[fanfiction] Two Weeks 10/17
Okay, spoilers. It’s not Alfred. He didn’t hang up the phone, get on a plane and fly to Rome in LESS THAN FIVE MINUTES.
Chapter 10
Arthur had come to the conclusion that Ludwig Beilschmidt was perhaps the most intimidating person he had ever met. A German military hero, at least ahead taller than him and enjoyed hammering nails into things Arthur didn’t even know needed nails. He believed that no one would ever be able to scare him more than the German and almost comforted by this fact.
This, however, was before he had met Berwald Oxenstierna.
As they walked into the lobby, Francis and Arthur immediately spotted the two new additions to the small room. One was hugging Feliciano, his bright blue eyes and white-blond hair shining in the florescent light. He had a smile that made Arthur want to run over and cuddle him, but he managed to resist that impulse. Immediately after ignoring that urge, Arthur noticed the man standing behind the embracing Italian and blond. He jumped slightly, bumping into Francis as the tall man’s eyes bored into him. This man was even taller than Ludwig, who had just appeared, from the courtyard, greeting the tall guest and his companion.
“Francis! Arthur!” Feliciano let go of the small blond, and hurried over to them, grabbing their arms and dragging them to the new guests, “This is Berwald,” He gestured towards the large one, “And Tino!” The small blond gave a friendly wave, taking Arthur and Francis’ hands in turn.
“Pleased to meet you.” Arthur said, turning to Berwald and offering his hand. “I…” The glasses flashed and Arthur’s heart skipped a beat.
A large hand covered his, shaking it with an unexpected gentleness. “Th’ s’me.” The low voice rumbled. Arthur frowned, wondering if that was a flicker of a smile, but didn’t have long to watch as Francis stepped beside him, taking Berwald’s now-free hand. “Fr’nc’s, r’ght?”
“Oui~ Francis Bonnefoy.” Berwald’s eyes widen and Francis cried out as his hand was crushed by the Swed’s, “Ouch! Bernwald, mais qu'est-ce que tu fiches?”
And then, surprising everyone save Tino -who was shaking his head in embarrassment-, the man began to hum. Too flabbergasted to speak, Arthur could only watch, and then, -his eyeballs were going to fall out and he was pretty sure his jaw was going to fall off from shock- Francis started to sing.
“One last kiss to that blushing cheek”
Only a singular thought seemed to penetrate Arthur’s astonishment. What the fuck?
“And you're gone for two whole weeks”
What the bloody fuck.
“But it’s alright”
What in God’s name is going the fuck on?
“‘Cause I’ve got sunshine all through the night!”
That didn’t just happen, Arthur thought to himself as Francis held the note. Francis did not just break into a pop-ballad, accompanied by a humming Swedish man and an air-guitaring Italian -Feliciano had been quick to join in. That didn’t just happen.
That.
“Wow, Berwald, so weird that you recognized me.”
Didn’t.
“Y’e’re ‘ne of my f’av’urite ‘rtists…”
Just.
“Ve~ Francis! You have a great voice.”
Happen.
“You bloody madmen…” Arthur said, shaking his head. “What the hell? You didn’t just break into random song. That doesn’t happen, even here.” Everyone stared at him as if he had been the one to burst into spontaneous song. He glared back, wondering if he was about to find out that everyone was a part of a secret cult following revolving around Francis. Well, if he was going down and have his body sacrificed, he’d go down glaring at Berwald’s stoic face.
Tino stepped forward; placing a hand on his friend’s arm (he couldn’t reach Berwald’s shoulder) “I think we can all just take a deep breath and calm down.” There was a general murmur of agreement and nodding of heads, “Good. Does your grandpa still run the café Feliciano? I’d really like some food…” Nodding, the Italian grabbed Ludwig’s arm and dragged him out of the hostel, waving at everyone to follow.
As Francis made to follow them, Arthur grabbed the back of his coat. “A popstar.” He said, quirking on of his bushy brows, “And I thought you were kidding.”
In response, Francis just laughed and sang, “A Frenchman never kids, Sourcils.”
When they arrived at Tramonto two men in sharp suits that seemed entirely out-of-place stepped out of the restaurant, both looking very displeased, stuffing papers into their briefcases. “You’ll regret that!” one of them shouted at Roma, who had followed them out of the door, “You could’ve been famous!”
“You’re not the first,” The chef said, waving a dishcloth at them, “Get out of here and don’t come back! I’m never leaving Rome, no matter how much you’re going to offer me!” The two men piled into a car and pealed down the street, running through a puddle and soaking Ludwig and Berwald.
Arthur was glad he could control his laughter as the two blonds glared at the car. He wouldn’t have been surprised if they had sprinted after it, determined to destroy. Roma noticed them and waved a little less-enthusiastically than usual. They all piled into the small restaurant, seating themselves around the table while Roma stood off to the side, folding his arms over his chest.
“Ve~,” Feliciano said, tilting his head and staring at the chef, “Is something wrong Papa?”
The Roman sighed, taking a seat and running a hand through his short, curly hair. “Those men from America came to visit again,” Arthur head twitched slightly, “They offered a penthouse suite this time, thinking we could all move there together.”
“You turned them down again, didn’t you?” Lovino said, folding his arms and glaring at Roma, “Idiot…”
“Don’t call Papa an idiot Lovi!” Feliciano cried. The rest of the table tried to look away, as if they had all suddenly gone deaf and couldn’t hear the conversation, “You know why he said no.”
His brother shook his head. “He’s being selfish. A full-time position as a Supervising Chef in New York City and he says no. We could be rich!” Lovino said, “But he just doesn’t want to move out of Rome and so he keeps us here to so he doesn’t get lonely.”
Roma stood, and for the first time Arthur noticed how imposing the chef could be, even in an apron. “We are not talking about this now.” He said in a definitive tone. Silence fell over the table, Lovino continuing to glare at Roma who was staring right back, while Feliciano watched them his hazel eyes big and worried. Mumbling something about getting drinks, Roma got to his feet and disappeared into his kitchen.
Exchanging a worried look with Francis, Arthur cleared his throat. The mood around the table slowly relaxed, though eyes often flickered to the kitchen. Tino attempted to make small talk with the younger Italian while Antonio and Lovino were talking in low voices, surprisingly quiet and the Spaniard was not smiling for once.
“So, Berwald.” Arthur did his best not to jump as the hard eyes fell on him. “What do you do for a living?”
A hand pushed the glasses higher up his nose. “ ‘m an ‘terior d’cor’tor.”
Arthur blinked. “An… interior decorator?” The Swed nodded, “Like, IKEA…?” The Englishman hoped that he hadn’t just insulted the man, which would chalk up his score of ‘Insulting Large Men of Germanic-Descent in Italian Restaurants’ to two. Luckily, Berwald just nodded, reaching into his coat and pulling out a page from an IKEA catalogue and smoothing it out on the table.
He pointed at a room. It was probably one of the most refined things Arthur had even seen and me made a mental note to go shopping when he returned to London. Perhaps buying new furniture could help him get over Alfred. “I d’sign’d th’t.”
“It’s… really great.” Arthur said, nodding his head numerous times before stopping when he caught Francis staring at him, eyebrows raised. “I’m impressed. I would've never pegged you as a designer.”
There was a quiet laugh and Tino pulled his chair over, plopping down beside Berwald. Feliciano was now talking to Ludwig, who was holding the Italian’s hand, his face slowly turning pink. “Most people don’t guess that,” Tino said, grinning, “He looks more like a Viking.”
Arthur offered a hesitant smile, the Finn may have felt safe joking about Berwald, but Arthur’s still was expecting the man to pull out a gun and shot him, a hitman sent by some hold crush wanting to exact revenge. “What about you Tino?” He asked, trying to keep his eyes off the Swed, “What do you do for a living?”
“I write children’s books.”
“Oh, that’s a new one.” Arthur said, “What do you write them about?”
“I write them about our dog.” Tino said, looking at Berwald, smiling widely. Cheeks flushing a light pink, the tall blond turned his head, trying to hide his face.
“Your dog?” Arthur asked, not quite sure if he wanted to hear the answer.
“Yes.” Tino said, reaching out and touching Berwald’s leg, making the pink blush turn a deep red, “Our dog.”
The subject conversation quickly turned to the weather.
For five minutes, they sat in an awkward silence, Arthur keeping his eyes trained on his hands, which were sitting in his lap. When Roma still hadn’t returned, Ludwig got to his feet, jerking his head towards the door of the café. Antonio, Tino and Berwald all quickly left, while Ludwig hung back a moment whispering to Feliciano. The Italian shook his head, hurrying and grabbing Lovino’s wrist -who was sneaking towards the kitchen- and dragging him out of the restaurant. Francis and Arthur left and Ludwig closed the door.
“Should I not ask?” Arthur said, walking quickly, trying to keep up with the German’s militaristic stride while beside him, Francis easily matching the long paces.
“No.” Ludwig said, glancing over his shoulder and looking at the Vargas brothers, who were hanging behind, talking to each other. “Roma’s a world-class chef and gets offered jobs often, but refuses to move. Lovino wants to move, Feliciano doesn’t want to upset either of them.”
Thinking it better to keep his mouth shut, Arthur slowed down, letting Ludwig speed ahead of him. Francis also hung back, not quite looking at the Englishman, but Arthur was sure the blue eyes were watching him when he wasn’t looking.
After a few quiet and uncomfortable goodnights, the guests all ambled off to their rooms, Berwald and Tino going to the third floor. After washing his face, Arthur opened the door to his room. Francis was sitting against the dresser, one leg stretched out the other bent, a book leaning against his knee. A particularly loud thump came from the floor above, making him look up. “You don’t think…” He said wonderingly to Francis, “They’re…”
The Frenchman glanced up from his book, quirking his head. “No.” He shifted, “If it starts later… then I might change my answer.”
Arthur shuffled towards Francis, yawning and plopping down, wrapping his arms around the bent leg. “You really think they’re together?” He asked, resting his hand on the top of Francis’ knee, settling his cheek on his fingers. “That’s almost as weird Lovino and Antonio…”
“You were wrong about them too, Sourcils.” Francis pointed out, turning a page in his book. “So you really can’t guess.”
Exhaling, watching his breath make Francis’ long hair flutter slightly. “Maybe I’m just bad at romance.” He said, with maybe just the tiniest hint of bitterness.
Holding his book with one hand, Francis reached out with the other, grabbing Arthur’s hand. He brought it to his mouth and brushed a kissed across Arthur’s knuckles. The Englishman tried to quell the shivers that had suddenly coursed through his body. “You can’t be that bad Arthur…” Francis said, letting his hand go and smiling warmly, “I mean you’ve got m-”
“What?” Arthur said, leaning on Francis’ knee, his eyes shining with something akin to anticipation.
Francis coughed, bringing a hand to his mouth. “I-I… Non, c'est rien.. rien du tout.” He waved his hand, quickly bringing through his hair, “Just talking without thinking.”
“Didn’t sound like that to me.”
Francis got to his feet, snapping his book shut and tossing it onto the dresser. He walked over to his bed, sitting on the edge, facing away from the rest of the room. When he didn’t speak, Arthur sighed, clambering into his own bed, positioning himself to look out the French doors, not wanting to bother Francis.
“I just meant,” He turned. Francis still wasn’t looking at him, his longer fingers gripping the sheets of his bed, “That you can’t be that bad with l’amour Arthur. You’ve managed to…”
Arthur sat up. “Yes?” He asked, unable to keep the tone of excitement out of his voice.
“That you’ve managed to make me… question,” Arthur shoulders slumped and Francis’ fingers tightened on the blankets. “You’ve made me question what love is.”
Chapter 11>>
Author's Note
I’ve got this thing where in all my AUs (well, the planned ones) Berwald is always an interior decorator. Always.
I have no shame in admitting that I listened to “Don’t Stop Believing” from glee while writing this. (I love the playlist I have for this story XD)