Fic: The Movement of Language (3)
Title: The Movement of Language
Characters/Pairings: USUK(/US), ensemble (mentioned SuFin, NethCan, Frain, very mild GerIta, AusHun, DenNor, Romano->Belgium and past SpUK)
Rating: T - mild language
Summary: In a hypothetical experiment, a student takes reactant A (one grumpy English teacher) and mixes it with reactant B (one enthusiastic Physics teacher) in a glass beaker (life), stirring the mixture before adding substance C (updates and advice from strange friends, fed-up family, life, the universe and everything). The student witnesses a colourful reaction. Assuming all reactants are used up in the experiment, what would the end product be that is created from this reaction? (Answer: Two idiots, very slowly, very surely, just maybe realising that they might be falling in love.) Teacher!AU. KM de-anon.
Chapter: 3/?
i. - xiii.
xiv. - xxiii.
*****
xxiv. one’s company
Francis is at home when he hears the familiar sound of the key in the front door. It’s the work of seconds for him to abandon his weekly habit of lamenting over the latest additions to Arthur’s music and book collections with his cat (as ever, during the process, Arthur’s pet monster remains aloof, glaring balefully at him from the space under the paper-strewn coffee table and plotting the imminent and untimely demise of Francis’ favourite clothes, limbs and life) and hurry to the front door, ready to greet his favourite surly flatmate coming in.
(Francis only laments the music collection because Arthur’s collection of clothing gives him too many nightmares - that, and it is truly horrifying what Arthur can insist is ‘decent’ music. The books are despaired of for much the same reason (save that it’s literature in question and it’s not usually as bad as the music - though since the music is an affront to all good sense and eardrums - many, many times Francis has been given to wonder if Arthur is half-deaf -, that’s not saying much at all), with the added justification being, that if Arthur does not stop buying new books at some point in the very near future, all their shelves are going to collapse, break everything on them and underneath them, and probably take the floor of their flat out with their sheer weight as well. And Francis refuses to pay for repairs if that happens.)
“Bon retour parmi nous~!”
Arthur ducks the arm set to wrap around his shoulders and the kiss that would’ve went along with it with an ease that tells Francis he’s going to have to learn some new tactics, the English teacher only offering a casual whack to Francis’ spine with his briefcase as a response to his flatmate’s greeting before moving further into the flat. “Off.”
Francis sulks. “Ar-”
“And do shut the door when you’ve finished gawking in the middle of the doorway. Sooner rather than later, if you’d be so kind.”
Francis shuts the door as bid and comes further into the flat after Arthur, still sulking about being evaded - once more, always and forever if Arthur continues to have his way. (And if Arthur doesn’t get his way, in this case, Francis knows he’ll find himself being smothered in his sleep shortly afterwards, very likely with Arthur ranting at him all the while as he spirals his way down to an airless death.) Francis’ pout only increases when he sees his flatmate set down his briefcase (the lethal weapon), absently rubbing Louis’ head as he passes by where the longhair’s half-napping on the back of the couch.
“Arthur,” Francis starts, arms folded across his chest and trying vainly not to feel too much like a puppy as he pads after the other man and is dutifully ignored (as usual), “chéri,” more general neglect is aimed precisely in Francis’ direction and Francis dearly hopes Arthur’s going to get cat-hair on the scarf he’s just left on the sideboard, “one would almost think you love the cats more than me.”
“Only ‘almost’?” Someone is pissy today.
“You wound me, mon chou.”
“Not nearly enough.” Arthur sheds his outer clothes like a snake shedding its skin, peels off his coat and tie and leaves them draped half-heartedly over the nearest armchair. He forgets his shoes and steps out of them in the middle of the floor, and as he flops to the longest couch undoes the top buttons of his shirt and sleeves, leaves his throat and wrists bare to view as he lies back with a drained sigh, an untidy sprawl with one arm flung across his eyes against the ceiling’s light.
And with that Francis bites his tongue against his usual retorts (there is little sense in suicide, and suicide it would be with his companion in the mood he seems to currently be caught in), perching on the armrest closest to Arthur’s feet and looking up the messy line of the other’s body, noting the weariness in Arthur’s frame. “Stressful day?”
The fact Arthur doesn’t even bother to stretch out one of his legs to kick Francis off the armrest is answer enough, really, and his ‘mm’ of reply explains the rest. Louis slinks down from the couch’s back to take a seat on Arthur’s stomach - riling up Arthur’s cat as well, green eyes taking in Louis stealing his spot and coaxing the patch-marked Scottish Fold out from under the table to stalk imperiously across and hop up onto Arthur’s chest, the favoured spot, hissing at the other cat in warning before settling down.
Arthur just lets both cats lie in their chosen positions, far too used to be used as a cushion by both of them and apparently too weary to even shove Louis off. It’s a somewhat defeatist response and Francis absently debates making a cup of tea for Arthur to reinvigorate the eyebrows back to their usual impressive standard, if nothing else, but abandons the thought knowing Arthur would just accuse him (not entirely baselessly) of lacing the cup with either aphrodisiacs, laxatives or poison.
So Francis scolds his traitor of a pet instead.
“You,” Francis solemnly tells Louis, as blue eyes blink sleepily his way, “are a vile, evil little turncoat and I am never giving you that tuna you are so fond of ever again.”
“That would be the French in him,” Arthur says, still flat on his back and not bothering to remove the arm flung over his eyes. Rude little rosbif.
Francis only smirks at his flatmate, ignoring the now-baleful gazes of the two felines sprawled out quite comfortably on Arthur’s person. “I happen to think quite a few things would be all the better for having a little French in them.”
That gets a twitch - there is life in Arthur yet. “It would be little where you’re concerned, wouldn’t it?”
“It would have to be when you’re around, mon petit.” Francis flicks at the ankle nearest to him, reproof. “You’re only used to handling the teeny-tiny things; we have to tone everything down so we don’t make you get scared and run away.”
“I would like to remind you that you are within kicking distance.”
“Even when you are currently incapacitated?”
“It takes fewer muscles to smile than to frown,” says Arthur, as pleasantly as he can get. (The poison is toned down to barely noticeable levels, ‘barely noticeable’ being the verbal equivalent of a freight train being driven through the wall of one’s living-room.) “And it takes more muscles to smile than to smack you for being a perverted tosser, since I’ve had so much practice.”
Francis just snorts at that - it’s obvious Arthur has made himself far too comfortable already to bestir himself for something as petty as enacting violent revenge for a few words; the threat of retribution is a well-worn one, and currently without backing. “We’re having coq au vin for dinner -”
“Chicken and wine, frog.” Arthur has still yet to remove the arm from over his face - a ‘talk to the hand’ moment, perhaps, even if somewhere under that blocking limb the eyebrows are paying rapt attention. (As they should be, of course. Francis is worthy of it, though the fact has seemingly not sunk into Arthur’s peculiarly dense head, yet.) “Why can’t you just say chicken and wine?”
“With wine - with.” One day Francis’ flatmate will learn the beauty that is the French and all its intricacies. One day. “Though with the mood you currently seem to be in, mon petit, I may as well forgo the preparation time and just hand the wine straight to you in the bottle -”
Arthur actually groans at that and shifts onto his side, disturbing the cats and sending both felines diving away from the sofa - Louis, to curl up on Arthur’s abandoned scarf (Francis has trained his pet well) and the other one (the green-eyed cretin masquerading as an innocent cat) to the other couch. His Highness seats himself down on the cushion there and regards Francis with his suspicious gaze - as if Francis is the one responsible for unseating him in the first place, and not his own master. Ridiculous, arrogant cat.
Francis is too busy studying Arthur, honestly taken-aback. “…Are you actually turning down alcohol?” Merde - the world is ending and Francis hasn’t done nearly enough praying to end up anywhere good. He doesn’t even have good intentions on his side - all his actions have been done with the express purpose of either amusement, debauchery or thorough, thorough defilement in mind. (At least the road to Hell is gracious enough to be multiple choice.) “…You will tell me what exactly has happened to you today to have put you in this distemper, I think, or else I may have to ask you what it is you’ve done with the real Arthur Kirkland.”
The reply’s a flat one. “I went on a rampage with swords from the drama cupboard, drank something I shouldn’t have drank laced with something it shouldn’t have been laced with, and then I taught an afternoon of classes whilst finding it increasingly difficult to stand upright. I may or may have not instructed a bunch of year nines on the benefits of anarchy and I know I’ve pissed-off Feliks because I forgot to return his key to him. Also, I have a headache.”
“…Now that sounds a lot more like the Arthur I am so reluctantly acquainted with.” Francis smirks again when Arthur finally deigns to take revenge, grabbing with both hands the ankle of the foot drawn back to kick at him before the limb ever makes contact with Francis’ torso. “Should I smother you to put you out of your misery, mon cher, or can you handle that difficult task by yourself whilst I go through to make us dinner?”
Arthur kicks him with his other foot instead, and manages to knock Francis straight off the armrest he’d been sitting on and onto the floor.
“For that,” Francis tells him with a sniff as he pops his head back over the couch’s edge, “I’m not fetching you any painkillers.”
Arthur throws a cushion at him, and Francis has a few seconds to marvel at his companion’s amazing aim even whilst groggy, grumpy and otherwise not at one with the world - right before it hits him in the face.
xxv. bump in the night
Matthew Williams is many things. He’s twenty-six, a twin (the elder one, though Al is fond of denying it), the son of divorced parents and Canadian - through his mother, who he’d moved to live with in Ontario after the divorce (Al had went south of the border, to the States, to live with their dad, after a gigantic row). He lives with his brother, and has done ever since they moved to the UK. He’s technically Catholic - baptised and First Holy Communion-ed, but nothing beyond that save a few masses when he meets up with his mother now and then around Easter or Christmas. He can speak French as easily as English - although his Québécois has made Parisians flinch on more than one occasion and (some) English-speakers (Alfred) seem to take great delight in hearing him say ‘eh’ when he gets worked-up or annoyed. He’s his own boss and the boss of a few others - he owns his own café, Trillium, nearer the town centre, and takes great pleasure in spending at least a few hours there every day either in the kitchen or behind the till, talking with his customers and his employees -, is an avid hockey-fan, adores maple syrup and the colour red, wears glasses for his short-sightedness - he’d tried contacts once, but after losing them continuously for about a week his Dutch friend and employee had just advised him to stick with glasses. They apparently suit him better, anyway. He’s been told that he’s cute, that he’s a good friend and a good listener, and he knows for a fact that he has the tendency to blend into the background, but quietly consoles himself with the fact that at least the background is where the best pancakes are, because he knows fine well he can make some of the best pancakes around - Canadian-style ones, too, since the British ones are more like crêpes than anything else.
Matthew would like to think he is also at least a half decent brother on top of all that - but even if he is widely regarded as having the patience of a saint for dealing with Alfred as he does Matthew would dearly like it to be noted that even the saints had been fallible humans before they’d ended up sainted and dead (perhaps not in that order) and there is such a thing as a breaking point, even for the best big brother in the whole wide goddamn world.
Being kept awake until half-two in the morning by your brother quivering in your (single) bed next to you and complaining about how he’s sure his evil British co-worker is going to leap in through the nearest window at any moment now armed with a kitchen knife and end his life when you’re trying to sleep is Matthew’s.
“Al,” says Matthew, giving up and rolling over in his bed so he can once more face the wibbling lump of (stolen) blankets that is currently his brother. When there is no immediate response - “Al.”
The blanket lump moves a bit, and Alfred’s eyes peer out over one edge - though not before the little sticky-up bit of hair that should function as part of Alfred’s fringe but doesn’t has done its antennae thing, testing the air for unseen danger before the rest of Alfred consents to rise from the protective cocoon he’s wrapped around himself and face the fire of Matthew’s sleep-deprived wrath.
“Al,” Matthew says, patient and calm, gritted out between clenched teeth and the steady thumps of Matthew’s pounding headache, “it’s quarter past two in the morning on a weekday, and we both have to be up in just over five hours. Since you’re such a wuss I’ve let you stay here and cry like a little girl for three hours -” Matthew steadily ignores the huffy undertones of ‘m’not a girl,’ “but I really think it’s about time you shut up and let us both get some sleep, eh?”
“But -”
“Go to sleep, Al.”
“But, what if Ar-”
“If you don’t shut up and let me sleep I’ll stab you myself, never mind anyone else.”
Alfred subsides - at long last - and huddles back under his blankets once more. Matthew just turns his back on him and, the irritating whimpering from behind him at an end, finally, finally drops off into blessed sleep.
He has happy dreams of eating proper Canadian maple syrup on his pancakes and taking a hockey-stick to the faces of irritating people until the alarm clock wakes him up later that morning. By the time he blearily reaches out one hand to smack the ‘off’ button, Alfred’s already vacated the bed.
xxvi. harmony, harmony
Alfred should’ve known it wouldn’t have been finished with the book-thing and general attempt-on-his-life-thing, not by a long shot. Should’ve - but had hoped otherwise, waking up to sunshine earlier that morning when his brother’s alarm clock had blared the start of the day and sent Alfred stumbling for coffee (lots of coffee. Quickly. Somewhere where Mattie wasn’t, as Alfred hadn’t been very sure if his twin would have any pissiness lingering over from the night - a few hours? - before). Death - or just the very, very strong threat of it via book, fake sword, hockey stick or an otherwise suitably blunt object (why do so many people want to kill him?!) - is only the beginning, after all. Alfred doesn’t particularly know where the end is, but he certainly thinks he’s right in the middle of things when, halfway though his third period AS class, he reaches inside his rocket-ship-and-hamburger-patterned pencil case to pull out a new board pen and ends up grabbing a tube of mascara instead.
He gawks at it for a little while, of course, but shrugs and sets it to the side - eh, people can pick other people’s stuff up by accident all the time, right? Somebody’ll come to claim it and he can say sorry then - before reaching for a new pen again.
This time he pulls a tube of concealer.
What.
Then lipstick (cherry-pink).
What?
Then two sets of nail varnish (red and glitter-blue).
What?
Then smudge-eyeliner, with some smoky eye-shadow to follow it. A glittery nail-file, compact mirror, blush, glitter-powder, a spritzer of tester-perfume, some tissues and four small, weird, white stick things that Alfred pulls out to stare at blankly before shrieking and dropping them to join the rest of his new make-up set on the desk like they have the plague. Ewewewewewewewew-
Alfred’s sixth form students - completely forgotten by this point by their teacher - watch avidly and somewhat curiously as Mr. Jones goes from talking about motion on a slope to randomly inspecting his really weird pencil case to flailing at the contents of his really weird pencil case (which some evil bastard has switched! Switched behind Alfred’s back!! This is a conspiracy). When he starts yelping at the latest (surprising) thing he’s pulled out of the case and repeatedly wiping his palms on his trousers though, the class can’t stay totally quiet anymore.
“Sir,” one of the female students closer to the front tentatively ventures, drawing Alfred’s attention but not causing the Physics teacher to stop the obsessive-compulsive hand-wiping in any way, shape or form. “Sir, why do you have tampons in your pencil case?”
“It’s not mine!”
It is, of course, and the students know it is - everybody knows how awesome his pencil-case is!! - but it’s not his stuff. What kind of - who would - this is so not cool.
There’s a note at the bottom of the case offering an explanation; Alfred only notices it later, at the end of the class (he borrowed a pen from Manaar teaching in the lab next door) and he’s trying to clean up, sweeping the make-up into a carrier bag (like hell he’s contaminating his hamburgers further!) and upending the case for any more evil (he is not sticking his hand back in there again). It flutters out, half a page from a torn out notebook folded in half, familiar writing slanting across the middle (and still so, so anally keeping perfectly within the page’s ruled lines).
‘Since you were so kind as to loan me some of your favourite literature,’ it begins, ‘I thought I’d show my appreciation by following some of the advice I found within it. Of course, you must receive the fruits of my efforts - consider it compensation, since the magazines were apparently donated to Miss. Héderváry at some point yesterday afternoon and she used them as missiles to attack Beilschmidt for his general perversion and annoyance to all and sundry. There are a few pages that still seem reasonably intact, but they’re currently inaccessible as Gilbert is hoarding them as proof he faced the monster and lived.
Regardless, I hope the gifts are to your satisfaction - since your tastes in ‘literature’ seem to run along that persuasion anyway, I’m sure they’ll suit you so much better than they do me.’
It isn’t signed. It doesn’t need to be.
Alfred goes along to the general staffroom for lunch, and dumps the bag of abused cosmetics down on Arthur Kirkland’s lap. “Fun-ny.”
The evil backstabber smiles at him (he picks his moments), lowering the cup he’d been drinking from back onto its saucer, setting the whole lot down on the table nearby. (Who brings their own teacup set to school? Seriously, who?) “I thought so too.”
“Now gimme my stuff back.”
“Give me my belongings back, please.”
“Aw, c’mon Arthur, don’t be a jerk -”
Arthur just raises one eyebrow, politely bored.
Alfred huffs, but obliges. “Give me my belongings back, please.”
“I left them with Yao. He said he’d put them on your desk.”
Alfred winces, knowing for a fact that’ll probably add more to his rising favour-debt to the Chemistry teacher - but nods, accepting Arthur’s words and going to grab his food, plotting all the while.
He starts his revenge plan a little while later - when Arthur rises to go to the toilet he leaves his jacket behind, and Alfred is quick to dive into the inner pocket and pull out the other’s cell. (When Kiku looks at him Alfred just makes a frantic shushing motion, and Kiku thankfully goes back to…playing a video game? Oh man, Kiku’s cool.) Alfred has his own phone out and both of them fiddled with and back away (with some tiny little changes to Arthur’s) before Arthur returns, and Alfred tucks into his lunch, smugly confident that the good-evil karma balance of the world will shortly be restored to its usual levels of awesome and right.
Fourth period rolls around. Arthur has a class, and goes off to teach. Alfred does not, so he goes to grab his stuff from Yao (who gives him a lecture on responsibility and debt-repayment) and then trots off to stand outside the room in which Arthur is teaching. Peering in through the window in the classroom door reveals Arthur’s in charge of year sevens, and whatever he’s talking about sounds boring as hell. Clauses? Semi-colons? Handwriting in gen- oh, it’s a rant.
That noticed, Alfred feels it’s his heroic duty to relieve the poor titchy eleven year-olds of their boredom, pain and suffering, so he digs in his pocket to grab his cell again and gives the number he’d swiped at lunch a gleeful ring.
It starts quietly.
“Open your eeeeyes…I seeee~ your eyes are open.”
A few of the students who are less asleep perk up, looking around curiously. Arthur’s still too busy lecturing, and doesn’t notice.
“Wear no disguuuise…for meeee~ Come into the open.”
Some of the students in the back row nudge one another, and a few more look vaguely perplexed, risen from their half-sleep to blink blearily around for the source of the sound their teacher is still talking over.
“When it’s cooold outsiiiide, am I heeere in vain?”
Arthur pauses then - at last -, looking kinda perplexed himself, the higher vocals finally catching his attention. “Who - alright,” he scowls, and looks at the class. “Whose is it?” (He’s outta luck - it’s none of theirs.) “Mobiles are supposed to be switched off during school hours - you all know that.”
Alfred’s song merrily continues on ignoring the teacher, building itself up to the chorus. A few of the more internet-savvy students are grinning expectantly, knowing the tune - one bright spark is even conducting along with one finger under his table. (Alfred makes a note to slip the kid a chocolate bar sometime.)
“Hold oooon to the night. There will beeee no shammme! Allllllllways, I wanna be with you, and make believe with you, and live in harmony, harmony, oh loooove!!”
Giggles break out as most of the class finally get it, one or two even humming along. Arthur begins scolding them all again as the second verse kicks in, telling whoever it is just to switch the mobile off, now - but the class all shrug, deny knowledge of the ring-tone, even as the song just keeps getting louder, and louder and louder -
“ALLLLLWAYS, I WANNA BE WITH YOU, AND MAKE BELIEVE WITH YOU,”
Rainbows, unicorns, purple grass, twinkly stars and fairies - what a song.
“AND LIVE IN HARMONY, HARMONY, OH LOOOVE!”
Alfred forever laments that Arthur is turned away from the door when he realises that the awful ring-tone is coming from his own jacket. Red-faced, Arthur dives for his inside pocket to cut off the offending noise - but the damage is done. His class has heard, and the kids are ruthless. (Chocolate bars for them all.)
“I thought we weren’t allowed to have our mobiles switched on in school?”
“Sir, I never thought you liked unicorns.”
“You play games on the internet, sir?”
“Do you like that sort of music?”
Alfred makes a break for it before the class ends, ending his call and dashing away, grinning all the while. (He bumps into Toris on the way - and promptly terrifies the Geography teacher by advising him to tell Feliks not to loan out the drama-cupboard key to Arthur again, for all their sakes.)
The world is an awesome place.
xxvii. it’s a bitch convincing everyone to like you
The last day of term is an undeclared truce. Arthur takes it that way, anyway - Jones stays out of his way, and Arthur himself is too busy most of the day trying to instil some modicum of interest in his students for their lessons. (However, like most of the rest of the teaching staff, he eventually gives up and lets them all watch a DVD in class. His first period is free; his second period year nines bring in chocolates to pass around, and at third period his sixth-formers convince him to let them order pizza and eat it in the classroom while they watch Hamlet languish on-screen, all of them cheerfully ignoring the rules about not eating food outside the dining room. (The leftover pizza-smell is a subtle revenge against the teaching staff on Arthur’s behalf; he hasn’t had a terribly good week.))
At lunch, Tino finds him.
“May I speak with you?”
Arthur resists pointing out that technically Tino already is speaking with him; he nods instead and is pulled to the side before he can step into the staffroom to join the rabble, to the side where it’s quieter. A private conversation, then - they rarely bode well. And, since it’s Tino -
“Is there something wrong with Peter?” Arthur’s concern is instinctive but quiet, quiet - Peter is a tiring topic. Peter himself is…Peter. “Do you need me to take him over the holidays?”
Tino blinks at the question - once more, Arthur wonders how it is someone like Tino Väinämöinen is the one his troublesome little brother listens to, is someone any of Arthur’s siblings listen to, really. He’s wide-eyed and friendly and - and he’s perfectly capable of terrifying a whole field full of students into jumping on command when they ‘play’ games at PE, suddenly six feet taller and radiating an aura of pure menace. It’s an odd dichotomy, in-class and out of it (perhaps, in another life, Tino is a drill sergeant), but Tino seems to flourish living a life of contrasts and as long as his little yappy dog doesn’t go for Arthur’s ankles when they cross paths outside Arthur is happy for him. (Grateful, too, for him and Berwald, but it takes a good few drinks to get him to admit that and he never wants to end up in a state where he has to be carried home, half-comatose, by Berwald ever, ever again. It had given Francis blackmail for months.)
“Ah - no,” flustered now, Tino waving his hands - no, no. “It’s not that, it’s nothing like that - Peter’s fine. It’s more - ah. He’s alright.”
“It’s no trouble to take him; I can - there’s always room for him. Admittedly, he’d have to bring his own games but he probably knows how to hook those things up himself -”
“It’s not that - I mean, if you want to take him it’s not - you should bond more, probably? That would be good, probably, but we’d have to ask Peter - well. But that’s not - er.”
“…Perhaps,” Arthur suggests tactfully after a short pause, seeing as they’ve both stumbled to a halt, “we should start again?”
“Yes,” Tino looks as relieved at the suggestion as Arthur feels. “Yes, that would be good.”
Another pause. Arthur dearly wants tea. Or alcohol. Maybe some Scotch? Hell, even bourbon will do. It’s always easier to discuss awkward things when drunk. Admittedly, it’s harder to remember them afterwards, but at least there’s the vague satisfaction of having breached the topic at least once to lubricate social interaction thereafter. This…this is just painful.
Tino reaches beneath the collar of his shirt, pulls out a silvery chain and shows the pendant - no, ring - hanging on the end of it to Arthur. The ring and chain don’t quite match - different shades of metal, different metals in the first place, perhaps, Arthur isn’t close enough to say -, the ring set with a simple glimmering stone. Arthur’s seen people wear stranger things - he just blinks at his companion, wondering what it is that’s so special about the jewellery.
“Berwald proposed to me,” Tino says - oh - and carefully puts his necklace away again, tucking it behind his collar. He meets Arthur’s eyes - but a little nervously, unsure. “I said - we’re waiting; we need to ask Peter.” And Peter’s family.
“That probably won’t be much of a problem.” Peter likes them both, Arthur knows he does. Tino and Berwald fit together in their peculiar way; they always have - the inevitability of Tino’s brightness and the smell of mown grass on the playing field, solid Berwald in the woodwork rooms down from the cookery rooms with sawdust in the air that always makes people not-quite sneeze. Arthur forces out a smile, can’t help feeling awkward, but is…sincere. That. “Congratulations. I’m very happy for the both of you.”
Tino relaxes, a breath out that eases the air between them, but before he can open his mouth to say something again his eyes widen, gazes focusing past Arthur’s shoulder, and some heavy idiot decides to rest what feels like their arm (or a bloody baby whale) on Arthur’s head.
Arthur takes great pleasure in elbowing said idiot in the stomach.
The ‘oof’ the action grants Arthur - and the immediate removal of the offensive arm as Arthur’s assailant doubles over and covers his belly - goes some way to soothing the indignation of an interrupted conversation and being used as a prop to lean on - but then, of course, the whining starts up, and quickly cancels out all momentary satisfaction.
“Artie, man - what was that for?!”
“Arthur,” Arthur immediately corrects the idiot beside him, flicking an unamused glance at one Alfred F. Jones (backing up a step and still defending his stomach), all present and correct in appropriate shirt, (normal) tie, footwear and pristine white lab-coat. Aside from the ridiculous pout the idiot can almost pass for a sensible adult. “We were having a private conversation, git. Don’t just wander in uninvited and start dumping your fat arse on people’s heads.”
Jones’ pout just deepens. This is old ground between them. “You guys were standing in plain sight of the doorway! You should stick up signs if it’s all top secret, or at least find your own room or somethin’. And I did not dump my ass on your head -”
“It certainly felt like it.”
“Well maybe if you didn’t have such a big head people wouldn’t go around dumping themselves on it -”
“I do not have a big head!”
“NASA called; they were wondering whether the Earth’s rapidly-inflating second moon would cause problems for the next interplanetary probe, but I told ‘em no sirree, a few good jabs to one Mr. A. Kirkland’s fat-ass head should solve the problem.”
Arthur scowls. “At least I know what I’ve got in my head is something substantial. What have you got in there, Jones, if anything? A week-old hamburger?”
“Hamburger-powered genius.”
“Hamburger-powered jelly, more likely.”
“Hey -” and Jones pauses, his retort dying on his lips. Arthur can all but see the light-bulb clicking on about the idiot’s head. Tino just looks confused. “Man, hamburger jelly. Jello. Whatever. Y’think they could make that?”
Arthur gawks - there really isn’t any other word for it. Even stupidity is supposed to have limits, right? Right? “Jones, you cannot be serious.”
Jones is undeterred. “It would be amazing -”
“I assure you; it really, really wouldn’t be.”
“If they can put vodka in your jelly stuff -” Jones turns his gaze on Tino, hopefully bright and pinning the butterfly against the glass. “What d’you think?”
“Ah,” Tino starts, flicks a lost glance at Arthur (don’t encourage him, Arthur has no idea where Jones gets his support from (especially since Matthew appears to be so sensible) - perhaps his caffeine throughout the day?), and takes the safer course. He changes the subject. “Mr. Jones, I never realised you and Arthur were such good friends.”
Arthur sputters, his brain grinding to a halt.
Jones beams and slings his arm around Arthur’s neck once more. (His life is spared simply for the fact he doesn’t put any weight behind it.) “Yup! Artie,” God damn him it’s Arthur, “and I get along like a house on fire.” Things get burnt. Burnt to death. Weren’t they supposed to be arguing?
Tino seems to be interpreting Jones’ metaphors along the same lines as Arthur himself, his brow crinkling a little in confusion. Still - “Then…why don’t you both come over to mine on Saturday? Berwald and I are having a small Halloween gathering then, since we’ll all too busy on Sunday; you’re both more than welcome to come along. Arthur, perhaps…” Tino pauses, smiles slightly and looks solely at Arthur again, “perhaps we could talk more there? Peter will be there for a little while, but he’s heading out to a sleepover later so you needn’t talk too long if you don’t want to. You could bring Francis if he’s not working that night?”
Arthur winces at the suggestion - Francis and Peter are headaches by themselves without needing to be combined - but before he can decline on their behalf Jones leaps in, noting a topic that sounds vaguely familiar to him, and turns his expectant gaze on Arthur.
“That’s your boyfriend, right?”
Arthur puts some serious consideration into kicking the twat. He shoves the other’s arm off of him instead, staunchly ignoring the pathetic puppy-dog look he gets for his efforts. “Jones, how many times must I tell you that he isn’t? He’s my flatmate. My skinny, pain in the arse, frog of a flatmate - no more, no less.”
“And Peter -”
“Is none of your business.”
Tino cuts in again. “Mr. Jones -”
“Call me Alfred!”
“…Alfred, you’re more than welcome to bring along a guest as well, if you want to.”
“That sounds cool, thanks.” Jones is smiling again, stuffing his hands in his pocket after seemingly having finally gotten that Arthur’s person is not an appropriate place to put them. Wonders will never cease. “Could you email me your address later, or something? Or maybe I could just blag a lift there outta Artie -” Arthur glares at him. Here be dragons. “…The bus is cool too. You live near a bus route?”
xxviii. colours of day
School lets out for the week’s vacation and the kids are quick to grab their stuff and run out into the autumn evening with their friends, gone baby gone, gone like the wind and God damn it if a particular one of their teachers hasn’t been quick to follow their example. Houdini, Harry Potter, whatever - dammit, some people need to be nailed down.
Alfred takes the stairs down from the English office two at a time (‘not here, sorry,’ Angeline had said), never mind don’t run in the halls (eh, Beilschmidt’s bro’s busy with the flaily Italian guy), hits the ground floor running and skids out (man, the leaves underfoot are slippy) the doors of the main building at a dash for the teacher’s car park. Totally awesome moves of course - ignore the fact he almost bowls three kids over, honestly, it’s home-time; they ought to be clearing out already - and he gets a few rounds of applause from stragglers, catches sight of the blond head he’s in immediate pursuit of and yells:
“ARTHUR, WAIT UP!”
Apparently not having heard (what is he, stone deaf?), Arthur keeps walking.
“OI, ARTIE!!”
Twenty, thirty-odd…whatever, it isn’t like Alfred had been counting…metres away and closing, Alfred sees Arthur stop dead and twitch. Gotta love the twitch.
“IT’S ARTHUR, YOU INSUFFERABLE TWAT!”
Alfred just laughs, swooping down on the other while Arthur’s too busy glaring and slinging his arm over the other man’s shoulders. Sir Grumpalot’s just the right height for it. “Gotcha.”
“No, Jones.” Arthur immediately ducks away from him, and Alfred’s smile drops. “No way in hell until you stop calling me that abomination of a nickname.”
“What - Artie?” A terse nod. “But you never answer me when I call you Arthur. I yelled of you just now and you ignored me!”
“Have you ever thought that might’ve been because I didn’t want to talk to you?”
“But you stopped~” Eventually. Alfred grins again, smug now, leaning in to poke at Arthur’s arm. (He gets swatted at for it, as usual, but that’s the way things are.) “You always stop dead when you turn to yell at me, you know that?” Amongst other things.
“I,” Arthur goes red; it’s kinda fascinating to watch. “Well, you should always look at people when you’re speaking to them.”
“Yelling,” Alfred helpfully corrects.
“It’s the same thing!”
“Nope! Y’see, yelling generally implies there’s been an increase in volume, which registers -”
“Jones,” Arthur says warningly, in the tone Alfred has slowly come to learn is British for ‘you’re pushing it.’ (Alfred, however, much to the eternal chagrin of his nearest and dearest, has never been the sort to just be content with ‘pushing it.’ No, Alfred has always been the sort to slam his hand down on every button in sight and light up the whole display. (As a result Mattie had grown up learning how to keep fit and take the stairs with his twin. It had saved them from the many glares the two of them had always received on any elevator they’d set foot on - honestly, who’d crawled up the asses of the other passengers and died? - as the elevator stopped at every floor on the way up or down.)) “I don’t want a physics lesson. What the hell do you want?”
Alfred pitches his plea. “Hang out with me?”
“No.”
“Aw, c’mon -”
“What part of no do you not understand?”
“I don’t mean right now,” Alfred tries vainly to call Arthur’s attention back to him, only him, seeing the other teacher’s gaze wandering away to the car park (to the mini) and his way home. “Sometime during the holidays. Otherwise we won’t see each other for a whole week.” Ignoring the Halloween party thing. Alfred still doesn’t know if Arthur won’t try to kill him if he turns up to the party thing.
“I was rather looking forward to it.” Alfred frowns immediately at that (because that’s just mean), but Arthur’s smiling - slightly, sure, and somewhat wryly, but it’s an honest to God smile. That’s a good sign, right? “You pout whenever someone teases you, you know that?”
Touché.
“Hang out with me?” Alfred implores, moves between Arthur and the car park - ha, escape routes covered - and fixes his most hangdog expression on the other man. “Pretty please? We could do lunch at Mattie’s café; he makes awesome pancakes on Wednesdays and I think he actually uses proper leaves n’ stuff in his tea -”
Arthur’s smile’s still there - good sign, very good sign. He should really do it more often. “Are you trying to bribe me?”
“Is it working?”
It takes more cajoling - not much more, the mention of tea (or possibly pancakes, but it’s Arthur; it’s pro’ly the tea) seems to help considerably - but finally Arthur caves, nods, says yes -
“Wednesday lunch!” Alfred beams, bright-eyed and bouncing. “You come to mine for eleven, and then we head into town.”
“Wednesday lunch,” Arthur agrees, and puts his hand to his forehead as if to quell a rising headache.
(Alfred charitably ignores the other’s muttered ‘God help me,’ after that.)
Notes:
- ‘Bon retour parmi nous’ - lit., ‘safe/good return among us.’ Linguistically, in French, (from what I can find, feel free to correct me) there doesn’t appear to be a concept of ‘home’ in the same sense that there is in English. There isn’t, therefore, the same sort of phrase for ‘Welcome home;’ there are plenty of phrases that mean ‘welcome to the house of so-and-so’ or similar, but they read strangely to someone who speaks both French and English (which Francis is supposed to be able to) and aiming for an informal greeting for a friend returning to their shared home. ‘Bienvenue’ always seems so cold to me, especially used towards someone you live with. So ‘bon retour’ instead - which can, apparently, be used both to greet someone and as way to wish someone who is leaving well.
- The trillium is Ontario’s provincial flower. S’pretty.
- ‘Death is only the beginning’ - The Mummy. It takes very, very little effort to think of that movie in a Hetalia context: somewhat repressed British historian who can’t hold her alcohol terribly well, American can-we-get-away-from-the-evil-undead-mummy-now? adventurer and…tagalong brother/best friend who flirts with anything pretty and moving that’ll give him the time of day.
- The song Alfred put and set on Arthur’s phone (it will never leave your head), and the infamous game it’s been attached to since January 2010, for those of you who have been [un]lucky enough to have missed all its joys. Addictive, in a vaguely irritating, somewhat hallucinogenic way. But - hey, it has unicorns. X3 And a Heavy Metal version now, believe it or not.
- Also - this fic is technically set in the teaching year 2010-11; Halloween was on a Sunday in 2010, so Tino’s party is scheduled for the day before. (Since they’d all be going back to work on the Monday.)