[fanfic] For Fortune and Fame [1/???]
Title: For Fortune and Fame (a.k.a the Band AU)
Characters/Pairing: Implied and later more America/England, possibly some hints of Spain/Romano later on. :3
Summary: When Alfred catches Arthur in his knickers, rocking down to Mr. Blue Sky. The American has an idea. To form a band. It doesn't help that he manages to pull Francis and Matthew along for the ride.
Comments/Disclaimer: This fic would suck much more if it weren't salvaged by the lovely mknsen08. I do not own Hetalia. 8D x-posted to usxuk and Hetalia
Calloused fingers glided over the neck of the black Fender strat. Arthur gave it a few tentative strums before letting his hand drop to his side. The guitar strap hung loosely around his neck as he picked up his can of almost empty cheap beer on the amp. Downing it gingerly, he had to groan.
Really, he ought to have been studying. He was at his senior year in college and midterms were just around the corner. After all, he was Arthur bloody Kirkland, leader of the student body of the G20 International School. Arthur felt the need to maintain at least some level of brilliant grades. They look pretty on job applications. He didn’t have time for this. He was a busy man. He really should have been studying instead of bothering with a band that doesn’t even do a bloody show!
I mean, really, a band?! This was that entire blasted Alfred’s fault. Sure they liked the same genre of music, and it just so happenes that other people thought the American had some unfathomable talent --god forbid-, when it came to music. It’s not as if the American had caught him in his knickers playing ‘Mr. Blue Sky’ by E.L.O. really. And did it really matter that his knickers were printed with the English flag? DAMN THAT TALENTLESS (completely and utterly gorgeous - Arthur added silently) IDIOT FOR MAKING HIM WAIT!
“Ah, Angleterre!” echoed a person with thick French accent entering the room, long fingers twirling drumsticks in the air. “I’m surprised you’re already here.”
“You’re late, Francis.” Arthur said with a huff. The other man looked at his watch and squinted. He gave a gallant shrug as he mentally prepared static sound to block the Englishman’s upcoming sermon on punctuality. Francis often wondered what crawled up his ‘arse’ and stayed there.
“I mean really, we all agreed to meet at nine p.m., and you are ten minutes late. Now I’m not usually asinine about timekeeping but this is a poor reflection on your concept of responsibility and-”
“For someone who doesn’t even like this band, ma cherie, you’re awfully dedicated.” Francis smirked coyly as he approaches the Englishman. Slightly tilting the other man’s chin up with his fingers, Francis noticed Arthur’s eyebrow furrowing in annoyance. “Perhaps I am the cause of such inspiration?”
“HA! Like hell you are,” England growled under his breath. His cheeks were a slight tinge of red. “It’s not that I’m dedicated - It’s just - I, I -,”
“Wouldn’t want to see Jones upset, non?” Francis released his chin with a cat like grin. Everyone wasn’t late. Arthur was simply early.
“Damn it, Bonnefoy - it’s not like that with Alfred and I.” He crossed his arms. “Our relationship is far more complex than that, I mean I would never- he’s like- my junior, it’s completely and utterly platonic-”
“Platonic? Quite like that display of embrassèrent passionnémen, this morning?” He has to give a whole hearted laugh. “And here I thought hockey was played with a puck, Angleterre.”
“Ah, Francis, perhaps you should stop picking on Arthur, eh.” A small voice requested. Matthew pushed his glasses up and hugged his bass tighter. He had been here to witness the whole fight, but actually...
“Regardless of my ‘special relationship’ with Alfred,” the Englishman snorted. “Which you have no business judging, seeing as you get involved in throws of passion with pretty much anything but a can opener- I’ll have you know, despite that display, our relationship is entirely innocent!”
Francis couldn’t look at him seriously.
Arthur set the guitar aside and grabbed Francis’s collar in annoyance with swears only available in Manchester. As Francis returned this action by a failed attempt at spitting at Arthur, who seemed to respond via eyebrow as Matthew squeaked in the background.
Cries of: “EAT FROG LEGS, FRENCHIE!” and “AT LEAST THEY DON’T TASTE AS BAD AS YOU’RE COOKING!” were exchanged along with fists.
By the time Alfred had arrived in the room, Francis caught Arthur in a headlock with one arm and the other tapping both drumsticks against his forehead. Francis had a triumphant smirk as Arthur squirmed and tried to get himself out of the position.
Alfred’s first reaction was obviously- what the hell?
“YOU JUST HIT M’BLEEDING EYE, YOU TWAT!”
Alfred had to sigh and pull Francis away by the waist. Francis released Aruthur from that slight war they were having. He was almost used to it. Francis and Arthur had known each other for a while and they constantly got into fights. Besides, it’s not like this was the first time it happened.
“Pfft, like I needed any help,” Arthur barked angrily. He dusted himself off and looked away. He muttered an inaudible thank you, after rolling his eyes.
“Well of course, I am the hero.” Alfred said proudly. “And seeing as you’re all early…”
“I think that makes you late, eh,” Matthew muttered in reply quietly.
Arhtur had to pause after realizing the other blonde’s prescence. “Matt, when on Earth did you get here?”
“I was here before you, actually. I was sitting down on the couch. You kind of, well, ignored--”
“Well, let’s get this meeting started!” Alfred’s glasses shone a little too brightly in zeal. “So anyway, I took the liberty of signing us up for this talent contest!”
“You couldn’t get us a gig?” Arthur frowned. Not that he cared.
“Oh but it’s not just a talent contest! It’s a talent contest at this really awesome bar, so it’s practically a gig. It’s just that we’ll be competing with different acts and stuff.”
“Oh,” Matthew nodded. “So which bar is it, eh?”
Alfred gave a genuine grin. “According to a few people, there’s always a crowd and--”
“Which bar is it?” Arthur crossed his arms at the fact that Alfred avoided the question. He didn’t like it when Alfred was being dodgy. It only meant the boy had something up his sleeve.
“Vital Regions,” Alfred replied sheepishly.
“The gay bar?!” Arthur yelled, looking flustered as Matthew’s palm hit his face.
Characters/Pairing: Implied and later more America/England, possibly some hints of Spain/Romano later on. :3
Summary: When Alfred catches Arthur in his knickers, rocking down to Mr. Blue Sky. The American has an idea. To form a band. It doesn't help that he manages to pull Francis and Matthew along for the ride.
Comments/Disclaimer: This fic would suck much more if it weren't salvaged by the lovely mknsen08. I do not own Hetalia. 8D x-posted to usxuk and Hetalia
Calloused fingers glided over the neck of the black Fender strat. Arthur gave it a few tentative strums before letting his hand drop to his side. The guitar strap hung loosely around his neck as he picked up his can of almost empty cheap beer on the amp. Downing it gingerly, he had to groan.
Really, he ought to have been studying. He was at his senior year in college and midterms were just around the corner. After all, he was Arthur bloody Kirkland, leader of the student body of the G20 International School. Arthur felt the need to maintain at least some level of brilliant grades. They look pretty on job applications. He didn’t have time for this. He was a busy man. He really should have been studying instead of bothering with a band that doesn’t even do a bloody show!
I mean, really, a band?! This was that entire blasted Alfred’s fault. Sure they liked the same genre of music, and it just so happenes that other people thought the American had some unfathomable talent --god forbid-, when it came to music. It’s not as if the American had caught him in his knickers playing ‘Mr. Blue Sky’ by E.L.O. really. And did it really matter that his knickers were printed with the English flag? DAMN THAT TALENTLESS (completely and utterly gorgeous - Arthur added silently) IDIOT FOR MAKING HIM WAIT!
“Ah, Angleterre!” echoed a person with thick French accent entering the room, long fingers twirling drumsticks in the air. “I’m surprised you’re already here.”
“You’re late, Francis.” Arthur said with a huff. The other man looked at his watch and squinted. He gave a gallant shrug as he mentally prepared static sound to block the Englishman’s upcoming sermon on punctuality. Francis often wondered what crawled up his ‘arse’ and stayed there.
“I mean really, we all agreed to meet at nine p.m., and you are ten minutes late. Now I’m not usually asinine about timekeeping but this is a poor reflection on your concept of responsibility and-”
“For someone who doesn’t even like this band, ma cherie, you’re awfully dedicated.” Francis smirked coyly as he approaches the Englishman. Slightly tilting the other man’s chin up with his fingers, Francis noticed Arthur’s eyebrow furrowing in annoyance. “Perhaps I am the cause of such inspiration?”
“HA! Like hell you are,” England growled under his breath. His cheeks were a slight tinge of red. “It’s not that I’m dedicated - It’s just - I, I -,”
“Wouldn’t want to see Jones upset, non?” Francis released his chin with a cat like grin. Everyone wasn’t late. Arthur was simply early.
“Damn it, Bonnefoy - it’s not like that with Alfred and I.” He crossed his arms. “Our relationship is far more complex than that, I mean I would never- he’s like- my junior, it’s completely and utterly platonic-”
“Platonic? Quite like that display of embrassèrent passionnémen, this morning?” He has to give a whole hearted laugh. “And here I thought hockey was played with a puck, Angleterre.”
“Ah, Francis, perhaps you should stop picking on Arthur, eh.” A small voice requested. Matthew pushed his glasses up and hugged his bass tighter. He had been here to witness the whole fight, but actually...
“Regardless of my ‘special relationship’ with Alfred,” the Englishman snorted. “Which you have no business judging, seeing as you get involved in throws of passion with pretty much anything but a can opener- I’ll have you know, despite that display, our relationship is entirely innocent!”
Francis couldn’t look at him seriously.
Arthur set the guitar aside and grabbed Francis’s collar in annoyance with swears only available in Manchester. As Francis returned this action by a failed attempt at spitting at Arthur, who seemed to respond via eyebrow as Matthew squeaked in the background.
Cries of: “EAT FROG LEGS, FRENCHIE!” and “AT LEAST THEY DON’T TASTE AS BAD AS YOU’RE COOKING!” were exchanged along with fists.
By the time Alfred had arrived in the room, Francis caught Arthur in a headlock with one arm and the other tapping both drumsticks against his forehead. Francis had a triumphant smirk as Arthur squirmed and tried to get himself out of the position.
Alfred’s first reaction was obviously- what the hell?
“YOU JUST HIT M’BLEEDING EYE, YOU TWAT!”
Alfred had to sigh and pull Francis away by the waist. Francis released Aruthur from that slight war they were having. He was almost used to it. Francis and Arthur had known each other for a while and they constantly got into fights. Besides, it’s not like this was the first time it happened.
“Pfft, like I needed any help,” Arthur barked angrily. He dusted himself off and looked away. He muttered an inaudible thank you, after rolling his eyes.
“Well of course, I am the hero.” Alfred said proudly. “And seeing as you’re all early…”
“I think that makes you late, eh,” Matthew muttered in reply quietly.
Arhtur had to pause after realizing the other blonde’s prescence. “Matt, when on Earth did you get here?”
“I was here before you, actually. I was sitting down on the couch. You kind of, well, ignored--”
“Well, let’s get this meeting started!” Alfred’s glasses shone a little too brightly in zeal. “So anyway, I took the liberty of signing us up for this talent contest!”
“You couldn’t get us a gig?” Arthur frowned. Not that he cared.
“Oh but it’s not just a talent contest! It’s a talent contest at this really awesome bar, so it’s practically a gig. It’s just that we’ll be competing with different acts and stuff.”
“Oh,” Matthew nodded. “So which bar is it, eh?”
Alfred gave a genuine grin. “According to a few people, there’s always a crowd and--”
“Which bar is it?” Arthur crossed his arms at the fact that Alfred avoided the question. He didn’t like it when Alfred was being dodgy. It only meant the boy had something up his sleeve.
“Vital Regions,” Alfred replied sheepishly.
“The gay bar?!” Arthur yelled, looking flustered as Matthew’s palm hit his face.