[Fanfic] Talented Hands
Title: Talented Hands
Rating: G
Summary: Francis is sick of Alfred's pining and sends him to the hair salon across the street.
Notes: For j_sasunaru_c's birthday!
Warnings: Cringe-worthy flirting, Al being a huge dork in love
Alfred crossed the street carefully, feeling jittery and anxious. According to Francis, his pining had become completely unbearable and the Frenchman had no qualms about kicking him out of the bakery with very specific instructions.
“Go and woo your potential lover,” he mimicked under his breath in the most horrendous French accent he could manage, “and get a haircut while you’re at it!”
Bonnefoy’s Patisserie, where Alfred worked, was directly across the road from Hedervary’s Hair Studio. Both shops had large front windows with mostly unobstructed views, which allowed Alfred to gaze at the slim blond male working in the salon to his heart’s content.
He knew it seemed a bit creepy to be watching the man constantly, but it wasn’t as if he had ever planned on doing anything about his little infatuation. Until now.
The door tinkled softly as he stepped inside the salon. The lady at the front desk looked up, but Alfred’s crush continued to sweep the floor absently.
“Welcome! I’m Elizabeta. What can we do for you today?”
Alfred glanced at the blond male again. He couldn’t exactly blurt out I want to do him, no matter how true it was. “Um,” he said instead, “do I need to have an appointment? I just need my hair cut a bit.”
She flipped through her appointments book. “We don’t have anyone booked in for another half an hour or so. Arthur’s in charge of male haircuts and styling, so he’ll be the one to look after you. Arthur!”
The blond man finally looked up. Arthur. Alfred finally had a name to put to the face. And the body. And what a glorious body it was, especially up close. Alfred dragged his gaze from Arthur’s trim waist to the slight curve of his hips, and down further to the slight bulge-
“I’m up here,” Arthur said, unimpressed.
By God, he was English. With an accent. Alfred laughed awkwardly and looked up, only to stare into Arthur’s eyes. They were so green. As green as… grass. No, greener. As green as those little mint chips that Francis used to decorate cupcakes.
“Are you listening to me?” Arthur asked, frowning. God, he was beautiful. So much more beautiful in person. Up close. His skin was milky and flawless, his features delicate yet still masculine. Alfred wanted to cry.
“I’m Alfred,” he said instead, stupidly.
“Er-right.” Alfred could almost see the way that Arthur seemed to give up on him entirely.
“I’m going to take my lunch break now,” Elizabeta interjected, a knowing look on her face. “Look after our customer, Arthur!”
Arthur gave a long-suffering sigh. “Please come this way, Alfred.”
He said my name. Alfred could barely keep himself from swooning. The way Arthur pronounced it made it roll off his tongue like gently heated honey. He had the voice of an angel.
He didn’t even realise that he had been led over to the hair-washing stations until he was already lying down on the comfortable chair, looking up at Arthur upside-down.
“Um,” he said, “do guys usually get their hair washed? It’s just, I’ve never had my hair washed at one of these places before so…”
“Not usually, no,” Arthur replied, letting warm water run over Alfred’s hair. “But usually they don’t come in with what seems to be cake mix rubbed into their hair, either.”
“Oh, but-” Alfred trailed off as Arthur lathered his hands with a sweet-smelling shampoo and began working it into Alfred’s hair. His nails gently scraped against Alfred’s scalp soothingly, and the American slowly melted into the reclined seat. “Oh,” he said again, “wow, your hands are… great.”
“Er, thank you?” Arthur looked adorably confused, but continued to wash Alfred’s hair.
It was a struggle to keep himself from moaning in contentment and pleasure, but somehow Alfred managed. Alfred could have kissed Gilbert for starting that batter-slinging fight in the bakery’s kitchen, meaning that Alfred could come and have his hair washed by Arthur. Could have, except that he wanted to kiss Arthur.
Far too soon, Arthur was towelling Alfred’s hair dry and directing him to a seat. “Now, how would you like your hair cut?”
Alfred watched Arthur’s lips moving in the mirror. They were hypnotising. “Um, well, the same as it is now… but shorter?”
Arthur’s mouth twitched. “Of course. Shorter.”
The Englishman worked silently, trimming Alfred’s hair with deft fingers. Alfred watched in the mirror, mesmerised.
“Your hands are really… talented,” he mumbled. “I mean… you’re talented. At cutting hair. And washing it, too.”
Arthur made a stifled sound, then cleared his throat. “Thank you. I suppose.” He made one final snip and put his scissors down. “How is that?"
“Perfect,” Alfred breathed. “Just like you.”
A faint flush appeared on Arthur’s cheeks, gradually darkening until they were bright red. “Er, thank you.”
Alfred blushed. “I mean-um, so, how much do I owe you?”
He paid quickly, flustered and more than a bit awkward. Alfred tucked his receipt into his pocket and hurried back across the street to the safety of the bakery.
“Well?” Francis arched an eyebrow at him suggestively. “Did you get what you went for?”
Alfred slumped across the counter. “He’s so perfect,” he said seriously. “He’s too perfect. How can someone like that even exist?”
Gilbert came bustling out of the kitchen then, with a tray of freshly baked cupcakes. “Oh good, you’re back. Ice these for me, would ya?”
Alfred numbly accepted the icing bag and began to squeeze tight spirals of icing onto the tops of the cupcakes. “I could hardly even talk to him,” he confessed to anyone who would listen. “I just wanted to look at him forever.”
“Alfred, I worry about you.” Francis finished drying the mug he was holding. “But really-if I know Arthur, and of course I do, you won’t have gone through all that for nothing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Check the back of your receipt,” a new voice interrupted.
Alfred looked up, eyes widening when they caught sight of Arthur. Dumbly, he dug through his pocket until he found the receipt. Scrawled on the back of it was a phone number.
“I-Arthur-” he stammered.
“I’m on my lunch break,” Arthur shrugged casually, “I’ll have one of those cupcakes and an earl grey tea.” His mouth twitched again, before becoming a full-blown smirk. “By the way,” he said, gesturing at the half-iced tray of cupcakes by Alfred’s elbow, “you’ve obviously got verytalented hands, too.”