.OKAY! I'm back!
So hope you all are having a merry spring brreak. I know I am :)
This story's pairing status will change from USUK to ROCHU, depending on the latest chapter and which couple it revolves around. This fic will be mainly ROCHU, but this chapter was sort of hitting up on the America/England side, so I decided to set it to USUK for now. Do not fear, dear readers-there will be plenty more Yao Wang and creepy Ivan Braginski to come in the next chapter to make up for their lack of screentime in this chapter ;)
This story was written before the Tsunami and earthquake that hit Japan. May God be with them and help them through ths hardships. Please lend a halping hand by donating money to charities that support them-we all need to work together to bring Japan back to its feet!
Anyways, on with the story. Thank you for taking the time to read this :) I do enjoy reviews, they make me feel as though my writing and time was appreciated, and encourage me to update faster. Remember, there are no wrongs that a review can do!
-Sunny
Chapter 2
Though his mind was solely trained on the glowing television screen before him, Alfred's ears still could still detect the slight shuffling of pots and pans somewhere from the kitchen. He heard a soft, quirky little tune being hummed-in the right pitch-which served as an accompaniment to the sound of breakfast-in-the-making.
"Sunny side up right?" Yao asked, his voice muffled by the sound of a sizzling hot pan. Alfred replied jauntily while still managing to focus on the video game before him. The sizzling in the background continued, and seconds later Alfred smelt delicious, frying eggs. His stomach growled a response.
Alfred saved his session and turned off the console. He stretched and yawned, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes tiredly. They stung slightly from hours of usage. The American made his way towards the kitchen, where the smell of food enticed his senses. Yao was putting the frying pan in the sink, and cleaning up the countertop. He looked up and frowned at the blond.
"You really need to get a life, aru." Yao said as he sat down on his end of the table. "You look like one of the walking dead that you kill in those videogames of yours."
"Do I?" Alfred asked. He removed his glasses and set them aside, picking up his fork with anticipation. "Yay! Bacon!"
Yao rolled his eyes. It was amazing how full of energy and immaturity the other man could be. Alfred Jones had body of an adult, but the mind of a child.
"But hamburgers are still the best," Alfred said through a mouthful of hash browns.
"You can't eat hamburgers all the time! You already eat them for lunch AND dinner!" Yao retorted, while bringing a forkful of white rice to his mouth.
"And what about you? You eat rice for every friggin' meal," Alfred shot back. "What's up with you Asians? How can you stand eating white rice for breakfast, doesn't it make you sick? And vegetables-blegh!"
"For your information, white rice and vegetables are lower in fat, sodium and calories than that-" Yao pointed to Alfred's plate of fried goodness. " And provide the right amount of nutrients and energy to get you going through the day. You see, I'm healthy because I keep a balanced diet."
"I'm healthy too!" Alfred replied, bringing an arm up and flexing to prove his point. "I'm all the macho-goodness a man is supposed to be. You on the other hand, you are much too skinny. In fact, if you let your hair loose you would look like a-"
A knife was sent whizzing right by Alfred's ears, nearly nipping his flesh. "Hey, I was just messing with you! Don't take me seriously when I say things like that, Yao!"
"If you don't mean it, than don't say it," the Chinese growled through clenched teethe. They were both aware of how touchy Yao was over the subject of his appearance. Alfred never understood the other man; if he was so insecure, then why didn't he just cut his hair?
"We're starting off on a bad note today, aren't we?"
"And why do you think that is?" came the snappy reply.
"Topic change!" Alfred beamed while shovelling down another forkful of bacon. "Did I tell you I got a promotion to the Head Firefighter of my division?"
Yao looked up, genuinely interested. "No, you didn't tell me. Congratulations, Alfred."
The American grinned through a mouthful of food. "I get a day off for free this week, Yao."
"Don't waste it in front of the television." Yao snorted.
"No, no-of course not. I have something much, MUCH better in mind." Yao was not liking the smile on the man's face at all-it spelt trouble. "Do you remember the deal we discussed about on Sunday?"
"Erm, deal?" Yao could not for the life of him remember. His mind had been so busy being preoccupied with work and daily hospital visits that he had not been given much time to think of anything else. "No, did we ever have a deal?"
"Hey! You're trying to cheat your way out of this!" Alfred pointed an accusing finger at him. "You promised me, man! That's so not cool."
"Tell me what I promised you, and it might jog my memory a bit."
"You said you would go out with me for a day and try something completely new!"
Oh. That deal. Yao wished he didn't remember it at all.
"So I was thinking that on my day off, you could take a break and we could complete the deal." Alfred said, scraping his plate clean. "What do you say?"
"I say no."
"I say yes."
"No."
"Yes. Or else," the American leaned forward with a devious glint in his eyes. "I'll contact my dear friend Yong Soo and ask him if he would like to stay over at our place."
"NO!"
"Exactly. it's your call." Alfred smiled smugly. He could be a real bitch sometimes.
"Fine. I have a day off this Wednesday."
"Yeah! We're gonna have so much fun, Yao, just you wait!"
Yao shook his head in despair. He really could wait.
.
.
Alfred's smile disappeared as soon as he shut the door to his bedroom gently behind him. He stared at his unmade bed, the covers a crumples heap on the mattress. A pillow was strewn on the floor from the unrest of last night. Memories and dreams came flooding back to Alfred. Every night, they plagued him, but yesterday was a bit worse than usual. No matter how much he screamed, how much he had begged for himself to wake up, he didn't. He couldn't. It was as if God was somehow punishing him for the wrongs he had committed in the past.
Because there was no greater torture than having to relive Arthur leaving him. Over, and over, and over again.
He sat down wearily on the edge of his bed, and it sagged slightly under his weight. He lay his head in his hands and closed his eyes. He heard the yelling, the screaming, the curses, all lashing out at his scabbing wounds, wounds that had not been given the time to heal.
There were 'those' memories.
And then there were those memories.
The dimly lit room, the close proximity of skin against skin. Warmth and heat and sweat, merging together in a blur of ecstasy. Alfred heard his name being uttered in quiet whispers, as his lips traveled down flushed, bare flesh, leaving a trail of burning kisses and marks in their wake. He felt sharp nails digging painfully into his back, where dark spots would appear the next day. His entire body was on fire, his hair slicked to his forehead by perspiration, dripping down his chin and landing on equally damp skin below.
There would be those green eyes, normally sharp and aloof, that would be misted over as they stared up at his own heavily lidded ones. Those thick, dark eyebrows knitted together in pain and pleasure-eyebrows which he had always found adorable and liked to kiss at every moment he had the chance to. And when everything was too hot and full of friction and practically unbearable all around, Alfred F Jones would wake up. He would feel the cool air prickling at his damp skin, and hear his ragged breaths coming unsteadily into his lungs. He would squeeze his eyes shut, his head spinning in a haze, and realize that it had all been a deceitful dream.
.
But it was those dreams that led Alfred to his job everyday. If he could not fulfill the burning sensations he longed for as he did before, he could find a replacement in facing the sweltering heat through putting out burning buildings.
Alfred loved his job, perhaps even more than his life, but he would never bring himself to tell others why. All he would say was that he, 'enjoyed being the hero.' Everyone believed that lie.
Alfred pushed on his glasses, straightening his attire before heading out of the change room, with a giant smile plastered onto his face. For his team, he would be their leader. For the world, he would be their hero.
"Well, tell him that he needs to finish by the dead line, or else it's no deal!" the British man barked into the speaker, his lips an angry scowl. "Why not? I've given him a heads up a month before-that should have been plenty of time-no! No, that will not do. I am not giving him anymore extra time. I've been generous enough."
Francis Bonnefoy looked up from a newspaper, a glass of merlot resting comfortably on his lips and his eyebrows raised. He stared at the aggravated man sitting behind the office desk.
"Yes. Then make it happen. Thank you. You too." Arthur slammed the phone down with more force than was needed, his face red as he glared at the machine.
"Is everything alright?" Francis asked with his accent thick.
"That bloody git, trying to cheat his way out of a deadline. I've given him weeks already! My publishing company will NOT tolerate such poor standards." Arthur burst. He sat back on his armchair and sighed.
"You are being much too cynical, mon cher. Give the poor young fellow a break-it is not easy to be a beginner in entering the publishing business."
"You, you are too soft and care-free," Arthur spat. "Look at you! Just sitting there with your glass of wine and sipping your day away."
"My most recent movie has just been launched. And it was a smash hit." Francis stated while taking another languid sip. "It's about time I had a break anyways. Besides, you know how hard I worked while on set."
"Huh." Arthur snorted. He shuffled papers noisily on his wooden desk, ignoring the pointed stare from Francis. "French men. Utterly useless."
"British men. Uptight-in ways more than one." Francis grinned, watching the other man's face deepen in colour. "Like last night-"
"SH-HUT UP!" Arthur leapt at the man, who ducked skilfully.
"Ah, but I am agile you see," Francis laughed. "throttling me would not be so easy for someone such as yourself."
"Just shut up."
"You don't need to deny what you enjoy. It is perfectly humane to indulge in your pleasures-"
"Bloody wanker." Arthur growled while settling back into his chair. He looked over the daily reports as Francis once again settled down into the newspaper. A moment later, an odd noise left the Frenchman's lips. Arthur looked up.
"What is it now, you fool?"
The newspaper was placed before Arthur. "Take a good look yourself."
"(Controversy with Same-Sex Marriage)" Arthur read aloud, narrowing his eyes at the bolded heading. "Recent studies have shown-hey, what the bloody hell is that!"
On the article's cover, was a familiar sunny face. Large, honey brown eyes peered from over a green, uniformed shoulder of a larger man in front, and Arthur spotted what appeared to be a strange curl of brown hair protruding out from the side of his head.
"What the bloody hell is HE doing on there?" Arthur gabbled, his jaw slack.
"It looks as though he and the policeman were having an affair," Francis replied with a smirk in his tone. "Funny little Italian-I told you he must have been busy as a new employee to your publishing company. He's been having too much fun with his golden boy."
"This is blasphemous! How dare he do such a thing, while working for me under the very same newspaper company that PUBLISHED this!"
"Hmm-a German police officer," Francis mused, having ignored Arthur completely. "What bad taste he has in his choice of men….he doesn't even look cute at all!"
"You're utterly revolting." Arthur growled while ripping the newspaper to shreds. He was halfway through when he noticed the paper shredder that sat next to his right foot. "Blast it all!"
"This is exactly what I mean by uptight, mon cher." Francis shook his head. "Listen, give the poor kid a break. He's probably frightened to death as we speak, hoping you won't see the paper. Besides, it's not like a man's sexuality should affect their ability to write up a decent-"
"My company has a REPUTATION to keep up, Mr. Bonnefoy."
The Frenchman stared at the other before heaving a sigh of resignment. "Oh yes, but of course. I understand that OUR relationship is not reputable in any way."
"Oh, to hell with this." Arthur grabbed his coat from the back of his chair, pushing past Francis with a rough shove.
"Where are you going, my friend?"
"Away from you."
The door slammed shut, leaving Francis standing alone in the middle of the room. He shrugged before settling back down in his chair and picking up his unfinished glass of wine. He had no worries in his mind. Arthur Kirkland was as easy to read as a children's story book, and having been childhood friends since as long as he could remember, Francis only felt more confident that in a matter of six hours, the small british man would come crawling back to him with some witty excuse.
But soon, the glass of wine lay empty in his fingers, and he began to feel boredom creeping in once again. A thought struck him, and he stood from the chair, making his way towards the door. Now that Arthur was gone, he would finally be able to take a peek at the secrets of Arthur's 'sacred' storage room.
The room was really nothing more than a colony of dust mites which had settled over the small wooden shelves nailed to the wall. Francis sneezed as the musty air blew into his face. One of these days, he was going to recycle everything in this room and make it something worth of value.
Francis reached out to touch a small, black box. It was painfully plain, and strangely the only object within the small closet that did not appear to have dust accumulated on its surface. With a grunt, the man pried the box from the shelf and patted the sturdy cover. It was rather light, which sparked his curiosity even more.
Inside, he found white envelopes upon white envelopes. Each were unsealed, seemingly fresh.
Taking a step back, Francis' knee collided with a stool, as he stumbled to regain balance. The tray of letters in his hand fluttered to the ground in a scattered heap. Cursing, he bent over to pick them up, but stopped when the edge of a crammed letter peeked out from underneath an envelope.
'Dear Alfred,' Francis muttered aloud, his eyes skimming down the inky jet letters. They were messy, but he understood them perfectly fine after many forced years of reading whatever fantasy story Arthur's mind and hands had created. His expression darkened with each word, and by the end of the page, he felt a strange knot in his stomach. Hastily, he flipped the piece of paper over. He found exactly what h was looking for-the date that it was written. Relief sank into him as he pieced together the facts. The letter had been written while the two had still been in a relationship. Francis didn't mind-he could take that. No big deal.
Putting the letter away, Francis swallowed the slight guilt settling into his stomach. What had he been thinking? Of course Arthur wouldn't be writing such things anymore. It was true that while they had been dating, Alfred had been all that the british man ever talked about, but that shouldn't have given Francis any reason to feel insecure…no, as long as Francis remained Francis Bonnefoy, he had nothing to worry about. He was a movie star, and actor, every lady's fantasy, and a most desirable character.
Nope. Francis did not need to worry the least bit.
He was about to tuck the last letter back on top, but his fingers hovered above the white. Biting his bottom lip, Francis gingerly lifted the letter and stole a glance around him to make sure no one would be near the room.
The letter started off just as the last had, but this one was extremely different. Throughout the entire letter, Francis felt a bitterness radiating from the inky cursives. By the end, his hands had started shaking again, and he turned the sheet over to its backside. The tiny date at the corner of the page stole his breath away.
The letter had been written yesterday night.
Francis stuffed the box away as it had been found. He turned his back on the room and headed straight out the door, closing it tightly before heading down the hallway.
He was Francis Bonnefoy, brilliant actor, drop dead gorgeous. And most of all, he had been Arthur's best friend since pre-school.
He had nothing to worry about-did he?
Wang Yao sighed. His head was pounding and ready to burst, and he had already taken the maximum amount of painkillers allowed a day. The entire afternoon had consisted of a less than pleasant encounter with a naïve young couple, arguing over their possessions and money in a divorce. Yao had watched with pursed lips, trying his best to keep a straight face. He had wanted to lash out at them, rip their heads off at being so foolish for wanting each other dead-neither of them knew how it felt to have a loved one who might never come back to you. Neither of them had a damn clue.
"Mr. Wang!"
Yao looked up from his desk, to see his boss smiling down at him. He quickly straightened his posture, trying his best to put on his game face. "Good evening, Mr. Zhao!"
"Ah, overworking yourself again, I see. Really, I don't know where I would be without you."
Yao nodded, his head throbbing under the fluorescent lights. His shift was going to be over in five minutes, and he wished to cut the conversation short, or as short as it could possibly get. Kiku might be awake now, or any other moment, Yao hoped. He wanted to be by his brother's side at every given chance to see him open his eyes. He needed Kiku to know that he would always be there for him.
"I'm sorry if I'm bothering you, but there is a small favour I would like to ask of you."
Yao suppressed a frown. Usually, terms such as 'small favours' never amounted to anything good-they either turned out to be some nuisance errand, or something completely and off-the-top huge.
Today, it turned out to be the latter.
"Mr. Wang, as you see, our Law firm as built up quite a prestige." Mr. Zhao began. Yao nodded, feeling his stomach sinking with each word. "And to maintain our high standards, it is essential that our big-time clients work with those most trustworthy in our company.
"As our top employer, I would like for you to work with a very important individual. He seeks professional help, and I would not be fitting for my position if I did not offer him my best, most enthusiastic worker. My. Wang, how would you like to take up this small duty?"
Yao was not left with much of an option. At times like these, he really wanted to break down into a fit, to cry aloud, and to destroy any object that got in his way. Hell, at times like these, he needed Alfred Fucking Jones to be right in front of him as a punch bag. As annoying as the American bastard was, Yao often found solace in beating the crap out of him. But Alfred was nowhere near, and Yao was still in his office, at work, with an expectant boss awaiting an answer. It was either accept and start burning in hell, or decline and start burning in hell.
"I accept."
"Good, good!" Mr. Zhao clapped his hands on Yao's shoulder with amiable force. "As a matter of fact, Mr. Braginski is here right this very moment! You may get acquainted with him right now!"
"Right now?" Yao gulped. He stole a quick glance at the clock. He had time-but still…
"Unless it's inconvenient for you? Is there somewhere else you need to be?"
Yao could think of plenty. But he simply bit back the grimace and replied as cheerily as he could. "Oh, no, now is fine."
.
The two men stepped out of the office, as the older man led his employee towards the head office. Yao followed obediently, praying that situations would not get much worse than they already were.
"Ah, there he is!"
Yao looked towards the large desk in Mr. Zhao's office. A large man was seated comfortably in a cushioned chair, with his hands folded contentedly in his lap. His hair was an ashy blond, as he turned to look their way.
His eyes were violet. An eerie, piercing violet.
Yao bit back a scream.
"Mr. Braginski, this is my most trusted employer, Mr. Yao Wang."
"Mr. Wang," the thick, Russian accent echoed through the air. "It's very nice to meet you again, da?"
:D Like it? Don't like it?
(PS. should I be nicer to france? LOL I feel as though I'm being a dick and putting him in a bad spot...
No, I should say I put Feliciano and Ludwig in a bad spot! But it was rather amusing writing about them like that, if I don't say so myself. xD)
Please review and give me your suggestions! ROCHU is solid, that is for sure, but it is my audience who decide who the england goes with (^L^')