So u gaiz. I just realized.
This fic is long. Really long. Already. About that…
Thank you guys so much for actually bothering to keep up with it and such. I can promise that my other work will *probably* not be *quite* so long-winded.
This being said,
In Brief: Off to London with our quartet, and…yeah. It's London. That's the point.
Of Interest: I have been to London several times, and on the second occasion I actually lived there for a pretty substantial part of the year while my parents worked at museums and universities in the area. Unfortunately, we left just as I was beginning to pick up a bit of a British twang…*sigh*.
Anyways, I love the city, and I have lots of favorite places to where I have selfishly decided to direct Alfred and Arthur. They are as follows:
Trafalgar Square: This one is pretty famous; I can't imagine that someone doesn't know about this. There's a big column and a lot of pigeons. It's pretty kewl.
The National Gallery: An art museum that is sort of at the back of Trafalgar Square, depending on how you look at it. My parents made my brother and I go to (almost) all the galleries in London on multiple occasions in an effort to turn us nice and intellectual. XD Seriously, though, it's a great museum. Though perhaps not as cool as The British Museum. They have mummies; LEGIT MUMMIES! Imagine being a kid and seeing mummies. It was pretty much the shit.
Gah, I sound so touristy. I really do still remember the entire tube system. If it weren't for the accent I could have been mistaken for a native.
*shifts awkwardly*
St. Martin in the Fields: A church to the side of Trafalgar Square that (at least when I was nine years old), had renovated its old crypt and turned it into a tea shop, among other things; I used to go there all the time. I understand that, since then, it has undergone some renovations, but I'm not sure of the state it's in now…does anybody know?
And, at the very end of this chapter Alfred and Arthur go to this park that I really do remember, but only very vaguely, so…it might not actually exist, or at least no how I see it. I remember it being on the far side of the Thames, and that it had a lovely view of the city and was kind of semi-lit by very…yellow lamps (trippy XD). I can't remember the name and we only went once. Therefore, my sincerest apologies to all readers across the pond if it seems that I have completely made this up – I was only a kid, have some mercy!
Other notes (not many; don't worry, haha) after the text.
And without further ado, chapter seven!
It was not the first time that Arthur had woken with the smell of Alfred in his nose, but that morning, when he stirred between the sheets, he found that he also wore it wound through his hair, heavy at the base of his neck, daubed behind his ears like some sort of perfume, etched across the pads of his fingertips, lingering in the soft hollows of his inner thighs, all across every inch of his skin; he was positively drenched in it, and Alfred's arm still hung across his waist, hot and heavy and possessive, his elbow biting into his stomach a little but not so much that it compelled Arthur to shift and risk upsetting the delicate balance they seemed to have struck between themselves and the mattress. He blinked up and saw Alfred's chin, the line of his jaw hazy with stubble, eventually registering that his glance was both received and returned, and finally decided that Alfred was indeed awake when he felt lips press against his temple and a palm lazily brush at his hair.
"We have to get up," Arthur whispered eventually. "I haven't even got a suitcase."
He felt Alfred's shoulders shift against him as he sighed. "I suppose you're right."
"Of course I'm right," murmured Arthur. His nose rested at Alfred's collarbone. "So let's get to it, then."
Still neither of them moved. Arthur sighed – Alfred was so heavy and warm and secure surrounding him, and the feel of his arms lulled him towards sleep again, and though the morning pierced the curtains in thick bands of light, how important was London, anyways, when he was so tired and comfortable and so helplessly trapped between the sheets? He wouldn't be able to even rest his forehead against Alfred's shoulder during the flight, he considered grudgingly; the paparazzi would be there and therefore all of Alfred's affection would need to seem to belong to Elizaveta. What an unpleasant thought.
"Arthur," said Alfred softly, a hint of laughter in his voice. "Don't tell me I'm going to have to force you to do something that neither of us wants to do. That's role reversal in the extreme, man."
Arthur snorted; that comment was certainly enough to rouse him, and he pushed at Alfred's chest, the sheets falling to his navel.
"You make me sound like some sort of rapist," he grumbled as he kicked his legs over the edge of the bed. "Grow up a little, why don't you?"
Alfred grinned. "Oh, but I just did, Artie - by your doing, no less."
Arthur glared at him, a smile toying at the corners of his mouth all the same. "Sod off. Fucking virgin."
Alfred laughed and skipped off towards the kitchen, reminding Arthur in a halfway-singsong voice that that insult no longer applied, not anymore! and that the idea of a fucking virgin was an oxymoron, anyways. As he attempted to work out some of the wrinkles from his trousers, Arthur replied that he was surprised to see that Alfred even understood the term, and with an exasperated sigh gave up on looking presentable and found another one of Alfred's shirts that almost fit his shoulders, buttoning himself up deftly as he went to the kitchen.
Alfred was bent over the table, still in only his boxers, stuffing his cheeks with cereal and a banana and somehow managing to chug his coffee at the same time. Arthur wrinkled his nose at the smell and went to Alfred's cupboards without waiting for permission, rummaging around until he had accumulated something that roughly resembled breakfast, at which point Alfred had already disappeared back into the bedroom to get dressed. When Arthur had finished eating, he followed, and they shared the bathroom mirror, shaving and brushing their teeth together in an oddly domestic fashion, despite the fact that this was the first time they had spent the night together as…lovers? Arthur winced at himself when he thought the word; it not only sounded positively ridiculous, but didn't seem to suit their relationship at all. The sex didn't seem like a rendezvous or a tryst, nor was it something to be whispered about or tiptoed around. Instead it was…a statement, yes, it could definitely be called that, Arthur tentatively decided as he washed the extra shaving cream from his chin and stole a brief glance at Alfred; he was arranging the hair across his forehead and, without thinking, Arthur licked his thumb and pushed a flyaway strand into place with a soft cluck of his tongue, pausing only when he realized what he had done, heat rising about his neck and ears. Alfred blinked, grinned, caught Arthur's frozen hand in his and kissed him briefly, nothing more than a brush of lips and chin and the heady scent of aftershave.
Arthur swatted him lightly when he chuckled and leaned back again, still smiling, and skipped from the bathroom to go arrange his suitcases.
No, the term lovers definitely wouldn't do at all.
Elizaveta's embrace made his ribcage crack forebodingly; she would never learn to curb her enthusiasm, and Arthur turned his attention to Francis when she went to kiss Alfred for the cameras, briefly allowing himself to remember that little moment in the bathroom, to recall the hint of aftershave that still lingered at his jaw, as a means of distracting himself from how she clutched at Alfred's face, seeing as Arthur did know that it was really all a ruse, and even supported it, but nevertheless still rather envied her – had he and Alfred been a normal couple, he would have probably avoided any public displays of affection at whatever cost, but in their particular situation he found himself longing to simply reach across the space between them and take his hand or elbow, even if perhaps this was merely because he knew he couldn't.
For better or for worse, Francis served as a means of distracting his attention.
"Arthur," he exclaimed as they reached security and began to take off their shoes and load their carryon luggage onto the conveyor belt. "I have just noticed. Where…" he paused, raising an eyebrow. "Where is your baggage?"
Arthur swallowed. "I…er…I haven't got any."
Francis' eyebrow arched higher. "You haven't?"
"No," said Arthur shortly, fishing his wallet from his trousers and placing it in one of the grey plastic bins along with his shoes, which Francis suddenly seemed much too interested in.
"Those shoes…" he murmured, tapping his chin. "They are the same ones you wore yesterday, are they not?"
Arthur tried to hurry forwards, but people had begun to realize that they were in the presence of America's shiniest golden couple and had begun to form little gaggles at the sides of the line.
"Are they really?" he tried to sound absentminded. "I hadn't noticed."
He glanced behind him and found that Francis was now unabashedly staring at his behind. Arthur glared.
"My eyes are up here," he hissed, gesturing at his face. Francis chuckled.
"I'm well aware, mon cher. It's just…" he paused again. "Correct me if I am wrong, but those seem to be the very same pair of pants you wore yesterday…surely, however, I am mistaken."
"Indeed you are," snapped Arthur as he stepped through the metal detector. "I have a lot of similar-looking trousers."
"I'm sure you do," Francis murmured after he had emerged from the other side and begun unloading his things from the conveyor belt. He followed Arthur to one of the airport benches, tied his shoelaces, ran his fingers through his hair, and stood up with a smirk. "So, how was he?"
Arthur flushed and concentrated on his shoes. "Stop speaking in French, you know I can't understand you."
Francis chuckled. "Did I slip into my native tongue? Forgive me; I didn't even notice."
"Well, I did."
"But even so," Francis paused, presumably for effect. "I somehow feel that you've gotten the message."
"I most certainly have not."
Francis rolled his eyes. "Fine then, I will translate…was he a good fuck, or no?"
Arthur made a strangled little noise and Francis' smirk deepened.
"Forgive me, mon ami, but English is simply so much more vulgar than my lovely tongue that I'm afraid that was the best translation I could manage."
"Translate this," snapped Arthur, tearing off down the airport hallway in pursuit of the camera flashes and gaggles of people which indicated that Alfred and Elizaveta weren't far away. "Sod off."
"I would, but I don't know how. Still, perhaps you could teach me, Arthur," drawled Francis as he followed him towards their terminal. "Having just come from doing so, after all."
Arthur glanced behind his shoulder to glare and Francis fell silent, though the smirk persisted throughout the boarding process, only fading when they got to their seats and he discovered that they were arranged in a fashion that was not conductive to his little games with the flight attendants. Arthur rolled his eyes and buckled his seatbelt; they were seated four to a row, Francis at the window (where he could not tug at pencil skirts or make simpering faces or drop little strings of French on unsuspected stewardesses and stewards alike), Arthur next to him, Alfred second to last, and Elizaveta on the aisle, where she could easily hand out autographs and look glowingly in love for the photographers.
Once they had taken off, Alfred eased down his tray table and slipped a hand under it; Arthur jumped slightly when he felt a palm press against his knee but said nothing, merely glanced cautiously at Francis, who was gazing forlornly out the window, then lowered his own table and snuck his hand beneath it to wind his fingers with Alfred's. He received a brilliant smile in return and gave a little cough, averting his eyes so as not to seem to obvious, as though someone were scrutinizing them for even the slightest sign of homosexuality, which was of course a ridiculous idea.
Alfred clearly did not labor under the same delusion; in fact, as gaggles of people made their pilgrimages up and down the aisles of the plane in search of their precious moment with the golden couple, he signed autographs and posed for snapshots one-handed, even managing to maintain a steady rhythm with the pad of his thumb over the back of Arthur's hand, back and forth, back and forth, scribble your signature, smile big and wide, that's right, look like you love her even though beneath the tray table you're holding (stroking, pressing, comforting) the hand of the man who took your virginity the night before. Lights, camera, action. That's a wrap. And the Oscar goes to…
Eventually, when the hubbub surrounding Elizaveta and Alfred had died down, Arthur even dared to speak to him, and though they hardly whispered sweet nothings in each other's ears, choosing instead to discuss the quality of the airplane food (dreadful, despite their first class position) and the plots of the in-flight movies (also dreadful, perhaps owed to the fact that they were all recent American productions) at least they were talking, laughing, and even if they were perhaps smiling at each other a bit too much, they could have easily passed for friends. And still, their hands remained intertwined beneath their tray tables, a tacit reminder of what was what in the decidedly vexing entire scheme of things.
"London in the morning," murmured Alfred as the cabin lights flickered out around them, plunging them into dimness punctured occasionally by the soft artificial glow of a reading lamp. Arthur couldn't help but to smile in excitement.
"To be honest, I'm excited to see her again," he said softly. "It's been too long, much too long."
Francis had fallen asleep with his cheek resting on the flat of his fingers and Elizaveta was deeply immersed in one of her (admittedly rather questionable) Hungarian romance novels. The cabin was quiet but not silent, rustling with the quiet noises of people shifting and breathing and murmuring to each other in voices that seemed to be afraid to break the confines of an undertone.
"I wish I could kiss you," sighed Alfred, so quietly that Arthur wasn't entirely sure he had heard it at all.
"I'm sorry?"
"You heard what I said." Alfred pressed his palm beneath the tray tables to reinforce the words. Arthur glanced up nervously, his eyes inevitably drawn to the bow of Alfred's lips, bent into a pensive little frown. He swallowed.
"I probably wouldn't have let you even if it weren't for all this," he gestured around them rather helplessly. "I've never been much for public affection and such. I don't want to draw unpleasant attentions to myself. But still…" he trailed off. "I'd like to have the option of pushing you away, at least."
Alfred was silent for a moment, then he grinned at him.
"One day, you will. Soon, okay?"
Arthur sighed and returned the smile as best he could.
"Yeah, Alfred," he whispered. "One day. Soon."
Despite his conscious decision to relocate to America with Francis and Elizaveta in order to escape the weight of the memories that the entire continent of Europe plagued him with, Arthur couldn't help but smile when he gazed out the airplane window onto the turnpike and took in the overcast sky and the damp sheen that there was to the pavement. The general grey tone of the landscape sharply defined the green of the plots of grass that dotted the runways, and little lines of rain spattered their windows periodically but without much enthusiasm; Arthur considered that in America, a rainstorm was an event, a grand spectacle, never really anything less than a downpour even when it was only a drizzle, while in England, rain was a constant, something you brushed from your hair or the lenses of your glasses without a second thought - humble, quiet, reliable, entirely unexciting - a routine, and, at least at that moment, a comfort. Arthur smiled.
"Man, does the sun ever shine around here?" muttered Alfred, craning his neck to get a glimpse out the window and wrinkling his nose. Arthur answered him with a roll of his eyes as they began to stand up to arrange their carryon luggage and file towards the exit of the plane. Francis was uncharacteristically ruffled and wiped the sleep from his eyes with the back of his palm as they gradually progressed through the aisle, half of his silk shirt hanging untucked from his trousers. Elizaveta and Alfred held hands and smiled for the paparazzi and Arthur tried not to notice and to look at least moderately cheerful, though none of the cameras winked for him.
He was gratified to see that the good people of his home country were not nearly as excited to see Hollywood's golden couple as the Americans had been; in fact, Elizaveta and Alfred were spared nothing more than a handful of casual glances and a little whispering as they passed through the airport and towards the baggage claims, although a little horde of paparazzi still trailed behind them, their cameras snapping viciously every so often. Arthur sighed lightly, wondering if this would be the case throughout the trip, as they fetched their bags and went to hail a taxi to take them to their hotel.
However, his heart lightened considerably when they stepped outside and, taking a deep breath through his nose, he was able to taste the city again on the air. There was nothing quite like it, no exact replica of the combination of rain and exhaust and something that was not quite tangible but doubtless very, very old, that filled the air around and within London. Occasionally during his travels Arthur would catch something that roughly resembled that flavor on the tip of his tongue, but it was never exact, and he smiled despite himself, admitting that it was somewhat good to be back.
They piled into the taxi, Francis taking the front with Alfred squeezed – ironically – between Arthur and Elizaveta, though it was Arthur who felt the flat of Alfred's palm press against his thigh and glared before he allowed himself to smile and relax just a little bit as they left the suburbs and began to drive further into the city, the buildings and the sidewalks streaming together outside their window like watercolors painted in thick strokes, thin browns and grays and muted blues running into one color with the help of the persistent drizzle.
"It's so dreary," sighed Francis from the front. "Where is the beauty? The spirit? Et surtout, oú est le amour?"
"Shut it, Francis," snapped Arthur, and Francis chuckled, leaning back to cast him a long look.
"Protective, I see," he smirked. "But I thought you and London had severed relations long ago. Don't tell me you are still attached!"
Arthur rolled his eyes, perhaps a little exaggeratedly. "It's a city, Francis - not a lover, as you might like to believe."
Francis had opened his mouth to counter that statement with some undoubtedly melodramatic and breathy contradiction when Alfred interrupted him to ask Arthur if something had happened in London to make him…(here he hesitated) sever relations, as Francis had put it. Arthur waved his hand dismissively and told him that it was nothing important, just family issues which he didn't like to recall and which Francis very much liked to exaggerate when there was nothing else around to occupy his free time. Alfred bit down on his lower lip and his brow crinkled and he didn't seem to entirely believe him, but Arthur pressed his palm rather forcibly and he pursued the subject no further.
They arrived at their hotel not much later, and Arthur was both privately happy and obviously embarrassed to be told by Elizaveta that, with a little tiptoeing around, he and Alfred could successfully occupy the enormous suite that had originally been designated for the golden couple, while she and Francis took the single rooms - they just had to keep up a rather complicated, though not undoable, pretense of entering and leaving in front of the cameras. Alfred beamed and gave Elizaveta a high-five while Arthur blushed and stuttered his thanks, trying to ignore Francis' smirking and chuckling and the half-muffled kissing noises he made every once in a while.
They soon discovered that the suite was extravagant to a ridiculous extent; it must have been at least three times the size of Arthur and Francis' apartment and featured every commodity that one could ever possibly need under any circumstances. Needless to say, Alfred found this entirely thrilling, so while he marveled at the electric kettle and excitedly perused the minibar, Arthur set about arranging their luggage and making sure everything was in its place. He finished fluffing the pillows and stepped back to admire his handiwork as Alfred let out a cry of delight upon discovering the presence of a television mounted above the bathtub.
"Dude, Arthur, do you see that?" he cried, barreling back into the bedroom. "We could be watching Monty Python and taking a bath at the same time!"
Arthur rolled his eyes.
"Yes, it's all very thrilling – except that I can only wish you good luck with finding Monty Python still running on any station whatsoever. You honestly couldn't think of any other British television program?"
Alfred shrugged. "The Office – but ours is better anyways. And besides, it's the idea of watching TV in the tub that's so exciting."
"Mm, I'm sure," Arthur turned around to give the pillows one last definitive fluffing. "Still, you're more suited to CBeebies than anything else, I'm afraid."
"I feel like that's an insult," said Alfred slowly. "But I'm not sure."
Arthur smirked. "I'll leave you to puzzle it over."
Alfred pouted. "You're mean."
"I know, dear," sighed Arthur, turning from the bed again and smiling at his handiwork. "You poor thing, being around a cantankerous old grouch such as myself - how do you possibly survive such frequent exposures to actual maturity?"
Alfred's pout curved upwards slightly at the edges. "I'll show you, Artie!" he cried, and suddenly sprung towards the bed, landing smack in the middle and upsetting the meticulous arrangement of the sheets and pillows, somehow grabbing Arthur's hand as he did so and pulling him along, arms locking around his waist to secure him to his chest. "Just like this!"
Arthur sighed, not even bothering to try and escape because he knew any effort he made would be in vain, and Alfred grinned triumphantly.
"Look, you great oaf, now you've upset my pillows," said Arthur eventually, his voice muffled because half his face was pressed into the fabric of Alfred's shirt. "If you'd so kindly let me get up to fix them…"
He felt rather than saw Alfred shake his head above him, and could very easily envision the grin still spread wide across his face.
"Alfred, you know, this is really quite uncomfortable. If you would be so kind as to adjust our position…"
Alfred obliged to rearrange them so that Arthur was pressed against the mattress while Alfred hovered above him, propped up on his elbows with half his weight still pressing down on Arthur's lower body, warm and heavy. Arthur sighed again.
"This isn't what I had in mind."
"Geez, you're high maintenance," Alfred murmured, reaching for his hand, which rested beside the pillow. "Nothing I can do is good enough, eh?"
"Yes, I'm afraid I'm a regular Kate Middleton," Arthur sighed, allowing Alfred to wind their fingers together.
"A regular who?"
Arthur smiled. "Well, it was a rather long time ago. I'm not surprised you Americans have already forgotten. But at the time, you were in quite an uproar," he patted Alfred's cheek affectionately. "Let's just say I'm a regular princess, so cruel and demanding with my brave hero."
"Mm, I'll say," Alfred yawned, and suddenly he splayed himself entirely across Arthur, pressing his face into the crook of his neck, his mouth warm against his jugular. "Dude, I'm so jetlagged. Let's sleep, m'kay?"
Arthur chuckled softly, bringing a hand up to run his fingers through the hair at the nape of Alfred's neck. "Unfortunately, we've got things to do…such as purchase an entirely new wardrobe, seeing as I have little else but a borrowed shirt and some trousers…which was originally your suggestion, lest you should forget."
Alfred lifted his face to stick his tongue at him and tell him that he really was awfully high maintenance before he returned to nuzzling the crook of his shoulder.
"Yes," Arthur chuckled, managing to press his lips to the back of Alfred's head. "I'm positively awful, aren't I, poppet?"
He felt Alfred's frown against his neck. "Did you just call me poppet?"
"Well, you're acting like a child," Arthur tried to sit up and only succeeded in making Alfred grunt and burrow further into his shoulder. "Honestly, must you always be like this?"
"Hey," Alfred murmured. "You can hardly blame me. I had to sit next to you for eight hours barely touching you. I couldn't even tease you or anything, and you're so cute when you're angry and all," he was obviously on the verge of sleep, scarcely mumbling into Arthur's neck. "Cut me some slack for wanting a little extra to compensate."
Arthur swallowed. Must Alfred always be so endearingly genuine? And he was so warm and heavy and hard to shake off, reminding Arthur of his own tiredness and helping him to forget that they really did have things to do, places to go, people to see, etcetera, etcetera…again he frowned to remember that the moment they stepped from their hotel room, he couldn't even hold Alfred's hand despite the fact that they weren't planning on going anywhere for business until the next day.
"Shut up, you sound ridiculous," he muttered, pushing gently against Alfred's shoulder and receiving nothing more than a low chuckle in reply. "Come on, I'll tell you what. I give you a kiss, and then you let us go out and do what we have to. Sound fair?"
This proposition seemed to pique Alfred's interest, and he lifted his face from the crook of Arthur's shoulder, his glasses askew across his face, blinking at him tiredly, but contentedly and curiously, a gentle smirk curving his mouth.
"Sounds fair."
"Alright then," Arthur managed to struggle into something that could resemble an upright position, cupping his hand around Alfred's chin and pulling him forwards.
"Just one," he warned, turning Alfred's chin to the side to throw him off his path when he leaned towards his lips eagerly. "After which, we go."
"Yeah, yeah," Alfred nodded. "I promise."
Arthur smirked and craned his neck to kiss him properly, thoroughly, opening his mouth and reaching up to wrap one arm around his neck while the other still clutched at his chin, curving along the strong line of his jawbone and up to cup his cheek. Alfred's other hand traveled downwards to grip the small of Arthur's back and draw him closer, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, shivering against him with an obvious desperation that sent Arthur's pulse into a dizzying climb. He pulled back with a little gasp and patted Alfred's cheek, gratified to see that he was considerably flushed and had kept his eyes closed, only opening them to follow Arthur rather reproachfully when he slipped from his arms and stood up from the bed, straightening his mussed shirt and running a hand through his hair, a slight, triumphant smile on his lips.
"Keep your promise," he warned when Alfred seemed to consider flopping back down onto the pillows. "Or else I won't get back on that bed with you for the rest of the week."
Alfred glared, but he sat up nevertheless.
"You're bluffing."
"So you'd like to believe."
"You could never resist my ridiculous sex appeal."
Arthur smirked and leaned forwards to grip Alfred patronizingly by the chin.
"Just watch me, poppet," he breathed, only to whirl away when Alfred tried to force their mouths together again. Once he had gained a safe distance, he wagged a finger at him teasingly.
"I told you, Alfred, you only get one until I get some new clothes."
Alfred sighed, shaking his head from side to side as he dragged himself from the bed.
"Fine, fine," he grumbled, running a hand through his hair and straightening his shirt. "High Street Kensington?"
Arthur snorted, and Alfred merely grinned at him.
"Alright. Harrods', then."
"Oh, you're positively adorable, Alfred," said Arthur with a long roll of his eyes as he fished a jacket from Alfred's suitcase, frowning at the way the sleeves hung far over the tips of his fingers.
"Come on, Arthur, everything is on the studio!" Alfred picked up the bomber jacket that he had sequestered from the set and shrugged into the arms. "Let's go real high-end, eh?"
Arthur raised an eyebrow at him dubiously. "Even if we did charge Gil and Tony for everything…why should I?"
"Cause you're pretty and you deserve clothes that make you beautiful!"
At this, Arthur actually laughed aloud.
"I'm not a girl, Alfred."
"Fine then," Alfred stuck his tongue out at him as he opened the door and stepped out into the hall. "Handsome. Is that better?"
"Not in public," Arthur smirked, dropping his voice to a whisper even though there was nobody else in the hallway with them. "Outside that room, you can only be jealous of my fantastic, nay, irresistible, looks. No attraction allowed – that would be gay, now, wouldn't it?"
Alfred chuckled as they stepped into the elevator, glanced behind them briefly, then reached down and grabbed Arthur firmly on the ass as he passed him through the elevator doors. When he was met with Arthur's resulting fury, he merely laughed, held up his hands innocently, and explained that Arthur had said so himself, he was positively irresistible, and Alfred, for one, wouldn't be surprised if he went coloring the blood of all of Hollywood's good handsome heterosexual starlets rainbow at some point or another. Maybe something like that, he added with a wink, would finally bring some life back to the city.
If he squinted at the mirror at the right angle, Arthur could read the price tag that hung from the lapel of the suit jacket he was being forced to try on, and his frown deepened considerably, the crease between his brow becoming more pronounced.
"How does it look?" called Alfred from the other side of the curtain.
"Like Gil and Antonio are going to kill us if they ever find out," Arthur replied archly. "Or worse, force us to go make a movie deal with some all-American company."
He heard Alfred chuckle. "Very funny. They'll never know. Really, how does it look?"
Arthur sighed for his own benefit; they really weren't doing a very good job of maintaining a platonic façade, what with Alfred splayed out in what was clearly designated as the department store's husband chair, cheering Arthur on as he cycled through countless different shirts, jackets, and trousers until the floor of the fitting room was entirely lost amidst the piles of silk and tweed and corduroy.
Nevertheless, he took a moment to examine his latest ensemble: a crisp collared dress shirt tucked into sharply pleated trousers, a rather ostentatious (Alfred liked it very much) red tie, and the breathtakingly expensive dark green suit jacket, fitted neatly at his waist and accented with wide lapels and little golden buttons.
"It looks…" he hesitated. "Expensive."
"Besides that," called Alfred after a moment.
Arthur glared, despite the fact that Alfred couldn't see him. "I'm not about to bloody describe it to you, you know."
"But I wanna know what it looks like!"
"Too bad."
"Arthur, come on!"
"No."
"If you don't, I swear I'm gonna - "
"Shut it, Alfred," Arthur said sharply, shrugging out of the jacket and tossing it to the floor. "What exactly do you plan on doing about it, anyways? Are you actually going to burst in on me? Don't be preposterous." And he was halfway through the buttons on the shirt when Alfred did just that, his face falling when he saw that Arthur had already begun to take apart the ensemble.
"No fair!" he cried, apparently oblivious to the fact that he was holding the curtain open and thereby allowing half the store to get a glimpse of Arthur and his sea of discarded clothing. "Put it back on again, I didn't get to see!"
Blushing furiously, Arthur shoved him out of the room again, pulling the curtain back into place after him with a snap. He knew Alfred was likely still hovering just on the other side, so he scarcely whispered when his breathing had slowed to the point where it would allow him to deliver the appropriate lecture.
"Alfred F. Jones, do you honestly think people won't suspect anything if you go charging in on me when I'm bloody halfway naked?"
Nothing but a little snicker from the other side of the curtain. Arthur rolled his eyes.
"You really are nothing more than an overgrown child, honestly. If, and I mean if, I were to buy the damned jacket, you would get to see it on me soon enough, and without making a spectacle of yourself and drawing attention to the fact that…well, that I don't see Elizaveta around here, do you?"
Alfred was quiet for a moment, and then: "So you like the jacket?"
Arthur sighed. "It costs a fortune."
"But it would be Gil and Tony's fortune, which Elizaveta and I are totally making for them in the first place just by, like, making out for a few minutes and stuff."
"What a lovely thing to remind me of," muttered Arthur, but he smoothed and folded the jacket into his arms nevertheless, sorting through the rest of the clothing strewn across the floor to salvage a few shirts and trousers that he had also found to be acceptable and not too tremendously overpriced before he kicked the rejects into a towering pile in one corner. When he finally pushed aside the curtain again, Alfred sprung from his armchair and spread his arms wide, as if he expected some sort of embrace, while he expressed how grateful he was that his darling princess had finally emerged. A few of the other shoppers glanced up from the racks of clothes, and Arthur merely picked up the bags they had already accumulated and headed straight for checkout, not even bothering to acknowledge Alfred as he followed excitedly behind, flailing his arms and rambling about one thing or another as they paid and thanked the salesgirl, who gave them a rather curious glance as she ran their purchases but clearly didn't recognize Alfred and therefore didn't pursue whatever suspicions she had any further.
"I would never have suspected it, Alfred," sighed Arthur as they stepped from the department store back onto the street, the damp wind immediately cutting through their clothes and setting Alfred to clasping his hands together in an exaggerated display of cold. "But overall, you adhere to more gay stereotypes than I do. I've never even seen my own mother so excited about clothing," he glanced rather guiltily at the considerable collection of bags that hung at his side. "Nor have I seen her buy quite so much."
Alfred laughed, seemed to start to sling an arm around Arthur's shoulder, then obviously remembered their situation and merely grinned at him.
"It's because you're special, Artie."
Arthur raised an eyebrow rather amusedly. "So you insist on telling me. If only the American paparazzi could see us now," he smirked at Alfred as they descended the stairs to the tube stop. "Positively rabid, they are. They'd catch on right away."
"We could deny it as long as we never touched each other," protested Alfred as they slid their cards through the meters and went down towards the platform.
"Lest you should forget, you charged in on me while I was changing, under the pretenses of getting a peek at my new look, no less." The train rushed into the station, buffeting them with the stale air of the tunnel as it gradually slowed to a stop, the doors opening with a low hiss. "I think that's pretty gay under any circumstances."
Alfred shrugged as they stepped into the car and found a place to rest their mountain of shopping bags.
"Whatever. Where are we off to now, Artie?"
"I'm not sure," Arthur glanced warily at their teetering pile of purchases. "I've certainly got all I need. Is there anything you should accomplish before we start work tomorrow?"
Alfred seemed to consider for a moment.
"I'm kinda hungry," he said finally, and Arthur chuckled as he glanced at his watch.
"It's nearly teatime," he observed. "Want that I show you how afternoon tea is done properly?" he paused. "Not that you ignorant Americans have ever given it even enough thought to even bother to mess it up, come to think of it. Then again, I suppose formalities such as a schedule are hardly necessary when you're constantly heaping food into your mouth."
Alfred snorted before he surveyed Arthur warily, pushing his glasses further up on the bridge of his nose. "Do we have to go to a frilly tea parlor or something? Because that, my friend, is gay."
Arthur rolled his eyes. "I hate to admit it, but you may have a point there - luckily enough for your sake." He sighed. "I suppose can think of a few less formal places, but only on the condition that afterwards, we go do something to culture ourselves – such as a museum, perhaps. London has some really lovely galleries that I think would do you some good."
Alfred made a face but nodded nonetheless. "Fine, fine. But after that, I get to take you somewhere for dinner, okay?" he lowered his voice. "With extra long tablecloths so that I can play footsy with you and no cameras will notice."
"You should know that I would never play footsy with you under any circumstances, Alfred, much less when we're trying to look entirely heterosexual and uninvolved."
Alfred chuckled. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Anyways, I get to take you out to dinner then we're going to walk around the city, maybe to the Thames or something -"
"The Thames is an absolute shithole; why in the world would you want to see it?"
"Because, Artie!" Alfred rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. "It's the freaking Thames and I'm a dumbshit American tourist and there's the London Bridge and The Eye and Westminster Abbey all nearby and I can totally gawk at all of them at once and shout things in my obnoxious accent and embarrass you a ton!" he paused briefly for air. "God, you really area cynic. I don't know why I hang out with you."
"Yes, yes, you must be a masochist of sorts," murmured Arthur distractedly, glancing around the train to see if anyone else had picked up on their conversation; he was relieved to find that the other passengers were still engaged in their own business and returned his attention to Alfred.
"So, after we see what must be the filthiest river in history with our very own eyes, we're going to..?"
"Go back to the hotel room and have some explosive sex in our awesomely huge bed," answered Alfred unabashedly. "So long, jetlag!"
Arthur choked a little and elbowed Alfred sharply in the ribs; Alfred merely grinned dopily at him and very gallantly picked up half of the shopping bags when the train arrived at their stop, sauntering onto the platform with his one of his little tongue-in-cheek salutes, earning himself a sharp swat from Arthur as they made their way back up the escalator and onto the street.
By then a light drizzle was falling, dotting the sidewalks with little splotches of wet and sticking to the frames of Alfred's glasses as they made their way towards Trafalgar Square, the mid-afternoon traffic churning past them on the streets while people swirled through the sidewalks and byways, occasionally catching in little eddies at crosswalks or supermarkets. Alfred could do nothing but follow Arthur's lead through the streets, and Arthur didn't speak, choosing instead to appreciate the low hum of the city and the sound of his heels striking rhythmically against the damp cobblestone or pavement, though he occasionally had to very pointedly ignore Alfred when the buffoon gasped at the sight of a double-decker bus or was distracted by one of the tourist-trap kiosks set up along the sidewalk or did something else equally ridiculous and typically American.
They took their afternoon tea in a church off to the side of the square, and Alfred's restlessness was temporarily placated by the presence of scones and something hot to drink, though he whined about the lack of good coffee and, ever true to his word, attempted to play footsy with Arthur beneath the table, which of course only earned him a firm mash on the toes and a sharp glare over the rims of their mugs. Once they had finished (Gilbert and Antonio paid yet again), Arthur managed to drag Alfred across Trafalgar Square (with a brief stop to ogle at the brass lions, their hides chilly and wet and shining in the cold air and the rain) and towards The National Gallery, where it was at least warm and dry even if Alfred was complaining rather loudly about his level of boredom.
It was a work day, therefore almost nobody aside from a few stray tourists and a gaggle of students was perusing the galleries, and for the first time since they had left their hotel room Arthur allowed himself to relax a little bit, smile even, especially when Alfred would actually shut up for a moment to admire a painting or a sculpture, though when Arthur questioned him regarding his opinion he would immediately resume his bored and mindless façade.
Nonetheless, by the time they left the museum Arthur felt he had at least accomplished at least something along the lines of culturing Alfred. By this time, the afternoon had begun to fade into evening and the cold cut through their clothes; Arthur clasped his hands together irritably when they stepped from the museum, sighing and watching his breath burst from between his teeth in a thick white cloud.
"Christ, this weather," he hissed, rubbing his hands briskly up and down his forearms. "I've grown far too accustomed to bleeding California, I'm afraid."
"I could warm you up," offered Alfred blithely.
"Hush now, dear," replied Arthur, and they set off again into the city.
Alfred had evidently forgotten that he was well-acquainted with neither London's city planning nor her restaurants, and unfortunately it took a considerable while before he was willing to admit to this and allow Arthur to steer them towards a good place (which was to say, not featuring English cuisine) that he remembered near the Thames, which Alfred still insisted on as their final destination. By the time they arrived at the restaurant they were cold and wet and Arthur was in a yet darker mood than before, especially because he had caught the wink of a camera or two at their backs as they had made their way back through the city and knew that the British media was starting to pick up on their presence, and that soon any semblance of privacy would be entirely lost outside the walls of their hotel room.
Even Alfred seemed vaguely dispirited; he didn't even bother to complain when he saw that there were no hamburgers included on the menu and fiddled with the stem of his wine glass instead of molesting Arthur's feet beneath the table, the crease between his brow seeming to have taken up permanent residence, though, Arthur had to admit, the pensive air it added to his features certainly wasn't unbecoming, although it seemed a bit like a suit that didn't quite fit those blue eyes and soft cheeks and perpetually lopsided glasses.
They were in a fairly dark corner of the restaurant, and once the waitress had left their table, Arthur took a long sip of his wine and decided that he was going to begin the conversation this time around, though he wasn't sure exactly what to say. Alfred truly did look depressed, and it was so uncharacteristic that Arthur was suddenly worried that he had been a little too crisp, too businesslike with him, even though they were supposed to seem platonic – they still didn't know their way around each other's feelings yet and he fretted that he might have overstepped a boundary, that Alfred would equate Arthur's words and actions with what he was actually thinking.
"Penny for your thoughts, Alfred." he managed, lifting his wine glass the moment he uttered the final syllable as a means of occupying his lips. Alfred glanced up at him questioningly.
"Why the sudden interest?"
"You're quiet," replied Arthur blatantly. "And not trying to inch up my bare thigh with your toes. Therefore, I'm wondering what's gotten into you."
Alfred smiled softly. "I can't be thoughtful every once in a while?"
"Not without telling me why, no."
At this, Alfred chuckled softly. "Fair enough. I'm just…" he paused, biting down on his lower lip. "I'm trying to…y'know…um…preserve the atmosphere," he gestured around them vaguely. "…I guess. I mean, this is the last sort of…" he leaned across the table to whisper the word like a nervous schoolgirl. "Date…that we'll get to have in a while, right? So…yeah. Do you get what I'm saying?"
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "I believe so," he paused, took another sip of his wine, and pressed forwards. "Although, really, Alfred, your general…manner of being, so to speak…has always rather set the atmosphere for our excursions together, so…to try and subdue yourself is rather counterintuitive. Not to mention, our conversation may suffer because of it," he shrugged. "But this is all merely food for thought."
Alfred smiled again, focusing on swirling the wine in his glass; slowly, back and forth, with methodic little turns of his fingers. "I know. But I thought I might give you a break for a bit, y'know…after all, you are always saying that I'm immature."
"Because you are," Arthur interrupted unabashedly, but lifted a hand when Alfred shifted forwards in his seat to speak. "And though it does annoy me at times, regardless, it's part of your character," he shrugged, trying to appear noncommittal despite what he was preparing to say. "I would never…er…try to rewrite you, so to speak. That would ruin the entire mood of…this script…"It was his turn to gesture around them with no particular subject in mind. "So I suggest that you refrain from doing so as well."
Alfred blinked and it didn't slip past Arthur that the little line between his brows vanished, and (in that same metaphorical sense) he shed his crisp and uncomfortable suit almost immediately, falling back into the old bedraggled leather bomber jacket that he had stolen from the studio so long ago. The light was dim and heavy but even so Arthur was fairly sure that he saw the faintest trace of a blush at his cheeks.
"What are you staring at, you oaf?" he said sharply when Alfred merely sat there, gazing at him with blue eyes that seemed as wide as the plates on the tablecloth before them.
"Arthur…" Alfred let his name hang in the air between them for a moment before he followed it with his next thought. "That's gotta be the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
Arthur snorted and gazed into his wine to avoid meeting Alfred's gaze, feeling a touch of heat rise about his cheeks and neck as he began to fully appreciate exactly what he had just expressed - admittedly in a bit of a backwards fashion, but expressed nonetheless.
"Don't be preposterous," he muttered.
"No, I mean it," Alfred sounded earnest; Arthur didn't look up to see his face. "Thank you."
Arthur dared to glance up at Alfred and found that his breath caught a little in his throat at the sight of his expression; his entire face was overwhelmed by one of those damn grins of his, all twinkling eyes and smudged, lopsided glasses and teeth glinting in the dim glow cast by the little candle sitting on their table. The rain had dried from his hair a little funnily and it stuck up in a couple odd places, though it was still the color of gold and looked as though it would be quite soft to the touch, and in fact Arthur found that he really wanted to run his hands through it while he kissed Alfred on the forehead, which was really ridiculous because that wasn't something lovers did; it was something sweethearts did, or worse, something married couples did, most likely while they were helplessly spooning each other after mediocre sex, and Alfred and Arthur had barely had sex at all, much less given it the time required in order to get mediocre…but still more importantly, they were in public, therefore Arthur merely coughed into his napkin and averted his gaze as if refusing to look at Alfred would somehow disguise his discomfort.
"Don't get bloody used to it," he muttered, and was very grateful that the waitress arrived with their food because Alfred became much too involved with the rather daunting task of keeping his mouth constantly full to tease Arthur further. Alfred insisted on ordering dessert (again arguing that everything could be billed to Gilbert and Antonio) and Arthur only put up a halfhearted fight and stole a few spoonfuls when he thought Alfred wasn't looking, though he outright refused the very generous offer of being fed from the same fork.
They paid and stepped back out into the night, and Arthur couldn't help but smile when he felt the familiar pulse of London (he had made a lifelong acquaintance with her heartbeat while he roamed her streets with Francis and Elizaveta during their boarding school days) running through the streets and the alleyways, thrumming through the damp pavement and cobblestone, growing steadily stronger until Alfred and Arthur arrived at her heart, the Thames, the water stained with the light of the moon and the streetlamps and the metallic glitter of the Eye, almost beautiful.
"And you told me it was a shithole," Alfred sighed almost accusingly.
"It is," smirked Arthur. "At night, you can't see the shit."
This merited a little chuckle and they stood looking out on the water for a moment more before Alfred sighed again, jammed his hands in his pockets, and turned to Arthur with a bit of a pout.
"What is it, Alfred?" asked Arthur warily.
"It's so…well-lit," Alfred glanced down at him with a raised eyebrow. "Isn't there anywhere more private we can go?"
Arthur glared, taking an instinctive step backwards lest Alfred should attempt to assault him then and there.
"I don't know what you're suggesting, but if you think that I'm even so much as touching you outside the security of our hotel room, I would advise that you reconsider."
Alfred laughed. "No, no, don't get the wrong idea. It'd just be nice to be alone a little bit," he smiled reassuringly. "Maybe I would try to hold your hand. Like…if we were sitting on a bench, we could do it behind our backs so nobody could see, or something like that."
"A bench?" Arthur furrowed his brow. "Are you thinking of some sort of park?"
Alfred shrugged. "It doesn't really matter where, just some place with less light and a lot less people."
"So you want to be robbed, is that it? What a brilliant cover story that would make US Weekly. Better still if they got a picture of the thug nicking your wallet while your hand was down my trousers, hm?"
"Arthur."
"Fine, fine." Arthur sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. "I suppose that I may know of a place that fits your description. Come on."
The walk was a bit long but Arthur got the feeling that Alfred didn't dare to complain under the circumstances, seeing as he merely kept pace with Arthur's brisk stride and smiled contentedly, bobbing up and down a little with each step, hands tucked into his jacket pockets with the elbows sticking out jauntily to either side. Again, they didn't talk much, but the silence was comfortable and content, the need for conversation satisfied by their full stomachs and each other's company.
They crossed the river and cut into a park that looked out on the city and was lit only along its pathways, by streetlamps that seemed eerie in the sudden semidarkness. Arthur led Alfred down a little side route, hoping that his memory would serve him correctly, and smiled to see that he obviously still knew every inch of London as well as always: they had found themselves situated near a path that practically ran along the banks of the Thames, sparsely lit and dotted by benches (rather perfectly fitting Alfred's description, if Arthur dared say so himself). And the view was lovely, half of London spread out like a quilt before them, glowing bright and making the darkness surrounding them feel oddly special, almost sacred, which definitely lent a sense of isolation to the whole scenario even though Arthur could still hear the talk and laughter and the cars rushing by, and somehow (perhaps he was imagining it) could almost make out the gentle lapping of the river, the whisper of the water against the banks. It was a sort of fractured quiet, an urban calm, and Arthur actually found it to be quite soothing.
The surfaces of the benches were still damp from the drizzle but they sat down nonetheless, and because there were no people about and his mood was considerably lightened by the meal and by the nip of wine and by the sight of his city laid out at his feet, Arthur allowed Alfred to press him close to his side, permitted the arm he wrapped around his waist, and even twined their fingers together on his knee, throwing caution to the wind because he really was feeling perfectly content and what paparazzi would follow their trail there, anyhow?
"Not a bad idea, eh?" whispered Alfred, and Arthur realized that they were so close that he could feel his voice thrumming in his throat. Still, he didn't pull away.
"I suppose not," he murmured. "Although, Alfred, we'd hate to forget to give me a little credit for bringing you here - you'd be quite lost without me, I'm afraid."
"In more ways than one," said Alfred teasingly, and Arthur chuckled.
"At least you can admit to it."
They fell silent again, somewhat wrapped around each other and gazing out across the river, Alfred's hand tracing gently along Arthur's hipbone, his cheek rested in his hair, their breathing coming and going in little clouds of steam in the unseasonably cold air, though they themselves were quite comfortably warm, given their heavy clothing and their current position. Arthur wanted to shut his eyes and rest his head on Alfred's shoulder, but his pride protested and instead he merely brushed his thumb rhythmically up and down the backs of their joined hands, sinking into himself in a new sort of way, one that somehow allowed him to be alone yet with another person at the same time, and one that he found he liked quite a good deal.
Eventually he and Alfred glanced at each other, synchronized as though they were following some sort of direction, and Alfred smiled softly, his face cut in two by the light of the city and the shadow of the trees around them, his cheeks and the tip of his nose slightly pink from the cold and his eyes like crystals in the dark. Arthur returned the smile as best he could, and then Alfred said very quietly that he loved him and before he fully realized the situation Arthur found that he had said so right back, and they were both quiet for a moment before Alfred started stammering and Arthur started blushing and they both seemed to decide that it would be wise to keep their mouths closed for a moment so that they could gather their thoughts.
Alfred, very much in accordance with his character, broke the silence first.
"I…well I…" he said wisely; Arthur was still finding it difficult to swallow or breathe, much less speak. "I wasn't…I mean…that just sort of…"
"Slipped out," Arthur finally managed. "Without really warning you, right?"
Alfred nodded, chewing on his lower lip.
"I'm rather in the same boat," said Arthur. "But even so…" he trailed off.
"Maybe…I think that…" Alfred trailed off as well.
"Er, I…but I…"
"I meant it!" Alfred finally said, with a considerable amount of effort, and took in a great gulp of air as if he had been choking on something and had finally managed to cough it up. "I mean, I know we haven't been together very long, but…I, um…I told you before, Arthur," he paused, the color rising in his cheeks. "You make me say things that I wasn't even sure I knew myself. But…once I say them…well, I, uh…I kind of realize that they're true. And…yeah." He fell silent, surveying Arthur nervously, still biting on his lower lip, and it was a moment before Arthur recovered from his surprise enough to recall that Alfred was probably anticipating a similar confession from him.
"I…well…" he stammered. "I..er…" Much to his disgust, he found he was unable to gather the words together and frantically racked his mind for another strategy. "Alfred… you once told me that…" he took a breath in the hopes of steadying himself. "Since I can't always…well, speak my mind, I suppose…you told me that you would translate for me."
Alfred blinked, seeming confused, then nodded.
"Well…I…require your services, so to speak." And without giving Alfred time to reply, Arthur stretched up and kissed him hard, screwing his eyes shut and trying to use his mouth to express himself without words, to tell Alfred that yes, he had meant it as well, he loved him - it had only been a week but he loved him - and although it scared him to death because he had never really been in love before and didn't know where to begin, or worse, where to end, there was little he could do to change it and that was that.
He pulled away and lifted his hands to cup Alfred's face, breathing heavily and using his eyes as a means of imploring him to understand, smiling a little at the sight of his flushed cheeks and still-parted lips despite the fact that he now felt faintly sick, that his pulse was making him dizzy, that he could hear his heartbeat thudding at the backs of his ears.
Finally, Alfred smiled, didn't beam or smirk or moon at him like an idiot but truly smiled, and Arthur could have cried with relief.
"Understood," he breathed, and then he kissed Arthur, running his hands up his back to cradle the back of his head, fingers winding through his hair, surrounding him with the smell of rain and leather and the faint flavor of the coffee and chocolate he had eaten after dinner. They parted, this time both smiling like fools, and Arthur pushed at Alfred's shoulder gently.
"Idiot," he murmured, though it sounded more like an endearment. "You're going to cause a scandal. Imagine if somebody were to see us!"
"But they won't," grinned Alfred, balancing his hands on Arthur's waist. "And you started it, anyhow."
"I daresay not," Arthur snorted. "If you hadn't said that…that…that thing…" he felt himself blush deeper. "…in the first place, none of this would have happened."
"Maybe so," Alfred hummed low in his throat. "I love you, Arthur."
"You fool," answered Arthur in turn, and after another kiss he suggested that they make the journey back to their hotel for a good night's rest, at which Alfred laughed aloud and, running his hands eagerly up and down Arthur's sides, commented that he certainly had one thing on the brain now, didn't he? to which Arthur stuttered that he most certainly had not meant what Alfred was thinking but rather that the next day they would have to start work and they were already very jetlagged and therefore a thorough sleep would be optimal.
Nevertheless, they greeted the hotel bed very eagerly upon their return, and amidst the whispered conversation between the sheets and the mattress and Alfred's gentle moans and Arthur's hushed reassuring answers, always accompanied by a kiss to his cheek or collarbone and a hand run briefly through his hair, across his forehead, soothing him, reminding him of his safety, he found that the three words escaped him again, and though it terrified him that they were indeed true, he also thought that if Alfred could sit through a horror movie with him then it was only right that Arthur take a stab at being in love. And besides, when later on he found himself cocooned in Alfred's embrace between the sheets, his breath coming and going, soft and rhythmic with sleep, against his jugular, he even managed to marvel at this new kind of fear, nauseating and inconstant and thrilling and comforting and steady all in the same heartbeat, and thought that perhaps he could grow accustomed to the feeling.
UNREALISTIC LOVE CONFESSION FTW.
I know. It's only been a week for them. But…but I…I REALLY WANTED TO HAVE THE LOVE CONFESSION HERE, OKAY?
*embarrassed*
Francis' French: Et surtout, oú est le amour?"And above all, where is the love ?
CBeebies is the BBC's children's network. And…I have to admit…THOSE SHOWS ARE LIKE CRACK. You know how we all love Friendship is Magic? Well, they're kind of addictive like that, except…better. And all the characters have British accents (well, duh. But still, I find that thrilling). Does anyone know if they still show Big Cook, Little Cook? BECAUSE THAT WAS THE GREATEST THING EVER. Oh, and there was this absolutely idiotic show called…Brum, I think, about a car (which makes the sound brum brum, thus the name), and this sort of Nickelodeon-style sitcom involving a fox puppet (he is a fox, right?) called The Basil Brush Show, and, and…
…someone stop me right now.
Harrods is a fancy department store. High Street Kensington is a street full of fancy department stores.
Thank you all for putting up with my weird compulsion to write +10K words for every chapter. T_T Reviews are so very much loved.
That is all; next chapter we get a fight and flashbacks (alliteration FTW).
Until then! ^^