Arthur moves through the book stacks with a certain grace. He ends up, however, standing awkwardly in front of Alfred and hopping from foot to foot.
“I’ve got a date with this girl,” Alfred grunts in response, “and she reads a lot of stuff so, if you could help me pick something I could give as a gift, then...”
His voice trails off. Arthur continues to smile.
“What sort of thing does she like?”
“I don’t know,” Alfred shrugs. “She’s pretty crazy. Maybe crime novels, or whatever. So she can get ideas for murder methods from them, most likely.”
And Arthur laughs, blissfully unaware that Alfred is probably telling the truth. “Alright... I’d recommend some Mark Billingham, but I doubt his novels would be received as well with American audiences... Give me a moment.”
He walks over to one of the many shelves, eyes skimming across the spines of the books placed upon it. The expression on his face is one of pure concentration and authentic enthusiasm for the literature contained atop the ledges, and Alfred almost finds the sight of it endearing.
“Well, the girl I mean,” Alfred states, trying to be helpful, “she’s not American. She’s... some kind of European, I think. From Bel... I’m not sure...”
Once again, his voice trails away without concluding the sentence. Fuck, it’s embarrassing; he finds himself unable to speak freely to Arthur for fear of saying something wrong. There’s a burning desire in the pit of his stomach that urges him to say something intelligent, to match the intellect that Arthur appears to possess, to impress him for whatever reason.
“I see,” Arthur murmurs, not looking back from where his vision is focused. “Belarus?”
“Yeah,” Alfred replies, “I think so.”
“You don’t seem to be very excited about meeting with her,” Arthur laughs, running a hand through his untidy hair. “Is it a blind date, by any chance?”
“No,” Alfred mutters. “The chick forced me into it. She’s... a bit of a psycho-bitch.”
Arthur nods with some kind of understanding, finally looking away from the books, folding his arms across his chest. “Ah. I’ve courted a few of those in my time.”
Puzzled, Alfred frowns. “Courted?”
“Dated,” Arthur clarifies with a warm chuckle.
“Oh, ok, got you.” And then Alfred grimaces. “Like my mom?”
There’s a gap in the conversation but Alfred doesn’t feel humiliated about causing it. He’s legitimately interested in what this Englishman could possibly have to say for himself.
“Ah, yes, well,” Arthur stammers, eyes cast to the floor, “I’ve been meaning to speak to you about that, actually.” He coughs, to prepare himself rather than to clear his throat. “Are... are you alright with it? You know... Your mother and I...”
Always one for being helpful, Alfred finishes Arthur’s sentence for him. “Fucking?”
Arthur is clearly embarrassed. “I was going to say ‘seeing each other’.”
“Whatever,” Alfred sighs. “It’s all the same to me. Can you just show me something Natalia would like so I can, y’know, leave?”
“Sorry!” Arthur cries, disappearing behind one of the many bookcases. “I’m sorry; I tend to ramble. Anyway, a crime novel fit for giving as a romantic gift, that’s what you’re after, yes?”
Hearing it summarized makes Alfred notice how ridiculous the request is, so he only replies with, “Yeah, I... I guess.”
From somewhere near the back of the shop comes Arthur’s laugh. It’s a kind laugh. It’s a comforting thing to hear. “Well, I must say, Mr Jones, it’s going to be a difficult task to accomplish but I’ll give it my best shot.”
Staying angry and aloof with this guy is getting harder by the second, Alfred reflects, but he vows to keep up the cold front. Otherwise Matthew might suspect that Alfred- and God forbid it ever happen- has gotten weak. His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of an exultant cry from wherever it is Arthur’s wandered away to.
Arthur moves through the book stacks with a certain grace. He ends up, however, standing awkwardly in front of Alfred and hopping from foot to foot.
“I’ve got a date with this girl,” Alfred grunts in response, “and she reads a lot of stuff so, if you could help me pick something I could give as a gift, then...”
His voice trails off. Arthur continues to smile.
“What sort of thing does she like?”
“I don’t know,” Alfred shrugs. “She’s pretty crazy. Maybe crime novels, or whatever. So she can get ideas for murder methods from them, most likely.”
And Arthur laughs, blissfully unaware that Alfred is probably telling the truth. “Alright... I’d recommend some Mark Billingham, but I doubt his novels would be received as well with American audiences... Give me a moment.”
He walks over to one of the many shelves, eyes skimming across the spines of the books placed upon it. The expression on his face is one of pure concentration and authentic enthusiasm for the literature contained atop the ledges, and Alfred almost finds the sight of it endearing.
“Well, the girl I mean,” Alfred states, trying to be helpful, “she’s not American. She’s... some kind of European, I think. From Bel... I’m not sure...”
Once again, his voice trails away without concluding the sentence. Fuck, it’s embarrassing; he finds himself unable to speak freely to Arthur for fear of saying something wrong. There’s a burning desire in the pit of his stomach that urges him to say something intelligent, to match the intellect that Arthur appears to possess, to impress him for whatever reason.
“I see,” Arthur murmurs, not looking back from where his vision is focused. “Belarus?”
“Yeah,” Alfred replies, “I think so.”
“You don’t seem to be very excited about meeting with her,” Arthur laughs, running a hand through his untidy hair. “Is it a blind date, by any chance?”
“No,” Alfred mutters. “The chick forced me into it. She’s... a bit of a psycho-bitch.”
Arthur nods with some kind of understanding, finally looking away from the books, folding his arms across his chest. “Ah. I’ve courted a few of those in my time.”
Puzzled, Alfred frowns. “Courted?”
“Dated,” Arthur clarifies with a warm chuckle.
“Oh, ok, got you.” And then Alfred grimaces. “Like my mom?”
There’s a gap in the conversation but Alfred doesn’t feel humiliated about causing it. He’s legitimately interested in what this Englishman could possibly have to say for himself.
“Ah, yes, well,” Arthur stammers, eyes cast to the floor, “I’ve been meaning to speak to you about that, actually.” He coughs, to prepare himself rather than to clear his throat. “Are... are you alright with it? You know... Your mother and I...”
Always one for being helpful, Alfred finishes Arthur’s sentence for him. “Fucking?”
Arthur is clearly embarrassed. “I was going to say ‘seeing each other’.”
“Whatever,” Alfred sighs. “It’s all the same to me. Can you just show me something Natalia would like so I can, y’know, leave?”
“Sorry!” Arthur cries, disappearing behind one of the many bookcases. “I’m sorry; I tend to ramble. Anyway, a crime novel fit for giving as a romantic gift, that’s what you’re after, yes?”
Hearing it summarized makes Alfred notice how ridiculous the request is, so he only replies with, “Yeah, I... I guess.”
From somewhere near the back of the shop comes Arthur’s laugh. It’s a kind laugh. It’s a comforting thing to hear. “Well, I must say, Mr Jones, it’s going to be a difficult task to accomplish but I’ll give it my best shot.”
Staying angry and aloof with this guy is getting harder by the second, Alfred reflects, but he vows to keep up the cold front. Otherwise Matthew might suspect that Alfred- and God forbid it ever happen- has gotten weak. His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of an exultant cry from wherever it is Arthur’s wandered away to.
“Aha!”
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