Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The adrenaline that Arthur got from standing in the crowd or backstage at shows, carefully loading his film into his camera, and getting the perfect shot was something he could not put into words. For him to stay up horribly late after and develop his images so his friends could get the first look boosted his ego—always thinking to himself: I have to become better. Meticulously placed on his desk were at least six binders filled front to back with negatives, ranging from shows to impromptu photoshoots with his friends. After Arthur’s grandfather gave him a camera when he was young inspired him to become the photographer he is today, allowing him to explore an outlet rather than reading or imagining the mythical creatures that would visit him when he was alone. The fact that someone who meant so dearly to him saw photography as an outlet for young Arthur was inspiring enough for him to strive. He joined the yearbook club in high school, photographing almost every event at his school until it bore him. However, he told himself it was about improving his developing techniques to distract him from getting self-conscious about the shots.

It was not until his senior year of high school that his friends started a band; they demanded his photography expertise right away. Inspired by the new wave of rock and roll in England, The Ramones, and their anti-establishment views, Prime Minister was born. A lot of the views at these shows were entirely new to Arthur, and the first time he saw a mosh pit was during Prime Minister's first performance in 1979. The people he spoke with were so fascinating, it felt like he learned something new every time he went out. He suddenly gained confidence photographing in these conditions, originally believing that no one wanted to see a photographer with a flash head in their direction. Almost everyone he asked to photograph was more than elated to be captured by Arthur’s keen eye. 

When he graduated from high school and enrolled in university, things really began taking off. Many of those who were in charge of booking bands for local shows reached out to Arthur for his expertise in photography and designing show posters. The man was surprised at first; he would have never believed his work touched others or was even something that could make him money. It was never about money in the beginning, all he really wanted was to hear music and meet new people. Prime Minister took a brief hiatus during the band's time at university; their leader, best friend to Arthur, went on to develop other side projects. It was during this time that Arthur had to fend for himself…like taking the time to branch out and meet new bands to photograph.

Not like Arthur wasn’t confident that he could walk into a room and make at least one friend, he just kept to himself. He was oftentimes lonely, trying to tell himself he was okay; all he needed was his camera. It’s not like Arthur was an only child, he knew what it was like to have annoying brothers ravage through your things unprompted. But now that he was an adult living on his own..Some days it didn’t work. It felt stagnant; no creative juices were running through his bones, and he was at a loss. 

Did Arthur peak?

He prayed that the best days of his life were only ahead of him.

May 1984
London, England

Arthur Kirkland, age 24, had been out of college for about two years and had not picked up, nor even looked at, his camera since graduation. Life felt so black and white. He still felt a calling to the little device, but didn’t know where to begin. He wasn’t close with any of the small, local bands in London anymore—most of them moving on with their lives or moving to New York City, where the hardcore scene had taken off. He missed it, missed Prime Minister, missed leaving the gig at 2:30 AM with a palpitating ring in his ears; missed pulling all-nighters just to print the perfect image from his roll; missed being praised for his good job; but most importantly, he missed the people and their personalities. He had met a plethora of unique individuals who were motivated by punk's social activism. To them, it was never about the music, only the movement. 

And while he still agreed with the ethos, and did his part the best he could, he felt unmotivated. Working at a humble photography shop almost made him fall out of love with his camera. He most definitely couldn’t afford a new one, but he most certainly didn’t want to risk picking up the one he had and have it fall apart in his hands. His grandfather gave him an old Voigtländer, a German camera from 1965 that was small yet mighty. It took him some time to figure it out, but once he did, it was him against the world. Arthur felt unstoppable. But after seeing what else other photographers carried around and what the shop he worked at had to offer, he grew insecure. He knew it wasn’t about the gear he had, it was about training his eye. 

There was a science to it, a science of getting the right settings; a science of precision (and not to mention the science of development).

Being a college graduate comes with the loss of college benefits. He didn’t have access to a library that could allow him to easily design and mass print posters; there wasn’t an art department to steal supplies from; there wasn’t a free studio for him to use to photograph. While he could sneak into the store late at night to develop, he didn’t want to risk getting found out by his boss. And most importantly, his employee discount wouldn’t be enough to purchase a new camera.

His artistic juices were draining.

At the same time, there was hope.

Arthur could hear his grandfather in his head, berating him for this unreasonable attitude.

“You twit,” He would say with a fire in his voice, “I didn’t steal this from the Germans for nothing!”

It forced Arthur to wake up, gasping for air. Under his light, cotton sheets, sweat accumulated out of every pore; it was an uncomfortable feeling. His grandfather was right, this was pathetic behavior on his behalf. What the fuck was he doing? What happened to the arrogant Arthur Kirkland from years ago? And that had been lost due to…nothing? Because “he didn’t feel like it”? He should be ashamed of himself. He had a whole life ahead of him! His life shouldn’t end before 25.

Arthur wanted to travel the world, allow his camera to see sights he wouldn’t be able to. Capture all of it and be able to look back on the memories while on his deathbed.

“Oh my fucking god,” He clutched his chest, almost as if he were checking that he was still alive. The man turned his head towards his alarm, he could barely make out that it was twenty minutes after four in the morning. Catching his breath, the Brit got out of bed and made his way through the dark to get to the kitchen. He needed some water. He grabbed a glass from the cabinet, which had graciously been donated and passed down from his mum, and filled it up with water from the sink. Chugging the flavorless liquid down, the man realized that his nerves were calmed. 

London at this time of night was almost peaceful, even with the noise from the city seeping through his windows. He could see Big Ben on the horizon, the beautiful clock tower soaring proudly in the night sky. It felt like a beacon of hope. As the man leaned against the counter and scanned the posters dotting his apartment, he committed himself to becoming the best damn punk photographer London has ever seen.

And you can count on that.

Chapter Text

Arthur strode into work with a newfound confidence, going as far as greeting his coworker working the register with a quiet “Hey,” before disappearing into the back to clock in. The man had his objective for the day, discreetly hanging up posters he made the other night around the shop and pubs in the area. He was sure it would create some traction, maybe even get the attention of old bands he used to photograph. He was so determined.

“You’re in a chippy mood,” His coworker, Ivan, commented as Arthur came out from the back. The two weren’t necessarily close, tolerated might be a better word, but they were able to stand behind the counter without strangling one another.

Not like that had been an issue in the past. (Yet.)

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Arthur sighed, deciding to make eye contact with the other, something he was originally frightened of.

Ivan shrugged with a careless, yet dark smile. “You never greet anyone in the morning. Something happen?”

“It’s nothing. Leave it be, you twit.” The Brit didn’t mean to be so hostile, the attitude just slipped out. But he wasn’t going to apologize…why would he? (Because it's rude, he thought.)

The Russian ignored the harsh comment and let out a chuckle. “Okay then.” He adjusted the thick, white scarf around his neck, something that seemed to never be taken off. Ivan told Arthur that it was a gift from his sister, but the look the Russian gave him seemed sad, as if he hadn’t seen her in years. He dared not to pry. The less the two knew about each other, the better.

“Where were you thinking of picking up lunch today?” Ivan asked to break the defining silence between them. Not like it was a bother, both men enjoyed a quiet atmosphere. 

Arthur shrugged, “Not sure, same as usual?” 

“Sure, why not? I’m happy to—”

The Brit interrupted him immediately. “I…I’m happy to go and pick it up this time. Don’t worry about it.” He almost said it with a blush. What was wrong with him?

This surprised Ivan. “Oh…are you sure?”

“Yeah, it doesn’t bother me.” He tried to huff out his answer without sounding suspicious. Although he wasn’t sure why he felt so anxious over this. 

God! Get it together, Arthur!

Ivan eyed the man suspiciously, his senses were always heightened. There was no way you could lie to him. Arthur and Ivan were not the closest of coworkers; in fact, Arthur preferred working with him over others, but it wouldn’t hurt to maybe branch out and be his friend. Of all the young employees, Ivan had the best sales, and the man was very smart on camera technology. Russia was known for brilliant cameras anyway, might as well have a Russian help you on your photography journey.

The first couple hours of work were steady, the two men switched between the register and front desk every hour. Surprisingly, they made a great team, something that Arthur was sure Ivan was also thinking when the two turned to each other after a good sale.

“Good job, comrade,” Arthur nodded with a grin as he reached for his coffee. It had been getting cold since he left it behind the counter, in a spot that wouldn’t anger his boss and was out of sight to customers.

“And to you as well,” Ivan responded, almost with a cheer in his voice. Arthur wasn’t sure if he had seen Ivan smile with pure intentions. He always felt like there was something malicious behind those purple eyes. 

At around 12:30 PM, Arthur took off to grab unch. He grabbed his bag from the back room and exited quietly into the street. He exhaled, relieved to finally be eating some food for the day. As he strode down the road, he pulled a cigarette and lighter from out of his bag, perfectly placing it in his mouth, lighting the end, and inhaling. Arthur wasn’t going to lie to anyone when he said he was going to “try and quit smoking”; he would try, but it’s not his fault they taste so good. They should be lucky it’s the only thing he smokes.

Passing the bustling streets of London was always interesting to him, seeing all the different types of people pass him never bored him—in fact, it made him wonder about who they were and what stories they could tell. He hoped people wondered the same thing when they saw him. 

Approaching the first telephone poll, the man stapled his first poster atop the wooden surface, alongside the other staples left to rot there. Hopefully, his paper wouldn't fly off and leave the staple to rust and lie forgotten with the others. He stepped back and examined his work, praying it would catch the attention of some bands or strangers. Arthur exhaled from his cigarette as he stood on the sidewalk, taking a second to take it in before his stomach made the decision it was time to move on.

The lunch place he and Ivan frequented was a humble fish and chip shop, the owners pretty much knew the men’s orders like the back of their hands. Plus, Arthur felt his ego return when he could blatantly flirt with the person at the register. Politely putting out his cigarette outside the shop and tossing it in the ashtray by the trash can, the man adjusted his hair in the shop window before stepping inside.

“Afternoon, Kirkland!” The owner greeted, flashing his typical, wide smile. 

“Afternoon,” The aforementioned man replied as he approached slowly.

“The usual for you?”

“Yes, and for Ivan as well.”

“You got it,” The owner scribbled on his notepad and stuck the receipt in the line of ongoing orders. “Number five and ten for Arthur!” He called out to the cooks in the back.

Arthur approached the counter and cast a soft grin at the woman at the register. He gave her the nickname 'Liza' since he found it very suitable for the kind of person she was (and he did not want to admit that Elizabeta was a tongue twister for him).

“I take it you’re ordering your usual?” Elizabeta asked.

“Yep,” He nodded. “How’s your day been? I’d hope the big boss isn’t treating you too badly.”

She laughs softly as she types in the prices of his order. “Oh, stop, Arthur. He treats me very well here.”

“I know, I know. But I think it’s obvious to say it’s because he wouldn’t be caught dead talking rudely to a lovely, young lady,” He responds with a soft smile and wink.

The woman laughs again. “Well, your total is ten pounds, Mister Kirkland,” giving him a wink back.

He reaches into his bag, grabbing both his posters and wallet. “Here ya go.” He hands her a tenner and awkwardly shuffles through his papers. She takes it from his hand and logs it into the register.

“Is it okay if I hang up two posters here?” The Brit asks politely, “I’m-I’m trying to get out of my depressive slump and do photography again.” He mentally curses at himself for stuttering.

“Wow,” She answers, interested. “You know, actually, my boyfriend's in a band! I can ask if they need your expertise.”

Arthur, unexpected by her response that, firstly, she already has a boyfriend and, secondly, that he had a band. He gives her a blank stare before realizing he has to answer. “Oh, I didn’t know that. Are they good?”

She laughed again, although Arthur had not intended that to be a joke, but he wasn’t going to hold it against her. “Yeah, they’re good! He and his cousin are close collaborators since Roderich was a classically trained pianist and violinist, and Gilbert just likes making loud noises with the guitar. Feliks just enjoys watching them bicker.”

“Is that so?” Laughed the Brit, although he was genuinely interested. “Well, tell them I’m around if they need anyone,” He folded up his posters and discreetly slid them across the counter towards her. She beamed at his actions and immediately snuck it into her pocket. 

“Arthur, you are a true gentleman.”

“Order for Arthur! Number five and ten!” The owner called out, placing Arthur’s order on the counter.

The man winked and stepped back to grab his food. “Thank you again, sir. ‘Liza.” 

“See you later, Arthur!” The aforementioned employees smiled and waved at their regular as he slipped away. 

Arthur felt good. The slump was leaving his system, and the creative juices were flowing once more. It was almost like a high (that was probably because he barely ate today and only had half of a cigarette and some coffee). He continued plastering posters around the block, making sure a wall wasn’t left unturned. “That should do it,” he muttered to himself, promptly shoving the leftover posters in his bag before trekking back down the alley to reenter the building for his shift.

Can’t believe I’m back here already, Arthur thought to himself.

“Welcome back,” Ivan greeted with a surprising smile. “I suppose it was a brisk trip down the street, da?”

“For an ugly day, people seemed to be out,” Arthur nodded as he handed the other man his order. With no one in the store, the man peeked into the back and called out, “Ivan and I are going on break! It’s your turn to work front.”

“Yeah, yeah! Be down in a minute!” Called back one of the employees, causing Arthur to let out a chuckle. He was just ready to dive into his meal.

Chapter Text

Gilbert hadn’t seen his mother and Ludwig in around ten years. He was barely able to get a phone call in. However, the family relied closely on letter mail and were able to keep up the best they could through that. He loved his brother deeply, even though the two bickered constantly and Gilbert poked at Ludwig at times, but that's what being an older brother was for. How we would give anything to go to a Bierhalle with his family and get plastered. The last he heard from his brother was that he found himself a respectable and reasonable partner, “one that felt like his better half,” Ludwig had written. Gilbert was truly happy for him. He hoped to meet this person. Gilbert and his father were able to move out of East Berlin when he was around 15 years old. His father had gained an exit visa for his work, but they were relocating him to a different part of Europe. The decision to leave almost split the family apart, his father constantly saying he would find a way to allow them to get across the border, but his mother couldn’t bring herself to leave. And so in 1974, Gilbert and his father left for Vienna, where they would stay with family until it was time to leave for university.

Roderich, growing up, was musically inclined, spending hours at the piano until his fingers were sore, unable to get enough of the sweet melodies. He needed them running through his bloodstream until he could reach enlightenment; by the time Roderich was ten, the boy knew he wanted to be a composer. When Gilbert and his uncle moved in with him, the two would learn to share everything, whether they liked it or not. With Roderich being such an erudite (or to put it in the wise words from Gilbert, he was a “Smartass” with “Four eyes”, and a “Virgin”), the clash of style, personality, and work ethic from his cousin drove him wild. The two bickered. Constantly. The house was never quiet or peaceful. Roderich wanted to give his cousin the benefit of the doubt; East Germany was completely different from Austria, and moving was always such a big change. Gilbert could make things easy for the two of them, but Mein Gott he was such a dick (Roderich’s words).

In their senior year, Gilbert dragged his cousin to a local show, mainly to annoy him by forcing him out of his comfort zone, saying “screw you!” to their parents' rules; but also so Roderich could see Gilbert's band. This was his little secret. Not even his father knew, only Ludwig, who was good at keeping his mouth shut. Gilbert’s shitty high school band was called Tremor. Inspired mostly by the Sex Pistols, he knew he wanted to be on the big stage, sweating under the bright lights as the crowd cheered his name. The adrenaline that coursed through his veins got him so high, he couldn’t stop. And fortunately for him, Roderich liked what he saw. The rhythm, the time signatures, the energy, the score—all of it. It reminded him of being in band, performing his favorite movements from Bach, and being able to translate months of work into only eight minutes. Not only was he impressed by the music, but also by his cousin's ability to branch out to those he once despised—as Gilbert claimed he wasn’t fond of Austrians—and befriend them. 

That night the two put their differences aside for once. They could be friends once and for all. They were going to start their own band. And that’s what they did. 

Gilbert and Roderich both left Austria to attend university in London.

During the week, Roderich taught classical music to young kids who aspired to be like him (“A four-eyed virgin who can’t drive,” as Gilbert would say); during the weekend, he was Gilbert’s bassist in Axis. Roderich wanted to make their band Friends of Music, but Gilbert said it sounded pathetic and lame.

If only Gilbert’s mother and Ludwig could see them.

“Roderich!” Elizabetha called out immediately as she swung the door open to their shared apartment. “Roderich, you’ll never guess what happened today!” The woman shut the door as fast as she could so she could run into the kitchen where she knew Roderich and Gilbert would be cooking. The three lived together in a humble apartment close to Elizabetha’s work, doing their best to slave away long hours so they could afford rent. When Gilbert left for university, his mother offered to send money so she wouldn’t get a call from Roderich notifying her that her son was living in the streets. Both men assured Frau Beilschmidt they would make it out alive in one piece for the next time they met.

“Ja?” The aforementioned man curiously peeked out from the kitchen, not expecting Elizabetha to make an entrance like that. “I would hope it’s something good.”

“Yes! Don’t worry!” She smiled widely toward him as she kicked her shoes off, tossing her bag across the room, only to have it land on the couch. For some reason, her quick actions made the man nervous.

“Don’t toss your things around like that!” He exclaimed, but it was said out of love and care.

The woman chuckled and ran towards him, jumping into his arms for a comforting hug. “Calm down, Roderich. I’m just excited!” She spoke into his shoulder, breathing in his familiar scent.

“Excited about what?”

Lifting her head, Elizabetha gave her partner a gentle look. “You know the regular who comes in about twice a week? Well, he told me that he’s trying to get back into photography! So I told him that you and Gilbert were looking for a photographer! Isn’t this exciting! It’s like worlds are colliding here!” She spoke so quickly, Roderich had to pause to take it all in before softly laughing.

“Wow, is that so?” The two slowly swayed against one another in the kitchen, the soft hum from the radio and the sizzling of the stove were melodic enough for them. 

“Oh! And he gave me a poster,” She pulled the folded piece of paper from her pocket and placed it into his hands. “What smells so good, by the way?”

Interrupting the romantic moment in the kitchen, Gilbert seemed to emerge from nowhere. “Würst und Salat, Eliza.”

“Again, you guys?” She sighed and pulled away from Roderich.

“What did you expect when you moved in with an Austrian and a German?” Gilbert shot back, dead set on what was cooking on the stove.

“Just tidiness and order,” Elizabetha muttered as she grabbed a glass from the cabinet so she could pour some water for herself. “Did you hear what I told Roderich, Gilbert?” 

The man shook his head and turned to look at his roommates. “Nein. Is it as important as me cooking dinner?”

“Without burning the building down,” Roderich commented, rolling his eyes.

“Shut it, loser!”

Surprisingly, this was a normal evening at their home.

Elizabetha sighed at their bickering. “ANYWAY!” That seemed to get their attention. “I was telling Roderich that I might have secured you two a photographer for the future.”

This surprisingly piqued Gilbert’s interest. “Really? What’s this guy like?”

“Well, he’s from London,” She said. “He told me he studied at the university here and works down the street at the camera store. He’s such a gentleman!”

Roderich eyed her suspiciously before remembering something she had said months earlier. “Hang on, is this the guy who keeps sweet-talking you?” He wasn’t jealous. (He was.)

“What’s that supposed to mean, Rod?” She questioned him as she got plates out to set the table for dinner. “He’s just a very nice man! Mister. Kirkland just enjoys fish and chips like every other Brit.”

“Ja, but he’s trying to get with you!” He shot back, trying not to show he was embarrassed that some other man was trying to steal his girlfriend. Roderich only cared deeply for her.

Gilbert let out an almost mechanical laughter at the two. “What’s wrong with letting in a third person? You know, you two could spice things up around here.” He knew what buttons to press to embarrass them.

“SHUT UP, GILBERT!” 

Shouting and bickering aside, the three got set up for dinner. A green cloth lined their dining table with Elizabetha’s cutlery and dishes from her country; Roderich lit the candles that were placed at the centerpiece, almost as a way of making it feel like home, something all of them needed. Gilbert brought the main course for the evening to the table, placing a wurst on each plate and leaving the rest on the stove for those who wanted seconds. A German wurst wasn’t complete without German mustard, Gilbert would argue. It was hard to come by in London, but he made sure to have a proper stock of it in their fridge.

“You and your Senf,” Roderich commented in a sarcastic, disappointing manner. He couldn’t lie, German mustard was amazing.

“You two are about to eat some of the best Würst because I made it,” The German man beamed proudly, adjusting his seat at the table. 

“Gilbert, you say that every time you cook Würst,” Elizabetha commented as she placed her napkin in her lap. The three joined hands in a brief prayer, something that kept their evenings sane, and quietly began eating their dinner. The sounds of their forks and knives hitting the China plates and the low whir from the radio echoed in the kitchen. It was peaceful.

Until.

A loud, obnoxious sound of their telephone permeated the apartment, startling the three. They looked at each other with confusion.

“Mein Gott, who could that be?” Gilbert got up from his seat and stepped in the direction of their phone. They kept it in the living room for convenience. He picked up the handset and placed the receiver to his ear.

“Hallo?”

“Gott sei Dank,” Breathed out the voice on the other end of the line. “Gilbert es ist Ludwig.”

Gilbert let out the loudest shriek that could be heard throughout the entire building. “LUDWIG MEIN GOTT!” Roderich and Elizabetha widened their eyes. Ludwig could barely make calls to them, and the times he could, it was special. The two Germans went back and forth over the phone for ten minutes, since Ludwig claimed he couldn’t make calls for longer than fourteen minutes due to the phone bill. It was enough for Gilbert.

“What are they talking about?” Elizabetha whispered to her partner, who could understand German.

“Everything under the sun,” Laughed the Austrian. He took a sip of his wine and reached for her hand under the table. “About Berlin and life, how Gilbert desperately wishes for his brother to be with him in London. And–”

Roderich gets cut off by another shriek.

“WAS??” Gilbert squealed out.

This made Roderich furrow his brows. “What?” He stayed quiet to continue listening to their conversation, eyes widening as it went on. “Ludwig’s dating an Italian man?”

“What??” Questioned Elizabetha, the sound of Gilbert’s laughs interrupted her train of thought. “What’s Gilbert saying now?”

Roderich sighed, squeezing his temples. “You don’t want to know.” It’s because it was about sex. Gilbert was asking his brother about sex.

The room got quiet suddenly, Gilbert’s murmurs fading in and out of the room. “Okay, okay. Ich liebe dich, Ludwig. Tschüs,” The man sadly hung up and leaned against the wall, gazing down at the floor. 

He missed his brother so much. 

Sighing, he slowly walked back into the kitchen, wanting to finish his meal.

“Alles okay, Gilbert?” His cousin asked in a soft tone. “How’s Ludwig?” He didn’t want to pry, but for a cousin he had never met, he still felt like he had a responsibility to honor.

The aforementioned man began to eat once more, generously coating his Würst in mustard. Reaching to take a sip of water and wash his food down, he began to speak softly. “He’s doing very well. The people at his new job respect him, and he seems to be making a good living for himself. I’m so proud,” He pauses to take a bite of salad, the contrasting flavor surprising him at first. “He’s…got this Italian boyfriend, it seems. And his brother lives in London, perhaps we should meet him...” Gilbert pauses again to collect his thoughts. “Hearing him talk about this Italian…I can see how Ludwig is so happy. I hope I can meet him, he’s got to pass Gilbert’s tests before getting my stamp of approval!” Surprisingly, Gilbert’s boasting personality returned to the table, catching Roderich and Elizabetha off guard.

They all laughed.

It was moments like these that made living together so joyous.

☆☆☆

Arthur was nervous. He hadn’t been invited to someone's band practice in a few years. What if they didn’t like him? Or even worse, thought he wasn’t good? What if they sucked? Most small bands suck anyway so why would it matter? What mattered is that he hadn’t done this in a hot minute and was scared his depressive slump would take away what made him good.

“Shut up, man!” He cursed to himself, almost feeling the urge to slap himself in the face. “You got this!” 

The Brit had been staring at a garage door for over five minutes, with no update on whether he was going to knock loudly and ask to be let in. He was at the right location Elizabetha gave him, he was sure of it. A true gentleman never arrives late. He was unsure if he was hearing bickering beyond the garage door or if it was his mind playing tricks on him, but it bolstered his confidence to bang on the door. He swallowed anxiously, wondering if anyone heard him. The bickering he heard behind the door grew louder until the door flew open, displaying an almost pitifully small garage that Gilbert’s bandmates were all squeezed into. Arthur blinked as he eyed everyone looking back at him, growing shyer as the seconds passed. 

“I assume you’re Kirkland?” Roderich approached the other man with a questionable look.

It took the Brit a second to comprehend what was happening, but he adjusted himself and extended his arm out to politely greet the other man, “Y-Yes! Arthur Kirland, sir. I’m the photographer ‘Liza told you about,” He gave a wry smile, praying this man would like him.

The Austrian eyed Arthur cautiously, almost with judgment. Before he could speak, Gilbert loudly interrupted.

“What's up, loser!” He almost pushes his cousin aside and gives Arthur a bright smile. “I’m Gilbert, the totally awesome leader of Axis und this is my lame cousin, Roderich. He plays bass.” He points to the other two men in the room with them. “That’s Feliks! He plays the drums for us. That’s Toris! He plays guitar und together we are Axis!” The two aforementioned men wave and say hello to the newcomer. 

Surprised by the sheer amount of energy exuding out of Gilbert, Arthur softly chuckles. “N-Nice to meet you guys. I’m excited to hear you perform.” They show the Brit inside, slamming the door behind him as they make their way into the garage. “So, how long have you been performing together?”

“Gilbert and I got our band together in our first year of university,” Roderich began. “That’s where we conceptualized Axis; Gilbert brought the sound, and I brought the rhythm. I’m actually a trained pianist and violinist.”

“Yes, ‘Liza was telling me about that,” Commented Arthur. “That’s really interesting, you know—I never would have thought a classical artist would enjoy punk music.”

Hearing this made Roderich chuckle, “I thought the same thing. I just really enjoy the art around it, how putting melodies together can create such a unique sound. I took up the bass in my first year and was able to get the hang of it very quickly, such a fascinating instrument.”

“I agree, my friend.”

Arthur sat down in front of the men as they all plugged in their instruments, excited for what he was about to hear. The man had a feeling this could make his life better.

Gilbert coughed into the microphone, testing its sound. “Okay, this is 'Fich Dich' take one–” 

Feliks cheekily interrupted. “WE ARE AXIS! ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR,” banging his drumsticks together and almost catching the others off guard. He did it to be smarmy—he was known for that—but it allowed the others to practice playing when things got chaotic.

Arthur sat on as they played, almost forgetting to snap photos in the process. But he liked what he heard, he didn’t know the Germans could be… this punk. Dare he say he might be Axis’s biggest fan?

And wow. Gilbert’s energy really translated across the board, and this was only a band practice. What would it be like live?

He moved around, trying to capture the perfect angle and encapsulate the true essence of their vibe. Arthur forgot how much of a workout this could be, but the energy of it all was enthralling to him. If only he could be at a show again.

Before he realized, the song was over. His ears rang, something he remembered not missing. He stood up straight from his crouched position and slowly clapped. “Wow…That was amazing.”

Gilbert smirked and spoke into the microphone. “I know it was. Axis is the best band in London.” His head turned to stare at the British man. “I hope you got mein good side.”

Toris, the man who had not spoken yet (to Arthur’s knowledge), let out a quiet sigh, “Hey Gilbert. I think you played that last section a bit too fast. You gotta stop doing that.”

Roderich cut in with a nod. “We’ve talked about this, Gilbert. Stop focusing on being awesome when people are really just here to hear music.” He crossed his arms and eyed the German with an annoyed look on his face. 

“But I am awesome, losers!”

“WE KNOW!”

This made Gilbert grin. “Of course you know–”

Roderich cut him off before it would get any worse. “Anyway, Kirkland. What did you think? Are you…interested in possibly working with us?”

Arthur didn’t hesitate to respond. “Yes. Count me in.” He was never so sure about anything in his life.

Chapter Text

My God, Arthur was nervous. He had packed and unpacked his camera bag at least three times to check that he had plenty of film and batteries for his flash. He knew he would be fine, but since he hasn’t done this in years, there was a voice telling him he was going to fuck up and ruin it. But there was no way that would happen. Axis liked him enough to have him come backstage and photograph before the show. 

In fact, he was so anxious it took him a hot minute to pick the right outfit. He was so used to putting on a uniform for work, he forgot what it was like to express himself through clothing. Thankfully, he was able to land on an old staple: an old pair of Doc Martens, torn, black skinny jeans, a loosely fitted red shirt, and his handy leather jacket.

It’ll be fine, you twit! He told himself, Stop being a freak.

Checking his bag and his appearance once more, the man left his apartment and trekked to where Axis was having their show. He enjoyed strolling the streets at night, it was like his walk to lunch, being able to watch people and wonder what their lives were like. London was a completely different world at night, and it was fascinating to him. 

Thankfully, the trek to the location, which Gilbert described as “cozy”, not like Arthur knew what that meant, wasn’t too difficult. Just a few stops away on the train and he was there. Approaching the front doors, he was stopped by the bouncer.

“You know that’ll be five pounds for tonight's show.”

Arthur forgot about these awkward conversations and how much he despised them. “I-I should be on the list, I’m the photographer.” He quickly pulled his ID out and showed it to the other man.

The bouncer inspected it carefully and then skimmed his clipboard. Sighing, the man handed back the ID to Arthur. “Alright, you’re good to go. Just give me your hand.”

Arthur took his ID back and held out his hand for the man. He proceeded to mark an X on his wrist and told him where the backstage area was. 

“Thank you,” Arthur said and hurried inside, feeling as though he was almost forgetting the directions given to him. But he spotted the backstage door by the stage and knocked politely, waiting a few seconds before Roderich opened it for him.

“Ah, you’re here,” Said the Austrian, holding the door open more. “Come in.” Arthur nodded and slid past the other.

“Kirkland!” Gilbert shouted across the room, already with a beer in hand. “Welcome to backstage, friend.”

“Yeah, it’s good to be here,” Arthur replied with a hint of anxiety in his voice. “Thank you for inviting me.”  His eyes shifted around the room, it was just the band and some other friends at the moment. Nothing to be afraid of, he thought. 

Not long after he had entered, someone knocked on the door; Toris walked back to get it. “That better be Feliks,” He muttered.

He was right. As the door swung open, a man with short, blonde hair and a smirk plastered on his face said, “You are never going to believe who I ran into yesterday.”

“Feliks, I know! You told me over the phone already,” Toris replied as he dragged the man inside.

Arthur heard his voice from across the room and saw Elizabetha wave him over, Roderich at her side. He strode over with a smile.

She was dressed in a black blazer, fashioned with three small buttons pinned to the pockets. They were handmade, one written out to read “AXIS”, “Sex Pistols”, and “Pro-Choice, Pro-Feminism, Pro-Cats” (Once Arthur saw the handmade Axis pin, it made him realize how much he wants his own); seeing her in an environment like this almost felt unusual. Arthur would have never expected to see her at these sorts of shows, yet it made sense since she was also supporting Roderich. He was almost jealous of that. Her skirt was a red and white patterned design, flowing down to her mid-calf, which was rather fitting. She was feminine and out of this world. 

Roderich, on the other hand, wore a tight, cut-up graphic tee. The sleeves were torn to fit around his slim yet tender-looking muscles, and holes dotted areas around his chest. Arthur didn’t realize how broad the other man's shoulders were. His jeans were a washed-out shade of black, ripped and torn at the hemline, but he still managed to make them look good. As Arthur’s gaze moved upward, he stared at Roderich’s hair and noticed a curl sticking out. The Austrian’s hair was a shade of chocolate brown, and, while it looked straight, it was secretly wavy. Perhaps it just hadn’t found its way yet. 

Arthur thought they looked cute together.

“‘Liza, good to see you away from the register,” The Brit said.

“I was just about to say!” She smiled at him. “Rod told me you enjoyed their practice the other day—Do you want a beer by the way?”

He accepts her offer, mesmerized as he watches her pull off the cap with the bottle opener. “So what are your shows like, Rod?” He turned his attention to the Austrian as he sipped his beer.

Roderich shrugged, “I’d say pretty rowdy, but not crazy. Gilbert likes getting in the crowd sometimes—you don’t want to miss that—and then when he’s not boasting about how awesome he is, he can really control the crowd. It’s insane how he does it.”

Elizabetha butted in. “Remember that time when he wanted to fall into the pit but there weren't enough people in the crowd for him to crowdsurf so he nearly fell on his ass?”

This prompted a laugh out of Roderich. “Well, how could I forget?”

Arthur took a sip of his beer, muttering how he didn’t believe something like that happened. When his lips touched the rim of the glass bottle, the flavor melted in his mouth, the taste buds on his tongue meshing with the cigarette he had earlier, combining in a perfect flavor. How he missed that feeling.

“It was embarrassing,” Sighed the Austrian. “Luckily, Gilbert has the ego to bounce back from that.”

A loud laughter erupted from the other side of the room. Toris, Feliks, Gilbert, and another friend were all huddled up with their beers and cigarettes, yelling away at God knows what. Seeing the four men caravanning backstage before a show made Arthur chuckle.

What has he gotten himself into?

☆☆☆

After having one beer and a handful of cigarettes with Axis, the time came for them to get on stage. He was able to catch a few shots of the band bantering together as they were preparing to go on stage. They looked so uniform together. Gilbert begged Arthur to get his good side and make him look awesome, but the Brit only promised he would try his best. There was so much adrenaline flowing through his system. How was he supposed to deal with it? How did he deal with it back then? Back then he probably didn’t have any crazy anxiety. 

The voice of Arthur’s Grandfather was echoing in his head, Get a hold of yourself, Arthur!

Of course I am! He thought to himself. If Gilbert had the ego to lead a crowd of people he didn’t know, then Arthur could get back into his old habits and act like he had an ego. He stood by as he watched the band set up on stage, observing the crowd to see how packed things were, and to his surprise, there was a crowd showing up for them. More than enough people to carry Gilbert if he decided to crowd surf, he thought. Elizabeta had left his side and slipped into the pit with another friend, standing near Roderich’s side of the stage to support him. 

The eruption of Toris’s guitar echoed throughout the room, catching Arthur off guard and leaving him with ringing ears. My God, how he hated that. He turned his attention towards the stage and thank God he did, because the sound check almost seemed over. 

“Okay, this is sound check for ‘Christis’”, Gilbert muttered into the microphone before he quietly counted off to his band members and began playing. From where Arthur was standing on the side, they sounded loud, but that’s how punk was supposed to be. The man was trying to recall if he remembered them playing this during practice the other week; however, because the music was so loud, he couldn’t make out any distinguishable sounds. But out of habit, he tapped along to the drums on his knee.

The music stopped abruptly, and he heard Gilbert mutter a thank you into the microphone. This was Arthur’s cue to head into the crowd, the show was about to start. He stood next to Elizabetha, offering her and her friend a shy smile; in return, she offered him a nudge of encouragement. In a way that eased his nerves. 

As Axis was finishing up on stage, the Brit took a moment to glance around the room, wanting to see what the crowd looked like—he really just wanted to see if he recognized anyone—but no one, to his knowledge, stood out.

A pair of glasses caught his eye. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because the stage lights reflected directly off the lenses. Maybe it was because the frames were super unique, they reminded him of his grandfather and the tales from the War he would tell his brothers and him during Christmas, and his mother would have to scold him, not wanting her sons to have any nightmares the following nights. Or maybe it was because he thought they looked good. Maybe it was because the glare prevented him from seeing the eyes beneath it. Perhaps it could have been the face it was connected to, it was sculpted very uniquely, thought the Brit. 

Or just maybe it was because those glasses belonged to the most handsome man he had ever seen.

“Hallo, hallo,” Gilbert's loud, thick accent echoed through the room, interrupting Arthur’s train of thought and bringing his head back towards the stage. Toris and Roderich strummed at their instruments as the other man introduced their band. Gilbert stepped aside to give their drummer all the attention.

Arthur had his camera ready.

“We are Axis and we are here to talk about why everything sucks right now,” Feliks spoke into the microphone in a dull tone, his thick, Polish accent peaking through; and his eyes glaring down the crowd as he used his middle finger to wipe away something from his face before he counted off with his drumsticks. 

Their set began.

☆☆☆

Arthur found it a little fun running around the pit, photographing from different angles and allowing the shot to “come to him” as he learned. He didn’t want to only have 36 shots of Axis’s set, but taking the time to reload film backstage while they were still going was such a hassle. Yet, there was a part of him that told him he could do it. It’s not like he was there to photograph the other bands.

But there he was. Halfway through their set with only two exposures left. He had no choice but to rewind his film and load a new roll. 

He gritted his teeth and held his camera up at the stage, focusing anxiously on Gilbert, praying the right shot would come to him. It would be perfect. The crowd leaned towards Gilbert in awe as he leaned towards them. He thought about how intimate it felt as he pressed the shutter. He quickly advanced the roll and was finally dealt with his final shot. 

In a way, he had to make it special. 

He scurried through the crowd and made it backstage. The rhythm of Feliks's drumming ringing in his ears almost distracted him from focusing on a shot. He squinted through his viewfinder, praying someone would do something interesting for his final image. C’mon, he thought. Despite this, he still repeated his mantra of allowing the shot to find him in the rearview. 

Gilbert finally stood up from his crouched position and strode towards his cousin, yelling into the microphone. Roderich finally turned his body in the direction of the other man, making direct eye contact with him as the sounds of his bass bounced off the walls. 

Arthur blinked to try and give his strained eye a break before refocusing and taking one last shot. “Got it!” He grinned to himself. The man hurried to the stairs and began the meticulous process of winding his film up and reloading. 

This was the feeling he missed. This is where the adrenaline came from. It was all coming back to him. He remembers how he was able to quickly change his film during sets. The music became background noise at that point. All he needed was to focus.

When he felt that the film was loaded back into its canister, he confidently popped the camera back open, pulled out the reel, placed it in a pre-existing container, and tossed it in his bag. He slipped the new roll in, double-checking it was secured before pulling out the film and tucking it into the spool; he advanced the roll, confirming that it was correctly loaded.

Arthur heard the music stop and the crowd cheered. This prompted him to shut the film door and sit back up to finish shooting the set. 

Gilbert went on into the mic, surprisingly not boasting about himself for once, talking about how Axis came to be and how grateful they were to be opening for a loaded lineup that evening. The crowd really seemed to be enjoying them that night. Arthur wasn’t sure if this was common, but he was happy to be a part of it.

“We have a couple songs left before Crass takes over,” Gilbert concluded, putting the microphone back in the stand and grabbing his guitar. “You might recognize this one.”

Arthur managed to wiggle his way back to the front, holding his camera close to his chest for good measure. Feliks took the lead and banged his drumsticks together before they all joined in. Being in the crowd suddenly felt claustrophobic, everyone's bodies pressed up against one another, and a group towards the front began jumping around. Unsure of how this would bode, the Brit tried to wiggle further away from the pit, just in case his camera got knocked out of his hands.

He looked through his viewfinder and shakily focused, the shot miraculously coming together before his eyes. Gilbert screamed into the microphone as Toris, Roderich, and Feliks passionately played alongside him, the crowd creating a pit before them to express how they felt about the music Axis was creating for them. 

Yet again, it was so perfect. He felt he had captured another great shot.

He moved around some more, snapping what he deemed interesting, but also waiting for Gilbert to do something crazier than the last. As he leaned against the wall, he felt his heart beating; it was heavy, almost loud. “My God.” He huffed out, trying to catch his breath in the process. He was trying not to tell himself he was reacting this way because he was out of shape, he just needed a rest. But in the photography world, there was no such thing as a rest while you were at a gig.

Arthur squinted at the crowd through his viewfinder and tried to focus the best he could, unsure if anything was lining up because of how dark it was. He snapped multiple photos of the pit, wanting to capture the raw energy of people moshing; in his mind, he loved comparing crowds in his images, seeing how different groups of people reacted to different bands. 

At the height of Arthur’s photographic career, he had a dream of becoming a famous band photographer, all his work would be displayed in galleries and coffee table books, documenting what it was like as a twenty-something in London’s exploding punk scene in the 80s. He recalls how that dream brought a wide smile to his face.

A boy can dream.

The Brit snapped out of his thoughts as the music faded out and the crowd cheered loudly. He snapped another image and tried to move closer to the stage. He watched Gilbert turn away from the microphone with a smirk on his face. He removed his guitar from his body and placed it down once more. 

The man approached the microphone. “That was ‘Fich Dich’—it was actually the first song Roderich and I wrote for Axis a few years ago.” He said, giving a nod towards the aforementioned man's direction. “To those who have never been to our shows, we have this tradition when playing our last song of the evening, where, depending on the energy of the crowd, which you guys have been amazing by the way.” This prompted a cheer out of them. “We want you to channel all that energy—whether it be from the shitty week you had a work or any news you heard about the state of the world that’s fucked up—and go absolutely bat shit insane.” The crowd laughed and let out another cheer for Gilbert's speech. 

“If you use your energy, I’ll try and uh,” He awkwardly hesitated, muttering about how he forgot the word in English, as he snapped his finger repeatedly to get his gears thinking.

“Match?” Roderich said into the microphone with a chuckle.

“YES!” The German grinned and pointed toward his cousin. “I’ll match it, how does that sound?” His grin only widened when he heard cheers and various yeses for him. “Alright, let’s get crazy.” 

The stage got quiet all of a sudden, the band putting down their beers to prepare for their final song. Roderich broke the silence first, allowing the melody of his bass to set the tone. It was low at first, the rhythm was unlike the songs they had played earlier in the set, in fact, it was slow.

Arthur was unsure where this was going, but he was intrigued.

Feliks slowly joined in, the concoction of his and Roderich’s sound flowing through the venue perfectly. The Brit felt like the back of his neck was burning, like he was standing in the direct sunlight and allowing the sun to harshly kiss his neck, only to leave a nasty sunburn. He turned to look at the people around him, who swayed to the low tune, not much of a sight to see.

Strange, He thought, and turned his attention back to the stage.

Gilbert kneeled down, putting his hands between his knees, nodding along to Feliks's drumming. Arthur brought his camera to his face, adjusting the shot in his viewfinder, and pressing the shutter when it was perfect. He looked at the other members on stage, they were in heavy concentration. Toris stared down at his shoes, nodding along, seemingly counting off in his head at what movement he was supposed to join in.

Arthur’s eyes moved back to center stage when he heard Gilbert’s voice speak through the microphone. He wasn’t singing, it was almost…slam poetry. People around him really seemed to enjoy it. His words bounced off the bassline, it was almost like they were written for one another. God, it was so melodic.

He missed hearing new talent like this.

This introduction was long, it felt like sludge in a way. It was mesmerizing. Finally, after what felt like ten minutes, Toris’s guitar joined in; all of the instruments conjoined in a loud symphony. The crowd began reacting to the new sound, finally turning those slow sways into a crashing wave of moshing. Out of habit, Arthur tried to shield his camera from it all. 

Gilbert let out a long, gut-curling scream into the microphone, energetically moving to the faster-paced sound. Arthur snapped another image.

Out of nowhere, Elizabetha appeared on stage. She first ran to Roderich’s side and placed a kiss on his cheek before turning and falling back into the crowd. The amount of trust she had in all these strangers was more than impressive. Arthur was one of the few who caught her, using his hands to cautiously guide her across the crowd. That gave the man an idea. It was a risky one, but he knew that it would turn out. He just wanted to wait it out for a moment.

The crowd was getting rowdier. More and more people were running to the stage to dive in and surf across the crowd of people. Arthur stood off to the side, unfortunately next to the speaker, to capture the last exposures in his roll. He quickly checked how many he had left.

Three.

He had to make them count.

He managed to weasel his way out of the crowd, running to the stairs where the side stage was located, and anxiously stood by.

Waiting for the courage.

Please, God, He prayed. Don’t let my camera or bones break.

He snapped a photo of Gilbert screaming into the microphone as the crowd crashed into one another.

Now was his chance.

He carefully strode on stage, trying not to be too slow or too fast, brushing past Roderich and Gilbert as he placed himself on the edge of the stage. Here goes nothing. He whipped around, giving the singer a wink as he fell back, holding his camera close to him. He felt like he was floating for a millisecond before his back hit a horde of bony hands. He looked at the crowd anxiously; he knew they had his back, quite literally, but it didn’t feel real.

Gilbert screamed into the microphone once more, Arthur turning back to focus, snapping another photo as he glided across the stockpile of concert goers.

He let out a laugh. God, how he was having fun.

The singer dropped the microphone on stage and followed his photographer's actions. Arthur brought his camera up to his eyes, praying he wouldn’t be dropped. Toris and Roderich took over and screamed into their microphones as Gilbert fell back into the crowd.

Arthur snapped away the best he could.

It all felt like a blur. He cheered alongside everyone else. A combination of the stage lights and the rigid movement of being passed around felt surreal. His world had opened back up.

Little did he know.

Chapter Text

“Gilbert!” A voice called out from the crowd. It would have caught the aforementioned man’s attention at first if there weren’t already so many other voices clashing in the crowd. Axis had ended their set, they all felt so sweaty and exhausted, but they were used to it. They had moved to the outside patio, holding onto their instruments as they smoked and drank their beers. A break from tight spaces was very much needed.

“Beilschmidt!” The voice called out once more, finally catching the singer's attention. “Gilbert Beilschmidt!”

The man scanned the crowd, the low lights not aiding him in any way, unless this was a sign he needed glasses. Then, two men emerged from the crowd, strangely, dressed in opposite aesthetics. Gilbert automatically recognized him, and a wide grin formed on his face.

“Antonio!” The German called back, opening his arms for an embrace.

“Gilbert!” 

The two men gave each other a sweaty hug, patting their backs in unison before breaking away.

“It’s been so long, my friend!” Antonio beamed, his thick accent pushing through. “Also, I wanted to introduce you to my roommate. Romano, this is my dear friend, Gilbert.” He extended his arm out to the aforementioned man, supposedly known as Romano.

Gilbert eyed him. He was dressed in a loosely fitted, white blouse, which was wet with sweat around his underarms and chest. It fell past his waist, simultaneously hiding his hands in the sleeves. He wore tight black jeans that were ripped at his knee caps. An interesting choice. The man seemed out of place. 

“Romano is it?” The singer smirked. “Well, it’s nice to meet you and I really hope you know that me und mein band are awesome–”

“Stop introducing me as Romano!” The other man roared out. “How hard is it for you to just say Lovino?!” Now properly named, Gilbert could hear a new accent peek through. He couldn’t pin it as Italian or not, he wasn’t sure.

Antonio let out a laugh. “Calm down! Stop getting your panties in a twist, Romano.”

“That’s it, you bastard! You’re dead!”

The Spaniard ignored him, continuing the conversation with Gilbert. “That was the best Axis set I’ve ever seen! I haven’t had a Saturday night off in a while, I’m glad the two of us could make it.”

“As am I,” Agreed Gilbert, letting his ego lead. “I think that might have been our best performance of ‘The Wall’. We also finally scored a photographer. So now you’ll finally be able to score an Axis poster with our faces on it.”

“Fuck yeah!” Exclaimed Antonio. “When’s the record going to come out? Merchandise by any chance soon?” He nudged the other man with a cheeky grin. Lovino rolled his eyes at the two of them.

“With whose money?” Gilbert shot back with a playful frown. The three men were silent before Gilbert and Antonio burst out into laughter.

“Good one, my friend!”

“Speaking of our photographer,” The singer muttered, eyeing the crowd as he watched the Brit wiggle his way to him. “Arthur! Meet my friend Antonio.”

Arthur blinked as he approached the group, eyeing the new man curiously. He was familiar…

“Kirkland!” Antonio gasped.

“Antonio!” Responded Arthur. The two came together for a hug. “My God, it’s been a hot minute! How have you been?” 

“You two know each other?” Gilbert and Lovino asked.

“We had some classes together back in university! I'm surprised our circles never crossed,” Antonio answered, eagerly patting his old friend's back.

“I know. Have you been in England all this time since graduation?” Arthur asked.

“No! After graduation, I traveled around. I went to Italy for some time, which is how I met Romano here,” Antonio responded with a chuckle. 

“Call me Lovino or else, you bastard!”

“Yeah, yeah,” The man waved Lovino off casually as he spoke. “I convinced him to come back with me to London, and here we are!”

“No, no, no,” Lovino interjected. “That’s not the real story! You showed up to my town unannounced and nearly gave Roma a heart attack!—You damn, Spaniards—Did you know he tried to get with every woman in town? For your information, pal, we are not a tourist attraction! I come from a town with culture and dignity! My nono didn’t raise my brother and me on his old back just for you to come and disrupt everything. I left cause Feli told me it would be good to see a different part of the world. And who knows when I’ll ever see him again!” Lovino could have gone on longer, but he decided to spare the others.

There was an awkward shroud of silence.

“My God, Lovi! You are so dramatic,” Antonio laughed nervously. “And don’t talk like that! You’ll see him again. You just have to keep your hopes up. The Germans can’t contain him forever!”

This piqued Gilbert's interest. “The Germans? He wouldn’t happen to be living in the East, by any chance?” It was a hunch. A stupid one if that. There’s no way it was true. It could have just been a coincidence.

“Oh mio Dio,” Exclaimed the Italian. “I don’t know how it happened. I guess six months ago, my nono called me to inform me Feli is off to Berlin—outside of Italy, of all places—for a commission and I haven’t heard anything since…” He anxiously trails off, not wanting the worst of his thoughts to get to him.

Antonio placed his hand on the other man's shoulder. “Lovi, I’m pretty sure Feli is doing okay. Knowing him, he probably just doesn’t have access to a phone and is getting by on his cheery personality.” Of course, he felt for Lovino, not knowing whether your older sibling is doing okay in a politically turmoiled city was anxiety-inducing. But he had hope. He knew Feliciano. The man only had pureness in his heart. 

Gilbert wasn’t sure if he should say anything. It probably was a coincidence. There wasn’t a big chance that his brother and Lovino’s brother knew each other.

“I’m just worried for Roma,” Sighed Lovino. “He’s all alone…”

It got quiet again, aside from the cheers going on inside the venue. It had seemed like the next performer had begun. Arthur watched people rush in and out of the back door; it kept him entertained as no one else wanted to lead the conversation anymore. He felt a tap on his shoulder and he turned to see Toris offering him a beer.

“Thank you,” He politely took it out of his hands and took a contemplative sip. 

The world was so big, but it felt so small at that moment.

When he pulled his attention back to the group, the conversation had changed reluctantly. Gilbert was going off about something, and the Brit didn’t have the desire to decipher it. He felt bad for feeling that way, this was his new gateway to gigs. 

“By the way,” Toris interrupted his train of thought. “Thanks for coming by tonight. I’m excited to see the photos.” He offers Arthur a soft smile.

“Oh,” The other man chuckled shyly. “Happy to be here. You guys are amazing.” He looked at the other man next to Toris, Feliks, letting him know the comment was inclusive. “I hope to have three rolls of Axis to offer.”

Toris smiled upon hearing this. “That’s exciting! We’ve never seen photos of our performances before.”

“I wonder what it’s like to see him from where you are, Arthur,” Feliks butted in, prompting a chuckle out of the other man. “I think about it all the time.”

“I guess you have a point there, Feliks,” Toris smiled, and the two clinked their beer bottles. “I wonder where Rod went.”

“Maybe he’s inside,” Shrugged Feliks. “He and Elizabetha have a habit of leaving early. Do you know where he could be, Arthur?”

The Brit blinked and shook his head. “I was the last person to stage dive before Gilbert. Honestly, it took me a minute to find you all back here after navigating the crowd.”

“Yeah, I have never seen a crowd that packed! Just for us!” Feliks beamed with sparkles in his eyes.

“You idiot,” Toris sighed, smacking the back of the other man's head. “They were all probably here for the band after us.”

Arthur stared off in thought, Toris and Feliks’s bickering became background noise at that point, and he kept sipping his beer quietly. He was unsure if he should go home or not. It wasn’t too late, it was barely nine, but who had the effort to stay up late anymore when you have a grueling job in the morning? Certainly not him. But something told him he had to stay with Axis until they left.

He wasn’t sure why he felt that way.

The man felt a burning sensation on the back of his neck once again. It had mysteriously returned. This had never happened to him before. Was he going through menopause? Not possible, you twit, he told himself. He awkwardly began tugging at his collar, running his hand through his hair; anything to distract himself from this uncomfortable feeling. Was he dehydrated? He recalled there being water stations by the door, maybe he could make an excuse to slip away and get a cup.

When he turned his head, he mindlessly watched the door where people were simultaneously leaving and entering again. It was almost mesmerizing. Then, a man bursts through, almost slamming the door back against the wall, catching the attention of nearly everyone outside. Arthur could hear Toris and Feliks mutter to themselves about it. “What the fuck is that guys deal?”

They watched him hunch over to catch his breath, not that anyone blamed him—it was warm and claustrophobic in there—before he stood up straight and charged in the direction of Axis.

“Dudes!” The man spoke, his…American accent being the first thing the three men noticed? What was an American doing here?

“I’ve been looking all over for you!” They stared at the newcomer awkwardly, not sure of what to say.

They had no fucking clue who they were looking at.

“Uhm,” Was all Toris could mutter out. “W-Who are you?”

“Oh! Sorry!” The loud, unknown man let out a laugh and smacked his forehead. “I’m a mess tonight, you’ll have to excuse me. I’m Alfred F. Jones. I’m a journalist from the U.S. of A here to cover the show!” He gave a salute to show off his patriotism and dedication to his career. “I’ve just recently moved here after I got transferred from The Oklahoman to The Times and—”  

“No bloody way you work for The Times,” Arthur interjected with his brows furrowed. He was bitter because he applied to work there after university and wasn't hired

The smile didn’t fall off Alfred’s face, instead, he tugged out a lanyard that was hidden under his bomber jacket; it showed off his press credentials. The three leaned in to look at it, the pass almost sparkled as the lights bounced off the plastic protection.

Arthur was jealous.

“Sure I do, pal! Just transferred about a month ago. I must say, your city is phenomenal!” The American beamed, obviously trying to get those points from the Brit. “I’m working on a personal project, there wasn’t much of a scene in Oklahoma, but the shows I got to see were so cool…” He trailed off in thought before raising his voice again. “So can I interview Axis?!”

Toris and Feliks blinked, almost unsure if they should say yes. Thankfully for Toris, their drummer stepped up to the plate confidently.

“Course you can,” He grinned as he took a sip of his beer. “Let me get Gilbert.” He wiggled his way between everyone and tried to get through to the group Gilbert had accumulated.

“Hey, buddy—” He tried interjecting, but it didn't seem to work, so he tried raising his voice. “Gilbert, this guy wants to interview us.”

That caught his attention. “WHAT? Hang on, I’m coming.” He shotgunned the rest of his beer and moved through his group to get to Feliks.

“Where’s Rod and ‘Liza?” Asked the blonde.

"Uhm,” Gilbert hummed as he scanned the yard. God, maybe he needed glasses. But the fuzzy outline of a pale man with chocolate brown hair caught his attention. “There.” He pointed across the yard. “Could you go grab him?”

The Pole nodded and headed in that direction. Gilbert found the others sauntering over confidently.

“So I heard someone wants to interview the new best band in London?” He rested his elbow on Arthur’s shoulder and cast a grin in the journalist's direction.

“Alfred Jones at your service!” The American grinned back and extended his hand to shake. The two men shook hands. “You guys were totally awesome! Never seen German punk before.”

“Some would say that not everyone is prepared for our takeover,” Gilbert commented with a playful shrug. “But we’re glad that our presence isn’t too much for your klein, American mind.”

“No way, dude. I’m as open as they get,” Alfred’s gaze shifted to Arthur for a brief second and he winked.

Arthur couldn’t help but get a light flush on his cheeks, but he internally felt a little grossed out.

Ew, he thought. This caused him to look off.

“Alright, I found him,” Feliks returned with the Austrian linked in his arms. “Let’s do this!”

Alfred pulled out a tape recorder from the pocket in his jacket and asked Arthur if he could hold this during the interview. The Brit awkwardly agreed as he inspected the device. What an odd man, he thought.

Pen and notepad in hand, the American was ready for action. “Alright!” He reached over and pressed the record button on the device. “Please state your names and how to spell them into this device here!”

☆☆☆

Arthur checked his watch, the little hands read 10:30, which meant it was best he returned home. He let out a sigh, he didn’t want to return to work tomorrow, but he assumed Axis felt the same way. After their interview, Elizabetha, Roderich, and Gilbert called a cab and left; Toris and Feliks were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they snuck back in to hear music.

With no one to say goodbye to, Arthur took the opportunity to head towards the door. When he got back inside, it was still packed with people, but music wasn’t playing, which allowed him to sigh with relief. This made sneaking out a bit easier. He gave a nod to the bouncer who let him in hours earlier and began his trek down the street.

For a Saturday, this part of the city seemed vibrant. 

The man stopped to pull out another cigarette for his walk home, put it between his lips, and lit it. Before he could start walking again, a loud voice stopped him.

“Hey! Wait up!” It called out from behind. Arthur turned around with a confused look on his face as he watched the journalist bolt towards him.

“U-Uh, can I help you, mate?” He asked and blew cigarette smoke into his face.

Trying to catch his breath again, the American stood up straight to look at Arthur. “We never got a formal introduction. I saw you shootin’ during Axis’s set, must say I’m impressed with your technique!”

“Thank you…” Arthur awkwardly rubbed the back of his warm neck. Not this again. “Arthur Kirkland.” He said, his head turned away.

“Nice to meet you, mister Kirland! Let me give you my card, I’d love to see those pics!” Alfred went searching through his pockets for his wallet, making incoherent noises as he shuffled through them. Once it appeared, the man held out a small business card for the Brit to take.

Arthur felt like blushing. This was a handful—well, he was American—that certainly contributed; he didn’t know whether to cringe, blow cigarette smoke in his face, or…be civilized? His mannerisms were a bit too informal for his liking. Plus, what does he know about the scene? He’s only lived here for a month!

But. He was nice to look at.

“Wow, that’s generous of you,” Was all he could mutter out. He took a contemplative inhale of his cigarette and turned his head to blow it out. “So...you’re suggesting we form an artist partnership?”

“Sure! Why not!” There were sparkles in Alfred's eyes. “Why don’t we meet up once you get those photos developed? Just give the number on my card a call when you get the chance.” He stepped back, offered a wide smile and a wink.

Oh.

“Y-Yeah, sounds good, mate.”

“See ya later then!”

And the American ran back to the bar, vanishing immediately.

What the hell just happened? Arthur thought.

Chapter Text

Waking up was painful. Arthur’s whole body ached; it felt like his muscles were wrapped in twine, as if he were a piece of meat waiting to be placed in the oven, to be cooked and served on the corporate platter. Maybe he was getting old. As he was going to bed last night, his ears wouldn’t stop ringing; not only was it slightly painful, but it was mainly annoying. But the joy of waking up meant that palpitating pressure was alleviated.

“God,” The Brit groaned as he slowly got out of bed, trying not to trip over the loose pairs of shoes that were dotted around his room. It was a bad habit that he swore he was going to fix. 

After taking a proper shower, allowing himself to cleanse the sweat and smell of booze, his morning started to feel normal. He began to feel normal. Looking at himself in the mirror, towel wrapped around his waist, wet strands of hair flopped across his forehead, minor stubble, he felt like he saw a glimpse of his younger self. A version of himself that had so much more hope than he did now.

Odd, he thought to himself. The heat flooded across his mirror, leaving it murky; erasing the vision he had seen.

After he quickly shaved and brushed his teeth, he changed into his work clothes. Sadly, there was a uniform: a red shirt with jeans. Arthur hated the look of it, which is why he always sported his leather jacket, loosely fitted jeans, and black Converse for every shift. It’s not like his boss was going to stop him, Arthur surely would love to see him try. 

Grabbing his bag, filled with the three rolls he shot from last night and other miscellaneous things he couldn't care less about, he runs out the door to catch the train to work. It was a cool May morning. The streets were very empty, most shops in Arthur’s neighborhood stayed closed on Sunday, so he was spared the noise of anything he found grating. Not many people were up this early either, leaving the man with the inability to watch people.

What a bummer.

Entering the building through the alleyway, Arthur clocked into work in the backroom, which also served as the kitchen. First, he needed coffee before stepping into the real world. Maybe he should make two, one for Ivan. That would be the right thing to do. And so he did that. Pouring two cups of coffee, filling one with cream and sugar for himself and leaving the other one black for Ivan, only because he was unsure how the man liked his coffee.

“Mornin’,” Greeted Arthur, entering the front lobby. The fluorescent lights nearly blinded him, making him cringe. He heard the Russian greet him in his native tongue, giving Arthur a smile and nod as well.

“Oh, is that coffee for me?” Ivan asked, almost surprised.

“Yeah. I was unsure if you liked cream and sugar, so I just left it black, hope you don’t mind,” The latter responded, handing over the cup. He yawned and took a sip from his styrofoam chalice. Ah, the taste of burnt flavor and capitalism. Delicious.

A blush spread across Ivan’s face, almost as if no one had gone out of their way for him to do this. “Thank you, Kirkland.” He looked into his cup, looking at his reflection before taking a sip. He gazed back at his coworker, noting the eyebags. “You look tired.”

“I photographed my friend’s band last night,” Arthur responded, leaning against the wall. “I shot three rolls and maneuvered through a mosh pit. You could say I’m tired.”

This prompted a chuckle from the other man. “Oh my, but that sounds like lots of fun. Are you going to develop them today?”

“I hope so,” Arthur nodded, hesitating before continuing on. “How much will that employee discount save me?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Ivan winked at him, something Arthur was not expecting. Ivan was going to aid him in essentially stealing from their work. But he wanted to tell himself it was ethical. Why pay when you know the whole process yourself? 

“If you want, I can man the store while you develop.” 

“Ivan…are you sure?”

The Russian nodded and smiled. “Of course, I’m sure. It’s just us until two, who’s going to stop you?” The smile almost became menacing. Arthur felt intimidated.

“If you say so…” The Brit shrugged and took a long sip of his coffee. 

Thinking about it logistically, Ivan was right. Sundays were horribly slow. Their first customer usually came in around an hour after opening. No one came to get film developed, but always to pick up photos. It was a genius plan. This wouldn’t take him more than an hour as well. 

“Well, I’ll be right back then,” Arthur said and then politely removed himself from the front. He left his coffee in the kitchen before trekking into the labyrinth where photos get developed. Off to the side was a small room with a large, plastic sink. This was the lab’s darkroom. A room Arthur had grown accustomed to over the past few years, almost like a second home. The darkness almost comforted him.

He placed his canisters on the table and collected all of his chemicals, trying to remember the basic ratio for D-76 and water. It made him laugh. How could he forget? He knew it like the back of his hand, even if both hands were tied behind his back.

The part that came next was the one that worried him a little: loading the reels. In the dark. It made Arthur anxious. What if he loaded it wrong and didn’t notice? Letting himself develop fully until he realized half the roll was gone? God, Gilbert would kill him! That wasn’t going to happen. He was determined and skilled enough. He never messed up a roll in his life. (Unless you want to count the first few times he was learning how to develop.)

He closed the door and stared at all the chemicals and materials in front of him. They were practically begging to be used, calling out his name in the sweetest tone. It was so melodious. Until he heard that reporter in his consciousness.

What the hell was he doing there?

“Dude! I’d love to see those pics.” Suddenly echoed through his brain. It almost made him shiver.

“Wanker.” He rolled his eyes and turned the lights off.

☆☆☆

Arthur was rushing to clean up his apartment. Axis was on their way to look at his photos, and this might have been the first time in forever that he had people over. Oh, how his mother was always right about making your bed in the morning. God knows Arthur barely washed his sheets. He needed to get it together. Maybe he should have called his brothers in to help. No, they actually would’ve made things worse.

He was spiraling.

Forget about it, he told himself. At least his shoes were orderly. He lined them up in his closet and made sure the door stayed shut. Overlooking the process he made, he let out a loud sigh of relief. After developing the rolls, Ivan was kind enough to let Arthur use his make-shift darkroom in his basement. The Brit was surprised he was able to afford all the chemicals and materials, but was gracious enough to be given this opportunity. The two printed for hours, chatting about everything under the sun until Arthur had plenty made for Gilbert. He managed ten prints and contact sheets of all the rolls, which is more work than he’s done in the past two years of not shooting.

He was proud of his work. 

I hope Alfred likes it too, he thought, but immediately scolded himself for feeling that way. He wanted to ignore the blush creeping across his face. He felt like a high schooler again, gross.

The blaring sound of his doorbell interrupted his thoughts, and he turned to see a red light blinking by his door. Thank God, that must’ve been Axis. He rushed to the door and pressed the button, allowing the band to enter the building. Hopefully, they would find their way around. Minutes later, there was a knock at the door, and the loud voice of Gilbert seeping through the hallway.

“Hey, let us in, loser!”

“Maybe if you didn’t call him a loser, he would open the door.”

“Shut up! You guys are disturbing the other people who live here.”

Arthur unlocked the door and grinned at the group in front of him. “Hello friends, welcome in.” He moved aside and allowed everyone to enter his apartment.

“Thanks for having us!” Feliks greeted as he scanned the apartment. “Your place looks so cool. I like that Ramones poster.”

“Why, thank you. I actually got to see them in 1978,” Arthur shut the door once everyone entered. He made eye contact with Elizabetha and gave her a welcoming smile. “‘Liza, lovely seeing you here.” She smiled back and extended her hand out to him, which he gracefully took and placed a kiss upon.

Roderich quietly seethed at the interaction.

“And to you as well, Arthur,” She responded with a soft chuckle. “It’s lovely being at your place, I love what you’ve done with it.”

The Brit was about to respond when he caught a glimpse of Gilbert and Roderich’s haunting, German glares. He awkwardly cleared his throat and directed the group towards his desk. “I have your photos over here. I made ten nicely sized prints and contact sheets of everything I shot,” He picked up the stack and distributed them amongst the band. “I, um, don’t really have direct access to a darkroom to make more prints, since I just found out my coworker has one, but I’m happy to make more prints for you guys.”

He anxiously watched as everyone shuffled through his images. What if they hated them and cursed his lineage?

Don’t be so fucking ridiculous. He mentally smacked the back of his head for having such a thought.

“Mein Gott,” Gilbert muttered, eyeing a certain photo. “I look so fucking awesome here.” He turned the image around to share with the others, giving Arthur a grin of approval. “Excellent job, my friend.”

Arthur felt like he was spinning. Maybe he was going to throw up, although, that would be embarrassing.

Instead he blurted out, “Holy fuck, thank you.”

“No, thank you,” Toris said with a smile. “You have a fantastic eye. Next thing we know, people are finally going to see us on posters thanks to these photos!” He leaned into Feliks, pointing at how Arthur captured a great photo of them.

Roderich finally spoke up, “Well, Gilbert and I were discussing that if we really enjoyed your images, we would ask you to come on board our team.” He paused and eyed the other members before turning back to Arthur. “...And I think it’s safe to say we’re more than impressed with your work.”

“More than impressed is an understatement,” Feliks and Elizabetha said, laughing after realizing they spoke at the same time.

“We want to do another shoot with you soon,” Gilbert said, his tone suddenly formal and…less Gilbert. “I don’t imagine that we’re going to record any of our music soon, but if we do, we want to have a good photo to use for promoting what Axis represents.” Arthur was a little shocked seeing the German speak so well-mannered and determined. Who knew this personality was hidden behind that ego? Or maybe this was a part of his ego?

“And…what do you guys feel like Axis represents?” Arthur hesitantly asked, although, he was very curious.

The room was quiet for a moment. It made Arthur worried that he ruined the tone.

“Anarchy!” Feliks said with a cheeky smile. They were all unsure if he was joking or not.

“Cut it out!” Toris nudged his friend. Supposedly, Feliks was joking. “While I guess I’m not the genius behind the group, but I feel like we represent a demand for a better union, government, and right to life across Europe. I mean all five of us, if you include Eliza, come from pretty different backgrounds across the continent, each of our homelands is in different political situations that we all, to an extent, would want to be changed.” He began feeling anxious with all the eyes on him, but pushed through. “I think what I’m trying to say is Axis represents a want for a better world.”

Gilbert nodded at his guitarist's sentiments. “I want my band to highlight what's going on in Germany…You know, I haven’t seen my brother in years und…I hope the music we make expresses that anger and worry.”

“Mhm.” Roderich nodded in agreement, but left it at that. 

Arthur finally spoke up. “Well, I hope I can be a part of spreading that message. I’ll do anything I can to help you guys out.”

And he meant that.

☆☆☆

Arthur stared down at the business card the journalist had given to him days prior. He traced the texture of the paper, it felt so satisfying against his soft fingers. The raised text that spelled out Alfred’s name, company, and number almost made him more jealous as he held it. Arthur couldn’t believe this promising, annoying, young man was working a corporate job, and he wasn’t; it felt like God was laughing at him. He wanted to crush it up and throw it away, never wanting to run into that man ever again. But he knew Alfred would aid him in some way.

He just wasn’t sure how.

The Brit stood up from his couch and walked over to his landline, glaring at the handle as though it were taunting him. Why did he have to make this so difficult? All he had to do was make a phone call. He cursed at himself and grabbed the handle, placing it in his lap as he slowly dialed Alfred’s number. He brought the receiver to his ear and listened to the ambient ringing. The more it rang, the more anxious he got. He was about to give up by the last ring until the line finally connected, and that blusterous voice answered.

“Howdy?”

“Uhm, hey…” Fuck Arthur was so embaressed.

“Oh hey! It’s Art…Art-”

“Arthur? The photographer you met last Saturday?”

“Yeah! Arthur! It’s good hearing your voice. ”

Arthur jolted, and a blush spread across his face. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

Alfred continued. “You’re callin’ to let me know those photos are developed? I’d love to see ‘em soon! Care to meet me at this pub downtown after I’m clocked out?”

“You want to meet up?” Arthur asked, wanting to clarify.

You could hear the American nod through the phone. How could someone be this enthusiastic? “Yeah! I know this good pub near The Times where we can get a pint and something to eat—let’s say we meet up at The Diamond for six, or as you Brits say, eighteen-hundred hours.”

Arthur was unsure of what to say. “Uhm, sounds good, mate.” He was still so embarrassed. “The Diamond at six o'clock?”

“Yep! Don’t forget to bring those photos. Later, dude!” He hung up promptly, but the Brit kept the phone pressed against his lobe.

The sound of the line beeping in Arthur's ear lingered.

Chapter Text

It was rush hour when Arthur left his apartment. The warm May, soon to be June, sun beat down on his neck as he sped down the street, making his leather jacket warm him up in an uncomfortable way. He was familiar with the bar Alfred had talked about, but had never been to that part of downtown because he had no business there. It was most likely a part of the business district, which is probably where The Times' headquarters were located.

That area always seemed to be so busy and overstimulating. Hence why Arthur avoided it.

The train was packed with people leaving work, wanting to get home to their families instead of wanting to spend another minute in corporate hell. He graciously understood that that line of work seemed exhausting. He held onto the strap in the middle of the walkway, staring at his shoes so he could avoid making awkward eye contact. He felt sweatier by the minute, and his jacket wasn’t aiding him in any way. They predicted it was going to be a warm summer, but it’s nothing he couldn’t handle. Arthur preferred the English winters anyway.

Awkwardly shuffling out of the train car, the man confidently headed in the direction of the exit. The streets were dotted with people, all of whom were heading in directions Arthur was curious about. They strode past him with determination, everyone in London seemed to walk like that. He never questioned it.

The walk to the pub Alfred had asked to meet at was short-lived; it wasn’t too far away from the station he got off at, which brought Arthur some relief for the trek back home. He stood outside the establishment and checked his watch; it read five minutes to six. A gentleman always arrives early. Out of habit, he looked up to catch a glance of the giant clock tower that loomed over London, only to find that it was obscured by another building in the area. 

Such a let down.

He wasn’t sure if he should pop his head inside the bar, see if Alfred had arrived earlier and saved a table for them. Although he realized it would be difficult for him and the other man to view his photos in the dark environment. Unless there was outdoor seating. Arthur was clearly overthinking things.

The loud bells from Big Ben interrupted his train of thought, snapping the man back into reality. However, he found the bells comforting. They were nostalgic to him, bringing him back to his childhood when his family would walk along the river just to hear the tower ring. He and his older brothers would run along the pavement, fantasizing about being pirates on the ocean, planning their strategies of attack on the British crown while their mother looked on with awe as she held onto their baby brother.

“You’ll never catch me alive, Captain Kirlkand! Everyone knows you’re not supposed to mess with the Scottish!” Alastor called out. He stood proudly on one of the benches, holding out his imaginary sword, a mere stick he found on the ground, with all his pride and poise.

Arthur laughed at his older brother. “Well, did they ever warn you to watch out for the British element of surprise!” He jumped onto the same bench and kicked the stick out of Alastor's hand. Although his face fell, and the pit of regret dropped in his stomach when he realized he had kicked his brother's hand a bit too hard. The older boy retracted his hand, holding it close to his chest as he slowly began to cry.

“A-Alastor, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to!”

“Hey! What’s going on over here?” Arthur’s oldest brother, Seamus, ran over to the bench. He quickly assessed what had happened and sent a glare towards his younger sibling. “Arthur, what the hell is wrong with you!? You’re supposed to be playing, not hitting your brother.”

At the instance of hearing his brother's harsh Irish tone, Arthur suddenly dropped his imaginary sword and felt his eyes well up with tears. “Seamus, I-I didn’t mean to. I just wanted to try and be like those cool guys in Lupin–”

“Ya can’t kick your brother's hand like that, Arthur,” Seamus frowned and crossed his arms. “Alastor, let me take a look at ya. Arthur didn’t mean to hurt your hand.” The aforementioned boy sniffled and quietly got down from the bench, holding out his hands as he approached his brother. 

To his surprise, there was no blood drawn or concerning nicks. Alastor’s hand felt warm from the blood accumulating under his skin, but Seamus held onto them with a smile and assured his brother things were going to be okay.

“No more playing pirates, okay? Or else I’m telling Mom.”

“Please don’t tell Mom,” Arthur begged. He hopped down from the bench as well and tried to give his best pleading look to his older brother.

“Only if you two play it nice–”

A new voice cut Seamus off. “Not if the Welsh fleet has anything to say about this!” Dylan’s boisterous tone interrupted the three. He jumped on the bench, hands placed on his hips as he stared down at his brothers. “I’ve come to save the day!”

“Not now, Dylan,” Seamus sighed, crossing his arms.

“The British fleet is in no need of being saved! I’m the strongest pirate captain in the entire world!” Arthur responded with a grin. He raised his stick back up and pointed it towards Dylan.

“Boys!” Their mother called out. “We’re getting ice cream, come back over!” 

Forgetting about any mess, tears, or injury, the four boys beamed in excitement and ran towards her comforting voice. They could forgive and forget. This was ice cream after all.

How he missed his family. Everyone, except his youngest brother, had grown up. They were all somewhere, their feet planted in the ground with goals, aspirations, and maybe even families. Oh God, that meant Arthur could be an uncle. But he welcomed that idea.

A smile fell upon his face as he dreamed.

But a voice interrupted those thoughts. “Dude! What’s up?” Arthur turned his head and saw the American approach him with a wide smile. He proceeded to stand up straight, can’t have bad posture during a business meeting. This was a business meeting, right?

“Good evening,” Arthur greeted back. “I take it the walk from headquarters isn’t a long one.”

This made Alfred laugh. “No, man. I wanted to change out of my work clothes. I came from my apartment. I don’t live too far from here.”

“Oh..” Arthur muttered, looking awkwardly to the side. “Well, why don’t we head inside?”

“Let’s go!” The other man beamed and began to lead the way. He held the door open for Arthur, offering an affable smile. The Brit gazed down to hide his blush. Inside, the establishment was bustling with customers, and the noise of chattering businessmen and drunken regulars polluted the room.

Alfred leaned into the other man's ear. “Let’s go onto the patio, it’s less noisy out there.” The low tone of the American’s voice made Arthur shiver. It was so smooth and comforting. He watched the latter stride forward, and he quietly followed, glancing around the room at the patrons; it was then he realized the journalist stood only a foot taller than him. Were the Americans always going to be ahead of him one way or another? Alfred pushed a door open, revealing to the two of them an open patio with tables all around. It was quieter and less crowded.

Thank goodness, Arthur thought, sighing.

“Find us a spot! I’ll get us a beer. Do you have a preference?” Alfred asked, glancing down at the other man.

“Surprise me,” The Brit responded with a cheeky grin.

“You got it,” Alfred winked and retreated back inside. 

"Twit," Arthur muttered under his breath. He spotted a table in the corner where the summer sun wasn’t low enough to be peeking through the shades, but the blue sky provided adequate lighting. The man sat at the table and looked down at his messenger bag, suddenly wondering how their interaction would go. He thought back to his conversation with Gilbert’s band, how serious they were to have him join their “team”. It almost felt official—it technically was —but Axis weren’t on a record deal, they were just four guys with a dream. They didn’t have anyone to creatively control their image other than Gilbert. 

It struck Arthur that he was their unofficial creative director. He most likely wouldn’t be compensated for it, which he was okay with, but as long as they provided him with the space to create, he would be happy. He had to cherish this before it would be gone.

His eyes trailed to the door as it was pushed open. It felt like his vision was slowed all of a sudden. Alfred emerged from the pub, carrying two beers in his hand, glasses sparkling in the low light, hair blowing from the gust of the door. He felt his mouth fall open. What had gotten into him?

He sat up straight and cleared his throat as the American approached their table. 

“Hope this will do!” Alfred placed one of the bottles in front of the other man and sat down next to him. “I’m usually a bourbon drinker, but I’ve come to find you Brits don’t serve that around here.”

“Why would we? We got scotch and whiskey,” Replied Arthur, almost furrowing his brows at the comment. “You Americans are indeed strange.”

Alfred proudly laughed. “Thanks, man!” He took a sip from the bottle and annoyingly let out a refreshed “Ahh..” as he placed the drink down.

“So, how did the rest of the show go?” Arthur awkwardly asked. He wanted to pull a cigarette out as a way of combating the anxiety, but decided against it for now.

The other man shrugged and fiddled with his bottle cap. “It was fine, I suppose. I guess as the music kept going, I found I didn’t really like it that much, but Axis were phenomenal! How do you know the guys?”

“Uh, I know Rod’s girlfriend from the fish and chips place down by my work,” Arthur reached for his beer and hesitantly took a sip. It wasn’t that bad. When the American didn’t seem to respond, he followed up with, “You know, the guy on bass?”

“That’s right! He seemed pretty cool.” That seemed to bring Alfred back into reality. “What cool shots did ‘ya get?”

Ah, right, Arthur thought. He opened up his bag and pulled out a stack of images, placing them in front of the two men. “I got about three rolls shot. My coworker has a darkroom, that’s how I was able to make these prints.”

“You don’t have your own?” Alfred asked, keeping his gaze on the latter.

“No, not really,” Arthur shook his head. “I was only able to develop these at work. I don’t have the money to afford all the chemistry and have a makeshift darkroom in my apartment. Pretty sure my landlord would kill me.” The Brit had thought about this before; as much as he would love to have his own little darkroom, the only logistical way would be to have it at his mother's house. He had a makeshift one during high school that his father helped him set up and maintain, however, that was when they lived in London. After Arthur graduated from high school, they picked up and moved to Liverpool to finish raising his youngest brother, Peter, who was only ten at the time.

My god. That means Peter would be nearly seventeen now, he thought. Perhaps he should go home and check up on his family soon.

Nonetheless, Arthur continued. “But I made contact sheets for everything. I really only made these prints for the band. I-I suppose I can always go back and make more for them—”

“You’re welcome to use the one we have,” Alfred said pointedly. “We have a nice one at The Times. As long as my boss doesn’t find out I’m sneakin’ you in.”

The Brit blinked and tried not to let his mouth fall open again. “W-What? That sounds illegal.”

“If you don’t get caught, it isn’t!” Alfred grabbed his beer and took a sip, giving the other man a certain look, almost as if he were saying, “How about that, big shot?”

How about that? How the hell was Arthur supposed to respond to that?

All he could manage was a scoff. “You are irritable.” He reached into his bag, grabbed a cigarette and lighter, brought it to his lips, and lit it at the end. The anxiety left his body as he inhaled slowly and courteously blew away from Alfred’s direction. 

“I think you mean I’m gracious and considerate,” The American grinned, snarkily grabbing Arthur’s cigarette from his fingers and bringing it to his lips. He copied the other man's actions but purposefully exhaled into the Brit’s face.

They were even.

Alfred quietly coughed as he pulled the cigarette away from his lips, smoke escaping his mouth. “My dad smoked Camels growing up, I grew pretty used to the flavor and smell. But this, Arthur?” He motioned towards the little roll of tobacco in his fingers, “What the fuck is this, man?”

Arthur was almost offended. “They're Rothmans, mate! Best bloody cigarettes in all of England.” He leaned forward and took it back from the other man. “Sod off.” Out of frustration, he took another hit.

Alfred let out a laugh, clearly entertained by the whole interaction. “You’re funny, Arthur.” He sat up straight and began shuffling through the prints before him. They were finally quiet, as the American looked to be in deep thought as he examined the photos. This time, it didn’t make Arthur anxious, he just wanted to know which one was Alfred’s favorite. 

After some time of pondering, the man pulled out one of the contact sheets and handed it back to Arthur, pointing at one of the images. “I want this one printed.” Upon further inspection, he could see it was an image of Axis he had taken backstage before the show. They were grouped together against the white walls, each one of their personalities pouring out as they stared at Arthur. Into the camera.

“The piece I’m writing about Axis is coming together,” He properly organized the images, making sure each print stood up straight before he handed the stack back to the other man. “They could be as big as GBH.”

Arthur furrowed his brows at the man. How much did he know? He took a sip of beer before asking, “So what were shows like where you were from?” 

“Well, I only started going to shows after seeing a report on the local news,” Alfred answered honestly. “I was super interested in seeing all these people my age going out and saying that punk rock was about anarchy and all that.” He put his cheek in his hand and gazed towards Arthur, who swore his look almost came off as affectionate. Maybe he was just imagining things.

“It’s what got me into journalism,” He said softly. “Don’t know where or who I’d be without it.”

It was almost inspirational. 

“Well, I’d be happy to proofread anything for you,” Arthur said, not trying to sound too proud or embarrassed. “If this is going to be an artistic endeavor for me. I wouldn’t want you doing all the hard work.” A blush spread across his cheeks as he spoke; he hid it as he hit his cigarette again and looked away to exhale.

“Who knew you could be such a nice guy, Arthur,” Alfred chuckled. “I’m callin’ it Local Distortion. I feel it fits really well, I want it to go places.”

“It will,” Arthur said, coming as both a surprise to him and Alfred. It made the two men go quiet for a minute, however, Alfred couldn’t contain himself much longer and let out a laugh. Arthur still found it to be obnoxious.

“Cheers to that.”

☆☆☆

It was a peaceful weekday evening, perfect for having guests over; a small get-together was all the twenty-somethings could use to take a break. Gilbert invited Antonio and Lovino over for wine and a bite to eat so they could catch up over the little and big happenings in their life. It was at times like this that made Gilbert appreciate the people around him; he didn’t want to admit that they were like a family to him, but with his blood thousands of miles away, stuck behind a wall, who knows when they would reunite again. 

He held onto all of Ludwig's postcards, rereading them when things felt like they were getting worse, picturing what it would be like if the two were together at that moment. Perhaps they would be at the Bierhalle, enjoying fine meats and the beautiful waitresses serving them alcohol, or maybe they would be out getting groceries. Ludwig was always a very efficient person to shop with. But maybe they were out on the lawn together, lying side-by-side, reading a good book. Shoes kicked off, radio buzzing, and birds chirping. Music to their ears. Simply enjoying each other's presence.

Gilbert looked to his side and found both his mother and father sitting near them. The whole Beilschmidt family reunited once more, not kept behind walls, work visas, or boundaries. He wouldn’t dare to wish for anything more.

A voice suddenly caught his attention. Gilbert turned again and found himself staring towards their family home, watching a stranger walk down the steps of the porch with a pitcher of lemonade. He couldn’t make out who this stranger was, but he was intrigued by the newcomer, happy to welcome them with open arms. The whole dream made him feel warm inside.

“Gilbert,” the faint voice called out, echoing throughout the bubble he was in. It was soft and comforting, familiar even. They repeated his name over and over until the man snapped back into reality and found himself staring at Antonio and Lovino at the kitchen table.

I guess it was just a dream, he thought.

“Man, you seemed out of it!” Antonio chuckled as he leaned back in his chair. “I was wondering when we would get you back.”

Gilbert sighed and reached for his glass of wine, taking a slow sip. “I’m sorry. I got caught up in a daydream.”

Antonio’s gaze softened. He knew what Gilbert meant. “You and your brother again, huh?” He said, reaching for a cracker and a slice of cheese. “Anything new from the East?”

“Ludwig seems to be doing well. Last we spoke, he told me he has a new job,” He shrugged as he gazed at his glass. “He seems to enjoy it, so I’m happy for him.”

The Spaniard nodded and took a long sip of his wine. “Anything on Feli, Lovino?”

“Haven’t heard anything,” Lovino sighed and shook his head. “I pray he’s still alive.”

“What does your brother do?” Gilbert questioned, the curiosity within him growing stronger. Like he thought earlier, it must be a coincidence. It probably wasn’t the same person, he probably didn’t know Ludwig, and he most likely wasn’t his brother's new partner.

“He’s a painter,” Lovino answered and copied Antonio’s actions, also grabbing himself a cracker with cheese. “He was always the talented one. Roma encouraged him since he was the eldest. Nothing ever stuck with me except anger–”

“You can say that again,” Antonio interrupted with a chuckle.

“Piss off, you bastard,” The Italian shot back and playfully shoved the man next to him. “Think before you interrupt me next time, okay?”

“Fine, okay.”

Lovino cleared his throat and picked up where he left off. “I spent a lot of my childhood trying to be like Feli, I almost forgot to figure myself out. We grew closer near the end of high school. Despite being super outgoing and a delight to have in class, he was the laziest worker I knew. I had to help him with all his homework. But he would save my sorry ass for picking fights, can you believe that?” He let out a chuckle at the thought. “I suppose the only classes he thrived in were his art classes.”

When Gilbert looked into Lovino’s eyes, he could see and feel his pain. They both lived in fear of becoming only children. Something he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. 

For Ludwig to be with a painter? It wasn’t out of the question, the man was a great appreciator of the arts, but to go as far as being with one? Gilbert wasn’t sure. 

Again. It could have been a coincidence.

“Feli and I used to sit out in the fields at night, gazing at the sky,” Lovino continued. “He would always attract shooting stars and make the most ridiculous wishes.” But thinking about it made him smile.

“Lovi! Lovi!” Feliciano exclaimed, pointing up at the sky with a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “It’s a shooting star, you have to make a wish!”

“C’mon, we’re too old to be making wishes,” Lovino rolled his eyes at his brother. Adults don’t look for shooting stars and make a wish. Do they? However, the next thing he knew was Feliciano clasping his hands together, muttering his wish over and over again.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I’m making a wish, Lovino! You should do it too,” The man beamed, sending a wink his brother's way. “It won’t hurt, you know.”

Lovino stubbornly shook his head. “Grown men don’t wish upon shooting stars.”

“Sure they do,” His brother reassured and pointed up at the sky. “Look, there’s another one!” He brought his hands together in prayer and shut his eyes. “I wish that the harvest this year will be bountiful and Roma is in good health. Perhaps give him a lovely lady to cure his lonely days.”

Despite the fact that Lovino loved his brother very much, watching Feliciano do the things he did almost gave him second-hand embarrassment. He should be used to it by now. They’ve only been living together for the past twenty years. Maybe he should take this as a sign to lighten up.

“Look, Lovi! Another star!” Feliciano exclaimed.

Lovino sighed and brought his hands together like his brother did. I wish happiness and good health for my brother and me, he wished. 

Feliciano turned to see his brother in deep, almost meditative thought. It brought a smile to his face, so he decided not to say anything about it. You know how his temper can get. He wished again for a good harvest and for his grandfather to be in good health, but also for something new in his life to happen. He wanted to be excited. To be challenged. To change his perspective on life. Someone or something new. It didn’t matter to him.

He was happy regardless.

Gilbert watched the way Lovino spoke about his brother, it was with awe and love, just using his temper as a way to hide those feelings. He understood that. Brotherly love was complicated, especially in the situation the two of them were in, but he wouldn’t trade Ludwig for anyone else.

Antonio interrupted his train of thought. "Feli is a great painter. When I see him again, I’m getting my own piece from him.” Lovino chuckled and reached for another cracker with cheese.

“Don’t you have a friend who’s got some Rembrandt in his collection?” Lovino asked, mouth full of food.

“Oh yeah,” Antonio let out a chuckle. “I took an art history class with this guy from the Netherlands, and when I visited him after graduating, he gave me a personal tour of the museum he worked for.” Shaking his head, the man reached for the bottle of wine and proceeded to pour more alcohol into his glass. “Such a strange man, really smart, but I think he hated my guts.”

“It’s probably because you hooked up with his girlfriend,” Lovino interjected with a grin. He loved embarrassing his roommate.

“Did not!”

Gilbert raised his brow, “Well, did you?” The Italian laughed at Gilbert aiding him in a mission of humiliation.

“Okay, well maybe I hooked up with his sister,” Antonio admitted, raising his hands in surrender.

The other two men let out a groan; Lovino crying out, “O Cristo!” just as Gilbert exclaims, “Ach du lieber Gott! ”

“I think you need to be placed in a monastery,” Lovino rolled his eyes and hid his face in his glass, dead set on consuming the rest of the wine. “Maybe even castrated.” Who would go out of their way to converse with Antonio sober?

They stayed silent before letting out a roar of laughter, and even Antonio couldn’t hold himself back. Life felt good at that moment. They hoped it would stay this good.

Chapter Text

What Arthur was doing had to be illegal. There was no logical way that he wasn’t breaking the law—or that Alfred was. It felt like he was breaking into his high school, on his way to steal his teacher's tests so everyone could pass the exam, but it wasn’t high school. It was the newspaper Alfred worked for. The only thing on his mind was worst-case scenarios and it didn’t help that the chemicals around him were probably aiding in his spiraling.

“Dude, you need to relax,” Alfred said with a chuckle. “We’re not gonna get caught. Not many people come in after hours anyway.”

“Yeah, but what if someone does come in?” The Brit responded. He was unsure why he felt super anxious, he probably only felt anxious for feeling anxious. But being arrested and placed in jail felt embarrassing, he didn’t want the police to call his poor mother and beg her to bail him out. She had already gone through enough raising five sons.

Alfred grinned and shook his head. “They won’t. Now help me set everything up.” He flipped a switch and the lights revealed a quaint room with a long sink in the middle, four cubbies with enlargers huddled inside them, and a print wash. Arthur was rather impressed, yet again, this was a proper establishment, so of course, they would have the proper materials to develop images.

“Where does everything go?” Alfred asked as he approached the sink. He eyed the bins lying inside, beginning to flip them over and mentally wonder how everything worked.

“I’ll take it from here,” Arthur said proudly. “Where are all the chemicals?” He checked under the sink first to see if he could spot any containers of Dektol, stop bath, or fix that he could fill the bins with. It was at that moment that his muscle memory kicked in and he began setting up the chemicals. He ignored Alfred’s sly comments, only focusing on getting the correct chemistry for the bins. It was the only thing that mattered to him.

Their putrid smell made him feel at home.

This was the thrill he enjoyed. Those late nights where he was huddled up in his university’s darkroom, beer, cigarettes, and coffee ruminating in his system, to craft the perfect image. He was sometimes kept up by the fact that many old photographers went blind in the old development processes.

“Arthur,” The American raised his voice, tired of being ignored. In fact, despite having an obnoxious tone (Arthur’s words), he hated raising his voice at others, especially if it was done with malice. “Buddy, you gotta slow down before you hurt yourself.”

Arthur stopped in his tracks, and when he came to, he realized he was about to pour the wrong chemical in the wrong bin. He didn’t know what to say other than, “Jesus Christ.” When he turned to look at the American, there was a pointed look on his face, almost as if he was taunting Arthur. Alfred’s lips slowly formed into a smirk, prompting Arthur to flush and look away. Why was he feeling this way? Rather, why was Alfred making him feel this way? 

He was just a stupid American after all.

“Why do you look at me like that?” Arthur said quietly. He almost didn’t want the other man to hear him.

“Like what, man?”

Of course, Alfred would say that.

“It’s nothing.”

Arthur pulled out his negatives and contact sheets and brought them to Alfred. “Which ones did you want printed again?” The latter took the sheets and examined them quietly. Arthur found his focused, quiet nature rather attractive. It was better than a loud American yapping his personality away. 

“These two,” Alfred’s voice brought the Brit out of his almost trance-like state. “If that’s alright.”

“It’s fine.” 

Arthur walked to the light switch and plunged the two men into complete darkness. He awkwardly searched around for the switch for the safety light, the idea of being stuck in a dark room with Alfred made him antsy. Hell, being in a room with him during the day made him worry about where his mind would wander to. 

“Hey, man, can you get a light on, please?” Alfred said, almost in a quiet whimper.

“Someone’s afraid of the dark.”

“N-No, I’m not.”

Hearing this made Arthur grin. He flicked a switch and a red light above them illuminated the room. The two men stared at each other, wondering if the other could see their expression, one that was proud and the other worried. The Brit strode back over to his work station, collecting the negatives he needed, his darkroom old habits returning as if they never left.

“Nothing to be ashamed of if you’re scared of the dark, Alfred,” Arthur said pointedly, knowing this was doing nothing to bring their friendship closer.

“I’m not afraid of the dark!” Alfred didn’t want to admit that he was frightened of the dark, but it was a childhood fear he never got over. Those kinds of things just stick with you. 

“Okay, well, are you scared of ghosts?”

Alfred nodded vigorously. “I-I swore I’ve seen one, dude.”

This piqued Arthur’s interest. He stopped focusing an image on the enlarger and turned his attention to the American. “Oh yeah? Tell me.” He placed his hands on his hips. This guy must be joking, he thought.

Alfred gulped, swallowing his courage. He remembered it like it was yesterday. “Well…when I was a kid, my folks raised me on a farm. For miles, all I knew were the crop fields. They were the first thing I saw when I woke up and the last thing I saw when I went to sleep.” He paused to collect his thoughts, staring away from the Brit anxiously. “We lived in a small home. Two-story, two bedrooms, and two bathrooms, with an attic. However, my room faced the fields, meaning I could see the entire farm from my window. So one night…”

The silence was killing Arthur.

“Well, what happened?”

Alfred was pulled out of his slumber, he was unsure how, but he knew he wasn’t dreaming anymore. The bright light of the moon trickled into his curtain, illuminating the small room he called home. The brown, wooden walls, the toys on the floor, and a closet filled with moth-eaten clothes; it was a scent that stuck with him. The small boy sat up in his bed, the mattress creaking under him as he shifted his weight, a sound he grew to despise as his parents would listen for it and make sure he wasn’t sneaking out to watch television past his curfew. 

As he observed his room, he could tell how stagnant everything was. That’s how it was in the countryside. There was no one for miles. It should be comforting to a little boy, but at that moment, he didn’t feel so alone. Something felt different, but he didn’t know what. Had one of his toys been taken? Was someone in his closet? Or worse, under his bed? Waiting for him to step off and grab his little ankle and drag him under? 

Alfred held his stuffed bunny close to him. He was frightened. Should he run and hide in his parents' room? Wake them up? Sneak into their bed? None of those options felt right. He knew they would scold him for this, he was nearly ten years old! He should be done with monsters and ghouls at that age. But that didn’t discourage him from being frightened of what lurked in the dark.

There was suddenly a scratch at Alfred’s window. He whimpered into his stuffed animal, hoping that if he squeezed it tight enough, the fear would melt away. But then the voices he heard from the television echoed through his head. 

“You have to be a hero! Don’t let the enemy win!”

That’s right. There was no use in cowering in fear. He had to defeat what scared him. With his newfound courage, the boy crawls out of bed, clenching his bunny with his fist. He was going to be the hero. Approaching the window with caution, Alfred told himself it was nothing, there was no monster at the window; his mother told him monsters weren’t real. He believed her. However, he just wanted to check the window in case he was wrong.

He was going to prove himself right…right?

Alfred grabbed ahold of the fabric, its rough texture rubbing against his soft hands as he tugged the curtain aside. He gazed at the dark landscape, only the moon and the liminal, golden fields of grain stared back at him. The same fields that wished him good morning and good night. Again, it was stagnant. 

See, there was no monster.

Until he noticed. At the edge of the grainy fields, perfectly hidden by the terrain, stood a person. They were dressed as Alfred’s father would when he worked the fields, jean overalls, a flannel shirt, and a cowboy hat. 

The boy let out a quiet gasp and stepped back in surprise. That wasn’t supposed to be there. When he blinked to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating, the figure was closer, now only feet away from his window. 

He couldn’t help but shriek and back away, calling for his mother and father to save him.

Arthur stared at the other man blankly. There was no way he could believe this story. He let out a laugh, which annoyed Alfred.

“Hey, dude! This isn’t funny, I swear I saw a ghost that night!” All the American felt he could do was defend his honor. He seethed and crossed his arms with a pout. 

“Why would a ghost haunt your farm? What rich history does a state like Oklahoma have?”

“We have plenty of history, asshole!”
My, that was the first time Arthur heard Alfred curse at him like that. It made him laugh again, he couldn’t contain himself.

“Fuck you, man.”

“Whatever, mate,” Arthur turned back to his station with a smirk on his lips. The two men stayed quiet during the time that the Brit honed in on his work. They didn’t interpret it as tension, more like friendly fire, which Arthur was starting to realize was a growing friendship.

Well, shit, he thought. 

Maybe they were becoming friends.

☆☆☆

It was Arthur’s day off and he had plans to meet Axis at the park later for promotional photos. Yet again, he felt stoked, honored even. A band trusted his vision enough to bring him on board for their project. For the first time in a while, the air he breathed felt fresh and clean, it was almost like he was inhaling through a filter that had been replaced after years of clogging up dirt and waste. He wasn’t upset with it. He often hated the expression la vie en rose, but he felt as though life had finally returned to the way it was supposed to be for him. It felt rose-tinted. How it was supposed to be after university. 

He suddenly felt inspired to clean his apartment more often, finally shoveling all his shoes onto the shoe rack his mother gifted him years ago, which he had forgotten was in the closet. He took the time to sweep and run a wet cloth over his floors, cringing and almost dry-heaving at the amount of dirt that had accumulated from time to time. God, why did it take him this long to realize he was living like a bastard? It was the summertime now, he should take that time to make it feel like an actual summer instead of rotting away at his job.

He should probably give his mother a ring and go visit for the weekend, treat his little brother to something nice for once, or explore the scenery of Liverpool…if there was any. 

All good things in all good times, he told himself.

The man stared proudly at his room, droplets of sweat seeping out of every pore in his body, it was as though he had painted a masterpiece. In this case, the canvas was his room and his brush strokes were him finally going through his clothes and separating clean from dirty, changing his sheets, and throwing away whatever trash had snuck its way onto his floor. The music from his, surprisingly, well-put together CD system blasted throughout the room, the rhythms from the guitar aided in striving towards a clean environment. Hopefully it didn’t piss off the neighbors.

He sighed and wiped the sweat off his forehead with a towel, he felt as though he had done a hard day's work (“You’ve never done a hard day's work,” he could hear his brother Alastor say. He could be such a prick). Even with the windows open, letting in the June air, it still felt uncomfortably warm.

Either way, he felt rather satisfied and the quench of thirst from a cup of cold water never sounded so good right now. Rubbing the rest of his chest with the already sweat-stained cloth, he retreated toward the kitchen, grabbed a cup from the cupboard, and poured himself some water from the sink. He grabbed some ice cubes from the fridge and dropped them in the liquid, allowing the two elements to become acquainted with one another before taking a well-deserved sip. The Brit let out a loud, refreshed sigh. Cleaning never felt so good. 

Over the loud music, he heard his phone suddenly ring, the sounds almost meshed with one another—Arthur was surprised he even caught it. He dashed over, turning the music all the way down before grabbing the handle and placing the receiver to his ear.

“Hello?” He answered.

“Arthur…” The voice spoke. The man’s face lit up immediately.

“Mum! H-Hi, how are you?”

“I’m fine, my love. I wanted to make sure everything was okay in London.”

“Everything’s been fine, you don’t need to worry about me.”

She laughed softly. “I know, you know how your father and I can be sometimes.”

Hearing her voice made him smile. “Yeah, I know. Why are you calling? Everything’s okay, right?”

“Don’t worry, love. Everything’s okay up here, but Seamus called and he has a big announcement.”

“What is it?” He felt like he was on the edge of his seat, like a Peeping Tom.

“He wanted to let us know he was planning on proposing to his girlfriend—”

“He’s going to be engaged soon?!” Arthur interrupted. He shouldn’t feel that surprised, he hadn’t spoken to his older brother in a while. Who knows what was going on in that man’s life.

She laughed again. “—Yes, my love. He wants us to be there for him when he asks her. We’re planning a big party for them.”

He was almost unsure of what to say. “Holy shit, wow—sorry—I mean, blimey, wow. I-I’ll make sure to be there. I was planning on coming up to visit anyway. Peter should be graduating next year, right?”

“Goodness, yes. I can’t believe all my boys are growing up.” He could hear her smile through the miles of telephone lines that connected them; it brought a smile to his face as well. “Well, please mark your calendar for next month. Don’t hesitate to bring a friend.”

“I’ll consider it, Mum.”

“We’ll talk later, Arthur. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Tell Dad and Peter hello for me as well.”

“Of course, my love.”
He placed the phone back on the hooks and leaned against the wall in silence. He thought about how fast life was going, how it was treating others, and how significant it felt. His brother was, hopefully, soon to be married; he was the first of all his siblings. Who would follow after? Would children be in the picture next? Oh God, does that mean he’ll be known as “Uncle Arthur” from now on? An even worse realization, they won’t be seen as children anymore. They were actual adults now. Soon, everyone will see him and his brother's children as the babies of the family.

Adulthood felt like a cult and it seemed like there was no escaping.

Arthur hated thinking about something like this for too long. He stood up and turned his sound system off. It was time for a shower before he could head out and meet Axis.

Dressed in a fitting black shirt, tight, ripped jeans, and his standby Doc Martens, he left his apartment with his camera back strapped to his body. Out of habit, he pulled a cigarette out from the container in his pocket, placed it to his lips, lit the end, and inhaled slowly. While the putrid chemicals entered his body, he embraced them as he continued inhaling during his walk.

“My dad smoked Camels growing up, I grew pretty used to the flavor and smell.” Alfred’s voice echoed in his mind once more. It was starting to get on his nerves. 

“That damn American,” He gritted his teeth and let out a scoff. He hated that man’s guts, or at least, that’s what he told himself. That’s what he wanted to believe. He wanted Alfred to leave him alone, get fired from The Times, and get sent back to America. He dreamed of the day he would escort him to the airport, hands clasped together, teary eyes, goodbye kisses, and whipsering sweet nothings of how they would see each other once more.

Arthur stopped in his tracks.

Hang on. Teary eyes? Goodbye kisses? Hands clasped together?

He shook his head in disbelief. What the hell does that all mean to him? What’s that got to do with Alfred F. Jones? The most annoying, handsome journalist from Oklahoma, America?

Fuck, Arthur thought. FUCK. It was as though he was screaming into the void, no one else around but himself in the black abyss of his consciousness. He was a 24-year-old man. Why was he feeling like this?

“Move out the way, you wanker,” A voice echoed and it snapped him back into reality. An older man passed him on the street and sneered at him. It almost took him back, was his presence that bothersome? But he soon realized that he stood in the middle of the sidewalk, cigarette burning against his lips, blocking a clear passway for the people behind him to get by. He inhaled once more, the ash falling off the bud and onto his jeans, it made him hiss at the pinching feeling that seeped through the fabric, and onto his skin. As he exhaled, he was reminded of where he was and where he was going. 

He tossed his cigarette onto the ground, smushed it into the concrete, and continued on his way. He didn’t have time for any more doom-impairing thoughts, he only wanted to think about music and photography.  

The rest of his walk was uneventful. People brushed past him like they did every time he was out on the street, he observed them, and they observed him. It was like a perfect exchange. 

The park was finally in his view, he almost picked up the pace as he strode down the street. The idea of seeing his friends brought him comfort and reassurance. Axis and he had grown to appreciate one another. They worked well as a team. Their group was almost like an ecosystem, everyone contributed an equal amount for the bigger picture (quite literally). 

Arthur spotted everyone near a shaded area by some trees and benches; they waved him over enthusiastically. 

“Hey, friend,” Gilbert greeted with the typical smirk on his face. “Excited for what we have planned today?”

“You know it.” Arthur pulled his camera out and began fidgeting with the settings, looking at the scenery to calculate what his camera needed to be at. Luckily, the weather was overcast, which was perfect lighting for shooting. “What idea did you guys have in mind for today?”

“We just want to have some fun in the park!” Feliks said with a cheeky look plastered on his face. “It was my idea, really. I thought it would be kind of tough if we did a punk photoshoot in the park.” The man was dressed in a loose, white shirt, Arthur couldn’t make out the text, with a lazily fitted black tie and red blazer. Chains and cross necklaces hung from his neck, aiding in making his gate more edgy, that is, if he cut his hair. Not like Feliks looked bad with his mid-length bob, it just constantly made him look foolish. However, Arthur was 99.9% sure he was going for that. He wore flared, black jeans and high-top, black Converse.

It seemed as though the two men had a similar style. 

When he compared each of their looks, he realized they were cohesive. It most likely was done unintentionally, but it worked really well, and if you were in a band, you might as well look like you have a personal stylist. (That might have been Elizabetha’s job, actually.)

“Feliks had a point, so none of us disagreed with him,” Roderich pointed out.

“Just put us where you want and we’ll do our best,” Toris added with a shy smile. 

Arthur shot the whole roll that afternoon. He and Axis felt pretty confident that they got the shots they needed to promote themselves. Gilbert wanted their faces plastered on every telephone pole, shop window, and wall that the people in London could see. Axis would go places. He was sure of it. Roderich was sure of it, too. Anything to bring the world together.

☆☆☆

That night, Elizabetha worked the closing shift, meaning she would get home later than desired. She asked the cooks to prepare two take-home platters for her. The food they made wasn’t her favorite, it was classic, flavorless, and greasy—she didn’t understand how English people enjoyed this. However, it spared her from cooking for two men back home.

She said her goodbyes to the staff, commenting on how she would see them tomorrow for another shift, and slipped out the back into the alleyway. Breathing in the rotting smell of the trash and other things she would prefer not to know of, she sneaked her way out towards the sidewalk. The moon was barely peaking out from the taller buildings, but it aided in providing light for her along with the streetlamps. The moon’s presence brought her comfort. 

The walk home was always uneventful. Elizabetha typically hated walking along at night, always anxious about what would happen, but she knew how to defend herself. She was stronger than she looked and nothing was going to get between her and enjoying an okay dinner with Roderich. Thinking about coming home to him made her feel like an innocent schoolgirl. He was so handsome and kind and, most importantly, hers .

Sometimes, she really wonders how almost five years together passed her by.

The woman trekked up the stairs of their building. Some days, walking up them felt like an eternity, others felt quick. It depended on the day you were having. She slowly unlocked the door and sighed as she entered their home.

“Rod, I’m home,” She said, closing the door with her back and not hesitating to kick off her shoes. Looking up, the first thing she sees is him perched on the couch, book in hand. They smile towards one another.

“Hey,” He greets, quickly standing up and strolling her way. “Long day?” He notices the plastic bag in her hand and automatically smells the grease exuding from it.

She nods. “Yeah. I don’t like the closing shift.” The two stare at each other sympathetically before Roderich envelopes her with a strong hug. He felt as though they fit like a puzzle piece. She let out a quiet noise, letting him know she felt comfortable, which brought a smile to his face.

“Ew,” A voice behind them said. It was Gilbert. He wasn’t bitter about their relationship, he just enjoyed being a little mean from time to time—most likely to hide from the fact that he wasn’t sure if he craved what they had.

“Shut up, Gilbert,” Elizabetha commented as she pulled away from Roderich and sent him an almost menacing glare. In the past, it made the German cower in fear, however, since they’ve lived together since graduating from university, he learned not to be so afraid of her. For now, anyway.

“I was only able to bring home dinner for Rod and me. I’m afraid you’re on your own tonight, sorry,” She tells him as she heads into the kitchen, prepared to get two plates out.

“I fed myself earlier,” He replies with a shrug. “Don’t worry about me, ‘Liza. I can take care of myself.”

“I know, Gil.” She turned to look at him and offered a soft look, it was sympathetic. Despite the fights, the bickering, and the tension, the three loved each other. Gilbert admitted on multiple occasions, whether he liked to or not, that he needed Rod and Eliza. God knows he wouldn’t be with Ludwig for a long and unfortunate while. It felt like torture being away from his loved ones.

Why did this world have to be so cruel?

The man cleared his throat, feeling embarrassed by the look of sympathy Eliza gave him, and turned toward his door. “I’m heading inside for the night, don’t cause too much trouble out here.”

“We won’t,” Roderich replied, watching his cousin retreat into his room. “Don’t stay up too late in there.” He heard the German let out a chuckle and a muttered reply that he couldn’t make out. The two were left alone in the kitchen. Elizabetha put all their food onto plates, organizing it as nicely as she could before placing it on the table.

“I hope it’s good,” She commented as she handed him utensils and condiments. She sat across from him and let out a sigh, feeling overwhelmingly exhausted. Yet she persevered. “I’m getting tired of British food.

“Darling, I don’t think England has ever been known for their brilliant cuisine.” Laughed the Austrian. He extended his hand out to her and gently caressed her knuckles; it made her feel warm and protected. Not like she needed protection, but she appreciated his towering shelter.

They ate quietly, disrupting the silence every once in a while to ask about each other's days; they had nothing interesting to report on, other than Rod mentioning he was excited to see Arthur’s new photos from their previous shoot. They were all excited to see where Axis was heading and they hoped it was going to bring a change somehow. The group was unsure how that would happen, but there was something inside of them that was telling them it would.

When they finished their meals, Roderich took both of their plates, scraped whatever they didn’t finish into a container for Gilbert, placed it in the fridge, and put the plates in the sink. It was too late to deal with the dishes, he could tell Eliza wanted to go to bed, and he wouldn’t mind being by her side as he finished up his book. They retreated, Rod went to their room to change for bed, and Eliza went off to the bathroom to freshen up and do her nightly routine. Their room was the biggest bedroom in the apartment, it was cozy, decorated with things that reminded them of the places they grew up and miscellaneous things that brought happiness to their lives. Picture frames, posters, crucifixes, decorative plates, paintings, pages ripped out from books, and music scores dotted their walls; it was cluttered, but they didn’t mind it, in fact, they welcomed it.

He undressed and changed into something more comfortable, pajama pants and a black tank top. Though he figured once it got to the middle of the summer, he wouldn’t dress as warmly. Who needs to stay warm over the summer when you can just leave the window open? Or at least that’s what his family did growing up in Vienna. 

How he misses them. The Austrian countryside, the weather, the food, the people, the music—everything. Maybe he’ll bring Elizabetha soon. She had to meet his family one way or another. Traveling, for a bunch of twenty-somethings, was expensive. Might as well save up for a special trip.

The sound of the door creaking open disrupted his train of thought. He turned and found Eliza entering their room, shutting the door behind her, and immediately falling on the bed.

He chuckled softly. “Are you that tired?”

“Yes,” She replied, her voice muffled in the pillows. But remembering that she was still in her work clothes, the woman groaned and sat back up. Roderich sat down on the mattress, covering himself in the sheet, quietly watching her change. It was a sight he envisioned that would never bore him. He could happily trace every divet along her body, counting the freckles or scars that survived from her childhood until he fell asleep. He had never met someone so beautiful and perfect as Elizabetha.

When she turned to him, about to change into the shirt she always slept in, she blinked, almost wanting to feel shy because she was changing clothes. Instead, she laughed and pulled the shirt over her head. She crawled into bed and hid herself under the sheet, slowly making her way to Roderich’s side of the bed and resting her head on his shoulder.

“Comfortable now?” He asked, opening his arm up and wrapping it around her.

She nodded and let out a sound that reassured him. Slowly, she closed her eyes, resting her hand on his chest. “You can keep reading, I’m on the brink of sleep.”

“I won’t stay up too late then,” He kissed her head and opened his book to where he left off. 

He read until his eyes got heavy and Eliza slid out of his arms, her body sprawled out onto her side of the bed, and she let out quiet snores. A sight that made him smile. He used the restroom once last time, brushing his teeth and emptying his bladder before crawling back into bed with her.

“Good night,” He whispered before turning the lights off.

They felt as though they were sleeping on a grouping of clouds that night, they must've been the luckiest people alive.