The good news is that Alfred is no longer unemployed.

The bad news is that he wishes he still was.

From the minute he set foot in the Red Dragon (they couldn't have chosen a more clichéd name if he tried), Alfred learned that avoiding the screams and shouts of Yao Wang, the owner, was an impossible task. He's just always angry, and furious is his constant state of being.

Of course, Alfred's a waiter. Isn't that the default job of any starving artist anywhere? When he and Matt lived in L.A., every restaurant they went to was full of actors searching for their big break. Yet they weren't researching a role by working there, or buying a meal with their piles of acting money. They weren't doing anything. And now that Alfred is one of them, those hopeless young creative kids, he realizes how much it sucks.

His apron feels like a dunce cap.

He and Mattie used to laugh at those wannabes. They were so convinced they would get famous immediately, that everything would fall into place, just like it did for Woody Allen, when he started writing jokes as a teenager and never had to do anything else but his dream his entire life.

Alfred the photographer and Matthew the writer; that's how it always was supposed to be. Matthew's amazing at what he does, too, and he's working on his poems in all the free time he has.

But with Kat coming around more and more often, Alfred figures that a lot of that free time will be taken up by something else. They've been getting super lovey-dovey. Kind of adorable, but also absolutely disgusting. It doesn't help that their budding romance constantly reminds Alfred of the fact that he hasn't gotten laid in, like, a year.

Which is super depressing. He'd been pretty, heh, popular in college, too. Then again, since he and his brother got trapped in Boston, he hasn't really been going out much. He mostly sleeps and takes pictures of that one incredibly famous guy who comes to his apartment, like, three times a week.

That whole deal is actually going well, which is surprising. Keyword surprising. Arthur has, against all odds, stopped being a complete asshole! Well, he's still a terrible person, but he's not so obvious about it. He hides it under a couple layers of courtesy and maybe even some genuine niceness, for Alfred's sake.

But Alfred can't help but think it's all out of pity. He did, after all, witness what Matt has since dubbed the Incident. Arthur hasn't spoken of it since, though it's not like Al expected him to— he just wonders what Arthur must have thought.

He wonders.

Things have been pretty mixed up in that blonde head of Alfred's ever since the Incident. He's fought with his mom before, of course, but something about that last one seems terribly final. Matt keeps begging him to call her, and he won't, not for a million bucks.

Well, okay, maybe for a million bucks. But since they can barely pay the rent on their piece-of-shit apartment, he doubts the big money is coming his way any time soon.

At least bigger money than what they're getting comes with having a job. But Alfred also had forgotten how much he hates working. There's a reason he liked being unemployed so much, besides the whole being-dirt-poor thing, and it was that he ever had to do anything he didn't want to.

He got thrown up on today a six-year-old and then he had to clean it up. He definitely never wanted that; plus, he still smells.

Exhausted, he walks back to his apartment, which is a good mile away. He doesn't have the money for a cab, and he bemoans the exercise in his head. A Beastie Boys song is stuck there, and the only line he can remember is the one about the Chevy Impala.

He gets back home eventually, legs aching and breathing hard. As if waiting tables for eight hours wasn't work enough. Oh well, at least it might help him lose that extra weight that's been sticking around. Not enough to make him chubby, but enough to make him… softer. Yeah, that's right. Alfred is not a fan of fat. He had played football, for fuck's sake. In fact, he had been the best at football. Therefore, it is in his personal creed to Always Look Like a God.

Matt would call him an egotist for saying that. Alfred would counter with a very tastefully selected "assbutt."

When he steps into the lobby, he's greeted with an odd sight, an especially odd one for ten at night: a massively tall and pale figure, blonde, in a travel-rumpled suit and the impeccably put-together woman beside him, short and olive skinned with dark hair. They're talking to Gilbert, Al's lanky and relatively annoying downstairs neighbor, the one with the obsession over the actress.

"Nice to see you, West!" Gil says (well, shouts, but that's his normal volume) from the tops of the stairs.

The taller man just hums discontentedly in return. He's got an interesting face, all sharp angles and flat planes. Alfred wishes he had his camera.

"Are you sure you don't wanna just stay here? Your big fancy history nerd conference is closer to here than it is to your hotel!" Gilbert bounds down just to punch him in the arm, which looks to Alfred like a bad idea, because the blond guy's pretty ripped.

"No," the woman chirps before Blondie can even open his mouth, her words carrying a singsong Italian lilt, "Ludwig says you are 'generally irritating and difficult to live with.'" She adds the finger quotes and everything. "We will stay with the hotel. Right, Luddy?"

Ludwig (Gilbert's brother, Alfred finally connects the name and a vaguely remembered face from a photograph) turns a shade of red that shouldn't be humanly possible. "I did not say it in so many words," he fumbles. He has a slight German accent, but it's barely there. Which is impressive— Alfred can speak Spanish but rolling his R's is a Herculean feat impossible for him to achieve.

But Gil has already stalked off to sulk, not even noticing Alfred, who's still lurking awkwardly near the stairs, watching it all unfold.

Ludwig, however, has apparently known he was there the entire darn time. "I apologize for this," he says to Alfred, obviously choosing his words carefully, trying to be polite. The girl stares at him with happy, sweet brown eyes. She's so much smaller than Ludwig, a little chubby, but cute. She looks like the kind of person who pinches toddlers' cheeks and coos.

"It's fine," Alfred laughs. "You're his brother, right?" When Ludwig nods, surprised, he continues to assure him: "I've seen pictures. I'm a friend of Gil's."

He crosses the foyer and shakes hands with Ludwig. God, his eyes are blue too? The guy couldn't get more Aryan if he tried.

"My name's Alfred Jones," Alfred says. "Nice to meet you."

Ludwig's mouth stiffens. Is that supposed to be a smile? "I am Ludwig Beilschmidt," he replies. "This is Felicia, my colleague—"

"Girlfriend," she corrects, and he turns that terrible shade of red again. She kisses Alfred on both cheeks in greeting, and he laughs it off to show it isn't awkward when he gets scared a blood vessel is going to burst in Ludwig's forehead.

"We're here for a conference," she sighs. "I hate them. They're boring."

Ludwig looks at her, exasperated. "Then why did you become a historian?"

She sighs again. "I thought it would be more excavations and less books!"

"Felicia, that is archaeology, not history."

"Says you, Luddy."

Alfred coughs a bit uncomfortably. "I'd better get going." Damn him if he's going to get caught in between the most stunted lovers' spat ever.

"Of course," Ludwig mumbles, and Alfred escapes before he becomes collateral damage. They keep arguing quietly as he bounds up the stairs.

All he can think of is falling onto his mattress and sleeping. He's had the waiting tables job for a month now, and it's cut back on time he can actually get Arthur to come over to take pictures.

He's been getting real smiles out of Arthur, lately, though— good and true and sincere ones. And that is damn rewarding.

Alfred pounds on the door to his apartment, his main goal being to wake up Matt for literally no reason other than to bother him (I am the best brother ever, he thinks happily). After a minute of no one answering, he tests the knob, and it swings open.

Oh, shit.

"Come on!" he cries, slamming one hand over his eyes, inadvertently shoving his glasses to the side, making the rims jab into his cheek.

Really, Alfred should have known. A week of shameless flirting could only end in this, but—

Really, Matt? In my bed?

He slams the door shut to give the idiots some privacy.Inside, he hears a frantic rustling around, whispers, and the sound that is no doubt clothes being shoved on as quickly as humanly possible.

"Come in," Kat calls timidly, her voice cracking.

Sighing and steeling himself for what is bound to be even more awkward than the meeting in the foyer, he closes his eyes and opens the door again.

Matt and Kat stand shiftlessly in the kitchen area, pretending like they weren't just fucking (in Alfred's bed!). Matt's pants are on backwards. Kat's dress is only zipped up halfway, and her bra is still hanging off the back of the couch.

"Hey, Al," Matt says, too cheerfully. His face is so red that he's the same color as the lobster fridge magnet they got in Maine.

"Yeah! Yeah, hi!" Kat leans over onto the counter, propping herself up on her elbow. The strap of her sundress slips off, and she pulls it back on hurriedly— but it just falls off again, so she gives up.

Alfred glances over to the scene of the crime, his poor mattress. He's gonna have to disinfect it.

"You two suck." He sighs, walks over to the couch, and promptly falls asleep, because fuck him if he's touching that mattress before it's been dry cleaned.

x.

"That is not what Hamlet is about," Arthur chides. He's sitting on the counter, sipping the tea he brought for himself (because he think coffee is "swill" and Alfred can't even begin to afford his preferred brand), his back ramrod straight and his legs crossed even in his relatively comfy looking clothes, a Zeppelin shirt with a naked angel on it.

"Whatever, man," Alfred sighs. "I'm cultured enough. I'm reading Bradbury."

"Ray Bradbury? Like Fahrenheit 451 Bradbury?"

Alfred nods smugly. Arthur scoffs and drinks his tea. He looks really tired, and Alfred wonders why. He doesn't have the same pretentious air about him, though it's certainly still there. "Ninth graders read Bradbury," he scoffs, eyeing Alfred cheekily. Self-satisfied little motherfucker.

Alfred scowls and insists, "And tenth graders read Hamlet!"

"There is an acute difference." He sips from his chipped mug; the kettle is still steaming from when he boiled the water. Alfred didn't even know he had owned a kettle until Arthur found it in the cabinet under the sink, dusty and damaged, and he complained about it.

Why would Alfred even need a kettle? He drinks the Beverage of Kings. He revels in his shitty coffee. Who even thought to shove leaves into water and then drink it? What an asshole he must have been.

"And what is that acute difference?" Alfred demands.

"Oh," and Arthur smirks at this (a photo opportunity is missed, and Alfred kicks himself inwardly, wishes his hands weren't occupied by coffee so he could use his camera), "this is the difference." He takes a deep breath and does that thing again where he leaves with his expelled breath, replaced by someone with a slouch, with tired, angry eyes, with a mournful frown, expressive hands and a rough, bitter, younger voice. "O, all you host of Heaven!" he cries, and Alfred feels goosebumps rise."O Earth! What else? / And shall I couple Hell? Oh, fie! Hold, hold my heart, / And you, my sinews, grow not instant old / But bear me swiftly up. Remember thee? / Ay, thou poor ghost, whiles memory holds a seat / In this distracted globe. Remember thee!"

Arthur-but-not-Arthur stares at him searchingly. "You're a nerd," Alfred sighs, sipping on his coffee, the hair on the back of his neck standing straight up. "I don't even know what you're saying to me right now."

Which, of course, just makes him act harder. "Yea, from the table of my memory / I'll wipe away all trivial, fond records / All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past / That youth and observation copied—"

"You are a very odd man."

Bless his soul, Arthur doesn't even break character. "…Copied there, / And they commandment all alone shall live / Within the book and volume of my brain, / Unmixed with baser matter. Yes, by Heaven!"

Alfred snort-laughs in a kind of embarrassing way. It's just that Arthur's eyes have gone all distant and twinkly and he's starting to look crazy. "That's enough soliloquizing for one day, cowboy. Come down now."

Hamlet takes a deep breath and Arthur flows back in with the oxygen. God, it's no wonder the guy's famous. He's really good.

Alfred should probably get around to seeing one of his movies sometime.

"But now you see the difference between Shakespeare and every other writer ever," Arthur declares, all matter-of-fact.

Alfred whines, "But Fahrenheit's got flamethrowers."

"And metaphors that you seem to have completely ignored. You are so thick, you know that?"

"I try my hardest."

Matthew is out with Kat, which explains why the apartment is so quiet. Ever since last week's Sex Incident they've been going out a lot. Of course, their getting together was only a matter of time (they are sickeningly adorable, after all), but Alfred can't help but wish the inciting incident hadn't taken place between his own sheets.

Seriously. Matt has a bed right next to Alfred's. There is no need for such… such tomfoolery!

(Alfred loves that word now. Ludwig, Gilbert's tight-ass brother, likes to use it when he acts like his girlfriend Felicia is bothering him but is actually turning him on like there's no tomorrow.)

"To be honest, I'm rather surprised that you read," Arthur says, and they way he says it is just so freaking pompous that Alfred isn't even sure Arthur is aware of the insult.

So he drains the final dregs of his coffee, preps his camera, and says, "You are a terrible person." Then he captures the ensuing reaction.

Arthur splutters, rubbing his eyes after the flash, "And you're not?"

"No, I am." He throws a dazzling smile the actor's way. "I'm just less obvious about it."

"You suck."

"I do, indeed." He preens in the glare thrown his way. "And for your information, I do read. I'm just not a Shakespeare buff like you, Mr. Actor With a Freakishly Good Memory."

Arthur shrugs, for once trying to be modest. "When you've played Hamlet, you sort of have to memorize the lines."

"Details, details."

Arthur finishes his tea and hops gracefully down from the counter to throw it in the sink, where he turns on the tap and starts rinsing it out.

"Oh, so now you're being polite," Alfred fake-sighs.

Arthur grunts at him.

"Please, don't be kind. It's so out of character."

He throws the mug in the strainer and moves onto a plate, holding it with wide hands, and he's smiling when he says "You truly are an asshole."

"Then why do you keep coming back?"

Arthur raises one enormous eyebrow skeptically. "Remember the whole consensual blackmail thing we have going on? No?"

Alfred almost chokes, but covers with a "Yeah." He had forgotten about the incriminating picture. He'd lost it, actually; it was on the coffee table and it, kind of, um, disappeared. But the shoots had been going so well, so what Arthur doesn't know doesn't hurt him, Alfred had figured. He'd had the first set of pictures developed the other day, just to look at them on something other than a memory card.

And they're good.

So.

Arthur doesn't need to know that any pretend blackmail, at this point, is a complete lie.

"So just let me clean your dishes without a complaint." Arthur throws the drying towel at him, and it slams into his face, hanging there damply.

"Hey, whatever you say." Alfred says, muffles, and pulls the thing off with a theatrical flourish. "You're the famous and powerful one."

"And don't you forget it, you ungrateful little fucker."

"How sickeningly domestic. Don't you have a housemaid or something to do this for you back in England?"

He scoffs. "It isn't 1912."

Alfred shrugs. "How am I supposed to know? I've never been there."

"Never been to England?" Alfred nods. "That's no excuse for ignorance." Arthur is quiet for a moment, but then he says over the gentle rush of water, "I'd recommend it. It's a lovely place."

"I've always wanted to see London," Alfred says. He hasn't. He's just saying it for Arthur's sake, but apparently it was the right thing to say, because he relaxes immediately just at the thought of it. Suddenly he looks a lot less tired.

"London is nice," he sighs, averting his eyes and washing the dishes like a robot. mechanically and without watching, "but the countryside is better."

"Hm." Alfred sniffs idly. "That's an unpopular opinion."

"Is it? It's where I grew up, anyway." He shuts off the water and dries his hands on the naked angel on his shirt (Alfred seriously needs to ask him what the hell is up with that). "You wouldn't believe it. Where I'm from, it's how it's supposed to be in story books. That old misty England that King Arthur lived in, you know? The old people used to swear they saw fairies around." And with an embarrassed laugh that Alfred catches in a picture, he says, "I believed them, for the longest time." He quiets a little. "Maybe I still do. Maybe I'm crazy."

He turns to Alfred with wide, slightly panicked eyes. He's regretted everything he just said. "What do you have in the way of alcohol?"

"We have the cheapest whiskey this side of the United States," Alfred says..

"Good. Give me lots of it."

Alfred grabs it from the cabinet under the sink. It's half empty but there's plenty for both of them, so he can be generous, pouring them into the first glasses he can find: one is a mug from Chattanooga, Tennessee. The other is a plastic kid's cup with Iron Man on it.

Arthur gets the Iron Man cup. "Golly, thanks," he groans, but takes a swig anyway.

He barely even winces.

x.

"I will not stand for this!"

Mr. Wang, for a tiny man, is surprisingly loud; the poor couple he's standing next to probably just got their eardrums blown out.

He's stomping around, making a fuss— which is no new event— but when he's stomping and fussing about something his nephew did, well, then it's ten times worse.

Said nephew is another waiter at the restaurant, a guy a year or three older than Alfred (but still shorter). Al calls him Soup just to piss him off, but his real name is Im Yong Soo, and he will do literally anything to impress his uncle.

Most of these schemes just manage to piss Yao off, though; this scheme is currently taking the cake.

That morning, when Alfred had walked in five minutes late, he had expected to be screamed at. But no— Mr. Wang was too occupied shrieking at Soup, who had dragged in a baby grand and stuck it in an empty corner.

Yeah, a baby grand. A piano. Alfred can't stop staring at it, and he's tripped over table legs at least three times just looking.

In all honesty, the thing's a piece of shit. It's chipped and has been repainted too many times to count (right now it's this shiny dark navy blue, but by the looks of the other layers, it used to be a sparkly hot pink, and before that, green), but musically it should still be in good shape.

And when was the last time Alfred dragged his fingers across a set of keys? Way too long. He had played piano for years as a kid, took lessons from the super nice old guy down the street, until he got arrested for shoplifting.

Even with the crazy teacher and said crazy teacher's shitty piano, he had loved playing.

And he still does! The problem is that his keyboard is back in L.A.; he and Matt had left on their road trip (which they were never destined to return from) months ago, and their apartment had long since been reclaimed. There's no chance of getting that hunk-of-crap plastic back. As terrible as it was, though, it had been something.

"What are we going to do with a piano?" Mr. Wang shouts. The couple near him, who are serving as collateral damage to Soup's punishment, run hurriedly out of the establishment, looking pissed off, and for good reason. Mr. Wang doesn't even notice; he just keeps screaming.

"Entertainment!" Soup answers, not even fazed. "This place is so dull! With some musi—"

"Pah!" Mr. Wang smacks Soup across the jaw, who doesn't flinch; he just pouts.

"Idiotic!" continues his uncle. "Besides, I'm not going to hire someone just to play pian—"

"Mr. Wang?" Alfred pipes up timidly.

The tiny terror whips around to face Alfred, his graying ponytail— it must have been jet black when he was younger, and you can tell because it still shines a little— swinging behind him. "What?" he cries.

Another group of customers leaves, mumbling angrily. Everyone else is staring, either scared or finding the whole thing kinda funny.

Oh, what Alfred will do for his friends. Soup is looking at him eagerly, mouthing thank you thank you thank you.

"I can play it," he near-whispers.

Something must have gone snap in Mr. Wang's brain, because now he's grinning crookedly with a wild look in his narrow eyes. "Can you, now?" And the wild look goes even creepier, if that's possible. "But I'm in a good mood today—" somehow doubtful— "so why don't you give us an example?"

Alfred swallows uncomfortably, and he can feel his face going hot. Everybody's staring at him with weird looks on their faces, expecting a show. "I'm a bit out of practice," he says timidly, and the customers, who have become his audience, laugh. His face coloring even more, he steps over to the piano, sits at the bench, and presses a key. A bit out of tune, but good enough.

"How impressive," Mr. Wang says dryly.

"Come on, he's just getting started." Soup looks at him a little desperately. "Right?"

Alfred nods quickly. "Um, right." He hasn't really got many songs memorized any more, and it's been a few months, but he manages to bang out a couple lines of "Superstition." After a while, he gets into it, swinging like he used to, and damn, he forgot just how much he loves this.

He notices, from across the room, his body go into full Music Mode, as his mother used to call it. He's hunched over the piano like the guy at Notre Dame, arms and fingers crooked like Dracula at his organ. He'd never had good technique; his teacher had always chided him for that. But he still stands by his opinion that technique is dumb, anyway, if you've got the sound you want.

He trips up once his memory starts getting fuzzy, but it's near the end anyway, so he lays on one final flourish and he stops.

He straightens, and his spine cracks painfully. Heat Mr. Wang.

Soup is grinning so hard he's probably gonna pull a muscle. Even Mr. Wang's face has softened, and the customers are clapping, not just that dumb polite thing people do but like they really truly enjoyed it, and Alfred feels a smile warm up his face.

"You're not waiting tables anymore," Mr. Wang says happily to Alfred.

To his nephew: "But you're still paying for the piano."

x.

His brother is sitting on the couch with Kat, one arm over her shoulders, the sappy little motherfuckers they are. She grins at him as Alfred steps into the apartment, shaking the early snow out of the clumpy fur collar of his bomber jacket.

"You'll never believe the promotion I got today," he says excitedly.

"What? Head busboy?" Matt doesn't even look at him; instead, he changes the channel to an American Idol rerun, where some chick is belting a pitchy rendition of "Paint it Black." (Arthur would wince, his love for the Stones being legendary, and Simon Cowell's insults somehow remind Alfred of him.)

Kat smacks him. "Listen to your brother."

"Geez, Matt, you should bring her around more often. She knows what she's talking about." His grin almost drowns out Matt's look of utter disdain.

"I get to play piano now," he says giddily before his brother can interject with something even more snarky than before. "At the restaurant. Soup brought in this little baby grand! You know how he always has these dumb ideas, right? Except Mr. Wang let me play and now he wants me to come in a few nights a week just to play. No more waiting tables for me!" Alfred realizes that his face hurts from smiling.

Matt shoots up from the couch, almost smacking Kat in the face.

"Come on," she complains. While he's going to applaud his twin, she sighs and changes the channel back to 60 Minutes.

"Congrats, man," Matt laughs, annihilating Alfred with one of his famously painful bro-hugs— the resounding slap of palm-on-back contact can probably be heard for miles around.

"Ow," Alfred wheezes.

"It's worth the pain for the congratulations."

He shakes his head and struggles out of his brother's grip. "It really isn't."

x.

After an hour of waiting for Arthur with no word, frustrated and tapping at his camera, laying out on his mattress just hoping for the door to open so he can finally get these pictures, Alfred's phone rings.

His cell is a piece of shit, but it does the job. He flips it open (yes, it's a flip phone) and, viola, it's Arthur himself. Pressing it to his ear he says, "What the hell, dude?"

"Sorry," and the voice on the other end is weird. Not just because of the static; it's too flowy, too languorous."I don't want to ruin the appointment altogether, so can you come to the hotel? Thanks. I'll explain, ah, once you're here."

"What? Why?" And when he realizes he isn't going to get those answers, he asks, "Where are you even staying?"

"The Tory."

"The Tory? Like, the Tory, Tory?"

"I'm not aware that there's another Tory Hotel in Boston," says Arthur skeptically.

Alfred pinches the bridge of his nose, knocking his glasses off. With a grunt of disgust, he shoves them back on. "Dude, that place is a nuclear warhead of ritzy-ness. The doorman won't even let me in."

"He will if you say 'Camilla has a flute lesson with Dr. Sand.'"

"Dude, you have a password?"

"Stalkers, Alfred." He sighs a big, aristocratic sigh."Lots and lots of stalkers. Ciao."

The line goes dead before Alfred can even say another word.

"What an ass," Alfred whispers to himself.

He stands up.

Alfred is, in all truthfulness, totally intimidated by the prospect of going to the Tory. The place is quite literally the fanciest. The fanciest, except with a lot of unnecessary flips and swooshes and stuff. He's never been there, but the mental image of chandeliers and ball gowns are enough to intimidate any guy who grew up in the boonies of Connecticut.

Out of the closet formerly infested with owls— Kat, who is probably the bravest person Alfred has ever met, had cleared them out with a broom and a well-aimed bottle of Lysol a week ago— Alfred grabs his suit, the thing he bought in LA and never, ever had to wear before. He's not exactly a formal guy, as is evidenced by his hoodie, sweatpants, and socks that are so full of holes they could be better used as, say, a basketball net. Wearing something like a suit is rather foreign to him.

But, hey, when in Rome. He throws the thing on, and shoves his too-big feet into a pair of scuffed black dress shoes he's had since sophomore year. (Of high school.) And out the door he goes, and he heads outside to hail a cab.

He's heading straight into the belly of a very, very fancy beast.

It's only when he's halfway there does he realize he forgot his damn camera, making him have to turn back. By then it's dark, and his cabbie is pissed and demands a massive tip, which Alfred gives him because he is seriously not in the negotiating mood. At least playing piano at a bad Chinese restaurant pays well enough to give him the money for a prolonged cab ride.

The Tory. It's even more intimidating when you have to go inside, as if the gilt and the standards it has aren't scary enough without the prospect of actually entering.

The doorman is surveying Alfred suspiciously as he gawps. "Sir?"

Alfred glances down at his sweaty palm, where he had written Arthur's password. It's now mostly smudged away. "Uh, I think Camilla has a flute lesson with Dr. Sand or something?"

The doorman blanches. "You?"

Alfred blinks. "What?"

"You're going to see Arthur Kirkland?"

Alfred hears the implied, "A slob like you?" He clears his throat and replies, "Well… yeah." As an afterthought, he adds, "We're friends."

The guy scoffs and rolls his eyes. "Nobody that famous and that mean ever has friends."

Okay, now he's just making Alfred angry. "Well, you're wrong, 'cause he's got me." it sounds really stupid but he's glad he said it. "You gonna let me in?"

A sigh. "Yeah, whatever. Fourteenth floor, suite 5." He presses one white-gloved hand against the glass of the door and pushes it open.

He doesn't get a "thanks." Or a tip.

Alfred is almost blinded by all the marble, the chandeliers, the polite bustle of classy staff and the scuffing of expensive Italian shoes on carpet. There's one guy who just has to be a Mafioso, with the pinstripes and everything, dark auburn hair and an errant curl so huge it almost spins over the brim of his hat. Yeah, because of course he's got a fedora, too. He's surveying the room with a broody kind of anger. He grins like a shark at the sight of Alfred, who scurries away like a spooked puppy.

Alfred feels himself being stared at with every step across the lobby to the golden elevators. He pretends it's because he's wildly attractive, but, more realistically, he knows it's because his hair is a mess and he looks about as at home in a suit as he would in a torture chamber.

Thankfully, it's getting late, so the elevator is empty except for a woman who (Alfred is relatively sure, hasn't he seen her on TV?) is the wife of an oil baron. She keeps smiling at him slyly, and at one point he catches her winking at him in the mirrors at the back. He just keeps smiling at her kind of awkwardly, trying to send out a silent message that I am gay and you are probably married.

Thankfully, her stop is at the tenth floor, so he gets a flirt-free ride the rest of the way up.

The elevator doors open into an equally pretty hallway, lined on both sides with doors, intermediately spaced. Five is at the end. Alfred steps carefully over the carpet like he's avoiding land mines. For all he knows, he might be. It's also completely deserted with no sound at all, and it's creepy.

The door that is supposedly Arthur's is big and shiny, painted white with gold numbers on it. They're probably made of real gold, for all Alfred knows.

He hesitates, and then he knocks.

There's a bit of inner shuffling, the blare of a TV on too loud, and it takes a second too long for the door to open. There's Arthur (who else?), one hip thrown to the side, swinging on the doorknob a little.

He's tipsy, for God's sake. Not smashed enough to be off his rocker (not enough to be throwing around accents, at least, like that first time Alfred saw him), but enough to sling a careless smile across a pink face. "Hello," he says, much too slowly and cheerfully for the normally stoic Arthur, and it's weird. But it explains the off tone he'd had on the phone earlier.

"Hi," Alfred greets, kind of uncertainly. His hands go to his camera, automatically; it's a comfort.

"You can, yeah, come in. Yeah." Arthur swings away from the door, leaving it wide open, ambles back inside, and promptly disappears.

It's barely even a hotel room; it's more of a suite, practically a penthouse. It's huge, colored red and white, with splashes of gold. The TV is massive and it's on some concert channel. A guy in a jacket with really long tassels is running around and yelling about pinball. It sounds really familiar.

In front of the TV is a couch, red and gold, and there's a man who definitely isn't Arthur sitting in I,t looking carefully relaxed. His back is straight but not enough to be uncomfortable, his long, thin legs are crossed on the cushions in front of him, a picture of lounging comfort. His blond hair, wow, what a nice color it is; too nice to be natural, Alfred thinks, but who knows, he might be wrong.

He's also scowling, and his pointy face (cheekbones defined, but sharper, not rounded and smooth like Arthur's) is covered in dark stubble, another clue to whether his hair is dyed or not. All evidence is pointing to dyed.

The man turns to face him when he steps through the door, and every one of his movements is carefully languid, like a cat's. He treasures grace, doesn't he? And Alfred sees that he was right— the guy's not a natural blonde, you can see the chocolate brown showing on the crown of his head. That's not a bad color, either, so Alfred doesn't really see the point of him changing anything.

A bright smile is flashed his way, smoky blue eyes lidded in some sultry way that Alfred doesn't pick up on. "You are the photographer!" he cries, but there's something dry in his voice that does not quite approve of him.

"Yeeees," Alfred answers warily, drawing out the syllable. Should he know this man? He looks kinda familiar. Arthur's putzing around in the little kitchen off to the side (what kind of hotel room has a fucking kitchen?), singing along loudly with song the band is playing on the TV. "A pin ball wizard, / Got such a supple wrist…"

"I have heard much about you," the French guy mentions offhandedly. Instead of getting up from the couch, he beckons Alfred over with one long, graceful hand.

What the fuck is he playing at? Alfred doesn't move, standing staunchly in the doorway and scowling.

At Alfred's stubbornness, all that pasted-on grace washes away and leaves a frowning Frenchman where the pretty one was.

Arthur emerges from the little kitchen with his uncharacteristic grin still plastered on his smooth face, and even when tipsy, it kind of suits him. He looks younger that way. Arthur's only around thirty, if People magazine covers are to be believed (that birthday bash he threw last year was the most publicized thing from here to China). Plus, contrary to the stereotype about the English, he's got pretty nice teeth. He's carrying a bottle of wine in one fist and he's swinging it kind of dangerously.

"So, why is there a French guy here?" Alfred asks, not feeling up to beating the bush. He's tired, he's kind of pissed that he had to come all the way to the fanciest fucking hotel in Boston, and there's something else nagging at him that he downright refuses to acknowledge. And that's biting right at his heart, striking whenever he looks at Arthur.

(It's been happening more and more, lately, and God, it's scary.)

"I've been upset quite a bit today," Arthur replies cheerfully, so contrary to what he just said, and tosses the wine bottle to the French guy. "That cunt's name is Francis. A big fucking douche but a friend nonetheless. He came to make sure I didn't go out and get hammered, but he arrived rather late for that. I'm in the process of getting hammered from the comfort of my own home" He waves a hand at the guy on his couch. "Open that, will you, chap?"

Francis' scowl deepens. "No."

The concert goes to commercial, and a narrator says they're playing old concert footage of the Who. Which explains the pinball song.

Arthur just laughs. He looks more disheveled than Alfred's ever seen him; his suit jacket is rumpled on the floor across the room, he's grinning like a maniac, his dress shirt is unbuttoned enough so Alfred can see one single collarbone at the base of his pale neck. His chest does something funny and he swallows.

Please don't tell me I've got feelings for an alcoholic movie star, he pleads with his heart.

Sorry, buddy, says his heart.

A/N: LOVE HUUUUUUURTS, LOVE SMAAAAAAAARTS

Reviews are as valuable as Lucy in the sky with diamonds, minus Lucy and the sky. Your comments so far have been priceless, and they've made me feel a lot better after a period of Life Shittiness when nothing else could. I thank you all, my beloved readers, with every living cell of my heart.

Because of that, there's really no excuse for how late this chapter was, but I'm going to give one/some anyway. I lost inspiration, school really started to tear into me, and life in general has been getting me down. But I'm back! I can't say that updates will come any more frequently, but I will try to keep you all posted on my progress at my newly formed writeblog.

Yes, friends, a writeblog! Huzzah! My personal tumblr has the same name as this dear account, but my blog set aside specifically for fic writing purposes is vennumbereleven dot tumblr dot com. (I admit, I've never been creative with names.) All my Hetalia/Sherlock junk should be up there soon, along with some drabbles that will be exclusive to my writeblog! Hope you decide to join me for the Tumblr ride.

(Plus, with the major purges going on here at , I won't be relocating completely, but an AO3 account may be somewhere in my future. There, I will update my fics in parallel with my account.)

Ta, gents!

~Ven