~Turns out writing in your native language can be fun, you guys! xD
Seriously, though, I am having a fantastic time with writing Keep Dreaming, America, and it only gets better when I receive such thoughtful reviews from you guys. I love you all. And, as a testament to the extent of my love, here you have the newest chapter.
In Brief: Gilbert and Antonio have some interesting news for our little trio (er…quartet), Alfred speaks up, Arthur speaks out, and Alfred tries to do the same but doesn't quite get the chance.
Updates: Are now weekly, because RL is like, starting ( D: ), and I sort of have to show up to it. New chapters will be on Saturday evenings, sometimes a little earlier or later (in these cases I will strive for earlier) if there's some sort of weirdness in my schedule. However, barring crises, they will never be anything like days late.
Length: Grah, okay, I'm sorry, but this word count will be pretty standard of all of the chapters…which means we'll probably have something of a USUK novella on our hands when we're done, eheheh. Incidentally, chapter four will likely be the only chapter that is a little shorter, due to various reasons I cannot yet divulge.
MY BAD: It has been brought to my attention that in the previous chapter, Arthur referred to what Britons call a cinema as a theatre. I offer my sincerest apologies to readers from across the pond, although really, why can't you all get your English right? Geez. xD Actually, I rather devotedly use the British spelling of the word theatre (to most Americans theater) for no better reason than because I like the way it looks, so I'm not really one to talk. Anyways, big thanks to Alphine for pointing this out to me in her review.
A few other matters before we begin.
Antonio and Romano…have an extensive conversation in Spanish and Italian when we first meet them. It is designed solely for lulz and has nothing to do with the actual plot, therefore I have included the translation in the A/Ns at the bottom of the page rather than the text. A NOTE: At first, Romano is the one speaking Spanish and Antonio, Italian, because I think that's romantic…although the conversation they are having couldn't quite be classified as such, heheheh…anyways, later Romano sort of stops speaking altogether, while Antonio slips into occasional Spanish. Again, translations are at the bottom of the page. I happen to own a Dirty Spanish book (yes, a whole book), so enjoy. xD
Also, I refer to Romano as Romano rather than Lovino because Romano is cuter.
Matthew: I have gotten so many questions regarding my characterization of Matthew, so I will attempt to answer them all here at once, especially seeing as he makes another appearance in this chapter. Yes, he's wholly and irreparably OOC, and I like him that way. I mainly created him as such to a) satisfy my own sick fantasies featuring badass!Canada, and b) to mock hipsters, which leads us to the matter of his clothing – I really choose it just for fun…well, that, and to be facetious. Follow Arthur's example and don't take Matthew too seriously, you guys. ^^
If you were wondering, yes, the plot is actually getting started now. Also, I have forgotten neither Alfred and Arthur's little word game nor Alfred's problem with the line "I'm incapable!" Both little plot threads will be fully resolved by the end of the story, just with a lot of dawdling between them, haha.
Let's see…is there anything more to bore you guys with? No, you say?
Damn. xD
Well, then, PLEASE ENJOY!
"Arthur, ma cherie femme, you worried me last night when you did not grace our apartment with your presence! I have two questions that simply beg answers: firstly, whatever kept you from our sweet threshold -"
Arthur pressed the button a moment too late, and Francis managed to squeeze inside the elevator; fortunately Alfred was occupied chattering away with some nameless supporting actor who had the misfortune to be along for the ride, therefore there was a chance that Arthur could make it out of the elevator without suffering extreme humiliation.
A chance. Arthur could only hope that Francis wouldn't notice that he was wearing the same jacket as yesterday due to the fact that the cuts of Alfred's suits all matched the considerable breadth of his shoulders and therefore could never hope to fit Arthur.
"…and secondly, ma cherie, how can you bear to distress me so?"
"You're lucky I merely distress you rather than beat you silly like you deserve," he snapped. Francis sighed with all his characteristic air of melodrama and twirled a lock of hair around his index finger.
"Alas, you are too cruel, leaving the more pressing inquiry so unsatisfied!"
[ Arthur woke with his nose full of a smell that he would later identify as belonging uniquely to Alfred, though then he merely recognized it as being a not entirely unpleasant combination of strong coffee, cigarette smoke, the faintest trace of cologne, and the slight flavor of musk that seemed to inevitably associate itself with all young men. He blearily traced its source to the sheets tangled around him and then proceeded to stare stupidly at his hands for a while before he blinked several times, registered that he had a faint headache, and eventually managed to recall all the details regarding where he was.
The headache was surely a byproduct of that second glass of scotch and was hardly a bother compared to some of the hangovers Arthur had suffered in his time; he stood up without much difficulty and ran a hand through his hair, blinking again to rid the sleep from his eyes before he shuffled around Alfred's bedroom in search of a passageway to the bathroom.
The smell of grease and the sounds of oil crackling drifted into the room as Arthur stood in front of the mirror and splashed water on his face; he frowned resignedly at his mussed hair and the dark smudges beneath his eyes before taking a gulp of Alfred's mouthwash (bubblegum flavored, he noticed with faint disgust) and blindly pursuing the smell and sound of breakfast into the kitchen.
His eyes eagerly fell first on the stove, then darted from the skillets, which were all set to laughing with the sound of oil, to the kettle resting on the back burner - a reassuring omen regarding the possibility of tea. In addition, there was coffee brewing on the counter and a cutting board laid out, on which rested a collection of empty eggshells and a couple of thick, red slabs of tomato; a glance upwards revealed Alfred wielding the knife, dedicated now to cutting thin slices off a block of orange cheese, his hair rumpled and his glasses smudged over eyes darkened in concentration, feet bare against the tile floor.
Arthur abruptly halted in the doorway, swallowing rather thickly. Alfred glanced up at him and waved with his unoccupied hand, smiling at him distractedly.
"Sleep well, beautiful?"
Having not really registered the facetious quality to his greeting, Arthur merely nodded mutely and pulled out a chair for himself at the kitchen table. Alfred was just asking to be burnt, frying bacon while dressed like that. It was with considerable effort that Arthur drew his eyes away from the surprisingly gentle slope of his otherwise broad and powerful shoulders, the subtly pronounced muscles in his chest and stomach, the prominent arc of his collarbone, his lean but solid middle, the soft suggestions of baby fat resting just above the bones of his hips, the downy fringes of golden hair at the nape of his neck and trailing downwards at a slight incline just below his navel, and managed to apply his concentration elsewhere: to the kitchen décor, perhaps, or better yet, to the possibility of a cup of tea to take the edge off his headache, which had suddenly become accompanied by a slight dryness of the mouth and an uncomfortable warmth about his cheeks and neck.
"Dude, I can't believe you didn't chew me out for that last comment."
"I-I'm sorry?"
Alfred actually turned from the stove to give him a curious look. "Are you feeling alright?"
"Unless you count being extremely annoyed as an illness, no," Arthur frowned heavily at him. "Although I'll admit that I am just a touch hungover."
Alfred laughed and transitioned to dicing the tomatoes. "I hear that, man. But I gotta say, I kind of admire you," he dropped a handful of tomatoes into one of the skillets and reached for the cheese. "One and a half glasses of watered-down scotch leave me in considerable pain, and you drank two basically straight. Where did you learn to do that?"
"Boarding school," said Arthur dryly. "Let me assure you, it was nothing short of a necessary survival skill."
Alfred chuckled as he poked at whatever he was cooking with the edge of his spatula; gripping the handle of the skillet, he grabbed a plate and deftly flipped a thick omelet from the pan. Arthur tried to convince himself that his mouth wasn't watering as Alfred leaned over and pushed the plate towards him just as the kettle started to whistle.
"Tea," he said with a wink. "I don't have much, and it's not very good, but it's something. It's over there," he gestured to a cabinet with his unoccupied hand. "Mugs are over there," another gesture. "And silverware, to your right. That omelet will take a minute to cool so you might as well get your tea ready now."
Arthur had already retrieved the box of tea and a mug and, being careful to avoid Alfred's haphazard culinary maneuvers, reached out and flicked off the burner before he poured the steaming water over the tea bag, fetching a fork and knife while he waited for it to steep.
He fixed his tea and then attended to breakfast. Arthur would never have taken Alfred for the culinary type, but the eggs were delicious and soon another plate, piled high with bacon, was slid in front of his nose. Alfred sat down across from him with a grin, bursting the yolks of his fried eggs helping himself to the bacon, still crackling faintly with oil.
"So," he spoke with his mouth full. "Is it any good?"
Arthur swallowed very deliberately and took a brief sip of his tea. "Yes, I suppose," he stared at his plate for a moment. "Thank you, Alfred."
Alfred paused with his mug of coffee raised halfway to his lips, smiling at Arthur over the rim. "Dude, come on, it's the least I can do after landing you here for the night."
"I won't argue with you there," Arthur delicately cut apart the last of his eggs and put them in his mouth. "I don't suppose there's a shower included in this whole ordeal?"
"Sure thing. You've probably already found the bathroom, so go right ahead."
"Thank you." Arthur drained the last of his tea, stood, and pushed in his chair before placing his dishes in the sink ("and for god's sake, put a shirt on when you fry bacon. You're lucky you didn't injure yourself") and heading where Alfred directed, Alfred's shouted claim that Arthur was merely jealous of his kickass physique following him down the hall.
Upon pulling aside the shower curtain Arthur found that Alfred used dandruff shampoo, and that he thought that oddly charming. He briskly washed and rinsed his hair, indulged in a few brief moments beneath the hot water, and climbed out, drying off with a diminutive hair towel because Alfred seemed to not be in possession of any full-body varieties. He frowned at himself in the steamy mirror, used his fingers to comb his damp hair into place as effectively as possible, rearranged his eyebrows and, with a faint sigh of distaste, slipped back into the t-shirt and pajama pants he had borrowed from Alfred the night before.
He made his way back to Alfred's bedroom and immediately went in search of his closet, upon the discovery of which he immediately began to rifle through his suits only to find that they all were much too big in the shoulders, although Arthur did manage to find a shirt that almost fit him correctly.
"I'm borrowing a shirt, Alfred! And probably a tie as well," he called, "and to dispel any confusion, I'm not asking for permission to do so but rather informing you that I'm doing it!"
Hearing the faint laugh and muffled affirmative from the other room, Arthur shrugged out of his borrowed pajamas and deftly buttoned up the oxford. Unfortunately, Alfred was much too tall and long-legged for any of his pants to remotely fit, and Arthur was left to hope that a fresh shirt and tie would distract Francis' attention away from his otherwise recycled ensemble.
He stole a clean pair of socks and grabbed his shirt and tie from the night before, crisply folding them as he stepped into the living room just as Alfred brushed past him in the other direction, presumably on his way to get freshen up now that the bedroom was empty. Arthur sat down on the sofa and pulled his socks on before making his way to the foyer to lace up his shoes and slip into his jacket. He checked his reflection in the small hanging mirror, curled his upper lip in distaste, and made a halfhearted attempt to fix his hair. Alfred soon joined him in the hallway, only remembering to take along his costume jacket when Arthur sharply reminded him to do so. They stepped outside and Alfred grinned at him as he locked the door behind them.
"Best sleepover ever, am I right?"
"Goodness, Alfred, have you never been laid before?"
Alfred threw back his head and laughed as they began to descend the stairs. "Geez, Artie, getting laid doesn't count as a sleepover."
"Don't call me that, and I don't see why it doesn't count as a sleepover."
"Aw, come on, now you're just dirtying everything up. Sleepovers aren't sexy, that's sick. They're like, sacred - sleepovers are for bros, man."
Arthur resisted giving voice to the myriad of comments regarding the various possible misunderstandings to be made in Alfred's previous statement in favor of merely rolling his eyes.
"Oh, Alfred, you are so naïve." ]
"…Arthur, s'il te plaît, je ne puis endurer un moment plus de ceci, if you do not answer me soon I fear I will begin to suspect the worst of you!"
Arthur sighed and cast Francis a skeptical glance. "Feel free to do so."
The elevator doors opened with a soft sigh, which Arthur echoed in sheer relief - he was nearly free, he had nearly escaped the morning commute without having to explain his humiliating ordeal to Francis, and now they could finally, finally return to their work.
Not a moment after he stepped into the hallway, Arthur was assaulted by a very much overexcited Elizaveta, who barreled towards him apparently out of nowhere, throwing her arms around his neck violently and causing him to stumble backwards into Francis, who took this opportunity to reach downwards and give him a sharp pinch on the ass; he let out an involuntary cry of surprise and anger and clearly heard Alfred's failed attempts at trying to control his laughter from behind.
"Cela," crowed Francis with a leer of victory, "was for keeping secrets from me, mon cher."
In an effort to conceal his humiliation, Arthur glared venomously at him, though the effect was perhaps lessened as he scrabbled ineffectually against Elizaveta's hold on his shoulders.
"At least you're referring to me in the masculine case again," he spat, loosening one of Elizaveta's hands from the back of his neck only for her to weave her fingers together again, this time more firmly. He gave a sigh of exasperation. "For Christ's sake, child, what the hell has gotten into you?"
She lifted her face to beam up at him. "Arthur, we've done it! Or, almost done it."
"Done – or almost done - what, pray tell?"
She laughed giddily and finally lowered her arms from his neck to balance her hands on his shoulders. "Paris! London! We've almost done it!"
Although, upon hearing this, Francis gasped with delight, Arthur found himself still faintly confused.
"Excuse me?"
Elizaveta rolled her eyes. "Don't you get it, Arthur? Gil's secretary just called, and they want to talk to us – all of us – about a budget expansion. We could really do it, we could really get the money! Oh," she let out a soft sigh and clasped a hand to her breast. "I've always wanted to see Paris for myself; I haven't been to France since I was a girl!"
Francis leapt in front of Arthur and clasped her hands in his ecstatically. "Oui, my precious girl, together you and I shall tour everything the city of love has to offer! The Tower, the Louvre, dinner on the Seine, and then, who could forget, best of all – le cinema!"
Elizaveta giggled. "And Alfred, too, of course."
Alfred grinned wide and shot her a thumbs-up; even so, Arthur thought he was being uncharacteristically calm regarding this whole situation.
"Please, my friends, before we injure ourselves with excitement," he began dryly, forever the voice of reason. "We still have to actually swing the deal with the bosses. And…" he added, lest they should forget. "I should certainly hope that I am included in all these absolutely ridiculous plans."
Elizaveta and Francis broke from their celebrations to roll their eyes in unison.
"Eh bien entendu, Arthur, that much was already implied."
The muffled ring of a telephone against a background of heavy metal music.
"Antonio…el teléfono…está…oye, ¡suéltame, tengo que cogerlo! -"
A few muffled bumping noises and another unintelligible cry of irritation. From the corner of his eye Arthur saw Alfred raise his eyebrows; the boy's nose was nearly pressed to the door of the office in his fascination and Arthur had to resist a smirk.
The telephone rang again; the music still thudded in the background.
"Mm, caro pomodorito, ignoralo; non vedi che ci sono cose piú importante di fare –
"Cállate, bastardo, ¿qué crees que hagas? No puedo – mmf – no puedo perder mi tiempo contigo así - nng - ¡chíngate! hijo de la gran puta vieja, n-no ves que…¡tonto!, détente, te lo he dicho antes, ¡no me beses allí! - Antonio, el teléfono, tengo que cogerlo…"
Alfred glanced down rather worriedly at Arthur, as if to ask him if this was typical of their CEOs; Arthur let his heavy sigh take care of the explaining.
"Mmm, dai, il mio pomodorito…niente piú di un bacio per favore, poi non ti chiedo piú, ti lo prometto! Ma adesso, per favore, non mi uscire, volgio che tu stia qui con me per un po' piú –
"Pero...pero alguien nos llama y…y…ahh, Antonio, ¡si no te detienesVOY A DEJARTE HARAPIENTO!"
Rolling his eyes and sighing exaggeratedly, Francis rapped crisply on the door with his knuckles.
"Gilbert, if you can hear this over the racket in there, c'est moi et mes amis, let us in!"
"Gilbert?" Alfred blinked in surprise. "You call your bosses by their first names?"
Arthur nodded but didn't get the chance to explain; the music suddenly fell quiet and the previously inaudible undertone of cursing, footsteps and a voice raised high in nervousness could be heard more clearly in the following silence.
"¿Qu-qué, hay alguien a la puerta?"
"Romano, ti lo ho detto già, ignorala e metti la tua attenzione in me e il amore che sto per darti!"
"Pero nos verá -" A squeal of surprise. "¿QUÉ HACES?, ¡NO ME TOQUES ALLÍ!"
The footsteps were getting closer; they were soon followed by a shout asking that they hold on just one minute more, then the rattling of keys, a frustrated oath whispered in what must have been German, seeing how Elizaveta turned faintly pink around the ears a/n, and then finally, the door swung open.
"I think I understand that whole first-name basis thing better now," Alfred muttered, blushing faintly. Arthur nodded tiredly.
"Yes, I'm afraid we're not much for formality here."
The first thing their eyes found had been Gilbert, who looked discomfited and faintly perturbed, his silver hair ruffled and a faint crease between his eyebrows, wearing his shirtsleeves with his tie hanging loosely from his collar. Their gazes had then traveled deeper within the office, eventually falling on the massive desk at the back, framed against an enormous window, where Antonio was enthroned with his unfortunate secretary splayed across his lap, his hand unabashedly jammed beneath crisp black skirts and oversized lacy bloomers, smirking shamelessly down at his furiously struggling captive.
Romano's legs were splayed to either side of his body, kicking madly in the air and revealing a full spectacle of silky garters and lace trim. The tightly ribbed bodice of his ensemble had slipped down across his chest, allowing a smattering of angry red marks to be seen littering his shoulders and collarbone. His little black cap was askew over his mussed hair and his face glowed a brilliant red with both fury and, presumably, a mixture of arousal and embarrassment.
Arthur coughed quietly, Alfred continued blushing, Elizaveta muffled a squeal of excitement behind her fist and and Francis let out a guffaw of delight to see amaid hailing from his motherland so disposed; as for Antonio, he merely winked at them and slipped his hand from Romano's bloomers with a little flourish.
"Bienvenidos todos," he beamed, spreading his arms in welcome and allowing Romano to right himself, straighten his cap, and pull down his skirt so it reached mid-thigh, but not to depart his lap. "What a pleasure it is to see you all here today."
"Yeah guys, it's awesome, especially considering the news we have," added Gilbert, turning from the door and gesturing for them to follow. "Hey, Feli, put my music back on, but at the lowest setting this time, yeah?"
Feliciano, the resident assistant who was not subjected to suffering ordeals such as the one laid out before them, nodded eagerly and turned towards the massive stereo installed in one corner of the room. He tweaked the dial and the office filled with the screaming of Gilbert's heavy metal collection. Antonio gestured to four chairs set up before their desk, and Arthur smirked, not missing how the tips of Elizaveta's ears turned faintly pink when Gilbert, in a sudden seizure of gallantry, swooped in to pull her chair out for her. Alfred was actually adjusting his glasses in his disbelief regarding the spectacle of Romano, who had still not been allowed to flee the scene, and had to be hissed at by Arthur before he remembered himself and took his seat.
"So, you guys..." Elizaveta could clearly scarcely contain her excitement. "Whatever could this be about?"
"Oui, we are simply dying to know."
Antonio and Gilbert grinned at each other just as Romano finally broke under the overwhelming public humiliation and hid his face in Antonio's collarbone with a faint whimper.
"Well, thanks to all the hubbub generated by querido Alfred, our chico de oro, so to speak," Antonio winked, slowly running his fingers through the hair at the nape of Romano's neck. "We are so very pleased to inform you that - "
"You're fucking going to Europe, you guys!" cried Gilbert, slamming his hands down on the desk for emphasis. "How fucking awesome is this?"
His outburst and the cheering that followed generated an enormous, unidentifiable ruckus to their right; Feliciano suddenly became very distressed, darting towards the dark curtain that sectioned off part of the office and whipping it aside to reveal an enormous birdcage positively overflowing with agitated chicks, yellow and downy and provoked into a frenzy of chirping by the excitement that had passed on the other side of the curtain.
"C'est certainement une addition nouvelle…" Arthur heard Francis murmuring to himself incredulously. Elizaveta had her hands clamped over her mouth in an effort to repress her hysteria and Alfred was again adjusting his glasses, his jaw completely slack with shock.
"Accidenti!" Feliciano cried in panicky Italian,fluttering nervously in front of the cage."I miei pulcini, tranquillo, tranquillo! I miei cari, non vi preocupiate, sta bene, sta bene, vi lo prometto!"
"Aw shit," Gilbert actually levered himself over the desk, landing on the rug beside Arthur's chair. "Here, Feliciano, let me handle this one. They're overexcited, they need their daddy…" And with that he ran to the cage and pulled the curtain back into place.
By then Alfred's mouth was actually hanging open and it took Arthur's shooting him a glare to get him to shut it again. Antonio sighed and transitioned to rubbing between Romano's shoulder blades, exposed by the low cut of his uniform.
"De verdad nunca exactamente deja de asombrarme…" he murmured before turning his attention back to them. "Anyways, my dears, you will first depart for Paris, stay there for a week of shooting, return to Los Angeles," he rolled the title from his tongue altogether purposefully a/n, "for another handful of days, and then it is off to London with you. A week or so there and then your sojourns are complete. All the reservations are made…you, and you, and you!" He gestured to Elizaveta, Francis, and Alfred. "…depart for la ciudad de amor in nothing more than several days!"
Francis and Elizaveta exchanged a worried glance and Arthur made an honest effort to sink into his chair; Alfred, however, was hardly so tactful.
"What about Arthur? He's coming too, right?"
Antonio blinked before seeming to realize something.
"Oh, of course, you all are rather the inseparable trio, aren't you?"
"Try quartet," said Alfred, rather sharply, his eyes suddenly hard behind his glasses, and Arthur felt his heart skip a beat for whatever reason.
Antonio chuckled good-humoredly. "Claro, claro. Anyways, it was careless of me to forget your bond – I'm afraid that in the business world, especially this particular business world, such things, however valuable they may be, are easily overlooked. I'm so sorry, but the studio isn't willing to pay the traveling expenses of anyone who isn't absolutely crucial to the production. Really," His brow crinkled as he took in their expressions. "Arthur, please accept my sincerest apologies. If there was something I could do, I would; of that I assure you. I truly am sorry."
He said so with complete earnestness and Francis, Arthur and Elizaveta sighed resignedly. There was nothing for it, it didn't make sense for Arthur to come along at the expense of the studio – he was just the screenwriter after all, if it weren't for their unusual friendship he wouldn't even be involved in the production at all, not anymore. He should be thankful he was able to enjoy as much as he did.
Alfred, however, was not so inclined.
"What do you mean, not absolutely crucial?" His hands were balled in fists on the arms of his chair. "Aside from Francis and Elizaveta, and the actual actors, I guess, I can't think of anyone who's more important to this movie than Arthur! You can't really understand it until you've seen him work," He clearly had begun to realize his impudence and averted his gaze to his shoes, speaking more quietly. "Not only does he love this project the most of all of us, but he gets it, understands every little bit of it and how it's all supposed to fit together. To be honest, I've never met anyone so dedicated before, a-and…" he faltered. "Well, I can't imagine what could be more important than that."
Arthur knew he must have been blushing furiously; he could feel the heat at the base of his neck and his cheeks, but as to whether for embarrassment and anger or…a strange sensation of pride, he thought it could be called…or a mixture of the three he wasn't sure.
To his credit, Antonio looked genuinely heartbroken.
"I believe every word, Alfred," he said sadly; Romano had lifted his face from his shoulder again and was regarding them silently. "But there really is nothing I can do. Eso es."
Arthur glared into his half-empty glass of gin.
"You're a fool, you know that?"
Alfred fiddled sheepishly with the peanuts laid out by the bartender.
"So I've been told."
"You're damn lucky Antonio has a weakness for emotional appeals; if you had a normal boss, well, I can't possibly imagine where your ass would be, but certainly not on a first-class flight to Paris, that much I can tell you."
"Dude, it was so nice of them to get us first-class seats -"
Arthur glared at him.
"…oh. Sorry," Alfred popped a peanut in his mouth and chewed pensively. "Man, this sucks," he said after a while.
Ah, the grand culmination of his thought process.
"So you've expressed." Arthur took another long draw from his glass and frowned to see that the level of gin was rapidly sinking. "Where's the blasted barkeep?" he muttered, scanning the dimly lit bar. "I need another."
"It's two in the afternoon."
"Your point?"
"It's two in the afternoon, we've barely done any work today, and you've already had two glasses of straight gin."
"…"
"Arthur."
"I suppose that's relatively valid," Arthur sighed and drained his glass, setting it down on the bar and gazing mournfully at it for a moment. "Although, don't you think it looks a little lonely?"
"The bowl of peanuts will be its friend," Alfred pushed the aforementioned objects together. "There, problem solved."
"I hate you."
Alfred smiled at him tiredly.
"Don't I know it."
Arthur bit down on his lower lip; perhaps it was merely the effect of the alcohol, but he found that he regretted being so sharp with Alfred, especially after his display back at the studio.
"Alfred," he began carefully. "What you said back there…about me…I…well…it was a foolish thing to do, but nevertheless I'm…well, thank you. I'm…rather grateful. Your folly came to no end but still…" He bit harder down on his lower lip. Damn that gin. "Say, Alfred, not that your opinion of me is of any importance, but…were you, ah, well…were you serious, per se? Don't bother with my feelings; like I said before, I couldn't care less about your opinion. I'm merely curious, in fact, it's probably the fault of the gin, to tell you the truth. I'm afraid I'm an inquisitive drunk – er, tipsy - man."
Alfred blinked. "Of course I was serious." He followed this with a genuine smile and Arthur swallowed thickly.
"Er…well then…again, thank you."
Now Alfred positively beamed. Arthur coughed and focused on the surface of the bar.
"Aw, Artie, you're sweet," he cut off Arthur's disgruntled reaction to being labeled with an endearment more appropriate for a girlfriend or a child than a respected colleague with a hearty smack on the back.
"But please," he grinned, and Arthur blamed the weakness in his knees on the alcohol in his system. "Don't mention it."
And thus marked the moment when Arthur admitted to himself that when it came to Alfred, there most certainly was a little more to be perceived than a handsome-faced annoyance.
The next two days followed relatively peacefully. Although Alfred still hadn't managed to master the one line he had enlisted Arthur to assist him with, they continued with filming nonetheless and when Gilbert announced that he and Antonio were planning on hosting an enormous farewell party for the cast and crew of Keep Dreaming, America at their enormous shared mansion a/n, the idea was greeted with an enthusiasm that saw itself subdued only slightly in a halfhearted effort to spare Arthur's feelings.
The date of the party was fixed on the Friday before the departure, and the entire studio was in somewhat of an uproar beforehand: Gilbert and Antonio were nothing short of notorious for their celebrations, and regardless of actual business association, generally everyone stationed at World Series Entertainment, from the least-important assistants to the most acclaimed directors, felt obliged to and did attend their extravaganzas. This usually resulted in mass chaos, drunkenness, and a substantial count of wild one-night stands, the near-unbelievable stories of which could still be overheard haunting the hallways of the studio for weeks, even months, afterwards. If they were lucky, a brawl might also break out at one point or another, and if they were luckier still, Romano would become involved, much to the amusement of Antonio and the distress of Feliciano. Hopefully Gilbert would remember to open their pool – in the past, when Arthur would get bored, he had always made a bit of a sport out of counting the number of drunken people who dove in still decked out in their eveningwear.
Alfred spent Friday's break hours absorbing similar stories from his regular gaggle of assistants and makeup artists, occasionally crying out in disbelief or throwing his head back in laughter, his eyes shining with anticipation and his smile repeatedly stunning his admirers. His acting was a little distracted that day but so was Elizaveta's, and Arthur couldn't claim to have been entirely focused either – he was less engrossed in his script and their performances than in his fond remembrances of the cocktails, which were in as exotic as they were strong with rich Spanish liquor, that Antonio usually supplied to his guests in great abundance.
Finally, their work was done, and Arthur and Francis hurried back to their apartment to shower, shave, and dress in enough time so that they could drive leisurely and arrive at the estate approximately half an hour late. Because they could only afford a studio apartment they were constantly having to pick their way through the explosion of luggage Francis had prepared for the day ahead; Arthur tripped several times and suffered a large bruise on his elbow but in the end they both managed to wash up and salvage freshly pressed suits and ties from the chaos. Francis had saved his favorite, characteristically ostentatious violet suit for the occasion and wore his hair at the nape of his neck by a ribbon, whereas Arthur made his disdain regarding this choice of dress clearly known and opted for understated pinstripes, hoping that his hair would not look quite as uncontrolled as it usually did or that at least the lighting at the party would be flattering.
"Say, Arthur," said Francis as he unlocked the door to their car and facetiously opened the passenger side for him. Arthur flipped him off and sat down, pulling his seatbelt across his chest as Francis finished his thought. "…how do you think our dear Alfred will look tonight?"
Arthur glanced up at him curiously as he settled himself in front of the wheel. "How, exactly, should I know?"
Francis smirked. "I was not so much asking for a fact as for your opinion, my dear."
Arthur shrugged. "A suit, I should hope. Otherwise he may feel rather out of place, and that would be awkward. I would ask why you're so curious but it's really not so hard to guess." He rolled his eyes as Francis started the ignition and began to pull out onto the street while simultaneously acquiring and lighting up a cigarette.
"Mm, he is terribly handsome, is he not?"
Arthur gestured for Francis to give him a light, balancing the cigarette between his lips. "I suppose, yes. However," he raised his eyebrows. "I certainly didn't think he was your type. He seems too…" Arthur blew out a cloud of smoke, gesturing with his hand to express his inability to find the correct word. "…I'm not sure. Clean cut? Just plain…good?"
Francis laughed and took a long draw on his cigarette. "Why, whatever could you be trying to imply, mon ami?"
"Shut it with the French, you know I don't like it."
"Oui, je le sais meilleur que quelqu'un," he tapped the wheel pensively. "But I must admit, you're right about one thing – Alfred certainly is not my type of boy. I need one who has slightly more of a…a head about him, so to speak."
Arthur refrained from commenting that perhaps Francis didn't understand the boundaries of Alfred's intelligence as well as he believed in favor of merely asking him which specie of head he meant to imply, to which Francis laughed appreciatively and gave Arthur the answer of a suggestive pat on the thigh, which earned him a sharp swat at the back of the head and a light dusting of cigarette ash across his lap.
They briefly merged onto the freeway before cutting off into one of Los Angeles' ritziest neighborhoods. Almost immediately upon turning onto the first residential street their ears were met with the low, faintly foreboding thuds of Gilbert's heavy metal at full blast, punctuated by an occasional whoop or scream, from a bit further off in the distance.
"I wonder how Romano will be dressed tonight," leered Francis over the increasingly persistent throbbing of the music, which only increased as they neared their destination.
"I almost hope it's the tomato costume again; nothing else quite ever compared after that."
Francis chuckled; he was nearly shouting now and they could see the twinkling of lights not far ahead. "Ah, but how Antonio dislikes repeating ensembles – alas, what can one say, the man positively thrives on creativity!"
Arthur snorted and unceremoniously chucked his cigarette into the bushes surrounding the estate, where it would no doubt be joined by a great deal of alcohol-laced vomit and discarded clothing as the night wore on. Francis parked at the end of an already massive line of cars and with a little bow opened the passenger door for Arthur, who made sure to step heavily on his foot as he emerged from the car. Headlights illuminated the space behind them, and when Arthur squinted he could make out Alfred behind the wheel and…Matthew in the passenger seat, his arms folded across his chest and his nose lifted faintly in the air with his typical air of forced boredom. Lovely.
As soon as he had clicked off the ignition, Alfred practically exploded from the car and barreled towards Arthur, grabbing him in a painful reinterpretation of what had been previously dubbed as the classic bro hug – Arthur had been made to suffer through Alfred's complete dictionary definition of this term, which included, of course, what exactly qualified it as classic, but could recall little more than it's ridiculous appellation.
"Dude, this is going to be totally wicked!" Alfred was proclaiming ecstatically. Arthur faintly registered that his feet were not touching the ground.
"Yes, yes, Alfred, I cannot possibly express my excitement to you," he pushed ineffectually at his shoulder. "More of for temporary lack of lung capacity than for lack of sufficient vocabulary, however."
"Oh, sorry," Alfred released him, beaming. "I just tend to get a little overexcited."
"Yes, yes, I'm quite aware," Arthur sighed, fixing his suit jacket and attempting to straighten the fresh wrinkles in his trousers with his hands, an effort which he quickly deemed as hopeless and abandoned in favor of running his eyes briefly across Alfred to discover gleaming dress shoes, a pale button-down tucked into crisply pressed slacks, an elegant tie and rather dapper tweed blazer, neatly combed hair and, most miraculously of all, clean glasses.
"Well, at least you look halfway-presentable," he muttered as he struggled with his upset tie. "I'm rather surprised."
Alfred grinned, clearly choosing to interpret this as a complement. "Hey dude, you too…but, I gotta say, pinstripes, really?" At Arthur's questioningly raised eyebrows he laughed and clapped him on the shoulder heavily. "Geez, Artie, you're such an old man!"
Arthur awarded him a venomous look. "Classic will always be in style."
"Tell that to Hollywood," Alfred winked at him before springing forwards to retrieve his brother, who had become engaged in conversation with Francis in the meantime. Arthur rolled his eyes for nothing more than his own benefit, made one last attempt at the creases in his trousers, and stepped forwards to join the others as they made their way up the winding driveway and across the manicured lawn, already having to navigate between a few partygoers engaged in some sort of drunken exchange – whether of friendship, anger or lust was hard to tell - at the front door.
Francis knocked and the door swung open to reveal a familiarly angry, blushing face. Given his current occupation, it would have perhaps been more appropriate to break out the maid ensemble for this particular situation rather than a casual sojourn in the office; regardless, Romano was fetchingly decked out in a crisp nurse's uniform, complete with a jaunty little cap, snow-white stockings and scarlet pumps. Unlike the rest of them, Matthew was unaccustomed to this sight and had to pause in the doorframe for a moment, confused. Romano glared, daring him to comment or otherwise express his surprise, and after a moment Matthew merely gave the faintest shrug of his shoulders and followed them into the chaos.
The estate that Antonio and Gilbert shared with positively enormous and seemed better suited to nothing other than partying; the windows stretched from the floors to the summits of the ceilings, which dizzyingly high above their heads and glittered with crystal chandeliers, while elegant swirling staircases and winding hallways flowed with eddies of people as rivers do with water. The foyer opened into a grand, gleaming golden parlor, which proved to be both the source of the painfully loud music and the home of the coveted wet bar. Servers darted to and fro balancing trays of appetizers on their shoulders, somehow dodging the masses of people and avoiding tripping across rich decorations that embellished every available surface. In short, the entire place was positively swathed with extravagance.
"Jesus," breathed Alfred, straightening his glasses in that terribly gauche fashion of his.
"Not like back on the farm, eh?" Arthur smirked at him; he caught a glimpse of Elizaveta fighting her way through the crowds and waved at her when she finally burst into the foyer and barreled towards Arthur, Alfred and Francis, managing to sling her arms around all three of their necks at once.
As if by magic, Gilbert abruptly appeared behind her, a cocktail balanced in his hand in a similar fashion to the jaunty smirk balanced on his lips. He wore a dark red oxford opened at the throat, and it had slipped down slightly across his shoulder. Altogether he already looked to be considerably drunk.
"Hey, you guys, it's so fucking awesome that you're here!" he grinned, and when Elizaveta released them he immediately slung an arm around her shoulders, nearly spilling the contents of his martini glass in the process. She blushed faintly but gave a small, pleased smile and delicately plucked the glass from his fingers by the stem. Arthur and Francis exchanged a knowledgeable glance while Alfred returned Gilbert's offered fist bump enthusiastically.
Another man suddenly materialized at Elizaveta's elbow; he was taller and slenderer than Gilbert and wore an immaculately pressed white linen suit. He was holding two glasses of white wine in his hands and handed one to Elizaveta with a slight arch of the brow, presumably designed to express his disdain towards the other man hanging from her shoulders.
"Oh, thank you, Roderich," she smiled, and gently shrugged away from Gilbert's hold, the pink tinge at the tips of her ears and the tops of her cheeks more pronounced. "My, it seems you boys are trying to drink me beside myself, mm?"
Gilbert made the first of rock while Roderich, whom Arthur could now identify as the very talented composer of the soundtrack of Keep Dreaming, America, merely chuckled reservedly. Not one to be ignored in moments of subtlety, Alfred overtly offered his hand and took Roderich's eagerly while loudly explaining that he had encountered him a few times around the studio but never really had the chance to make his acquaintance properly, and wasn't that a shame? and Arthur had to admit that as much as the boy's behavior irked him personally, and as much as it seemed to vaguely alarm Roderich, he really was being perfectly charming.
"Christ, do I need a drink," he muttered, and tapped Francis on the arm to signal his necessity. To his dismay, Matthew and he had resumed their conversation and thus the former followed them towards the wet bar. They fought their way through the pulsating throngs of people and eventually landed several stools at the bar; Arthur immediately ordered a shot of tequila and Francis snorted, stating dryly that Arthur obviously wasn't planning on wasting any time in accomplishing his goal, a comment which Arthur merely shrugged away as he accepted the glass from the bartender and downed it in one gulp, savoring the faint burning at the back of his throat as he pounded the glass back down on the counter and immediately requested a gin and tonic, emphasis on the gin if you please.
"That's an odd combination," murmured Matthew (though he really more of had to shout to be heard over the music) as he received his cosmopolitan and took a delicate sip. It was then that Arthur fully absorbed his outfit: his suit jacket looked as though it was compiled of a thousand different scraps of fabric, all purposefully designed to clash with one another, and he had chosen to pair this particular piece with dark green skinny jeans (they were fashionably torn at the knees), yet another of his evidently-endless v-necked shirts, and tasseled combat boots, an article that previously Arthur would not have thought to have existed.
"Indeed, I thought you'd appreciate it…" The sight of his ridiculous ensemble spurred Arthur on; he simply couldn't resist. "Being outside of the mainstream and all that."
Matthew blinked in shock and was opening his mouth when Alfred suddenly thrust his elbows onto the counter between Francis and Arthur, inadvertently blocking the route of his brother's retort, and ordered a bourbon. Francis glanced down distastefully at Alfred, who was by then creating quite a sense of claustrophobia in the already overcrowded space, before he gestured for Matthew to move one stool further down the bar and then followed suit, freeing up the space next to Arthur. Alfred sat down and accepted his drink with a little salute to the bartender that Arthur supposed he must have considered to be polite.
"Quite a party, huh, Artie?" Alfred paused for a moment, eyes wide. "Holy shit man, did you hear that? It totally rhymed!"
"Indeed," said Arthur dryly as an answer to both statements, finding himself very grateful to witness the arrival of his gin and tonic. "And this is only the beginning."
"Of what, the rhyming?"
Arthur shot him a long look over the rim of his glass.
"The party, Alfred."
"Oh, right," Alfred grinned, only partly paying attention in his eagerness to scan the room and get the lay of the land. "Dude, I had no idea this many people even worked at World Series Entertainment!"
"They don't," murmured Arthur, turning a little in his stool to follow Alfred's gaze. "Your brother's here, isn't he? And you're certainly not the only one to bring along an unwarranted guest. Anyone who has the slightest chance of getting into one of these events will absolutely try – they're notorious, and by that I'm referring to both the parties and the people."
"Yeah, but Matthew's gotta be an exception, I mean, he's at the studio all the time - "
"Lamentably," murmured Arthur below the volume of the music.
"What?"
"Oh, nothing, nothing, don't trouble your pretty little head." He gave Alfred a patronizing pat and was met with a pout. "Oh, stop with that. You look like a child. Well, I suppose that's fitting – you are a child, after all." He smirked and drained his glass. Alfred's frown deepened.
"Come on, Artie, what did you say?"
"My name is Arthur, and I told you, it's not important."
"Alright, then, Arthur, what did you say?"
"Hm? What are you talking about? The bourbon must be getting to you already; I haven't said a word."
"Arthur! Come on, I hate not knowing stuff, especially -"
"If that's the case you must lead a very unhappy existence."
Alfred rolled his eyes. "Oh man, dude, that's a good one. Do you write this stuff down or something, because I swear it's brilliant!" He took a quick gulp from his bourbon before he resumed his previous thought. "As I was saying, tell me because I hate not knowing stuff, especially when it comes to you!"
Arthur paused. Surely the music must be tricking his ears.
"I'm sorry?"
"I said…" Alfred suddenly faltered. "Well, um, I said that I - "
Suddenly Arthur felt a hand on his shoulder and turned in his stool to be greeted with a familiar face. He grinned and leapt up from the bar, grasping Kiku's hand in his as he affectionately clapped him on the shoulder – inadvertently reminding himself of Alfred, he realized, grimacing inwardly as he beamed outwardly.
"You bastard, how fantastic it is to see you!" Still smiling, he gestured for Kiku to join them at the bar. "But to be honest I least of all expected to encounter you here, you bloody rogue, seeing as you've never been much for these sorts of affairs. To what, pray tell, do Gilbert and Antonio owe the pleasure?"
"Well, I'm very glad to see you too, Arthur-san," said Kiku in a voice that was barely perceptible above the music, taking the seat offered to him and folding his hands on the counter. "As you know, ever since my promotion in the costume department I've been very busy, but as of late," A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I've enjoyed another promotion; I've been appointed to handling the…ahm…uniforms…designated for the bosses' personal assistants."
Arthur paused midway through ordering another drink.
"So…you mean you're the one responsible for the…"
"For engineering costumes that would disguise the rather…less well-kempt aspects of Romano-kun's anatomy? Indeed. I was the one who employed the stockings and introduced the concept of knee socks."
To this, Alfred reacted.
"Dude, you mean you singlehandedly stopped the leg hair?"
Kiku nodded; the very picture of humility.
"Wow, man, I mean, I've only heard tale of those horrors but that was enough," Alfred's eyes were wide with admiration. "You're a god, seriously. But…" he smirked. "How does a dude who's obviously as cool as you get to know Arthur?"
Arthur spluttered indignantly into his fresh gin and tonic and Kiku chuckled quietly.
"Arthur-san and myself? We're old friends from boarding school in Europe, but I left the school early to return to Japan and we haven't been able to see each other often since," Kiku smiled faintly at Arthur. "It's wonderful that we ended up at the same studio." He seemed to remember something and abruptly became very nervous. "Ah, you must forgive me, I've been terribly rude!" Alfred looked faintly confused as Kiku bowed frantically in his seat. "Pardon my not introducing myself," he extended his hand to Alfred. "My name is Kiku Honda."
Alfred grinned and took his hand enthusiastically.
"Alfred F. Jones! Totally thrilled as well as totally humbled to meet the guy who singlehandedly made audiences with the bosses a little less painful for all of us."
"That," sighed Arthur, lifting his glass. "I can drink to."
Their conversation continued along the same fashion for a while before Kiku remembered that while he was fitting Romano for the evening he had slipped into Antonio's extensive film library and discovered a particularly elusive volume that Arthur absolutely needed to see; Alfred told them to go have their old-dude fun, that he was going to explore, and when Kiku bade Arthur goodnight around midnight and he returned to the parlor, where the party had degenerated into insensible chaos, he spotted the boy chatting animatedly with Gilbert, Elizaveta and Roderich, who looked faintly perturbed as Alfred swung his arms in wide circles to illustrate whatever point he was making. Arthur smirked, approached the bar and, ignoring Matthew and Francis, who were still engaged in an evidently engrossing conversation, carried his third gin and tonic of the evening to the only unoccupied sofa he could find, making sure to brush off the fabric before he sat down as a precaution.
To his surprise, not more than a few seconds had passed before he felt the cushions below him sink in response to a weight at his left. Arthur didn't have to turn around to know who had joined him.
"And so we meet again, Alfred," he said drolly. "Aren't you enjoying the party?"
"Oh, man, totally, dude! It's so awesome, dude, I can barely believe it!"
At Arthur's questioning glance, understanding dawned on Alfred's expression.
"Well," he shrugged, grinning at him impishly. "You might be a tightass but you're still kind of cool. And plus, I'm a little tired." This was no lie, his chest was heaving slightly and he had clearly been dancing: his hair lay out of place across his forehead and was slightly damp with sweat, his cheeks were flushed with a mixture of exertion and alcohol, and his eyes shone brightly behind his glasses, the panes of which were smudged again, Arthur noted irritably before briefly wondering who had been his partner for the evening, and if he had stepped on her feet. He smiled inwardly. Probably.
"Oh, how you flatter me, Alfred." Arthur sipped lightly at his gin. He didn't want to be excessively drunk, seeing as he would probably have to chauffeur Francis home, but he also didn't want to stop drinking. Therefore, it would be best that he make this one last. They were silent for a moment before something seemed to abruptly dawn on Alfred.
"Hey, Artie, I just remembered!" He was sat straight up in his excitement. "You still have to tell me that word that you promised me, y'know, the adjective about the world as your script sees it?" He balanced his chin on the swell of his palm and fluttered his eyelashes up at Arthur over the frames of his glasses. "I'm waiting!"
Arthur glared at him. "You've given me until the premiere of the movie to think it up, you fantastic idiot."
"Ooh, fantastic, that's a new one! If you can be so creative with insults than surely you can do the same with film interpretation, can't you, Artie?"
"Well, Alfred, would you have me just make something up on the spot?"
"Hey, I'm easy to please."
Arthur quirked an eyebrow incredulously but nevertheless devoted a moment of thought to the matter.
"Alright, then," he said. "Corrupt. The world as my script sees it is corrupt."
Alfred considered this for nothing more than an instant before he blew Arthur a wet raspberry.
"Please, Artie, that is so easy. Come on, I know you can do better than that, so it definitely doesn't count."
Arthur wasn't going to deny this, but he was always hopeful to get a glimpse into Alfred's actual intellect.
"Might you deign to tell me what's so wrong with it?"
"Really, corrupt? I mean, it's not necessarily wrong, Arthur, but I honestly think you're more original than that. I mean, first of all, anyone and everyone can and does write a screenplay about corruption, and second of all, that wasn't the real problem with the America dream and it wasn't really a problem at all in regards to America's stumble as a superpower – we're nothing if not an upright and honest people, even if we're just kidding ourselves about it."
"Wouldn't that qualify as corruption?"
"No, dude, no! Don't misunderstand - we're not kidding ourselves when we say we're upright, because we totally are. Instead we're kidding ourselves when we say that being upright works because guess what, America, it doesn't. You've gotta be a little mean in this world, Arthur, as I'm sure you know, and that's not an easy lesson to learn by any stretch. But we all have to, and we all do. Well, maybe that's not exactly what I mean – what I really want to say is that we all have to make a few concessions that go against our own morals for the sake of the greater good. Some people here just wouldn't see that, and I guess that's what really led to this whole mess, a/n" he sighed into his empty cocktail glass. "The good people in this world sure can be immature, huh?"
Arthur chuckled with genuine fondness. "You can say that again."
"Oh, Arthur," Alfred's eyes twinkled. "You wound me. Geez, man, you're such a cynic."
Arthur frowned.
"You say that to me rather often and, though by no means am I going to deny it, I'd rather like to know what, exactly, you are basing such a statement off of."
Alfred shrugged.
"I mean, it's just so obvious, your cynicism, that is. You sort of just…emanate it," he gestured vaguely with his hand. "That's probably what makes you such a brilliant screenwriter. I mean, you can see through everything and everyone and then sort of lay out what you find and construct characters out of it," he twirled the stem of his cocktail glass between his fingers. "If you weren't cynical you wouldn't have talent, y'know? If you insist on seeing the good in everything, even when it's not really there," he grinned and pushed at his glasses for emphasis. "Then your eyes need correction."
Arthur raised an eyebrow.
"So you're saying that I should take being called a cynic a compliment?"
"No," said Alfred blatantly. "I'm saying it is what it is, and by that I mean, cynicism is part of your character, and I respect it. So, maybe from me it's something like a compliment, I guess, but…not really to the rest of the world."
"But you see, Alfred," Arthur smirked faintly. "As a cynic sees it, the rest of the world is compiled entirely of idiots and assholes."
Alfred quirked an eyebrow. "Do my ears mistake me or did you just exclude me from the population of idiots and assholes?"
Arthur swatted him on the shoulder, but found that despite himself, he was smiling rather fondly, again wholly impressed with the true breadth of Alfred's mind.
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, yeah?
Alfred merely laughed and clapped Arthur on the shoulder affectionately before he turned his attention back to the dance floor, where Elizaveta was caught awkwardly between Gilbert's enthusiastic attempts at grinding and Roderich's more refined maneuvers. Arthur heard him chuckle quietly.
"It's no surprise she's being hounded by those two, eh? She sure is beautiful…" Surprised by the subdued tone of his voice, Arthur followed his gaze and tried to size up Elizaveta as any other man would. She was wearing a navy blue evening gown, cut generously across the chest to reveal her collarbone and the soft beginnings of cleavage, then tight across the waist and thigh, flaring out only slightly at the knee so that the little flap of silk swirled when she moved. Her loosely curled hair fell free across her shoulders and down her back, and a little smile played across the bow of her lips; she was, Arthur supposed, extremely lovely, and he gave Alfred a noncommittal nod.
"Who's that other guy again?" Alfred was referring to Roderich and Arthur told him so, along with information regarding his occupation at the studio and the fact that he was almost painfully intellectual.
Alfred nodded sagely.
"So she's caught between the badass and the sexy teacher type."
Ah, what wisdom; again Arthur began to doubt that this boy was the same who had just mapped out the perception of corruption by the American people and its resulting contribution to her decline.
"I don't think she'd be terrifically pleased to hear you say that, Alfred."
"Of course not," Alfred chuckled fondly. "She'd kick my ass to high heaven."
"Mm," Arthur took another controlled sip of his gin. "That's part of her charm."
They fell quiet again for a spell but the silence was far from awkward, although there was a certain aspect of the way Alfred sat and seemed to keep half an eye trained on him the whole time that left Arthur feeling faintly discomfited, brought the slightest touch of heat to his neck and ears, made him tap the nail of his index finger against the rim of his near-empty glass, though he didn't know quite why.
"How did you guys meet, anyways?" piped up Alfred after a while. "You and Elizaveta and Francis, I mean."
"Boarding school," answered Arthur before rather mournfully draining the last of his drink away.
"You know, Arthur," Alfred's gaze was now focused wholly on him and Arthur found himself immensely engrossed with arranging his glass on the coffee table in front of them so that he wouldn't have to meet his eyes. "I really know very little about you. Enlighten me."
Arthur dared to glance skeptically up at him. "Well, Alfred, what would you like to know?"
Alfred shrugged. "Nothing specific. Just start at the beginning."
"The beginning? You can't be serious."
Alfred trained his gaze on him earnestly and his eyes were very blue, more so than usual, Arthur thought.
"Try me."
Arthur sighed and leaned against the back of the couch, crossing one leg over the other and folding his hands in his lap, lacing his fingers together. He then proceeded to recount his childhood to Alfred as best he could, painting brief portraits of the most prominent figures that gave character to the memories of his boyhood, drew out the faces of his father and mother and a handful of the more notable nannies and governesses that had passed through their grand cold house in the English countryside before he proceeded to detail the excruciatingly intellectual nature of his parents and close family, something which brought them wealth and respect but also caused them all to grow up somewhat distant, separated, from all else but each other and those of similar mindsets.
"I always enjoyed an unusually close relationship with my parents," he had explained, smiling nostalgically. "They were more of my colleagues than my parents at all, to be perfectly honest…" He had trailed off. "…unfortunately now we rarely speak; or at least certainly not as much as I would like but…they're still living across the pond, and, well…things have changed, so to speak."
Alfred had blinked at him in that disarmingly interested fashion of his.
"Like how?"
Arthur evaded the question by enthusiastically launching into the tales of his scholarly experiences, which were approximately as follows: he had attended the finest private schools his parents could provide, of course, and there developed not only a fantastic classical education but a taste for language, literature, and, most of all, film. The movies positively enchanted him, he had thirsted for them in a way that he couldn't hope to explain, and most of all he had been enraptured by the idea of the structure behind the movement and the dialogue performed, wondered how it was created so carefully that life could be blown into it but it's delicate structure wouldn't shatter, and it was with that question in mind that he began to experiment with his first screenplays. He explained to Alfred that he turned sixteen just as his parents sent him to an international European boarding school to culture himself (or so Arthur chose to put it; he hoped Alfred wouldn't perceive the hesitation in his tone before the lie), and immediately upon arrival had fallen in with Francis, because despite his overwhelming French qualities he was a brilliant aspiring director, and Elizaveta, a fiercely passionate Hungarian hopeful actress. Not a week had passed before the three of them were absolutely inseparable, and they had plotted their lives around each other every since. And thus, ten years and a handful of failed or poor attempts at success later, there they were, scampering among the remains of a grand cultural empire attempting to revive a film from the ruins.
Alfred gazed at him pensively for a moment. Arthur raised an eyebrow.
"Was that satisfactory?"
"Totally, man," Alfred tapped his lower lip as if he were debating something in his mind. "But…there's just one thing that doesn't add up…"
"Oh, so now you're a detective?"
"Whoa, man," Alfred held up his hands with a slightly smile. "Just bear with me, bear with me. You said your parents sent you to boarding school to culture yourself, but that doesn't make sense – you were already cultured to the point where you felt socially superior, you said so yourself. And it's not like there weren't a ton of great schools in your area, you said that yourself, too. So what gives?"
Arthur felt his mouth go rather dry. Alfred's perceptive qualities had suddenly proven themselves to be much more than passing amusements.
"W-well…" he stammered. "I was perhaps paraphrasing a touch…"
"Arthur," Alfred had his head titled to one side curiously; Arthur bit down on his lower lip. "Come on, what's the legit reason? Seriously, dude, it can't be that weird, it's just a choice of school. And if it is, don't worry about it, I promise I won't tell. I'll even swear on the brotocol, okay?"
"Please never use that word in my presence again," murmured Arthur distractedly as he weighed his options. Alfred chuckled.
"Sure, sure, whatever you like," Alfred's voice fell abruptly serious. "Arthur, come on now, why did you really go to boarding school?"
Arthur shut his eyes for moment; he knew that at one point Alfred was going to have to know, and it was better, he supposed, that it be sooner than later. There really was nothing else for it.
"Well, Alfred," he sighed. "I say I went to boarding school but perhaps it was really more like was compelled to…to go to boarding school, or even…or even sent to boarding school, though that may be an exaggeration. You see, Alfred, when I was nearly sixteen, I…well," he paused, and bravely met Alfred's gaze. "I came out."
Alfred was quiet and, fueled by adrenalin and gin, Arthur charged ahead.
"Y-you see, I'd known for a while but nobody else really did, and it wasn't so much that my parents had this enormous problem with it as it was that it made them faintly uncomfortable…I guess they realized there was something they didn't know about me and…well, I don't know. They didn't like it. Anyways, they weren't the same to me afterwards, but that wasn't really what caused the whole boarding school thing. When the kids at my school found out, er, well I did the thing rather on the spot, without planning it out, and it was terribly melodramatic, really, but I digress…so anyways, they all sort of knew at once, the kids at my school, I mean, and some of them were okay about it, but some of them…well, they weren't, to put it lightly. I suppose, to give them credit, my parents were worried about me, but I suspect that they also found it a relief to be able to ship me away so they wouldn't have to deal with my…curious new development, I believe was what they called it. That's why I can never decide on the right bloody verb to use regarding my decision to go away to school," he took a deep breath. "But that's how it happened. That's why I went away. And it was the best thing that's ever happened to me…so…well…that's that, I suppose."
Alfred was quiet for another moment and Arthur felt a faint twinge of fear in his gut. Was Alfred going to be angry? Confused? Upset that he had allowed Arthur to sleep over at his apartment, to use his shower, to wear his clothes, to see him shirtless, only a few nights before? Would he find it revolting? Could he be one of those men who believed that Arthur would fall to his knees and beg to suck his cock at the snap of his fingers? And just as Arthur began to feel dangerously dizzy from the combination of alcohol and panic, Alfred smiled and clapped him on the shoulder with the same painful enthusiasm as always.
"Wow, man, I have to say, I really respect you," he was beaming. "I mean, maybe it's because I live in California and stuff, and there's Matt and all, but…it was so easy for me that I can't imagine what it would be like to go through all that. I truly admire you."
Arthur felt the headiness brought on by his panic and faint drunkenness halt for a moment. What was that? What was so easy for Alfred? Surely he couldn't mean…
"Surely you can't mean…"
Alfred stared at him for a minute, seeming confused, before a grin exploded across his face. "What? Are you telling me that you haven't figured it out yet? Dude, I can't believe it! After I dragged you all over the city and to dinner and a movie and my apartment and everything? What did you think I was trying to accomplish?" His face shone with absolute glee. "Oh, man, dude, this is so hilarious!"
"Wait, hold on, Alfred," Arthur's mouth was bone-dry and he sorely missed his gin. "H-haven't figured out what, exactly?" What was Alfred trying to imply? Surely not…
"Well, Arthur, since you're really this thick, I guess I'll have to tell you." Without warning, Alfred stared straight at him, and Arthur felt the lightheadedness come rushing back. "I'm totally - "
"Alfred, dude, whatre'ya doin' over here with boring-ass ol' Arthu-u-r?" Gilbert slurred upon abruptly appearing over the arm of the sofa and hooking his elbows beneath Alfred's armpits, actually lifting him from the sofa. "C'mon, les'go have some fun, hm? It's gonna be fu-fucking awesome, the most fucking awesome you've ever, like, fucking seen, dude!" And, having apparently taken full advantage of the somewhat superhuman strength that massive quantities of alcohol can sometimes lend to a person, Gilbert then proceeded to physically drag Alfred away from the sofa, leaving a very stunned Arthur in his wake.
It was so easy for me that I can't imagine what it would be like to go through that.
What, pray tell, Alfred, was so easy for you? Could he have possibly mistaken Arthur's meaning?
After I dragged you all over the city and to dinner and a movie and my apartment and everything? What did you think I was trying to accomplish?
Arthur daren't even begin to interpret the significance of this; taken in context with the rest of the conversation what he discovered could prove much too dangerous.
I'm totally -
Well, Arthur could very well guess what that last syllable was. He found that he couldn't justify the high color in his cheeks by the amount of gin he had drunk. His heart was pounding faster and more erratically than he liked to admit.
Arthur didn't see Alfred for the rest of the night, and as he drove a thoroughly plastered Francis, reduced to snoring on the dashboard, back to their apartment, he considered the idea that perhaps it was a good thing that Alfred was gone to Europe for a week.
Arthur, for one, certainly had some thinking to do.
OMGEEEE U GAIZ LIEK EVERYBODY'S GAY!1111!11! WHAT A SURPRISE. AT LEAST THEY TALKED ABOUT IT BEFORE FALLING INTO BED TOGETHER.
WAIT…or are they? Poor Alfred never got to finish his sentence!
WELL, IT SEEMS YOU'LL JUST HAVE TO FIND OUT.
AND FIND OUT YOU WILL.
To be honest, I edited this chapter rather hurriedly so I apologize for any glaring grammar mistakes.
Ahem. Anyways. Veritable mountains of author's notage here. I do apologize. Translations are, for the most part, in chronological order as they appear in the text.
Francis' French at the beginning:
Oh, I had fun with this. Basically, what you need to know is that Francis refers to Arthur as his wife (ma femme) and as the feminine form of 'my dear' (ma cherie, ma cherie femme). You may have noticed that when he finally refers to him in the masculine case again, Arthur notes it aloud.
Otherwise, s'il te plaît, je ne puis endurer un moment plus de ceci! please, I can't stand a moment more of this!
cela = that, in reference to the pinch on the ass, xD, and then later on, eh bien entendu. = well of course.
Antonio and Romano Have Their Not-quite-consensual Fun: (prose intervals omitted)
-The muffled ring of a telephone against a background of heavy metal music-
Romano – "Antonio…the telephone…it's…hey, lemme go, I have to get it!"
Antonio – "Mm, bitty tomato, a/n ignore it; don't you see that there are more important things to do…"
Romano – "Shut up, you bastard, what do you think you're doing? I can't – mmf – I can't waste my time with you like this – nng – fuck you! you son of a royal old bitch, don't you see that…idiot! stop it, I've told you before, don't kiss me there!...Antonio, the telephone…I have to get it…
Antonio – "Mmm, come on, my bitty tomato, a/n nothing more than a kiss, please, then I won't ask for more, I promise! But now, please, don't leave me, I want you to stay here with me for a bit more…"
Romano – "But…but somebody's calling us and…and…ahh, Antonio, IF YOU DON'T STOP THAT I'M GOING TO RIP YOU TO SHREDS!"
-Prose Interval- (Note – c'est moi et mes amis = it's me and my friends)
Romano – "W-what, is there someone at the door?"
Antonio – "Romano, I've told you already, ignore it and put your attention on me and the love I'm about to give you!"
Romano – "But they'll see us - "squeal "WHAT ARE YOU DOING? DON'T TOUCH ME THERE!"
A/N – Bitty tomato is a very poor translation of 'pomodorito', a little construction of mine made up of the Italian word for 'tomato', pomdoro, and the suffix –ito, which in both Spanish and Italian adds a diminutive or even, so to speak, adorable connotation to a word. Perfect for your uke and just all around too cute, amirite u gaiz?
Other Translations from that section: (there are quite a lot, sorry)
Bienvenidos todos = welcome, all
…querido Alfred, our chico de oro = beloved Alfred, our boy of gold (not to be confused with 'golden boy', which is colloquial and has a different Spanish translation…ahhhgod I'm a nerd…)
C'est certainement une addition nouvelle = that's certainly a new addition…
Accidenti! I miei pulcini, tranquillo, tranquillo! I miei cari, non vi preocupiate, sta bene, sta bene, vi lo prometto! = Damn! My chicks, calm, calm! My dears, don't worry yourselves, it's alright, it's alright, I promise!
De verdad nunca deja de asombrarme = Honestly he never ceases to amaze me…(meaning Gil)
La ciudad de amor = the city of love (referring to Paris, of course)
Claro, claro = sure, sure
Eso es = Colloquial, roughly equivalent to "that's that" or "that's it".
One more bit of French: (from the car scene)
Oui, je le sais meilleur que quelqu'un = yes, I know better than anyone
And if you, as a reader of Hetalia fanfiction, don't know what 'mon ami' means by now, I weep for you.
That's all the translations, I think. Tell me if I missed something. BUT HARK, DESPAIR NOT, THE AUTHOR'S NOTAGE CONTINUES!
A/N – I am fully aware that Hungarians speak…well, Hungarian. But because of her (historical) associations with Gilbert and Roderich, I believe Elizaveta would also understand German, especially the angry kind.
A/N – Los Angeles, in Spanish literally the angels but designed to signify city of the angels, was of course first dubbed by Spanish explorers and colonizers, explaining why Antonio takes such pains to roll the name from his tongue.
A/N – Gilbert and Antonio share a mansion because they are heterosexual life partners. Yessss. Er…Gilbert is straight, I can't say the same for Antonio, but he has his Romano and isn't going to go trying to give Gil a taste of his own medicine by invading his vital regions anytime soon…xD
A/N – WHOA POLITCAL COMMENTARY. Through Alfred, I am effectively slapping you right in the face with my entirely unabashed opinion. Sorry, I couldn't resist - I'm very angry with Washington and both political parties. We democrats are being terribly self-righteous and obnoxious; the republicans are being stubborn to a fault. Really, America, we are acting like children. We must be driving poor Uncle Sam up the wall. This behavior could very well lead to the decline that I've attempted to portray through…well…yaoi. I guess that's one way to assert your opinion. Somehow I doubt any of this will reach Washington's ears, though…perhaps if FDR was still in office (SUCH a USUK fanboy, u gaiz), yes, but now…I repeat, doubtful. xDD
Etcetera: In case there's any confusion, nobody go calling the sexual harassment police on Antonio. Romano, being a tsundere, only pretends to dislike his treatment when really, he gets off on it as much (if not more) than its perpetrator. xDD
Oh, and did anyone watch The Fairly Odd Parents as a kid? If so, do you remember the scene where Cosmo's all like, "don't cook bacon without a shirt on!" and then proceeds to do so? DUDE. That was totally my inspiration for the shirtless!Alfred scene! SERIOUSLY!1111!1! Well, that, and I am a pathetic, drooling, ALFRED fangirl and therefore love nothing quite like I love describing his body. xD
I think…that's…possibly…all I have to say. Whoa. These notes were really more translations than opinion or historical fact; I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not.
Anyways, the next chapter, in which Alfred is in Paris, Arthur is still in LA, and everybody, especially Elizaveta, does some plotting, will be here next Saturday (after I start school, bwaaaa). If you review, you will receive one of Romano's laciest garter belts.
Until then, my dears, ADIEU.