Fic: Pop Realism, America/England, R-18
TITLE: Pop Realism - 1/3
AUTHOR: diana_lucifera
RECIPIENT: lostdonut
RATINGS/WARNINGS: PG-13 in this chapter; R18 overall
SUMMARY: Arthur may be nude modelling for Alfred Jones’ art class, and yes, Alfred may be attractive, but it’s not like Arthur’s doing it for him or anything. After all, he doesn’t really care if Alfred likes him or not, and he certainly doesn’t care about what Alfred’s been drawing in that sketchbook of his. Got it?
NOTES: Written for the USxUK Secret Santa. Original Prompt: “I’m dying to read a fanfic where Alfred is a university art student and Arthur is one of the nude models for his class. Would be awesome if England is a student too (that's how it is in my school), and he was actually trying to get Alfred to notice him, that's why he decide to take this job XD” It got really long, but I hope you like it anyway! (I’ll be posting the next two chapters soon.)
Perhaps predictably, the whole thing had started because Alfred Jones was damned loud.
Arthur had been staring at his laptop screen, attempting to write a research paper for about two hours while high-pitched, pulsating music had been filtering through the wall from the dorm room next door. Arthur swore he was beginning to develop a twitch. As it was, he was looking at the possibility of another all-nighter on Wednesday if he couldn’t finish up this paper. He had a critique Thursday and his painting was nowhere near done. Perhaps this was what he deserved for double majoring, but that didn’t stop him from fantasizing about his noisy neighbour’s increasingly likely murder.
A male voice whooped loudly as the music swelled, and Arthur beat on the wall. It didn’t seem to have any effect, most likely because the occupants of the room couldn’t hear him, and when he heard another victorious shout, Arthur made a frustrated sound and slammed the book he’d been reading down on his desk. He stood angrily, stomped out of his room and down the hallway, and pounded on his neighbours’ door. After a few tries, he heard the music go blessedly quiet and a moment later the door opened to reveal a man so ridiculously attractive that whatever insult had been about to come out of Arthur’s mouth died in his throat. The man standing before him was tall and broad-shouldered. He was panting with exertion; his golden-blond hair was plastered to his forehead and a healthy pink flush lit his cheeks. He rubbed a pair of spectacles with the bottom of his t-shirt, then slid them onto his nose to blink curiously down at Arthur.
Blue eyes, thought Arthur, feeling himself flush. God, so blue.
“Um,” said the blond man. “‘Sup?”
His was definitely the voice that’d been shouting all night, and Arthur used that fact to muster up some of his former anger.
“Would you mind toning down the bloody noise?” he demanded. “Some of us are trying to do school work!”
The other man laughed.
“Come on, dude. Chill out! It can’t be that loud!”
Arthur bristled.
“I guarantee you, it can indeed be ‘that loud.’ I live right next door, and I can hear the damn music like it’s in the room with me.”
“Next door?” asked his neighbour, brows furrowing for a moment before his eyes widened with recognition. “Wait a minute, you’re the guy who’s always yelling at his roommate, aren’t you?”
Arthur blanched; it had never occurred to him that others could actually hear his frequent altercations with Francis.
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” he blustered.
The other man could not be stopped now, however.
“Yeah, that is you! Aren’t you the one who threw something and broke the window, too?”
Arthur frowned.
“That,” he said imperiously. “Was my roommate’s fault. He’s the one who ducked.”
His neighbour chuckled.
“Seriously, though, you’re gonna tell us to be quiet? Tell you what, you stop having fights with your boyfriend at three in the morning, and we’ll turn down the TV.”
“Francis is not my boyfriend!” Arthur exclaimed. “That’s disgusting! He’s French!”
The blond laughed again, looking at him a little incredulously.
“Anyway, this isn’t about me! Just turn down your bloody television!”
“Excuse me,” came a soft voice from behind the blond.
He stepped aside to reveal an embarrassed and equally sweaty looking Asian man whom Arthur recognized from the few International Student programs he’d attended.
“Hello, Arthur.”
“Oh, hello,” Arthur thought for a split-second. “Kiku.”
“I’m sorry,” said Kiku. “I am sure that what Alfred meant to say was that we apologize and will try to be quieter in the future.”
“Nah,” Alfred said cheerfully. “I pretty much said what I meant.”
Kiku and Arthur glared at him simultaneously, but he seemed not to notice.
“If you don’t mind my asking, what on earth have you been doing in here?” Arthur wondered.
“DDR, man!” said Alfred, gesturing toward the centre of the room where the desks had been pushed against the wall and two brightly coloured pads had been set up in their place.
“Would you like to play?” Kiku asked politely.
“Thank you, but I shouldn’t. I have a paper I need to be writing.”
“Besides, he’d probably get mad and bust our window,” Alfred teased, reaching between them to grasp the door handle. “Well, later, British dude!”
He winked at Arthur before closing the door, and in spite of himself, Arthur felt his stomach flip. The man was annoying, Arthur had thought, but he was damn attractive.
That had been Arthur’s sophomore year, and he was ashamed to admit that time had only served to make Alfred Jones more attractive to him. Alfred was a stupid prat, true, but there was also something about him that was just magnetic. But more shameful than the fact that he’d had this long-standing attraction to Jones (Arthur refused to even think the word “crush”) was the fact that, despite living next to Arthur for almost two years and having no less than one class a semester with him, Arthur was fairly positive that Alfred didn’t even know his name. He’d actually overheard Alfred refer to him as “that cranky British guy” in conversation with Kiku.
So, he was a bit dense, bless him. Arthur was well aware that, if he were someone like Francis, he could have solved this problem long ago. The real issue was his pride. Arthur had been accused of being stubborn all his life, but there was something about Alfred that made him doubly so. He really had no doubts about why Alfred called him cranky; every time Arthur tried to speak with him, the only things he could come up with were insults. Privately, Arthur was starting to wonder if he had some sort of lust-related Tourette's (although he put part of the blame on the fact that Alfred was genuinely infuriating).
Regardless of the cause, however, the effect was that any plans Arthur had to act on his feelings for Alfred Jones had effectively stalled, and it was quite some time before he hit on a solution.
That was, of course, if one could call it a solution, rather than a term that Arthur thought might be more appropriate, like “hare-brained scheme” or potentially “disaster.” And as with most things that had gone wrong with his life since he’d arrived at the university, Arthur was perfectly content to blame the whole foolish enterprise on Francis.
After all, it was Francis who had gotten him drunk and rambling about what Arthur had termed “The Jones Problem,” and it was Francis who had purred in his stupid, slimy accent, “Oh, but mon cher, with a body like yours, surely all you would have to do to get his attention is take off your clothes, non?”
And then, of course, he’d slipped his hand down Arthur’s pants, and Arthur had been forced to punch him so forcefully that his hand had ached for a week.
Arthur knew that it was just one of Francis’ dumb lines, and honestly, it was complete shit, anyway; Arthur was quite certain that the only striking physical feature he possessed was a pair of enormous eyebrows, and those were certainly never going to allure anyone. Still, as he piled his used dishes onto the school cafeteria’s conveyor belt and glanced over the “Student Announcements” bulletin board, it was Francis’ comment that made him pause at that seemingly innocuous sheet of white paper partially hidden behind multi-colour ads for roommates and used musical equipment:
Art Department Seeking Nude Models!
$15 an hour! All types welcome!
Email for more information
The idea was so ridiculous that Arthur nearly dismissed it outright, but his mind insisted on reminding him that, after all, he did know that obnoxious, stupidly handsome Alfred Jones was in Drawing 101 this semester. Arthur had heard him complaining loudly to Kiku Honda about Professor Berkowitz, whose figure drawing section, Arthur knew from experience, would be beginning in a couple of weeks. Could he really-? No, no, of course not. It would be completely idiotic. On the other hand, it would be so easy.
Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur noticed a group of girls looking at him curiously and realized that he’d been standing staring at the advertisement for a good minute. Flushing heavily, he reached out and ripped a tab off of a flyer offering free puppies before walking hurriedly out of the cafeteria.
Although he told himself that he’d already rejected the idea as completely ridiculous, that night, Arthur caught himself googling the specifics of what a nude modelling job entailed. He might have bookmarked a few sites but, he told himself, not for any particular reason; as an Art major, he should know these things, that was all. Later, when he emerged from the shower, he stood naked in front of the full length mirror Francis had attached to the back of their bathroom door. He furrowed over-large brows at his own reflection, smoothing a palm over his stomach and pinching the fatty portions of his upper arms. He had just turned to regard his own regretfully flat arse with critical eyes when he heard the familiar sound of Francis’ keys jingling in the front door. The bathroom door was closed and locked, but Arthur hurriedly grabbed up his clothes anyway, tugging on his pants in mild panic.
When he deemed himself suitably unmolestable, Arthur opened the bathroom door to the horrifying sight of his roommate leaning over Arthur’s desk, using his laptop.
“What the hell are you doing?!” he shrieked, darting across the room to slam the lid down, not caring if he caught Francis’ fingers in the process.
Francis smirked at him, completely unruffled by Arthur’s show of temper.
“Well, well,” he drawled. “Where did this sudden interest in exhibitionism come from?”
Arthur couldn’t stop himself from flushing a bright, bright red. Judging by the smirk spreading across his face, there was no doubt in Arthur’s mind that Francis had seen the sites Arthur was looking at. Dammit.
“What the hell?!” he repeated, desperate to change the subject. “You can’t just touch my things!”
Francis fluttered his fingers dismissively.
“This is beside the point,” he said, ignoring Arthur’s strangled protests. “If I had known you were interested in taking your clothes off for the purpose of l’art, I would have bought a sketchbook.”
“I’m not- who said I was interested-” Arthur sputtered. “Oh, sod off, you bloody pervert!”
Francis’ smirk seemed to widen.
“Now, now, Arthur. You know that if you want me to ‘sod off,’ all you need to do is move out.”
Ah, the old, familiar argument.
“You move out!” Arthur shot back.
“I was here first,” Francis replied, as always.
“ONLY BY TEN MINUTES, YOU-!”
Knock knock!
Arthur froze mid-tirade, turning to stare at the door. Francis made a shooing motion with his hands, and rolling his eyes, Arthur strode over to open the door. Alfred Jones stood in the doorway, wearing nothing but Batman boxers and a bored expression. Arthur nearly swallowed his tongue.
“Oui?” Francis purred lasciviously, moving toward the doorway. “How can we help you?”
Arthur glared at him, but of course, Alfred didn’t seem to notice the Frenchman’s tone.
“I heard the yelling start up,” he said. “Guys, seriously, it’s been two years. Just stop living together.”
“I am not moving out,” Francis said cheerily. “I was here first, after all.”
“Well, I’m not-!” Arthur started.
“Okay, look,” Alfred cut him off. “Normally I don’t care, but I’ve been trying to draw the same piece of a walnut for, like, two hours, and you guys are not helping.”
“Ah, this is most unfortunate,” Francis said. “However, if you are in need of inspiration, you could always draw Arthur. After all, he-”
“Okaywe’llbequietnowgoaway,” Arthur exclaimed hurriedly, before promptly shutting the door in Alfred’s face.
He turned to find Francis regarding him with a disgustingly smug look.
“Shut up,” Arthur said pre-emptively, knowing that it was useless.
“You know, I have my suspicions about why you will not move out, Arthur,” his roommate said.
“And I have my suspicions about you,” countered Arthur. “I think you just like messing with me.”
Francis smiled brightly and made no reply.
“Anyway,” Arthur continued. “There are plenty of good reasons to continue staying in the room. And- And for that matter, there are plenty of good reasons to research drawing models!”
Francis’ only answer was to continue smiling, and Arthur kept on talking, in spite of the feeling that he was digging his own grave.
“After all, it could add a lot of depth to an artist's work to know how the model is feeling, and- and it could help an artist understand poses more and learn how to work with models themselves!”
“Yes, of course, this is all true,” Francis said. “And it will be good for you to get out of your tweed and sweater vests.”
“Hold on, I didn't say I-”
“Be sure to tell me when your day to model is! I will bring many friends to observe!”
“Hey, now, wait a moment-!”
“Perhaps I will bring the ever attractive Monsieur Jones!”
“Oh, get the fuck out of here!” Arthur bristled.
“Ah, oui! I was planning to go out again before you distracted me,” Francis said. “I only came back to check my email and to grab these!”
He pulled a long string of condoms from one of his desk drawers.
“Of course, I am always prepared, but I have a big night planned; you know.”
“Eugh,” Arthur grimaced.
“Do not be jealous, ma puce!” Francis breezed. “One day, our time will come!”
He paused at the door to give Arthur a saucy wink.
“I wish you the best of luck with your modelling career.”
“I said I'm not going to do it!!” Arthur shouted down the hall after him.
Their neighbours’ door opened up and Alfred poked his head out, opening his mouth to say something.
“Oh, shut it! I know!” Arthur snapped, slamming his own door closed.
Right, yell at him again. That was very smart. Arthur sat heavily on his bed with a frustrated sigh. Well, he thought, at least Francis was gone for the night and judging from the condoms and past experience, he wouldn’t be back anytime soon. Arthur could at least have a night of peace. For once, he didn't even have any schoolwork to do.
He put some water into the electric kettle before opening his laptop again. The webpage on modelling was still open and he flushed deeply in remembered embarrassment. Then again, he thought dryly, maybe this was an occasion that called for more than tea.
As he poured himself a glass of scotch, he rationalised that, after all, he didn't have class until two in the afternoon tomorrow, and anyway, it wasn't like he was planning to get drunk like he had last weekend or... all of those other times. He'd stop after one or two glasses.
By the time he'd broken down and sloppily poured himself a fourth glass, he could hear the muffled sounds of Alfred and Kiku's TV filtering through. Arthur heard Alfred's loud, boisterous laugh sound in the next room, and Arthur glared in what he determined to be the other man’s direction.
“This is your fault,” he said to the eggshell white wall that separated them, before taking another drink.
Arthur could admit that, when it came to alcohol, he had a slight tendency to overindulge. It wasn’t uncommon for him to wake up after a night of drinking to find that he’d somehow his changed clothes or lost them, and it wasn’t entirely uncommon to find that he’d said things under the influence that he would never allow himself to say normally. Unpleasant surprises were part and parcel of having a drinker’s disposition. Still, as he felt himself straddling the line between tipsy and intoxicated, he had the strength of mind to realize that this had been a truly terrible idea.
When he woke up around noon the next day, he found that he had a terrible headache and an email in his inbox thanking him for his offer to model for the school’s drawing program.
“Shit.”
AUTHOR: diana_lucifera
RECIPIENT: lostdonut
RATINGS/WARNINGS: PG-13 in this chapter; R18 overall
SUMMARY: Arthur may be nude modelling for Alfred Jones’ art class, and yes, Alfred may be attractive, but it’s not like Arthur’s doing it for him or anything. After all, he doesn’t really care if Alfred likes him or not, and he certainly doesn’t care about what Alfred’s been drawing in that sketchbook of his. Got it?
NOTES: Written for the USxUK Secret Santa. Original Prompt: “I’m dying to read a fanfic where Alfred is a university art student and Arthur is one of the nude models for his class. Would be awesome if England is a student too (that's how it is in my school), and he was actually trying to get Alfred to notice him, that's why he decide to take this job XD” It got really long, but I hope you like it anyway! (I’ll be posting the next two chapters soon.)
Perhaps predictably, the whole thing had started because Alfred Jones was damned loud.
Arthur had been staring at his laptop screen, attempting to write a research paper for about two hours while high-pitched, pulsating music had been filtering through the wall from the dorm room next door. Arthur swore he was beginning to develop a twitch. As it was, he was looking at the possibility of another all-nighter on Wednesday if he couldn’t finish up this paper. He had a critique Thursday and his painting was nowhere near done. Perhaps this was what he deserved for double majoring, but that didn’t stop him from fantasizing about his noisy neighbour’s increasingly likely murder.
A male voice whooped loudly as the music swelled, and Arthur beat on the wall. It didn’t seem to have any effect, most likely because the occupants of the room couldn’t hear him, and when he heard another victorious shout, Arthur made a frustrated sound and slammed the book he’d been reading down on his desk. He stood angrily, stomped out of his room and down the hallway, and pounded on his neighbours’ door. After a few tries, he heard the music go blessedly quiet and a moment later the door opened to reveal a man so ridiculously attractive that whatever insult had been about to come out of Arthur’s mouth died in his throat. The man standing before him was tall and broad-shouldered. He was panting with exertion; his golden-blond hair was plastered to his forehead and a healthy pink flush lit his cheeks. He rubbed a pair of spectacles with the bottom of his t-shirt, then slid them onto his nose to blink curiously down at Arthur.
Blue eyes, thought Arthur, feeling himself flush. God, so blue.
“Um,” said the blond man. “‘Sup?”
His was definitely the voice that’d been shouting all night, and Arthur used that fact to muster up some of his former anger.
“Would you mind toning down the bloody noise?” he demanded. “Some of us are trying to do school work!”
The other man laughed.
“Come on, dude. Chill out! It can’t be that loud!”
Arthur bristled.
“I guarantee you, it can indeed be ‘that loud.’ I live right next door, and I can hear the damn music like it’s in the room with me.”
“Next door?” asked his neighbour, brows furrowing for a moment before his eyes widened with recognition. “Wait a minute, you’re the guy who’s always yelling at his roommate, aren’t you?”
Arthur blanched; it had never occurred to him that others could actually hear his frequent altercations with Francis.
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” he blustered.
The other man could not be stopped now, however.
“Yeah, that is you! Aren’t you the one who threw something and broke the window, too?”
Arthur frowned.
“That,” he said imperiously. “Was my roommate’s fault. He’s the one who ducked.”
His neighbour chuckled.
“Seriously, though, you’re gonna tell us to be quiet? Tell you what, you stop having fights with your boyfriend at three in the morning, and we’ll turn down the TV.”
“Francis is not my boyfriend!” Arthur exclaimed. “That’s disgusting! He’s French!”
The blond laughed again, looking at him a little incredulously.
“Anyway, this isn’t about me! Just turn down your bloody television!”
“Excuse me,” came a soft voice from behind the blond.
He stepped aside to reveal an embarrassed and equally sweaty looking Asian man whom Arthur recognized from the few International Student programs he’d attended.
“Hello, Arthur.”
“Oh, hello,” Arthur thought for a split-second. “Kiku.”
“I’m sorry,” said Kiku. “I am sure that what Alfred meant to say was that we apologize and will try to be quieter in the future.”
“Nah,” Alfred said cheerfully. “I pretty much said what I meant.”
Kiku and Arthur glared at him simultaneously, but he seemed not to notice.
“If you don’t mind my asking, what on earth have you been doing in here?” Arthur wondered.
“DDR, man!” said Alfred, gesturing toward the centre of the room where the desks had been pushed against the wall and two brightly coloured pads had been set up in their place.
“Would you like to play?” Kiku asked politely.
“Thank you, but I shouldn’t. I have a paper I need to be writing.”
“Besides, he’d probably get mad and bust our window,” Alfred teased, reaching between them to grasp the door handle. “Well, later, British dude!”
He winked at Arthur before closing the door, and in spite of himself, Arthur felt his stomach flip. The man was annoying, Arthur had thought, but he was damn attractive.
That had been Arthur’s sophomore year, and he was ashamed to admit that time had only served to make Alfred Jones more attractive to him. Alfred was a stupid prat, true, but there was also something about him that was just magnetic. But more shameful than the fact that he’d had this long-standing attraction to Jones (Arthur refused to even think the word “crush”) was the fact that, despite living next to Arthur for almost two years and having no less than one class a semester with him, Arthur was fairly positive that Alfred didn’t even know his name. He’d actually overheard Alfred refer to him as “that cranky British guy” in conversation with Kiku.
So, he was a bit dense, bless him. Arthur was well aware that, if he were someone like Francis, he could have solved this problem long ago. The real issue was his pride. Arthur had been accused of being stubborn all his life, but there was something about Alfred that made him doubly so. He really had no doubts about why Alfred called him cranky; every time Arthur tried to speak with him, the only things he could come up with were insults. Privately, Arthur was starting to wonder if he had some sort of lust-related Tourette's (although he put part of the blame on the fact that Alfred was genuinely infuriating).
Regardless of the cause, however, the effect was that any plans Arthur had to act on his feelings for Alfred Jones had effectively stalled, and it was quite some time before he hit on a solution.
That was, of course, if one could call it a solution, rather than a term that Arthur thought might be more appropriate, like “hare-brained scheme” or potentially “disaster.” And as with most things that had gone wrong with his life since he’d arrived at the university, Arthur was perfectly content to blame the whole foolish enterprise on Francis.
After all, it was Francis who had gotten him drunk and rambling about what Arthur had termed “The Jones Problem,” and it was Francis who had purred in his stupid, slimy accent, “Oh, but mon cher, with a body like yours, surely all you would have to do to get his attention is take off your clothes, non?”
And then, of course, he’d slipped his hand down Arthur’s pants, and Arthur had been forced to punch him so forcefully that his hand had ached for a week.
Arthur knew that it was just one of Francis’ dumb lines, and honestly, it was complete shit, anyway; Arthur was quite certain that the only striking physical feature he possessed was a pair of enormous eyebrows, and those were certainly never going to allure anyone. Still, as he piled his used dishes onto the school cafeteria’s conveyor belt and glanced over the “Student Announcements” bulletin board, it was Francis’ comment that made him pause at that seemingly innocuous sheet of white paper partially hidden behind multi-colour ads for roommates and used musical equipment:
Art Department Seeking Nude Models!
$15 an hour! All types welcome!
Email for more information
The idea was so ridiculous that Arthur nearly dismissed it outright, but his mind insisted on reminding him that, after all, he did know that obnoxious, stupidly handsome Alfred Jones was in Drawing 101 this semester. Arthur had heard him complaining loudly to Kiku Honda about Professor Berkowitz, whose figure drawing section, Arthur knew from experience, would be beginning in a couple of weeks. Could he really-? No, no, of course not. It would be completely idiotic. On the other hand, it would be so easy.
Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur noticed a group of girls looking at him curiously and realized that he’d been standing staring at the advertisement for a good minute. Flushing heavily, he reached out and ripped a tab off of a flyer offering free puppies before walking hurriedly out of the cafeteria.
Although he told himself that he’d already rejected the idea as completely ridiculous, that night, Arthur caught himself googling the specifics of what a nude modelling job entailed. He might have bookmarked a few sites but, he told himself, not for any particular reason; as an Art major, he should know these things, that was all. Later, when he emerged from the shower, he stood naked in front of the full length mirror Francis had attached to the back of their bathroom door. He furrowed over-large brows at his own reflection, smoothing a palm over his stomach and pinching the fatty portions of his upper arms. He had just turned to regard his own regretfully flat arse with critical eyes when he heard the familiar sound of Francis’ keys jingling in the front door. The bathroom door was closed and locked, but Arthur hurriedly grabbed up his clothes anyway, tugging on his pants in mild panic.
When he deemed himself suitably unmolestable, Arthur opened the bathroom door to the horrifying sight of his roommate leaning over Arthur’s desk, using his laptop.
“What the hell are you doing?!” he shrieked, darting across the room to slam the lid down, not caring if he caught Francis’ fingers in the process.
Francis smirked at him, completely unruffled by Arthur’s show of temper.
“Well, well,” he drawled. “Where did this sudden interest in exhibitionism come from?”
Arthur couldn’t stop himself from flushing a bright, bright red. Judging by the smirk spreading across his face, there was no doubt in Arthur’s mind that Francis had seen the sites Arthur was looking at. Dammit.
“What the hell?!” he repeated, desperate to change the subject. “You can’t just touch my things!”
Francis fluttered his fingers dismissively.
“This is beside the point,” he said, ignoring Arthur’s strangled protests. “If I had known you were interested in taking your clothes off for the purpose of l’art, I would have bought a sketchbook.”
“I’m not- who said I was interested-” Arthur sputtered. “Oh, sod off, you bloody pervert!”
Francis’ smirk seemed to widen.
“Now, now, Arthur. You know that if you want me to ‘sod off,’ all you need to do is move out.”
Ah, the old, familiar argument.
“You move out!” Arthur shot back.
“I was here first,” Francis replied, as always.
“ONLY BY TEN MINUTES, YOU-!”
Knock knock!
Arthur froze mid-tirade, turning to stare at the door. Francis made a shooing motion with his hands, and rolling his eyes, Arthur strode over to open the door. Alfred Jones stood in the doorway, wearing nothing but Batman boxers and a bored expression. Arthur nearly swallowed his tongue.
“Oui?” Francis purred lasciviously, moving toward the doorway. “How can we help you?”
Arthur glared at him, but of course, Alfred didn’t seem to notice the Frenchman’s tone.
“I heard the yelling start up,” he said. “Guys, seriously, it’s been two years. Just stop living together.”
“I am not moving out,” Francis said cheerily. “I was here first, after all.”
“Well, I’m not-!” Arthur started.
“Okay, look,” Alfred cut him off. “Normally I don’t care, but I’ve been trying to draw the same piece of a walnut for, like, two hours, and you guys are not helping.”
“Ah, this is most unfortunate,” Francis said. “However, if you are in need of inspiration, you could always draw Arthur. After all, he-”
“Okaywe’llbequietnowgoaway,” Arthur exclaimed hurriedly, before promptly shutting the door in Alfred’s face.
He turned to find Francis regarding him with a disgustingly smug look.
“Shut up,” Arthur said pre-emptively, knowing that it was useless.
“You know, I have my suspicions about why you will not move out, Arthur,” his roommate said.
“And I have my suspicions about you,” countered Arthur. “I think you just like messing with me.”
Francis smiled brightly and made no reply.
“Anyway,” Arthur continued. “There are plenty of good reasons to continue staying in the room. And- And for that matter, there are plenty of good reasons to research drawing models!”
Francis’ only answer was to continue smiling, and Arthur kept on talking, in spite of the feeling that he was digging his own grave.
“After all, it could add a lot of depth to an artist's work to know how the model is feeling, and- and it could help an artist understand poses more and learn how to work with models themselves!”
“Yes, of course, this is all true,” Francis said. “And it will be good for you to get out of your tweed and sweater vests.”
“Hold on, I didn't say I-”
“Be sure to tell me when your day to model is! I will bring many friends to observe!”
“Hey, now, wait a moment-!”
“Perhaps I will bring the ever attractive Monsieur Jones!”
“Oh, get the fuck out of here!” Arthur bristled.
“Ah, oui! I was planning to go out again before you distracted me,” Francis said. “I only came back to check my email and to grab these!”
He pulled a long string of condoms from one of his desk drawers.
“Of course, I am always prepared, but I have a big night planned; you know.”
“Eugh,” Arthur grimaced.
“Do not be jealous, ma puce!” Francis breezed. “One day, our time will come!”
He paused at the door to give Arthur a saucy wink.
“I wish you the best of luck with your modelling career.”
“I said I'm not going to do it!!” Arthur shouted down the hall after him.
Their neighbours’ door opened up and Alfred poked his head out, opening his mouth to say something.
“Oh, shut it! I know!” Arthur snapped, slamming his own door closed.
Right, yell at him again. That was very smart. Arthur sat heavily on his bed with a frustrated sigh. Well, he thought, at least Francis was gone for the night and judging from the condoms and past experience, he wouldn’t be back anytime soon. Arthur could at least have a night of peace. For once, he didn't even have any schoolwork to do.
He put some water into the electric kettle before opening his laptop again. The webpage on modelling was still open and he flushed deeply in remembered embarrassment. Then again, he thought dryly, maybe this was an occasion that called for more than tea.
As he poured himself a glass of scotch, he rationalised that, after all, he didn't have class until two in the afternoon tomorrow, and anyway, it wasn't like he was planning to get drunk like he had last weekend or... all of those other times. He'd stop after one or two glasses.
By the time he'd broken down and sloppily poured himself a fourth glass, he could hear the muffled sounds of Alfred and Kiku's TV filtering through. Arthur heard Alfred's loud, boisterous laugh sound in the next room, and Arthur glared in what he determined to be the other man’s direction.
“This is your fault,” he said to the eggshell white wall that separated them, before taking another drink.
Arthur could admit that, when it came to alcohol, he had a slight tendency to overindulge. It wasn’t uncommon for him to wake up after a night of drinking to find that he’d somehow his changed clothes or lost them, and it wasn’t entirely uncommon to find that he’d said things under the influence that he would never allow himself to say normally. Unpleasant surprises were part and parcel of having a drinker’s disposition. Still, as he felt himself straddling the line between tipsy and intoxicated, he had the strength of mind to realize that this had been a truly terrible idea.
When he woke up around noon the next day, he found that he had a terrible headache and an email in his inbox thanking him for his offer to model for the school’s drawing program.
“Shit.”