A/N: Welcome to chapter 2. By now, you should already know how to handle your custom made Hetaloid. For more information on the original creators of your new program, see chapter 3. If you have any complaints, suggestions, questions or recommendations, please click the button on your manual's touch screen that reads 'review'. The main supervisor, known informally as 'Hetare' should back to you. Thank you.
Alfred smiled softly at his master as he watched him slip a pair of black pants up to his waist. It had been a full week since he had arrived, seven days that were hardly eventful, but in which he acquired new, more useful data.
From the window, a few streaks of sunlight forced their way through a slight crack in the blinds and shone into the room, the first day in America that had been warm all week.
"Oh – Alfred, you go ahead and get dressed too. We're going to be meeting Al- your brother, but first, Honda and Vargas will be stopping by directly."
Arthur mumbled something about Ivan but ended with a smile of his own as he pulled a vest over his shirt.
He gestured toward a neatly folded pair of clothes on the queen sized bed before stepping toward the window and looking out, sitting on the sill.
It really was the first sign of good weather the entire week – just yesterday it had been pouring thickly, unrelenting and forcing both him and Alfred inside the house to stay safe and warm in the large abode.
Arthur's hands folded themselves in his lap. For a while, he just stared in Alfred's direction, completely focused on the way he lifted the garments carefully over his head, even putting on the pants that Arthur had fished from the boy's closet.
The difference between him and Alfred were obvious. The first would have rushed, buttoned his vest carelessly, leave the fly open and toss the pyjamas in a random corner – not smooth the material in his fingers, checking that they were correctly fit.
He would not have folded the night-clothes so perfectly, standing to place them gracefully on the dresser before returning to sit back down with submissive eyes in Arthur's direction.
The boy would never do those things. He was different. He would have spark, excitement in his eyes, restless limbs doing an excited dance as he waited impatiently for his friend to make breakfast.
But the figure who sat watching him, almost curiously, was not that boy. He was a mere imitation, a mecha that Arthur himself had custom ordered and designed, a feeble attempt to get his loved one back, to ease this unbearable pain that ate away at him every single last day.
Arthur wanted that boy back. To hug him, love him, cherish him like old times. He didn't move as Alfred stood up and sat by him on the sill, holding his hand in his.
…His synthetic, mimicked hand that felt warm from the artificial bodily system, but oh so cold, so distant. The Briton's hand squeezed the fingers holding his, grateful for the responsive grip that followed shortly after.
"Artie?"
They had done a near perfect job of using the sample Arthur had sent them. The mecha sounded almost exactly as his lover had, a faint hint of emotion dripping from the single word.
"Right then… let's go in the kitchen shall we? I have to make our breakfast."
Neither of them mentioned the obvious fact that Alfred could not taste. He could not even eat what was set before him, but in the long week that he had been living with Arthur, he had already grown used to the gesture, and the two would sit at the table together at every meal, each with their own plate of nourishment.
Alfred stood, still hand in hand with his master to the desired room, down a hallway of old 'paintings' remembering that the other enjoyed the walk as opposed to the shining elevator.
In the back of his skilfully crafted mind, Alfred 'hoped'. Every day, his master would teach him something new, more meaningful than anything his preinstalled memory and references could pull up.
He was teaching him to feel.
In a single week, Arthur had shown him in depth what his actions meant; what emotions were displayed by the annual morning kiss, the times at night when he would gently pat his hair, gazing at him with a foggy look in his eye, and the moments where he would laugh fondly, a gentle lace of 'happiness' in his eyes.
Alfred wanted what his master had. He was tired of being left out, of watching as the Briton ate what he made, frowned, cried, felt. He wished he would was able to access all of those emotions, but for the time being, he only held a faint outline of them. He would never truly feel the same way as the human could.
He could see, whenever the other thought he didn't notice, the emotion of sadness in his eyes, pitiful, desperate, wanting of him. He knew he did not need him for his cooking service, nor his help with keeping the many rooms organized.
He never once bothered to touch him the way Ivan touched him, only the kisses, hugs, hand holding.
So why? Why did Arthur purchase him? As much as he searched for a reason, he simply could not. Why would Arthur keep him – the way he stared at him was always filled with sadness, hidden deep behind green orbs.
If Arthur did not like him, did not love him… If Alfred was the cause of this pain that why was he kept here, treated so… kindly? It was absolutely perplexing. He told him he loved him. But when he looked closer, he could tell that the love was addressed toward someone else.
The main thing that Alfred wanted now was to feel that love, make it his, and not some other's, someone who was never mentioned, but both knew such feelings were addressed towards.
"Alfred? Silly, let go of my hand, how am I supposed to cook otherwise?" The man's large eyebrows scrunched together slightly at the way Alfred seemed to be staring into space; his wrist was beginning to throb with pain as he attempted to pull away.
"Yes Arthur."
Alfred released him from his grip, ashamed. He quickly made sure that he had not left a bruise on the fleshy hand or wrist (which, thankfully, he hadn't) and moved to place himself on the kitchen counter.
It was an annual routine by now – sitting, watching as Arthur removed ingredients from cabinets and refrigerator, placing them on the counter beside Alfred and on the stove.
As always, Arthur had begun the meal, carelessly adding more and more unnecessary elements, setting the fire too high, failing to pour enough grease in the skillet, and having the eggs burn almost instantaneously.
A few days ago, when Alfred had asked why he didn't have him assist, or at least prepared the instant meals, he just looked at him strangely before saying; "I like the old fashioned way… and you wouldn't even bother helping me."
When he said this, Alfred couldn't help but to turn his lips down in confusion. Of course, if he had only asked him, he would cook all the meals (he knew how to perform such a task) so why had his master turned him down like that?
How could he say he wouldn't help, if that was precisely what he wanted to do?
Now he just allowed Arthur to make his mistakes, kicking his legs out slightly as the man cussed under his breath at the calamity on the hob.
"DAMN IT!" A globule of grease sizzled and landed thickly on Arthur's uncovered arm. It took only a few seconds for Alfred to move him out of the way as this happened, removing a handkerchief from his pocket to soak up the burning liquid.
"Be careful! Arthur, you should have let me do the food preparation!" His voice assumed a weary tone, setting the taller blonde down in a chair.
He was very capable of it, especially the hamburgers that Arthur seemed to love so much.
The one thing he did not expect, as he left and retuned with healing ointment, was for the Brit to slap it out of his hand as he came close.
"Stop that! You don't care, you would laugh, and you can't cook either! You would just tell me to go to the burger shop!"
The accusation was harsh, and fresh tears fell from Arthur's face as he shouted.
"Don't be angry, please. I will make breakfast, just please don't be upset."
The human breathed deeply, surprised with himself. He had suddenly become painfully aware of his surroundings, of the dent in his composure.
Arthur wiped a few tears from the side of his eyes, cursing himself. It wasn't the mecha's fault he was here in place of his dear lover and friend.
It wasn't the machine's business that it was only being used as a replacement – he let a smile grace his lips – It wasn't Alfred's fault that he wasn't real, but the mecha had at least began to feel these days.
The two had 'bonded', and the inhuman of the two was getting better and better each day at 'love'.
He would hug him back now, look with concerned eyes whenever his owner ruined a dish, and most importantly, those words, the words Arthur longed to hear each day in that boy's voice were spoken, every sunrise without break.
… Three simple words that meant the world to him, the sole thing that stopped Arthur from leaping from the side of his 12 story pent house. Those words… Alfred's voice may have been vocalized, but it was still his voice.
Alfred returned from the kitchen shortly after the incident. He had already been trained to cook every meal by hand, as Arthur refused to touch anything instant made or artificial (ironic, seeing as Alfred himself was nothing more than a crafted machine) and everything he made was praised.
"I-I'm sorry for being rude earlier," He thanked the server for the food set in front of him. "I was being an arse. In any case," he checked the holographic clock on the wall "Your crea-friends, should be here in another half hour."
He of course, wasn't very hungry any more, but he ate what Alfred gave him anyway.
Eggs, bacon, toast, sausages – some of his favourite things. Each bite he took should have been delicious, as they normally were, but guilt still played an important role in his stomach, making the food sink tastelessly past his taste buds where they sat in the bottom of his stomach like an anchor.
"Understood." Alfred leaned down carefully, kissing the top of Arthur's forehead in an act of 'love'.
His body was used as a sex object in the past days, his inhuman strength manipulated and tweaked to turn on Ivan's human companions. In all the time he had been alive, he was used as a tool, for his purpose – a tool.
He could not recall how often he was required to threaten little Raivas, had inflicted pain on Eduard or Toris- but instead, here, in this large house with only two residence, he was… he could not place the feeling. While he did feel love, it seemed a large per cent of it was addressed to that other person.
It was an odd sensation really, but Alfred was created to develop. He liked being here, as opposed to in the cold, harsh conditions of the Braginsky residence.
For once, he could process why humans kissed, touched, felt each other each night. It certainly was a pleasant change.
He loved. He loved Arthur. He loved his voice, his hair, his eyes, the way he held himself. He held Arthur close so that he could hear the beating of his hand made heart.
"I love you Alfred."
"I know Arthur. I love you too."
A/N: When I said – he even put on the pants – I meant underwear in US dialect, where in UK and some other places, you'd say pants.
And before you even ask – no, Iggy does not use Alfred as a sex toy, that's Russia's job.
Finally, did you guys here about vocaloid 3 coming out? (SHE ORIGINATED IN KOREA DAZE!) It's what Alfred's voice sounds like, except it's in his own voice
Wow, that was a shorter than usual chapter. I usually try to do 8 pages or more, but meh. Anyway, Kiku and Veni appear in chapter 3 to explain how Alfred develops. And to the anon reviewer, don't worry, cause you will find out! Keep going to meet gigolo Joe! And guess who the Teddy's gonna be? NOT TELLIN YOU! ;D