First Name Basis 1/?
anonymous
August 25 2010, 02:04:08 UTC
The first time the school had forced Arthur to a counsellor, he threw up over her shoes. To be fair, he couldn't remember much after; screams of my precious Blahniks and someone grabbing his collar. It got foggy after that.
It did not end well, is the point.
Arthur looks at the wall, covered with posters about plays, articles on students, clubs. He is waiting, and Arthur has never been the patient sort.
He stands up, kicking his legs out.
About a month ago-a good half a year after the previous counsellor incident-Arthur had been found smashing windows. It wasn't that big a deal; he only did it to the abandoned classrooms. It was a good way to relieve stress when pounding on Francis wasn't.
The school staff didn't seem to agree. Health and safety rings like a bell in his ears. Inappropriate behaviour.
Major attitude problems.
What a crock of shit. Arthur just-likes to do what he wants to. Which is smoke, and drink, and skip classes. The school has nothing to hold against him, anyway: parents missing, brothers scattered, with no contact. Charging a student-a student who struggles to support himself alone, no less-with damages seems below them.
All of which lead to this.
Arthur needs a fag. His fingers are itching for it, flexing and twitching. The nearby receptionist looks him over, squinted, and then goes back to her computer. Arthur briefly considers giving her the finger.
He's waiting for somebody, though this somebody obviously has no sense of time or... sense. Arthur isn't sure he wants that in a counsellor.
(Well. Strictly speaking, Arthur doesn't want a counsellor at all. Fuck.)
Frustration and anxiety are starting to pull at his brain matter. A smoke would help. A smoke would really help. Arthur peers desperately at the wall clock, then the door, and the familiar rectangle bump in his pocket.
One minute wouldn't hurt, would it? And if he sees the bloke coming, he can just rush back in. Yeah, it's easy.
Conclusion plain and satisfying, Arthur runs his palm over the bump in his pocket, and turns outside. He can breathe, here. Sure, it's grey and hinting-at-rain and polluted kind of air, but it's better than a stare-down.
Plus, he really needs that cigarette.
With shaking fingers, Arthur pulls out the packet, dutifully reads the death warning, and throws the fag to his mouth. It's a party trick, at this point-the first fifty times, Arthur wasted a whole pack on wet tarmac, trying to impress some chick in town.
Still, he's perfect now. He cheers internally as he catches the end in his teeth and feels for his lighter. It's cheap: a plastic, thumb-bruising zippo. They come in packs of ten for a quid, so Arthur expects as much.
It takes three tries. Three little flickers of pathetic flame, and then there's a glow of red and the familiar hit in the back of his throat; unpleasant, at first, then smooth sailing. Arthur blames it on the body's natural desire to not inhale killer smoke, and laughs at himself.
It's a bad habit, Arthur knows that much. But so is drinking, and so is moping on the roof, and so is staying up till four in the morning. Arthur likes the bad stuff because it's bad. And the addiction; that hardly helps.
Oh, wait, shit, footsteps. Arthur keeps his head down, not wishing for a scolding. It sounds like-sneakers, though, because they squeak across the damp ground, and the person is whistling what sounds like something out of high school musical-
-his gaze meets the shoes. Neon, blinding affairs. Jeans. Shirt untucked and brown leather jacket.
Face: American.
Arthur can tell; it was something you picked up in a school as strangely multicultural as theirs. An east German boy who insisted he's Prussian, the French bastard, that rather pretty Seychellois girl Arthur has a kind-of-thing-for but not really.
The smile gives it away, mostly. Smug, and too wide, and that fake looking laser white gleam; how he flashes it so proudly, brightening when he catches Arthur's eye. Most usually recoil.
First Name Basis 2/?
anonymous
August 25 2010, 02:10:48 UTC
Arthur glares at the man's retreating back, which only serves to irritate him more. His walk is fucking American, too, all swagger and loose and is that an old military jacket? Weird. It only makes his shoulders look broader.
(Arthur, for the first time in three years, feels very small.)
He brushes it off, along with his cigarette, and curses his counsellor for being such a lazy arse.
__
Arthur can hear voices as he turns back into the reception. That American guy is still around, charming the woman with his Hollywood smile and winks. It all makes Arthur feel rather nauseous.
This-Mr. Jones has some serious nerve. That's the name of his new counsellor, according to the head. Hell, he's already starting to get on Arthur's nerves and they haven't even met yet.
Thirty minutes late and counting.
Arthur slumps in a plastic chair, sinking till his chin meets his collar. He could do with a drink, too, and that's saying something. Normally, Arthur puts off alcohol till eleven. Considering it's nine thirty right now and he wants a pint, he must be seriously stressed.
Arthur is very close to falling asleep in the stuffy, heady heat of the room when a throat clears. It is the kind of noise that people with either: a) serious phlegm issues, or b) serious authority issues, would make. Arthur blinks at it.
Oh. It's Ms. Nails, arms folded over her sad bosom and fingers tapping a rhythm to her elbow. Arthur blinks again.
"Yes?" Arthur prompts, because the lady doesn't seem to be getting to her point any time soon. Her eyes go wide, then narrow. Her eyebrows follow suit.
"Arthur Kirkland?" she asks, and Arthur nods. "Mr. Jones is here to see you."
Arthur barely resists the urge to say fucking finally, and pulls himself up, rubbing sleep-haze from his eyes. She leads the way, twisting down three different corridors. They stop at a grey door, brass nameplate tarnished and, Arthur supposes, inaccurate. It still bears the name:
Mrs. Moore
rather sadly, like a memorial. Arthur vaguely recalls vomit and shoes and snorts. This seems to alarm the receptionist, who gives him an over plucked frown, and goes back to the rattling doorknob.
It swings open to reveal a strong silhouette, emptying papers and what looks like figurines on to the desk. Arthur stares.
That is a very familiar silhouette.
Rather... it looks like that American's silhouette, albeit a little darker in the abysmal fluorescent light. In fact, those sneakers-that jacket-
-a head of shocking blond hair turns, cow lick bobbing, and smiles a good 100 watts of energy at them. Arthur cringes.
"Oh, hey!" he says, voice thick with a five-year-old's optimism. It fits his demeanour very well. "You're Arthur?"
A broad, tan hand comes at him. Arthur shakes it, hesitantly.
"I'm Mr. Jones, but you can call me Alfred. I've heard a lot about you, Arthur." He winks. The woman beside Arthur melts. "It's great to meet you."
The handshake reaches new levels of positivity and momentum, and Arthur feels like his arm will fall off. When Mr. Jones-Alfred-loosens his grip, Arthur gingerly holds his fist.
He's finding it hard to say words. Arthur supposes it's kind of like being starstruck; except, replace star with smile and struck with blinded.
"Uh," Arthur says, dumbly, "er, yes. I'm sure."
"Have a good morning, Mr. Jones," comes a syrup voice. Arthur realises it's the receptionist. "I hope your first day goes well."
The door creaks shut. All in all, it's fairly ominous. Or it would be, if Mr. Jones wasn't smiling like an idiot and pushing his glasses up his face with the back of his hand. He reminds Arthur of an over-grown boy.
"You're my first victim, then," says Mr. Jones, not unkindly. "Sorry I was so late, by the way. Traffic was a serious mess."
Arthur re-shoulders his bag, and coughs.
"Um. Yeah. Well!" Alfred claps his hands together. "Let's get going! Sit down, please."
First Name Basis 3/?
anonymous
August 25 2010, 02:14:24 UTC
He drops his bag with a fumph, and dust rises in a grey rain. This room must have been off the cleaning schedule.
"You're under K, right?" asks Alfred, head under the desk. Papers rattle. "Kay-ei-kay-ei-aha, here it is! Oh."
It's Arthur's record. He thinks it's impressive, in its own right. Very... thick. A little swell of pride starts in Arthur, for very much the wrong reasons.
"Wow," Alfred says, marvelling at the bursting folder. "W. Wow."
Arthur can't stop himself from laughing. Most people react in the same way, but it's somehow more satisfying to see that smile falter.
"Thank you," says Arthur, sarcasm butter-thick. "I try to keep things interesting."
"I can see that."
"If you flip a little further, you can see what happened to my last counsellor."
The silence hiccups.
Mr. Jones grin becomes a grimace.
"Oh dear," he says, closing it with a snap. He shakes his head. "That's terrible, for her. But trust me, Arthur..."
A hand shifts over the desk, stopping right under his nose. Mr. Jones' face follows, and they are suddenly very close.
"... I won't give in so easily."
Arthur scowls. He's cocky, too. They were usually the first to break, once you pulled down the façade.
"Well, trust me, Mr. Jones," Arthur says, lips quirking at the corners, "neither will I."
__
i remember seeing this forever ago and thinking, maybe i should fill that. talk about late. i hope the op is still around and enjoys it so far <3
Re: First Name Basis 3/?
anonymous
August 25 2010, 02:53:06 UTC
Not!OP absolutely loves this. The characterisation is brilliant, and, oh god, if America was a counsellor, this is exactly the kind he would be. Please keep going with it, I`m looking forward to the next bit already!
Re: First Name Basis 3/?
anonymous
August 25 2010, 03:16:05 UTC
Still not OP seconds the fact that this looks great so far. I'm biased because I'm a sucker for Punk!UK but I really dig the characterization you've got going here. Super in character without it seeming forced and atop of that I really like your style. Looking forward to seeing how this story turns out.
Re: First Name Basis 3/?
anonymous
August 25 2010, 03:25:33 UTC
I dunno if OP is still around, but we're all enjoying your characterization, anyway! And damn, I really haven't seen this particular dynamic dynamic between these two guys before. :O Looking forward to seeing more of Alfred and how he deals with Arthur. And oh Arthur, why so damn jaded? <3
Re: First Name Basis 3/?
anonymous
August 25 2010, 11:38:00 UTC
ANON IF YOU ABANDON THIS MY HEARTS WILL BREAK. PLEEEAAASEE THAY WITH THIS TO THE END, IT'S SO GOOD. ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ See those anon? Those are my family and friends' hearts, too, you don't want to break that many do you? ;__;
In all seriousness, though, this looks to be an amazing, amazing ride. Will be refreshing every day. :D
It did not end well, is the point.
Arthur looks at the wall, covered with posters about plays, articles on students, clubs. He is waiting, and Arthur has never been the patient sort.
He stands up, kicking his legs out.
About a month ago-a good half a year after the previous counsellor incident-Arthur had been found smashing windows. It wasn't that big a deal; he only did it to the abandoned classrooms. It was a good way to relieve stress when pounding on Francis wasn't.
The school staff didn't seem to agree. Health and safety rings like a bell in his ears. Inappropriate behaviour.
Major attitude problems.
What a crock of shit. Arthur just-likes to do what he wants to. Which is smoke, and drink, and skip classes. The school has nothing to hold against him, anyway: parents missing, brothers scattered, with no contact. Charging a student-a student who struggles to support himself alone, no less-with damages seems below them.
All of which lead to this.
Arthur needs a fag. His fingers are itching for it, flexing and twitching. The nearby receptionist looks him over, squinted, and then goes back to her computer. Arthur briefly considers giving her the finger.
He's waiting for somebody, though this somebody obviously has no sense of time or... sense. Arthur isn't sure he wants that in a counsellor.
(Well. Strictly speaking, Arthur doesn't want a counsellor at all. Fuck.)
Frustration and anxiety are starting to pull at his brain matter. A smoke would help. A smoke would really help. Arthur peers desperately at the wall clock, then the door, and the familiar rectangle bump in his pocket.
One minute wouldn't hurt, would it? And if he sees the bloke coming, he can just rush back in. Yeah, it's easy.
Conclusion plain and satisfying, Arthur runs his palm over the bump in his pocket, and turns outside. He can breathe, here. Sure, it's grey and hinting-at-rain and polluted kind of air, but it's better than a stare-down.
Plus, he really needs that cigarette.
With shaking fingers, Arthur pulls out the packet, dutifully reads the death warning, and throws the fag to his mouth. It's a party trick, at this point-the first fifty times, Arthur wasted a whole pack on wet tarmac, trying to impress some chick in town.
Still, he's perfect now. He cheers internally as he catches the end in his teeth and feels for his lighter. It's cheap: a plastic, thumb-bruising zippo. They come in packs of ten for a quid, so Arthur expects as much.
It takes three tries. Three little flickers of pathetic flame, and then there's a glow of red and the familiar hit in the back of his throat; unpleasant, at first, then smooth sailing. Arthur blames it on the body's natural desire to not inhale killer smoke, and laughs at himself.
It's a bad habit, Arthur knows that much. But so is drinking, and so is moping on the roof, and so is staying up till four in the morning. Arthur likes the bad stuff because it's bad. And the addiction; that hardly helps.
Oh, wait, shit, footsteps. Arthur keeps his head down, not wishing for a scolding. It sounds like-sneakers, though, because they squeak across the damp ground, and the person is whistling what sounds like something out of high school musical-
-his gaze meets the shoes. Neon, blinding affairs. Jeans. Shirt untucked and brown leather jacket.
Face: American.
Arthur can tell; it was something you picked up in a school as strangely multicultural as theirs. An east German boy who insisted he's Prussian, the French bastard, that rather pretty Seychellois girl Arthur has a kind-of-thing-for but not really.
The smile gives it away, mostly. Smug, and too wide, and that fake looking laser white gleam; how he flashes it so proudly, brightening when he catches Arthur's eye. Most usually recoil.
Reply
(Arthur, for the first time in three years, feels very small.)
He brushes it off, along with his cigarette, and curses his counsellor for being such a lazy arse.
__
Arthur can hear voices as he turns back into the reception. That American guy is still around, charming the woman with his Hollywood smile and winks. It all makes Arthur feel rather nauseous.
This-Mr. Jones has some serious nerve. That's the name of his new counsellor, according to the head. Hell, he's already starting to get on Arthur's nerves and they haven't even met yet.
Thirty minutes late and counting.
Arthur slumps in a plastic chair, sinking till his chin meets his collar. He could do with a drink, too, and that's saying something. Normally, Arthur puts off alcohol till eleven. Considering it's nine thirty right now and he wants a pint, he must be seriously stressed.
Arthur is very close to falling asleep in the stuffy, heady heat of the room when a throat clears. It is the kind of noise that people with either: a) serious phlegm issues, or b) serious authority issues, would make. Arthur blinks at it.
Oh. It's Ms. Nails, arms folded over her sad bosom and fingers tapping a rhythm to her elbow. Arthur blinks again.
"Yes?" Arthur prompts, because the lady doesn't seem to be getting to her point any time soon. Her eyes go wide, then narrow. Her eyebrows follow suit.
"Arthur Kirkland?" she asks, and Arthur nods. "Mr. Jones is here to see you."
Arthur barely resists the urge to say fucking finally, and pulls himself up, rubbing sleep-haze from his eyes. She leads the way, twisting down three different corridors. They stop at a grey door, brass nameplate tarnished and, Arthur supposes, inaccurate. It still bears the name:
Mrs. Moore
rather sadly, like a memorial. Arthur vaguely recalls vomit and shoes and snorts. This seems to alarm the receptionist, who gives him an over plucked frown, and goes back to the rattling doorknob.
It swings open to reveal a strong silhouette, emptying papers and what looks like figurines on to the desk. Arthur stares.
That is a very familiar silhouette.
Rather... it looks like that American's silhouette, albeit a little darker in the abysmal fluorescent light. In fact, those sneakers-that jacket-
-a head of shocking blond hair turns, cow lick bobbing, and smiles a good 100 watts of energy at them. Arthur cringes.
"Oh, hey!" he says, voice thick with a five-year-old's optimism. It fits his demeanour very well. "You're Arthur?"
A broad, tan hand comes at him. Arthur shakes it, hesitantly.
"I'm Mr. Jones, but you can call me Alfred. I've heard a lot about you, Arthur." He winks. The woman beside Arthur melts. "It's great to meet you."
The handshake reaches new levels of positivity and momentum, and Arthur feels like his arm will fall off. When Mr. Jones-Alfred-loosens his grip, Arthur gingerly holds his fist.
He's finding it hard to say words. Arthur supposes it's kind of like being starstruck; except, replace star with smile and struck with blinded.
"Uh," Arthur says, dumbly, "er, yes. I'm sure."
"Have a good morning, Mr. Jones," comes a syrup voice. Arthur realises it's the receptionist. "I hope your first day goes well."
The door creaks shut. All in all, it's fairly ominous. Or it would be, if Mr. Jones wasn't smiling like an idiot and pushing his glasses up his face with the back of his hand. He reminds Arthur of an over-grown boy.
"You're my first victim, then," says Mr. Jones, not unkindly. "Sorry I was so late, by the way. Traffic was a serious mess."
Arthur re-shoulders his bag, and coughs.
"Um. Yeah. Well!" Alfred claps his hands together. "Let's get going! Sit down, please."
Reply
"You're under K, right?" asks Alfred, head under the desk. Papers rattle. "Kay-ei-kay-ei-aha, here it is! Oh."
It's Arthur's record. He thinks it's impressive, in its own right. Very... thick. A little swell of pride starts in Arthur, for very much the wrong reasons.
"Wow," Alfred says, marvelling at the bursting folder. "W. Wow."
Arthur can't stop himself from laughing. Most people react in the same way, but it's somehow more satisfying to see that smile falter.
"Thank you," says Arthur, sarcasm butter-thick. "I try to keep things interesting."
"I can see that."
"If you flip a little further, you can see what happened to my last counsellor."
The silence hiccups.
Mr. Jones grin becomes a grimace.
"Oh dear," he says, closing it with a snap. He shakes his head. "That's terrible, for her. But trust me, Arthur..."
A hand shifts over the desk, stopping right under his nose. Mr. Jones' face follows, and they are suddenly very close.
"... I won't give in so easily."
Arthur scowls. He's cocky, too. They were usually the first to break, once you pulled down the façade.
"Well, trust me, Mr. Jones," Arthur says, lips quirking at the corners, "neither will I."
__
i remember seeing this forever ago and thinking, maybe i should fill that. talk about late. i hope the op is still around and enjoys it so far <3
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This is awesome!!!
Will camp here waiting for updates!!
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no for real this is <3 plz conti.
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Is that innuendo I spy deliberate, or am I spending too much time in the kink meme?
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ill get around to writing a proper review sometime when it isnt 5 am.
Reply
♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥
See those anon? Those are my family and friends' hearts, too, you don't want to break that many do you? ;__;
In all seriousness, though, this looks to be an amazing, amazing ride. Will be refreshing every day. :D
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