looks impressed. There's something indescribable suspended uncertainly on his features – He turns away, leaning to his toes then lands back to his heels. "You sound happy."

I ponder over it. And decide it as a compliment.

"Thanks," I say. Jones doesn't look back. I glance at my feet before standing up next to him.

"Thanks," I say again. Jones' smile is a hundred yard away. It appears more of a grimace from my point of view, though I bash the notion away.

"So," I elongated the word. Jones' attention remains at the distant. "If you're looking for McDonalds, it's on the other way."

Jones smirks down at me, the twinkle behind those glasses disconcerts my intestines – again. I smirk back at him, fighting the knots and cramps from showing up to my face.

I know it is unjust of me to conclude what I can make out of Jones according to this measly short period of time spent together, but I have to say, Jones is man wrapped in shrouded mystery. And oddly, being around him makes me feel alive and alert, as if my survival instinct has been awaken.

I wonder if –

"Arthur? Let's go. We don't have that much time, right?" He is facing the way I pointed, urging me to lead the way.

I look down at my watch. Well, I hope McDonalds is a good choice, it is a few blocks down the street after all.

"Arthur?"

"Let's go," I walk ahead while he follows closely behind. Jones is a tall guy with a well-built body structure. Normally, anyone standing next to him would feel slightly conscious about themselves. I am too, to be honest. But I realized, it seems there are other feelings mixed within.

Closure. Tranquility. A sense of belonging. …And something that makes even me blush when thinking about it.

I peer at Jones. Without warning, something inside my chest just pounded hardly in a beat. I look away.

There must be something wrong with me. Apart from my amnesiac issues, Jones seems to be my new case of worry. And I don't think I can handle any things more troublesome in my life as what is given on my platter.

Jones, what are you doing to me? Why do I feel like I'm alive for the first time when I'm standing beside you like this?

This heart that is beating, it's not mine. Right?

Edited(10/9/2017)

To be continue x')