Hiyooo~ I decided to rethink about this and all and I thought, maybe I shouldn't really do a real parody of anything and everything under the sun like the first chapter because first and foremost, I feel too lazy to do any rereading or rewatching to get material and second, if I try to combine all the parodies I come up with it gets confusing. So! I decided to loosely base the events on random stuff that I pick up or something. I'll be using references from time to time so keep a look out on that. Anyway, I still can't do Francis and that's kinda bad seeing as he's gonna be one of them major characters here ugh. Well, have fun reading anyway.
Chapter 2: Engagement and Marriages Suck (Just ask the Brit and the German)
Arthur Kirkland suddenly felt that he was in deep trouble the moment he woke up with a throbbing headache. He knew he got himself into so much more than that. Why? Because there was this gut feeling that told him so. That churning feeling in one's stomach that tells that person he's screwed and he's done something that he'll regret till the last of his days, that's what. Only, this time, he doesn't know what he's done and that doesn't help at all. That feeling wasn't at all a good combination with his headache. Add that to the fact that he was slowly entering into a state of panic every time he slowly wakes up and his eyes truly sees and his mind registers where he is.
He wasn't in his room. Nope, he certainly isn't looking at his punk poster-covered walls. His stack of books, the superhero figurines that his best friend gave him and his shiny electric guitar that always stood by his bed was missing. Heck, he was even sure that this massive, king-sized bed wasn't his, because as far as he remembers, he was sharing a bunk bed with his younger brother Peter. Even the little urchin wasn't there, screaming at him, for which he was thankful for because he swore, if anyone were to scream at him right now, with his horrible headache, he'd punch them hard right in the face. But if he wasn't in his room, where was he?
Arthur looked around him. The room was big, that's for sure. And messy. And smelled of piss and alcohol, which only made his headache worse and made him want to vomit. All kinds of things were strewn in the room. Tons of papers and confetti, broken glass, alcohol bottles, left over fast food, toys, phones thrown around the room and a chicken clucking in the corner. Heck, there was even half of a marble statue lying below Arthur's bed. The Brit had to think for a moment. Where was he and what was he doing in a dump place like this? To be fair, it wasn't really a dump place. In fact, the room, without the mess cluttered around, looked somehow classy and sophisticated. White walls surprisingly clean of vandalism, high-class furniture that Arthur only saw in television and dared not touch and mess up even further.
He sat up on the bed and rubbed his temples in frustration. Thinking only worsened his headache even more and he thought that was already impossible. But he had to think. What did he do last night? It took him a while before he realized that his memory of most of the night was, if not completely blank, fuzzy.
All he could remember from last night was that he went out with his best friend and object of unrequited affections for the last 15 years, Alfred F. Jones in celebration of him finally, getting engaged to his girlfriend of five months, Natalya Arlovskaya, a beautiful Belarusian lady, who, Arthur would say, was one of the strangest persons he'd far as he could remember, they went out to eat at some fancy restaurant, a tradition they had been doing every time one of them had really good news to tell. No matter how busy each of their schedules are, they never failed to set a time for this tradition; dressing up formally and going to a fancy restaurant, preferably one with a good view, and have dinner together. Or simply going to each other's houses to dine over home cooked meals (although Alfred really does prefer eating out because, although he's used to it by now, Arthur's cooking was one of the most lethal things in the world, according to the American). Last night, however, after their dinner, they had agreed to go visit a bar since it was still early and that's where Arthur's memory started going haywire. He couldn't remember anything after his third glass of ale. Which is weird, not because he forgot, but because he even got to drinking three glasses. Normally he'd only drink one or half a glass because of his almost non-existent tolerance of alcohol, but of course, with the news of Alfred engaged, that certainly devastated the Brit despite his best efforts of trying to be happy for his best friend and the feeling of devastation was slowly coming back to him the more he tried to remember.
Shaking his head to forget even before he could start crying and feeling even sorrier for himself for not even going so much as to confess to Alfred, he made himself inch towards the side of the bed and get up. First, he had to clean himself. He smelled so much of alcohol that he swore it would get him drunk again. Then, he had to find Alfred, figure out where they were and go home to his apartment and lock himself up in his room and cry there, no matter how childish it may sound for a 23 year-old to cry. Then he'd pull himself up together after crying and finishing a box of tea because he had a wedding to organize and he's not gonna trash it, because one, that's his best friend's wedding and two, Arthur Kirkland is not one to do things half-heartedly.
As he stood up and tried to make his way out of the room, he immediately tripped over something and fell on the floor face first. Suppressing the flow of colourful words threatening to stream out of his mouth, Arthur pushed himself up to get a better look at the bloody thing carelessly littered on the ground, only to yelp loudly in surprise.
"Bloody hell! What do you think you're doing here, you frog?" Arthur screamed, backing away from Francis, who was sprawled on the floor, his eyes only starting to open. A strong kick on the jaw managed to jolt the Frenchman fully awake, although he didn't seem to be grateful of the method of awakening.
"And good morning to you too dear. Such a sophisticated greeting, don't you say?" Francis groaned, pushing himself out of the floor and sitting up, rubbing his face. "God, you owe me everything you and your ugly caterpillar eyebrows have to offer if you break my gorgeous face."
Arthur glared at the Frenchman and mimicked a gagging action, which immediately had him suppressing his urge to really vomit. Francis snickered and looked at him, eyebrows furrowed. "Tch. I asked you a question." Arthur finally exclaimed. "You're not stalking me again are you? Are you? Because if you are, I am seriously going to bring this to the po—"
"Sshh. You talk too much mon cher" Francis said, placing a finger on Arthur's lips to silence him, which smelled of semen, alcohol, money and other disgusting odours Arthur could think of. Sporting a horrified look and feeling even more under the weather than he already was, Arthur quickly pushed Francis' hand away, and turned away, wondering how much longer he could hold in his bile. Suddenly feeling tired and worn out, Arthur lied down on the floor with a groan.
"God, you disgusting wanker, can you not touch me so casually? I've had enough of you spreading your... your... whatever damn thing it is you caught that made you such a git, on to me. Ugh, please." He tried to cover his eyes, hoping that if he did, somehow, it would make the French disappear and maybe he'd wake up and realize that maybe this was all just a dream. This hangover, the fact that Alfred is getting married, or the fact that he and Francis are even friends. And Arthur didn't know which of those he'd listed was the worst.
"Okay, Arthur." Francis finally said, slurring the Brit's name as if he was still drunk. "The answer to your question is, I simply happen to be with Toni and Gil for Toni's 25th birthday. No such thing as following you. Why you think I'd do that, is beyond me." He sighed, getting up.
"Why? Because you're Francis, that's why. Is there any more need of other reasons?" Arthur managed to spare Francis a glance, and he sighed of relief (something he didn't even realize he was holding) when he noticed that he and the French were miraculously still fully clothed. Arthur's image of the French had been a perverted, constantly horny man who'd do anything to get laid. Years of being friends with Francis somehow gave him that idea. Although, for the Brit, how he had managed to become friends with Francis was the bigger question.
For one, he couldn't remember meeting Francis for the first time. They've been friends and neighbours since they were toddlers and Arthur often saw the French around, something he wasn't really grateful for. Somehow, they got along sometimes, and Arthur often confided in Francis, seeing as Francis was three years older than him, however, it was also a fact that Arthur simply could not get along with Francis' two other friends as the Brit had a noticeably short fuse in dealing with the German and the Spaniard. He couldn't be blamed either, as Arthur was often the recipient of the trio's endless pranks and jokes which often ended up in brawls, trips to the guidance councillor's office or having the so-dreaded parent-child talk. Anyway, Arthur never enjoyed it. He was all too thankful for Alfred coming into his life and pulling him away from the troublesome trio (although Alfred could be just as annoying, but significantly more bearable, in his opinion).
"I don't see those two bastards anywhere." Arthur growled, causing Francis to look at him, confused. He looked around, hoping to find a trace of brown and silver hair around. Finding no trace of any of the said people, he shrugged.
"We're in a room. They should be just outside." He said, turning to exit the room. Arthur watched as the French wrinkled his nose in disgust at seeing the things scattered around, careful not to step on anything unsightly littered along the way. It proved significantly harder when the room wasn't any different from Antonio's apartment. Or this could have been worse, truthfully. As far as the Frenchman could remember, there were no chicken droppings, used condoms, littered lingerie in Antonio's room. It didn't take long for Arthur to get up and start walking as well, only he headed over to the bathroom to wash himself and the sick taste forming in his mouth.
This is why he hated drinking. He'd never say it aloud, but he could hardly hold his alcohol and his hangovers were terrible. It was more than just the dizzy, throbbing headache. For Arthur, it was like losing his head a thousand times over. His stomach does flips worse than when Alfred hangs around with him and he immediately feels the need to throw up all the food he ate for the last two days, leaving him feeling malnourished or something.
Stumbling to the sink, Arthur held on to it like his life depended on it. He pushed himself up to make himself look at the mirror and grunted at how seriously hammered he looked. His straw blonde hair looked wilder than usual, his usually stunning green eyes looked pale and half-dead, and so did the rest of his face, as the usual pinkish tint in his cheeks were missing.
"God what did I do last night?" he groaned, turning on the tap and splashing his face with cold water. He'd give anything to have a hot shower right now. Or maybe a cold one, whatever is there. He could take one at that time, but he didn't feel comfortable with the thought of taking a refreshing shower then changing back into his clothes, which he wore the night before. He wasn't even sure if they had been previously soiled or not.
He stood there for a few more minutes before deciding that nothing was going to change and this wasn't a dream. Certainly not for the last time, Arthur groaned loudly and slammed his hands on the sink in frustration of not being able to remember anything, so hard that it almost fell off of its placement.
"Hey! Could you keep it down? Awesome is sleeping here, yeah?" a gruff voice suddenly called from the bath tub and Arthur found himself looking at Gilbert's fiery, red eyes. With a huff, he pulled on the bathroom curtains and settled back down to continue his interrupted sleep. Arthur did nothing but stare the albino as he gritted his teeth in irritation, watching as Gilbert tried to snuggle in the bath tub once again.
It took a while before Gilbert realized that Arthur had been staring. Maybe it was also because the Brit had been clearing his throat for the past five minutes continuously and Gilbert only checked to see if Arthur hadn't actually been choking himself that time. The German looked up and met Arthur's strangely dead eyes and winked, hoping to get a reaction from him.
"Am I that sexy or what? You've been staring, love." Gilbert purred, smiling victoriously to himself as he watched the Brit's face heat up and flush red in embarrassment. It was always easy to tease the Brit.
"Oh shut it." Arthur growled and turned away, walking towards the door. But not before throwing a huge bar of soap at Gilbert, which hit him squarely on the head.
"Ow! You know one of these days, you're so going to fall for my awesome charms, I'm telling you." Gilbert grunted, raising his hand to rub his head as he watched the Brit smirk at him. "Ugh you sound just like Francis, it's disgusting but yes, do keep waiting. Maybe in the next life I'll—when did you get married?" Arthur squinted, frowning at Gilbert.
"Married? Hah! Married life isn't for me. Maybe for Francis or Antonio, but no one can tie the great and awesome Gilbert Beilschmidt down, y'know that!"
"Yes, maybe. But I don't see a wedding ring on their fingers and I can see one on you."
Arthur emphasized the word 'you' as he pointed to the German's hand. He watched as the said German started hyperventilating as he brought down his hand to look at the glimmering wedding ring that sat on his right hand's ring finger and he couldn't help but laugh.