LOOK U GAIZ: I'M BACK. DID YOU MISS ME?
Here I am with the disgustingly long second installment of Keep Dreaming, America. I do apologize or the word count. When you make it through, give yourself a medal or something. Seriously.
In Brief: Alfred manages to get poor little tsun-tsun Artie out on the town and proceeds to attempt to get him to reveal his inner dere-dere. GOOD LUCK, HERO.
First off: A big fat thank you to all reviewers, favoriters, (making up words is fun) story-alerters, (so fun!) etcetera. You have no idea how much I appreciate hearing your opinion. TO SOPHIE: My anonymous review feed: GTFO of it. Jk, jk, I love you, bro, and totally share in your fetish for smart! Alfred. Why else would I write him as such? xD TO ALL ELSE: I adore you. With all my heart. Really. I hope you enjoy.
Second off: I realized I have neither clever nor meaningful names for my chapters. In fact, I have none. *furrows brow* Well, if I think of something, I'll fix that. But so far, it's 'Chapter 1' and so on in a similar fashion. Sorry. :P If you happen to have any ideas, shoot.
Lastly: The third chapter will be up this weekend (either Saturday or Sunday depending on my work ethic, which reviews can and will improve! *begs*) and then updates will be weekly, likely on Saturday nights. Unfortunately, I have to do RL shit, such as that little thing they like to call school. SORRY!
Oh, and another sorry for undoubtedly butchering the city planning of Los Angeles. I've never been there, thus the reason why I don't name any streets or buildings or movie studios - not even Hollywood Avenue. Nope.
Eventually this horrifying author's notage will shrink. Maybe. Ahaha. No promises.
ENJOY.
Arthur had gradually begun to realize that when, nearly a month ago, he had sat in a grubby diner across from a handsome young hopeful who (rather fatefully) went by the title of Alfred F. Jones and had remarked to himself that the boy who was signing a contract to play the hero of Arthur's screenplay was practically a personification of the United States of America, he had not understood in the least just how true those words would prove to be.
Alfred was, of course, nothing like the modern-day America; he did not mirror the gradually tiring if not already exhausted overgrown child of Europe, not the strange golden creature who had once awed the world but was finally beginning to tarnish, but rather in the glimmer of his eyes and the curve of his smile survived the image of the nation that was now only perceptible in the remains of the small towns beside the highways and in the halls of vintage stores, ensnared in classic advertisements featuring the tinted image of the smiling family – the self-made father with the chiseled jaw and shining hair, the cupid-mouthed mother with her hand resting on his arm, their cherubic children, giggling from the backseat of their gleaming convertible – somehow this was all reflected in Alfred, almost through his very way of existing.
And if it were not for the personality of Americans, this would all have been quite charming.
But alas, Alfred was the perfect model, and therefore he was also loud and clumsy, in this sense very much an overgrown child, a veritable whirlwind of flailing arms and legs and too-big hands that toppled anything in their wake. Despite his occasional displays of intelligence, which were as brief and infrequent as they were unnerving and rather…fascinating…he was also naïve and childish, assuming far too much good to be in everything and irritating Arthur's long-practiced and very much trusted cynicism to no end.
He was twenty-two, only five years younger than Arthur, (who always had been, admittedly, a little old for his years) but seemed to have never exceeded sixteen, especially when it came to being tactful: perhaps it entertained Francis when Alfred loudly inquired as to why Arthur, being nothing more than a mere screenwriter, was allowed not only to watch their performances but to assert his opinion regarding their quality, but Arthur did not share in his colleague's amusement and had taken to actually stepping in front of the cameras to hit Alfred should the need arise.
This, however, was not to say that Alfred was rude – actually, he was quite charming when he wanted to be, in a sickeningly classic sort of way, all pleases and thank-yous and pulling out chairs and opening doors (Arthur had even seen him tip his hat – er, baseball cap - once), which caused all the female studio assistants (plus a few of the men) to giggle and sigh and bring him something from the snack table at break times, on the condition, of course, that he also share in their company for the time it took him to consume whatever they brought. Alfred was always perfectly willing to do so, smiling and joking with his admirers and occasionally rendering them senseless with one of his long, clear peals of laughter, but Arthur had never seen him make an attempt to get any closer to any of them, which was definitely for the best – relations between studio personnel rarely ended very well.
As for Alfred's acting, he was bumbling, at points almost painfully inexperienced, but breathtakingly sincere, to the extent that after watching him performance a pivotal or particularly emotional scene Arthur was almost able to forget everything about the boy that irked him and could give him a genuinely appreciative slap on the shoulder. In addition, Alfred's charming ineptitude coupled with Elizaveta's more restrained style of acting with surprising ease, and Arthur couldn't help but smile from time to time as he watched them work together, advising and annoying each other and gradually forming a bond of friendship that he could see slipping through their words, slowly blowing life into the lines he had penned. Indeed, there were moments when Arthur felt he was almost fond of the boy.
But then again, off-camera Alfred was absolutely unbearable, loud and overt and excessive, making absolutely no effort to disguise his opinions or emotions, blatantly insulting Arthur with that ridiculous grin on his face before turning around and successfully reducing an assistant or a member of the technical crew or even one of the executives at World Series Entertainment to sighs and buckling knees regardless of their gender, although…well, this particular habit of his did have some upsides.
A despairing Francis had thought that they would be forced to construct the sets for the scenes in the movie which took place in Paris and London for lack of funds, but after the few tabloids that remained skulking the streets of Los Angeles had caught wind of Alfred F. Jones, the previously unheard-of and really quite dashing hero seeking to recall his country's former glory through film, public knowledge of the movie, or at least public knowledge of and therefore demand for Alfred, skyrocketed to the extent that the CEOs of World Series Entertainment were considering expanding the film's budget to finance excursions to both cities so that they could show off their little slice of the American dream to the world.
Arthur couldn't blame Americans for wanting to cling onto what they were losing in the form of a handsome young upstart, and he certainly couldn't complain about the possible budget expansion; if he could get Alfred in to see the CEOs of the studio he thought perhaps the boy could charm them into forking over the plane tickets. Gilbert's opinion was hard to predict but Antonio had always fostered a notorious weakness for pretty little things, a category in which Alfred could definitely qualify, and was easily swayed by emotional appeals, an art at which Alfred was a master.
But so often the bad points of Alfred outweighed the good, especially since he seemed to have developed a taste for irritating Arthur to the point where he actually provoked physical harm unto himself, although he always merely laughed off Arthur's blows and patted him on the back in a way that Arthur perhaps misconstrued as being patronizing, seeing as Alfred was probably as blissfully unaware of his physical strength as he was of the rest of the universe.
As if this were not enough, the presence of Alfred seemed to also include the presence of Matthew, who could more often than not be found skulking around the studio, interrogating Arthur and Francis between dropping remarks regarding the unbearable staleness or clichéd quality of the script or the supporting actors when he was not leaning against a wall and smoking slender cigarettes with a pensive expression on his face that Arthur was positive he had contrived solely for the sake of appearing troubled. What was best about the whole situation was definitely that Alfred never made an effort to shoo him away, only smiling and waving wildly at his brother in the cases where he acknowledged him at all.
Ah yes. And god forbid one should forget that damned deal Arthur had struck up with the boy involving the interpretation of his script…although Alfred had promised to give Arthur until the premiere of the movie to come up with the perfect adjective to describe the perception of the modern world asserted by the dialogue, every other day the boy could be found hovering near Arthur's ear like an overexcited child, demanding a reply. Despite Arthur's refusals, Alfred unfailingly maintained this little game. Indeed, he was persistent, idiotically so, and what marked an American more clearly than persistence?
Oh yes. Alfred F. Jones was perfect. And perfect was quickly becoming an annoyance.
"Sous-titre!" Francis snapped through the megaphone, making a chopping motion through the air with his hand. Alfred seemed to deflate as he took his hands from Elizaveta's shoulders and rocked backwards on his heels, his expression growing rather sheepish as he took in the frustrated expressions of the director and crew.
"Alfred, mon cher," Francis' voice had fallen to a coo, "what is wrong with you today?"
"Sorry, man," Alfred said, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. "I just can't seem to get that one line right. I don't know what it is that's stopping me, but…"
Arthur pressed two fingers between his eyebrows in irritation. "It's very simple, Alfred. I've seen you work with much more complicated expressions than this. It really shouldn't be a problem."
"I know, I know, but it is."
"Alfred, we've already made at least seven takes," Francis sighed. "The entire first part of the scene is perfect, and Elizaveta is flawless," he winked at her and she stuck her tongue out at him. "As are you, that is, until it comes down to this line, right…"
Arthur jabbed the script with his finger to emphasize Francis' point.
"…right here. 'I'm incapable'. It's an explanation as to why you weren't lying to her."
"I know what it is," said Alfred sulkily from the corner of his mouth. Arthur crumpled the script between his fists in exasperation but Francis merely chuckled.
"Then pray tell, dear boy, why can't you manage it?"
"I told you, I don't know."
Arthur glanced down at his knuckles and realized that they were white from clutching the script so tightly in his miserable efforts at suppressing his frustration. He exhaled and slowly lessened his hold.
"Honestly, Alfred, it can't be that hard to explain. Why you can't, I mean."
"Oh really?" Alfred's lower lip jutted out and he crossed his arms across his chest. "If you've got it so well figured out, why don't you enlighten me?"
"Well," Arthur rested his elbow against the arm of Francis' director's chair, balancing his temple on two fingers. "I'll say right off the bat that you're impossibly arrogant."
"Excuse me?"
"Arrogance. Along with ignorance, it's one of your least attractive qualities." Alfred's eyes were wide and Elizaveta's shoulders were trembling as she tried to restrain her laughter. "So I'm hardly surprised that you have trouble getting your character to sound genuine while admitting a fault," Arthur felt his mouth quirk upwards in an involuntary half-smile – whether of grudging fondness or simple malice he wasn't sure. "Although some would say it's a virtue – an inability to lie, that is."
Francis snickered in the following silence and Elizaveta finally crumbled, having to turn her back to the cameras while she shook with laughter. Alfred merely stared for a few moments, eyes wide, before a smile began to spread slowly across his face. He looked disconcertingly handsome standing there grinning like an idiot – this wasn't right at all.
"What are you smiling at, you oaf?"
"You're a real tightass, huh, Artie?"
"I beg your pardon? And what did you just call me? Artie? In the case that you haven't heard, my name is -"
Alfred's grin merely widened. "Yep, a genuine tightass. Must be because you're British. But I gotta admit," he winked facetiously and Arthur resisted the desire to chuck the tightly-rolled script at his forehead. "You sure do know your stuff when it comes to acting. I think I finally understand why they let the screenwriter in on the filming around here."
Before Arthur could reply as he saw fit (a sound punch to the nose might have properly summarized his feelings), Alfred had hopped down from the set and was scampering towards Francis' directors chair while he expressed his hopes of acquiring the rest of the day off on the basis that he was really a lost cause until he could sleep on the lines. Francis tapped his copy of the script against his bottom lip pensively; Arthur could see him preparing to agree and immediately intervened.
"Nonsense. We come here every day to work. There's no time to waste, especially not if we want that budget expans -"
"Boy, Artie, have you measured the length of the stick up your ass? It's gotta be a world record or something."
"I – why you! Don't call me that!" Arthur glanced wildly at Francis for help only to find his plea returned with a shrug and a faint smirk. "Wait, Bonnefoy, you can't seriously be thinking -"
"Calm yourself, Arthur. If the boy says he is useless, what is the point in keeping him here?" Francis wasn't even looking at him; evidently he favored rummaging around in the breast pocket of his silk dress shirt, presumably in search of a cigarette, to actually taking the damn film seriously."Et d'ailleurs, mon cher, tout le monde a besoin de se reposer quelquefois."
"I don't very well give a damn," snapped Arthur. He had only just begun to tell Francis off for slipping into a language that he knew very wellmade Arthur's stomach turn before he felt Elizaveta's chin dig into shoulder and was forced to whirl around in order to bat her away with his hands.
"Come on, Arthur," she rolled her eyes. "Evidently Alfred can't act," she elbowed the boy in the stomach fondly for emphasis and likewise accepted his gentle swat at the back of her head. "But his idea isn't half-bad. We've been working our asses off and we all need a break. Plus," her eyes sparkled, "I'd like to have some extra time to measure that stick Alfred mentioned - "
"I absolutely hate you all!" Arthur turned around and folded his arms across his chest violently. "If you all want to behave like frivolous, attention-deprived children blindly following the evident Pied Piper of idiocy, otherwise known as Alfred F. Jones, you are all perfectly welcome to do so, but please don't expect that I will follow you in your foolishness! I'll have you know that -" he whirled back around, his mouth open wide and his finger extended to punctuate his statement, only to be met with a familiarly vacuous, wide blue stare and…and little else. Evidently, Francis and Elizaveta had taken their leave when the opportunity arose; Alfred sniggered and Arthur jammed his index finger into his chest.
"Alfred F. Jones, so help me god, I am going to - "
Alfred batted his finger away, his grin not faltering for even a minute before Arthur's fury.
"Nope, Artie, I'll tell you what you're gonna do!" He beamed and bent to clap a heavy palm on Arthur's shoulder. "You're gonna come with me and we're gonna get that stick out of your ass once and for all! Then we'll call up Guinness and see if you made the book this year, okay?"
"I…wait, what? I told you not to call me that! And pray tell me what exactly is this nonsense you're spewing regarding -" Without further warning, Alfred latched onto his elbow, and Arthur abruptly found himself being dragged through the halls of World Series Entertainment regardless of his own volition. "I say, what do you think you're doing? Release me immediately!"
"Ha, lol, Artie, your accent is so hilarious. I gotta say -it's much better when you're mad."
"Lol – I can't believe - who on earthactually says that out loud? And I thought I told you not to call me that!" As Alfred loaded them into the elevator and pressed the button for the lobby, it became increasingly evident that Arthur was not going to succeed in his attempts to escape; he sighed, admitting his temporary defeat by demanding to be informed of to where, exactly, he was being kidnapped. Alfred winked. He was being facetious. Again.
"We're gonna paint the town red, Artie."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You. Me. The town. Red. I can't exactly explain the etymology of the saying, but you get what it means," he glanced at his watch, not releasing his hold on Arthur's elbow. "It's almost noon, so I guess we should get some lunch first. Then I'm showing you everything there is to see in LA because I just know you haven't seen it or at least not really seen it because that stick up your ass has clearly been stopping you from enjoying yourself in any way, shape, or form…"
While Arthur finished his retort explaining that he wasn't very well interested in exploring the crumpled remains of what used to be a brilliant cultural empire, a costume designer that he was vaguely acquainted with entered the elevator at the fourth floor and gave them a very odd look; either Alfred didn't register this or didn't care, seeing as he continued explaining his plot entirely unfazed.
"…and that should take a while so I guess after that we can get dinner somewhere and then we can go to a movie and if you're really really nice and not too British to me you can pick the movie, I totally promise. And hey, we can go halvsies on everything, man." He said those last two statements as if they somehow compensated for everything. Arthur could only gape as they arrived at the lobby and the elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.
"But Artie, there's one condition."
Arthur nearly choked.
"Alfred, surely you don't mean to suggest that after you have turned my friends against me, torn me from my work, and plotted an entire six to eight hours of specialized torture for me at your side, you actually have the nerve to tell me that there's a sodding condition?"
Alfred nodded cheerfully. "You bet! But hey, don't worry, I think you'll be up to it. All you have to do is help me figure out that line I can't get. Use your awesome cynicism powers or something. Oh, and if you don't, you're totally paying for dinner. Sounds cool, right, bro?"
"…bro?" Arthur couldn't decided which he detested more; that particular colloquialism or Artie.
"Dude, yeah," Alfred commenced his dragging of Arthur across the lobby towards the doors. "This is a total bromance we're starting right here. We have to remember today's date in case with want to celebrate the anniversary or something. Hey, dude, I know, I could give you roses – except they would be broses!" And with that brilliant comedic statement he dissolved into a fit of laughter.
"That's not only entirely preposterous, but also not included in the English language."
Alfred snorted. "Maybe your English. But forget that. You're agreeing?"
Arthur glanced down at his captured elbow.
"I hardly seem to have a choice."
Alfred made some sort of ridiculous gesture which evidently expressed his victory and actually dared to grab Arthur in a hug smack dab in the middle of the lobby, not only nearly crushing the breath out of him but also scoring a substantial number of odd looks from their coworkers as he rambled on in his excessively loud voice about how totally awesome and bro-tastically amazing their afternoon was sure to be. Arthur could do nothing but try to disengage himself as soon as possible and hope he wouldn't bruise.
Damn Francis and Elizaveta for opening up this opportunity in the first place. Next, damn Alfred and his unfair physical strength and his selective ignorance. Then damn the entire concept of 'bro' – whatever that even meant. Oh, and don't forget to damn Los Angeles for existing and therefore allowing Arthur to be dragged through her streets by America's greatest buffoon. Actually, scratch all that – just damn America. Yes, damn America. That would work for Arthur just fine.
In his excitement to begin the adventure of their afternoon as free men, Alfred had entirely neglected to change from costume back into civilian dress, and Arthur soon found himself very thankful that the Jones of his script enjoyed a relatively normal, if not rather outdated, sense of fashion – the flesh-and-blood Alfred attracted enough attention with his handsome face and conspicuous mannerisms without the assistance of an outlandish movie costume as it was, and Arthur's face was already burning only a few minutes into their lunch, unceremoniously set within the nearest McDonalds Alfred could find.
As yet another cluster of whispering teenage girls drifted past their booth, their giggling and blushing cheeks poorly concealed behind their hands, Arthur wondered what Alfred would do if he abandoned his wilted prepackaged salad and made a run for it then and there. For fear that he would again be forced to endure the humiliation of being helplessly led around by the elbow, Arthur stayed in his seat.
Alfred grinned insipidly and waggled his fingers at the girls, all three of whom promptly shrieked and shot off to some dark corner of the restaurant to reminisce over their brief but memorable encounter with Hollywood's final golden boy. Arthur sighed and tried to stab a crouton with his fork, furrowing his eyebrows as it crumbled across a sorry looking piece of lettuce. Americans.
"Artie, you know, not speaking at all doesn't qualify as being nice to me. If you're not careful I'm gonna get to pick the movie."
Arthur pierced a cherry tomato with one prong of his fork, refusing to meet Alfred's gaze.
"Why exactly are you so intent on getting me to be nice to you?"
"I kind of want to see if you can."
Arthur felt an unwarranted smirk appear on his mouth. "Oh, I assure you, I'm incapable. There, I've said it, and now," he brandished his fork at Alfred, quirking an eyebrow expectantly. "You can too."
Alfred lowered his second hamburger of the meal to stick out his tongue. "You're a terrible bro."
"I've never claimed otherwise."
Despite Arthur's determinedly sour mood, Alfred's grin returned when they stepped out of the restaurant and onto the street and he was able to map out his plot in its grand entirety.
"First," he explained as he led Arthur down the sidewalk, dodging the shoppers and children and businessmen clogging the streets of Los Angeles with frightening speed and indifference, "we're going to go stare at all the big movie studios - "
"Once-big movie studios," Arthur corrected. "And we've both seen them already so I really don't see the point in - "
"But you haven't really seen them," insisted Alfred, "until you've seen them through my eyes."
"Oh, you mean those that are rendered blind without the assistance of prescription glasses as thick as a deck of cards, yeah?"
Alfred shot him a glare.
"Anyways, if there's time after that, but I don't reckon there will be, we can go see all the other sights that LA has to offer, like the parks and the monuments and the celebrity's houses and -"
"Okay, I'll give you that last one, but otherwise, are you sure we're thinking of the same LA? Because all I see here are eviction notices and cigarette butts -"
"And my favorite place in the city, which is really awesome and therefore totally a secret until I take you there because it's totally like, beyond my descriptive powers -"
"Well, if it excels such rare ability, it truly must be grand -"
"Nobody likes a cynic, Artie. After that we'll go to a good place nearby for dinner and then we'll go to a movie and hey, because I'm feeling nice today, unlike somebody, I'll let you pick the movie no matter what. Damn, I'm generous. As I was saying -"
"You're an ass."
"As I was saying, you're gonna love it, Artie. You've got my promise."
"Oh, Alfred, I am just so very sure,"
The beginning of Arthur's sentence was met with an expectant grin.
"…that I've already told you not to call me that."
And thus continued their conversation for the next seventy-two city blocks, interrupted only occasionally when whichever pair of permanently locked or broken-down studio gates they stopped in front of provoked a particularly poignant memory from Alfred, an occurrence which never failed to bring on an onslaught of anecdotes that was, unfortunately, as idiotic as it was hard to tune out.
The early afternoon sunlight waned gradually into the less precise, dustier glow that was particular to around four o'clock in the afternoon – around tea-time, Arthur noted glumly, doubting that Los Angeles was considered home by any good Victorian-era tea parlors, the presence of which could perhaps, he reckoned, salvage the tattered remains of the day that he had so far been forced to suffer through. There seemed, however, to be a temporary light at the end of an admittedly much longer tunnel: he and Alfred were nearing the end of the strip of broken-down or evacuated studios, and Arthur was about to suggest that they save the visit to Alfred's favorite spot in the city for a strictly-hypothetical 'other day', (Arthur was going to be sure that these excursions were not going to become frequent occurrences) when Alfred startled him by cutting his most recent story, a thrilling retelling of his almost-encounter with some obscure Indie actor/director/screenwriter (goodness, they were everything, weren't they?) whom Matthew greatly admired but Arthur had never heard of nor thought to care about, with a gasp followed by a soft sigh, something that struck Arthur as not only atypical regarding their situation, seeing as Alfred usually ended his anecdotes with some combination of wild hand gestures and ridiculous poses, but also went entirely against what he knew of the boy's general disposition.
Before Arthur could inquire further into this sudden change, he was abruptly steered into a side street and dragged up a breathtakingly long incline, at the top of which stood the practically decrepit remains of what had once been the world's greatest movie-making giant, the current neglect of which had actually reached the extent to where wiry strains of ivy had begun to weave their ways between the bars of the old iron gates and through the enormous corporate superstructure, serving as oddly fitting companions to the shattered windows and explosions of graffiti that otherwise embellished the establishment.
"This is it," breathed Alfred when Arthur had finally stopped panting from their sprint up the hill, "My favorite place in LA, and therefore," he winked. "The world."
Arthur raised an eyebrow skeptically.
"It's a bit of a dump, don't you think?"
Alfred merely smiled.
"Sure, but what else do you see?"
Arthur humored him by briefly scanning their surroundings. From the top of the hill he could see the entire strip of abandoned and crumbling studios, the few that were still in business, and even, he fancied, a glimpse of World Series Entertainment. Overall it was a rather saddening vista.
"I see the remains of what was once a great center of culture," he said dryly. "How lovely - the decline is especially noticeable here. Why on earth, Alfred, would a place like this be your favorite in the city?"
Alfred laughed softly. "Hey, cut me some slack. It wasn't like this when I fell in love with it, of course. Back then I was just another dumbshit California kid who wanted to be a movie star…it was something like fifteen years ago, I guess…and the place went bankrupt the year before last. Ironically, or maybe predictably, this place was the first to fall. I guess that's why it's so far gone now." He kicked aside a small mountain of discarded beer bottles and approached the gate, running his hands across the filthy old walls, his gaze following the invisible trails his fingers drew across their surfaces.
"Man, Arthur," he murmured after some time. "This city used to be so great. You have no idea."
Arthur blinked, almost alarmed by his subdued tone and expression.
"Well, Alfred, I should hope that you're wrong, considering that I scripted a film that focuses entirely on the failure of the American dream."
"Failure?" Alfred glanced up at him and Arthur was startled to be met with such a serious expression from behind the panes of his glasses. "Oh, no, Arthur, that's where you're wrong. The American dream was a classic success, I daresay the perfect success – we wouldn't even have Hollywood without all the people it lured to this country, after all. a/nI'm a born and raised Californian, but when I was a kid, man, this city, to me…well, let's just say that I can definitely emphasize with what all those people pouring into this country must have felt way back in the day."
Yet another curious glimmer of intellect. The boy was a pain but he certainly could be fascinating at times, and Arthur was not about to let this opportunity to puzzle out the real character behind Alfred F. Jones a little further go to waste.
"I demand that you explain this to me."
Alfred was studying the slow movements of his hand again, his eyebrows drawn together slightly, casting a subtle shadow across his eyes and forehead.
"I mean, I think if you had told me that the streets of LA were paved with gold, I would have believed you. You've gotta understand; when I was ten years old, this city …it was everything to me. There was nothing else I dreamed of except living here, of being a real movie star, and when I was a kid and would come here to visit," he patted the wall affectionately. "It seemed like it was all really possible. There honestly was nothing else I wanted in the world. Well," he paused and smiled sheepishly, his hand going to the back of his neck. "That, and to catch Osama Bin Laden single-handedly, just to give him a good sock in the jaw," he chuckled before his expression sobered again. "Looks like I was a little late on both frontiers, eh?"
Arthur shrugged. "I fear you may be right about Osama, but you're a star now, aren't you?"
Alfred laughed sadly. "Yeah, I guess so. But it won't ever be the same again."
Arthur found that he was too stunned by the expression on his face to agree with him.
"But, back to what I was telling you before," Alfred brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, his brow furrowed in thought. "The American dream wasn't by any means a failure. Even if it wasn't, well, exactly…real…it was still what made America so wonderful, back even just five or ten years ago before everything sort of…went to hell, I guess, for lack of better word. But the going-to-hell-part doesn't negate the wonderful part, it just ends it. Sometimes it upsets me, not being able to see and to be a part of the greatest country the world has ever seen," he raised a finger warningly. "And don't you dare argue against it, you damn Briton," he winked, presumably to take the sting from his words. "But most of the time…it's okay. We don't want to admit it right now, but I think all of us Americans can sort of feel it…our country, she's tired. She's ready to rest, to stop sort of…being the hero of the world, I guess, because that never really panned out in the first place. So we're not happy, but…we're ready. But then again," he chuckled softly, not really out of amusement but more of as a way to fill the silence. "I don't really know. Maybe I'm only speaking for myself."
Arthur shook his head and, before he realized what he was doing, gently put a hand on Alfred's shoulder, leveling with his gaze.
"I don't think so," he said quietly. "I think you're right, Alfred."
Alfred blinked.
"Sorry?"
"I…I said I think you're right, Alfred. I can't believe I'm saying this, but…that…well, that was…that was a rather well-thought out opinion. You've honestly altered my perception of America, but only by a fraction, a practically undetectable amount, really, I'm surprised I noticed anything at all, so don't let it go to your head, you insufferable oaf."
Alfred pushed himself from the wall by the tips of his fingers, stared for a moment more, and then exploded into that indomitable grin, the afternoon sun falling on his face at just the angle that it gilded the edges of his glasses and mirrored the brilliance glittering from the curve of his mouth, the glint of his teeth, the glimmer in his eyes, effectively doubling the strength of his smile. Arthur quickly folded his arms across his chest, unsure of whether to be pleased with himself for returning that expression to Alfred's face or just plain irritated that the idiot, who had for a moment been entirely bearable, was positively mooning at him again and was therefore sure to revert to his former irritating self. In the end he chose to translate this confusion into a combination of silence and complete refusal to meet Alfred's gaze.
"I told you that you'd never seen this city until you say it through my eyes, Artie."
"Shut up!" Arthur held up his hand. "Don't you dare say anything else to ruin it. You're an absolute fool, you know, getting all sentimental over a shithole like this. You obviously have some serious problems with letting go. I would advise you to seek help. Now then," he turned on his heel and began to stalk off in the other direction, speaking to Alfred over his shoulder as he went, knowing he was following by the loud clatter of his heels against the pavement. "It's getting late and I'm hungry and I suspect wherever you have chosen for dinner is a while away yet, so it's best we get going, and if you think I'm paying for dinner after you've dragged me to what may possibly be the most depressing place in the city of Los Angeles, if not the entire country of the United States of America, well…I suggest you seek something a little more advanced than mere 'help.' Perhaps an insane asylum would suffice."
He heard Alfred snicker from behind.
"Only if you can recommend me a good one, Artie."
Arthur sighed.
"Firstly, I told you not to call me that, and secondly, I most certainly can. It's called 'World Series Entertainment'; it's very sterile and I think you'll be quite happy there."
They had decent Italian food at a little place where the management seemed to actually know Alfred and were therefore very excited to meet Arthur when Alfred introduced him as the man who had given him his start, which caused Arthur to blush because really it hadn't been just him but he and Elizaveta and Francis, and they had only seen Alfred because they had been looking to get plastered, and it was Francis who had invited Alfred over to their table anyways, somehow prying him away from the grip of a beautiful woman in the way only Francis could manage.
On the whole, Alfred was not entirely unbearable throughout the meal and at one point he and Arthur even got down to working on that one line he couldn't quite master, or really begin to master at all, and although their efforts garnered little success they left the restaurant (as Arthur had prophesized, Alfred ended up paying) having only squabbled four times, and that could be considered an accomplishment in its own right, although it perhaps could have been partly attributed to the substantial glass of red wine Arthur had partaken in with their meal.
Being already established as extremely talkative, Alfred had managed to divulge unto Arthur a considerable load of information regarding himself and his origins merely over their appetizers. As before stated, he was a born and raised Californian, but came from the nearby suburbs while his father worked at a corporation in the city, thus explaining both his familiarity with the area and his childhood dreams of glamour and gold-paved streets, etcetera. Matthew was his elder by two years and moved to Los Angeles to work with an underground film organization when Alfred was still in college and the city still retained a little life; by the time Alfred had earned his degree and rented a studio apartment in the city, people, talent and, most importantly, money, were draining from Hollywood at a rate that was nearly as alarming as the damage already done to the film industry by the country's failing economy.
"So," Alfred had said. "You guys have no idea what a stroke of luck it is that I've met you. Really, I'm grateful. You've given me a chance where it had seemed that there was none to be had."
A little gratitude. Well, that was certainly nice to hear. That, along with the glass of wine, could definitely explain Arthur's substantially lightened mood as they made their way towards the nearest movie theatre, slowed by the weight of the food in their stomachs.
"I hope you know I am most definitely still picking the movie." Arthur glanced warily at Alfred over his shoulder as they approached the theatre.
"Dude, come on, I promised."
"Oh yes, because that means so much."
"Oh, Artie, you've got no idea. If I broke that promise it would be a total breach of brotocol."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Brotocol, Artie, brotocol! You know, like the sacred code between bros?"
"Oh yes, of course. How silly of me."
"You can say that again," muttered Alfred as they approached the ticket counter; it was a Tuesday evening and hardly anyone was there. "Hey, man, you buy the tickets, I'm going in to get popcorn and candy and stuff."
"But you just ate what was possibly the most revoltingly massive pizza I have ever seen!"
Alfred grinned and patted his stomach. "But we haven't had dessert."
Arthur rolled his eyes, waving Alfred away with his hand and scanning the movie titles and times above the ticket counter. All the so-called movies could be otherwise classified as veritable shit, so Arthur decided to go with the apparent theme and purchase tickets to the latest Saw installment; he had always secretly enjoyed being scared, even by awful slasher flicks, so the total absence of plot and characterization wouldn't be as bothersome, and, as an added bonus, there was no way Alfred could mock him for his choice – thrillers were definitely manly, and very much within the teachings of his ridiculous brotocol, Arthur was sure.
He ordered his tickets from the girl at the counter, who glanced at Alfred, who was eagerly chatting up the man at the concessions stand, through the glass behind her as she ran Arthur's credit card through the machine. For a moment he thought she was going to melt when she realized that she was in the presence of the Alfred F. Jones, but she merely smiled, and Arthur decided that she must not be the tabloid type.
"So," she said as she broke apart their tickets. Arthur stifled a disappointed sigh – perhaps he had misjudged her. "How long have you two been together?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Together," she glanced up at him. Her smile was still there. "Please don't worry, I think it's adorable - Los Angeles is a very tolerant place. We're all open-minded here."
Arthur felt himself turn pink. "Oh, no, I'm afraid you're mistaken," he chuckled nervously as he accepted the tickets from her. "We work together – he dragged me out here today – it's a rather long story, actually, I mean, well…h-have a wonderful evening."
And with that graceful statement, Arthur fled the ticket counter; he knew he was blushing like mad (he hated when people tuned into whatever vibes his sexuality evidently emanated; it was as presumptuous as it was embarrassing, and he actually shivered with dread when he imagined what Alfred would have said had he been there, too – he had an inkling that such an observation would certainly disagree with the brotocol and rather wished that the cashier had been a star-struck fangirl instead.
And what exactly, pray tell, about being gay was especially adorable, as she had put it? Perhaps she fancied that all there was to it was two pretty boys giggling and kissing and whispering sweet nothings in each other's ears but Arthur, for one, knew very well how that certainly wasn't the case at all. A/n
"After all," he sighed to himself as he approached Alfred at the concessions stand, "why else would I have - "
"Artie!" beamed Alfred, his arms overflowing with popcorn and sodas and bright boxes of candy, "Here, these are for you!"
Arthur gazed down at the enormous package of Sour Patch Kids that was suddenly in his hands.
"Why Alfred," he sighed. "Whatever are you trying to tell me?"
Alfred snickered. "Nuthin', Artie, nuthin' at all. Now come on, we gotta get good seats. What movie did you pick?"
Arthur handed him his ticket and kindly held his own up so he could see the title without having to cease his assault on the popcorn.
"Saw…whatever the number is now. A miscellaneous Saw, I suppose. I know it's absolutely dreadful, but so were all the other options, so I figured we might as well have some fun if we were gonna be induced to vomit anyways…hold on, Alfred, are you alright?"
Alfred's cheeks were still jammed with popcorn and his hand was stalled halfway in its ascent to his mouth; his eyes were wide with something that looked almost like alarm, but that couldn't be right. Sure, the Saw movies were truly awful, but poor plotting and non-existent characterization were no cause for panic.
"Alfred, I meant that whole vomiting thing metaphorically, you know."
Alfred nodded and swallowed his mouthful of popcorn with moderate effort, seeming to return to normal although he looked faintly strained, as though he were actually working to control his behavior for once.
"A-alright dude, let's go. I'm so ready for this. J-just don't flip out on me when it gets really scary, alright?" He was actually biting his lip as though he was trying to summon up the courage to give his ticket to the handler.
"I'll try to contain myself…" replied Arthur, raising an eyebrow as they followed the handler's directions and slipped into the dark theatre. Previews were already playing but there were only three other people inside; Arthur had feared that Alfred would insist that they sit in the very front row or something ridiculous and undoubtedly associated with the brotocol, but he abruptly turned submissive and actually allowed himself to be led to the top row, chewing his popcorn almost methodically as they went.
"O-okay dude," whispered Alfred as the previews faded and the opening credits began. "You had better not freak out or anything when it gets super scary because that's totally uncool. You got that?"
Arthur was too disturbed by Alfred's strange behavior to chastise him for his presumptuousness and merely nodded.
"Alright then, dude," Alfred managed a shaky smile and raised his voice, pumping his fist in the air. "This is gonna be awesome!"
Well, that was a little more normal. Therefore it merited a more normal response.
"Shut up, you fool, you'll disturb the whole theatre."
"Oh yeah, the whole theatre. All three of them."
"Quiet, they'll hear you."
"Dude. Telling me to be quiet is definitely against the brotocol."
Arthur raised an eyebrow and violently broke open his bag of Sour Patch Kids, at which Alfred fell obediently silent – that is, until about fifteen minutes into the movie, when the first killings started.
What followed was certainly not included in the brotocol.
The force of Alfred's first scream left several clumps of half-chewed popcorn on Arthur's cheek. The other people in the theatre turned around just in time to witness him effectively climbing into Arthur's lap, locking his arms around his neck and stuffing his face in his shoulder amidst the explosion of popcorn and candy his seizure of terror had provoked, screaming all the while. Somehow both his knees and his elbows dug into Arthur's stomach at the same time as the soles of his heavy shoes sunk into his thigh and the frames of his glasses bit into the skin of his neck.
"Holy shit Arthur, did you fucking see that ohmygod ohmygod it was so fucking scary, dude, no!" He was addressing the girl on the screen and through his enormous distress Arthur wondered how he was still able to watch the movie at all from his current position. "No, no, you stupid girl, don't go in there, no, no, why the fuck are you going in there, stop, don't do it, holy shit holy shit holy shit, I can't take this, Arthur, this is so fucking scary OHMYGOD did you see that? he just totally killed her and I told her not to go in there but she didn't fucking listen ohmygod this movie is hardcore dude I don't know if I can handle it, I swear I think I'm gonna pee my pants -"
Perhaps if it had been any other person Arthur would not have been so alarmed by that last statement; however, seeing as it was Alfred, who never seemed to say anything without some sort of goal in mind, Arthur rocketed to his feet, dumping Alfred onto the floor in a cloud of popcorn and candy. Undeterred, Alfred immediately sprang back to his feet and essentially launched himself into Arthur's arms without faltering in his now-incoherent monologue of screaming and profanity. Unable to support his weight, Arthur tumbled back onto the theatre seats and, with the encouragement of the rest of the audience, resigned himself to his current position: partly crushed beneath Alfred's torso as the boy clung to his shoulders, hiding his face in the crook of Arthur's neck when the need arose and maintaining a constant chorus of whimpering and muttered curses when he was not breaking into full-on blubbering and shouts of advice to the actors on the screen. The worst part could possibly be that he actually seemed to be genuinely disappointed every time that they didn't heed his warnings regarding the basement or the bathroom mirror or the space between the couch and the wall.
When the credits finally rolled, Alfred slowly untangled himself from Arthur and took of his glasses, wiping the lenses on the edge of his shirt with a relieved sigh.
"Dude, that was intense. But I made it through to the end!" And with that, he was beaming again. "I should be proud of myself, don't you agree?"
Arthur delicately plucked a milk dud from behind his ear.
"Are you out of your fucking mind?"
"Oh, yeah, sorry about that, Artie," Alfred spoke nonchalantly, as if he had merely stepped on Arthur's foot rather than assaulted him in a public setting, as they made their way down the aisle of the theatre. "I tried to tell you, but you wouldn't listen."
"I'm sorry, but you tried to tell me? When, pray tell, did this happen?"
Alfred shrugged. "I was giving you signals like crazy. It's not my fault you're not very perceptive.
"Signals – what signals? And what did you just say? Me? Not very perceptive? I'd like to teach you a thing or two about bloody perception -"
"Haha, dude, you actually said bloody. I wasn't sure if British people like, really said that or not." Alfred grinned and opened the door of the theatre for Arthur with a flourish of mock gallantry. "Hilarious."
"Sod off and stop being such a twat, you bloody git of a wanker."
"Aw, now you're just doing it on purpose. No fun!"
Arthur sighed and crossed his arms across his chest; it was still mid-summer but the evening had grown suddenly chilly and he was not only tired and altogether extremely ready for this ordeal to be over but also faintly sticky and achy from the onslaught of candy and popcorn and the full force of Alfred's weight. Hopefully Francis would be either out or asleep by the time he got home so that he could take a shower, have a bit of a nightcap, perhaps read a little, and then go to bed early entirely undisturbed; then he could get everyone back to work in the morning and life could resume as per usual.
"Alright then, Alfred, there's no way even you could possibly drag this ordeal out any further…so," Arthur turned before Alfred could attempt to challenge that statement, lifting his hand briefly in a gesture of farewell. "Thank you and goodnight. I'll see you at work tomorrow."
And Arthur had his back to Alfred, he was walking down the sidewalk, he was just a few feet away from the nearest crosswalk, he was almost there, he was almost free, he had nearly survived the day, his foot hit the first white bar on the pavement and -
"Artie, wait!"
Arthur paused momentarily, wondering if he should just pretend not to hear, keep going, find his way home and forget that any of this ever happened so that everything could return to business as usual the next day - and in that instant of consideration the crosswalk signal turned red and the opportunity was snatched away from him. Heaving an enormous sigh, he turned, slowly, miserably, to face Alfred, who had caught up to him in the meantime and was standing before him with a rather bashful expression on his face, wringing his hands together uncomfortably.
"What, Alfred?" Arthur was too exhausted to add any extra bite to his words and merely stood with his arms folded across his chest and his eyebrows raised as the other people on the street flooded around them, forming little eddies at their left and right.
"Well…" Alfred began to chew on his lower lip. "I mean…it's kind of…"
"Alfred. The night is hardly young."
"Well, it's just kind of…embarrassing."
Arthur snorted. "Since when have you been the shame-faced type, Alfred?"
Alfred was quiet. Was he…blushing? That surely couldn't be.
"Well, come out with it."
Arthur received nothing more than fidgeting.
"Right now, if you please, Alfred, or I'm leaving."
Alfred sucked in a deep breath only to evidently deflate again; Arthur snorted and turned on his heel before he felt fingers snag in his shirtsleeve. By this point they must have been making a scene, but Arthur had an inkling that Alfred wasn't about to let go and whirled around one last time, quirking an eyebrow exasperatedly.
"For heaven's sake, Alfred, this behavior is unusual to say the least -"
"Oh fuck it, Arthur, I'm scared!"
Oh, there was no doubt about it now. Alfred was blushing; there was no mistaking that rosy touch to his cheeks, the misery evident in his posture and the quirk of his lips, and he looked so discomfited, so altogether out of character, that it was honestly quite adorable.
"Excuse me?"
"This is all your fault, you know!" Alfred was still clinging onto his shirtsleeve; Arthur drew back his elbow to snatch it from his grasp. "If you hadn't chosen that damn movie this wouldn't be a problem, but you did, and it is, and I'm scared and it's your responsibility! You make it better!" And with that, he pointed his unoccupied finger at Arthur like a child.
"Alfred," Arthur inhaled slowly and stepped out of the crosswalk; Alfred's outburst had drawn some odd looks from the other pedestrians and it would be best that they keep their voices low from then on. "Even if you were six years old and I was your mother, how on earth would you expect me to take responsibility for something like this? Perhaps I should read you a story or check your closet for monsters, or if that doesn't work maybe you'd like me to fucking breastfeed you?"
At this Alfred erupted into giggles, perhaps understandably.
"Oh, for god's sake! Maybe you really are six years old, dissolving into hysterics over the word breast!" Arthur felt himself turn red as Alfred tried to explain through his laughter that it wasn't the word that had provoked such a reaction from him but rather the concept of Arthur breastfeeding.
"Well, what would you have me do? Not that I plan to do anything, of course, you're spoiled enough as it is, but I'd rather to like to hear what you've got in mind."
By that time Alfred had composed his expression enough to grin at him. Arthur felt faintly ill.
"Well, Artie, the solution seems simple enough to me."
A so-called simple solution with a vast underbelly of hidden complexities: that could certainly be classified as an American practice, and therefore was, unfortunately for Arthur, completely fitting with Alfred's character. As Alfred led him up the stairs of his apartment building, eventually bringing them to a landing and beginning to fish in the pockets of his jeans in search of keys, chattering animatedly about how super fun this was going to be all the while, Arthur momentarily considered asking him what his mother would say if she could see him now or if he was really the kind of guy who expected someone to stay over after the first date, but he knew that he wouldn't understand the joke and opted not to interrupt the silence as Alfred pushed the door open with a little flourish and gestured for Arthur to enter first.
"How very gallant of you," grumbled Arthur as he stepped inside; despite himself he was grateful for the warmth and the promise of perhaps not a bed but possibly a couch, and even a stiff glass of something, Arthur couldn't be bothered as to what exactly, before they went to sleep…provided, of course, that Alfred kept something other than milk and cookies in his cabinets, an idea which, given their current situation, seemed to perhaps be too much to hope for.
"Hey, I am sorry, Artie," Alfred shrugged cheerfully out of his brown leather 50s style bomber jacket; it was a part of his costume and therefore actually studio property, noted Arthur irritably as he watched him hang it from one of the knobs on the wall. "But this is technically your fault, so it's only right that you make up for it with a sleepover!"
"First of all, it is by no means my fault that you are little more than an overgrown child, and second of all, grown men don't have sleepovers."
"Bros do."
"I am not, never have been, never want to be, and therefore never will be, a bro."
"This sleepover begs to differ."
"Oh, Alfred, you will never truly know the extent of my loathing for you."
Alfred grinned handsomely. He kept doing that. How unfair.
"Betcha it'll be a lot less when you hear that I'm gonna take the couch."
Arthur blinked, slipping from his own jacket and hanging it carefully on the knob beside Alfred's before slipping out of his shoes. "That helps a little. Oh, and if you perchance had some scotch that you were willing to share, I can assure you that your chances of surviving the night would increase inestimably."
Alfred smirked. "Well, I don't know how anyone could turn down such a promise. How much water do you take?"
"Very, very little, my dear boy. Especially tonight."
"Can do. Living room's that way." He pointed before he slipped through a door which presumably led to the kitchen, inviting Arthur to make himself at home as he went.
Arthur followed his directions and had to fumble around on the side of the wall for a spell before he found a light switch and flipped it on, stepping into the room as he did so.
Alfred lived comfortably, that much was clear, but certainly not excessively, and the clean, new smell and almost awkward feel of the furniture and the lighting suggested to Arthur that this sense of comfort was a relatively new tenant in the apartment; it had probably arrived with his first paycheck from World Series Entertainment. The only things particularly homey about the room were the frames that cluttered the walls, depicting vintage movie posters and photographs that proved on closer inspection to be family snapshots, and the bookcases, which overflowed not with volumes of literature but of cinema, of movies in all their forms, all shapes and sizes, from every corner of the world and, apparently, every cranny in time: there was everything from practically archaic movie reels to thick black plastic VHS tapes to sleek high-definition volumes, and they were in such excess that they brimmed over from the shelves and spilled to the floor, pooling haphazardly in corners of the room but evidently not collecting dust. Obviously it was beloved collection and Arthur had to admit that he was impressed; the selection and breadth of the titles nearly rivaled his own.
Alfred reentered just as Arthur was panning through his formidable collection of Hitchcock titles, which occupied the ever-coveted spot just beside the television and DVD player. Arthur raised his eyebrows as he accepted the glass of scotch offered to him, using his unoccupied hand to raised Alfred's battered, clearly often-used copies of The Birds and Psycho questioningly.
Alfred grinned dopily. "Yep, two of my favorites. I guess I'm a masochist or something." a/n
Arthur snorted into his scotch and returned the movies to their place at the top of the pile.
"Hey, what can I say?" Alfred crouched down beside Arthur and ran his hand over the pile fondly. "How can you not love a guy with such an awesome name?" a/n
Somewhat placated by the presence of alcohol in his hand, Arthur let him off with a soft swat to the back of the head before retreating to the couch and sitting down heavily. Alfred joined him, making the cushions shift beneath his weight.
"Wanna watch something?"
"No. I want to drink. Then I want to sleep. That is all."
"Spoilsport."
"Insolent child. You're damn lucky I'm here at all. Now drink your scotch."
"Hm, using alcohol to shut me up…seems you're not a very good mommy."
"Well, love, seems I never claimed otherwise."
"You're an even worse bro."
Arthur didn't even dignify that with a response, merely took another long draw from his glass of scotch, sighing appreciatively as he felt the alcohol touch his throat and stomach with a familiar warmth. He scanned the room from this new angle and noticed again the air of awkwardness that accompanied the newer, more luxurious furniture, inspected the family photos more closely, found Matthew's smirk and Alfred's idiotic grin in nearly every one of them and grew accustomed to the faces belonging to two adults who were presumably their parents. Suddenly, Arthur was struck by a thought, and he bit down on his lower lip, debating whether it would be rude to ask Alfred such a presumptuous question…the scotch quickly decided for him and he found the words tumbling from his lips regardless of tact.
"Alfred, do you parents know you're here? In Los Angeles, I mean…er, perhaps I mean to ask…" Arthur gazed into his glass to occupy his eyes, now thoroughly embarrassed by his rudeness. "Your parents…what do they do?"
After a brief moment which Alfred passed being surprised that Arthur had not only started a conversation, but a conversation regarding he who was generally recognized as the greatest disruption in Arthur's otherwise-peaceful existence, the answer came as a chuckle followed by a yes, they were very much aware that Alfred was in Los Angeles, and that they were both farmers in the California countryside, at which Arthur barely managed to stifle a snort. So that lovely tan of Alfred's really was acquired through summers spent as an extra hand at the ol' mom and pop farm, as ridiculous as it sounded. How perfect. However, when Arthur turned his smirk to Alfred, he noticed a trace of worry in his brow.
"Hm? Alfred?" Arthur's advice regarding the amount of water in the glass had been taken seriously and the scotch certainly was softening him up. "What is it?"
"It's nothing, really." Alfred lifted his glass to his lips, presumably in order to occupy them with something other than answering the questions of a tipsy man who was rapidly becoming drunk.
"Bullshit, Alfred." There was the scotch piping up again. "Come on. You've dragged me here, the least you can do is humor my questions."
Alfred raised his hand to his temple, frowning faintly and in doing so casting quite a different light on his face. Arthur couldn't decide if it flattered him or not.
"Well, it's this economy…when things get to the point where the film industry can scarcely survive, well…you can imagine the situation that farmers find themselves in. My parents, they've been barely scraping by for a long time now, especially what with my going to college and all, and although they know I'm here, to tell you the truth up until I got this role they weren't terrifically…happy about it. I mean, they had already lost Matthew to Hollywood, and more importantly they really needed another reliable source of income, and don't get me wrong, I wanted to provide, but…" he frowned deeper, eyes focused on the thin film of scotch in the bottom of his glass. "Maybe I'm a bad person, laying everything on the line like I did, with no idea if it was going to pan out or not. To be honest, by the time you guys found me I was on the verge of packing up, giving up, I guess I should say, and using my – get this – my American Studies degree for some greater purpose or at least for a greater salary. In retrospect, I'm so lucky…I feel almost as if I were the very last person allowed on the very last lifeboat sailing away from a capsized ship, and the more I think about that the more I realize how stupid and risky I was being before. We're going to be alright now, but man, Arthur, I could have ruined everything…"
He glanced up from his glass to meet Arthur's gaze. His eyes were serious, their blue seemed darker, and there was an enrapturing earnestness to be seen in his whole expression, sculpted by the shadows cast by his furrowed brow and the slight jut of his slow lip and punctured by the fragments of amber light reflected upwards from the depths of his glass of scotch. He was an exceedingly handsome young man.
"…but in the end, by some ridiculous stroke of luck or fate or whatever, I didn't, and it's only now, in retrospect, that I realized how scary what I did really was. I was a fool, Arthur, a big fool, and I should have been scared stiff."
They were silent for a moment, and then Arthur threw back his head and laughed long and loud and clear, like he couldn't remember doing in ages – something which rather predictably irked Alfred. When Arthur was recovered, an accomplishment which took a good half a minute, he grinned up at Alfred through the moisture in his eyes and nearly dissolved again at the sight of his disgruntled and faintly hurt expression.
"Oh, Alfred," he chuckled, wiping the tears from his eyes. Fueled by laughter and alcohol, he followed this with a hearty and genuinely affectionate pat on the shoulder.
"You just don't know when to be scared, do you?"
WHAT, WHO ON EARTH ALLOWED THIS TO GET SO HORRENDOUSLY LONG? Oh, right. It was me. Ahaha. My apologies. You've made it to the end; give yourself a pat on the back and some aspirin.
And yes, apparently even in vaguely-dystopian near-future America the Saw franchise is still going strong. Go figure.
Eeeee lots of author's notage. Just more fodder for the word count, I suppose.
a/n – Hollywood, so dubbed in 1887 by the wife of the owner of the California ranch on which it is now located not because of the presence of holly or wood (of which there were neither) but rather merely because she heard the name from an acquaintance and was so taken with it that she re-titled her entire estate just so (trufax u gaiz), was gradually populated by small independent film studios approximately between the years of 1908 and 1913, the proprietors of which were quite literally all foreign, (the closest to American were Canadian; go figure) having been drawn to the country in the first place by none other than the American dream, which among other things bragged that America's streets were actually paved with gold rather than with the more realistic but less alluring truth: horse manure. Anyways, most of the immigrants who founded Hollywood were Jews (idk why but GOOO JUDAISM –I am Jewish -*woot*) hailing from such beloved Central and East European countries as Lithuania, Czechoslovakia, (now two countries, neither of which are personified) Hungary (who ironically happens to be central character in this here story), Poland (most notably, the Warner Brothers), and Germany. How do I know this crap? My lovely book on the history of American English (Made in America, it's fantastic) has a whole section on movies that I just read literally two days ago. YES.
A/n – Oh, sweet hypocrisy. If you haven't noticed, by this whole ordeal I'm poking fun at all us yaoi fangirls, among which I of course include myself; I'm writing it, for god's sake. Anyways, I believe we should keep in mind that the sorts of relationships we depict are probably (definitely) not what male gay relationships are actually like…especially when one considers that were are nearly all females and therefore will never experience a male on male relationship (barring exceptions provided by modern medicine xD) and therefore cannot ever hope to realistically depict one. Ahem. Also, I need to continue bringing up sexuality because Arthur cannot just be like: 'OH BTW ALFRED FUNNY STORY SO I'M LIEK GAY LOLOLOL' and Alfred cannot just be like: 'THAT'S KEWL LIEK ME 2 SO LET'S GO HAVE BUTTSECKS NOW OKEY?' I refuse.
A/n– NO, you depraved perverts, this is not some oddly out-of-place sexual reference. The Birds and Psycho are both intellectual thrillers and many find them to be quite terrifying (if not a little outdated; The Birds more of made me laugh then scream but nonetheless was a wonderful movie), therefore it is masochistic of Alfred to count them amongst his favorite movies, as is indicated by their place next to the DVD player.
A/n – The mastermind behind both of the aforementioned titles is the great American director Alfred Hitchcock. He is most famous for FUCKING CRAZY suspense and FUCKING CREEPY intellectual thrillers. My favorite is Rear Window.
French: 'Sous-titre' is the French equivalent of "cut!" (I looked it up u gaiz.)
"Et d'ailleurs, mon cher, tout le monde a besoin de se reposer quelquefois."
And besides, my dear, everyone needs to rest every once in a while (sometimes).
Oh, and I do apologize for the likely-unbearable BRO-ness of everything, but I absolutely love the bro craze (although brotocol, a variation on the infamous bro code, has probably already been conceived, it really did occur to me on its own and I am very proud of it) and I can imagine that Alfred does too. No one can deny that it totally fits with his personality.
Ahem. Anyways. Next chapter we get Artie's back story, and a ton of other characters, including the much-foreshadowed Gilbert and Antonio…we will also get to meet an example of the latter's "love of pretty little things", whose name just might start with an 'R' and end with a '–mano'…
…well, we'll see!
Review and you receive a dozen of Alfred's broses. xDD
Thanks to all for humoring me. TO THE NEXT CHAPTER, AWAY! *punches air*