You could say I had an obsession with English things scones, tea, people from England (complete with accents), and speaking in a British accent myself, knowing full well that England and Britain were almost the same place.
There was this one guy who I guess you could say I had the "hots" for. He tended to cuss like a sailor being from Britain, it must be a requirement to use every offensive saying in one breath. He also wore interesting outfits, most of them being between punk-rocker and Goth. He had a nose ring, snake bites, three studs in each ear, and eyebrow piercings, one for each brow. (I'd learn later he also had a tongue piercing, but we'll get to that
) He had jaggedly cut blonde hair that hung over his eyes and his thick eyebrows. His nails were painted black and he wore a black studded choker that sparkled in the light if it caught it just right. (I'm being too descriptive, aren't I? Let's get on with the story, then.)
I'd met this guy at a concert. That night, one of my favorite bands was playing: The Ugly Beavers. They did some screamo, punk-rock, and covered some Beatles' songs, my favorite being Eleanor Rigby.
I'd been screaming out the lyrics to the songs, knowing them all by heart, when I'd noticed the man I'd described was watching me far off backstage with his arms crossed across his chest. He was slightly swaying to the music, his right foot tapping on beat. He was gorgeous, of course, with his slim body that was toned and well defined the muscles in his arms were definite and the green undershirt he was wore was just tight enough to make a light sketch of his abs and stomach. His tattoo across his left bicep flexed as he noticed I saw him, watching me. His green eyes (I think they were green
) bore into my (e/c) ones. I had been the first to break out of the spell, shaking my head, going back to swaying with the crowd as another Beatles' hit was flung to the walls.
The concert had started at nine and lasted until three o'clock the next morning.
As I'd scrambled to get to bed, nearly 3:30 according to the red glow of my clock, I'd thought about the gorgeous, green-eyed man I'd seen, thinking I'd seen him somewhere before.
It had taken me the entire night to place the face of the blonde man who constantly swam through my thoughts, eager to be in my dreams he was the former bass guitarist of The Ugly Beavers. He supposedly "retired out of boredom due to lack of excitement," though no one believed that. I don't know how he "retired out of boredom" when he was on the front page of most national newspapers: Arthur Kirkland Throws Party, Guest Dies of Overdose; Ugly Beavers Do it Again: Hit Single for 23rd Week; and Inside Story on Arthur Kirkland: How to Go Goth in a Day.
I wonder what he was doing at the concert
Maybe he was giving Jim some pointers on the guitar, I'd thought. (It wasn't uncommon for former guitarists and singers to coach their replacements. At least in my mind it wasn't.)
After a sleepless night, I'd risen out of bed, groggily unaware that it was half-past noon. I'd walked to my kitchen, still in my night clothes, and poured myself a bowl of cereal.
When I'd reached into the Frigidaire for the milk, I suddenly had the feeling I was being watched.
A quick look around the kitchen confirmed my suspicion. There were curtains over the window above the sink. Between the crack of curtains and the window, a pair of ruby eyes had been watching me with my tangled (h/c) hair in my underclothes.
To "welcome" my guest, I'd pulled the curtains so no crack showed and yelled for them to go away: "Gilbert, what the hell? Go away!"
"I just came to say 'Guten tag,' _______."
Sure you did, creep.
Gilbert had moved from his previous position because there was a knock at the door.
"Nope. You're not getting in here after last time with Toni and Blondie."
"Come on, ______! Let ze awesome person in!"
"No, Gilbert! Piss off! Go bother someone else!" I'd yelled through the door, hoping I could knock some sense into his skull.
(Maybe I should explain a little
Last time Gil, Toni, and Francis were at my apartment, let's just say I couldn't get the smell of booze out of my house. I remember I had to place air-fresheners in every corner of my apartment and air it out for a week. Every once in a while, I swear I can still smell the sweat and alcohol when I'm doing chores around the house.
Gilbert had been quiet behind the door for more than two minutes, which was a first, when he finally broke the beautiful silence. "Vat if I brought you somevere, somevere you could meet Arzhur Kirkland und talk to him in person?"
That's what the silence was for; he was thinking of a bribe
But it's to meet Arthur Kirkland, not look at him from afar! Oh, what the hell? What's the worst that could happen? I'd thought nothing surprising or bad would come out of this meeting of one of my "heroes", but I couldn't have been more wrong.
To make myself not look so eager, I'd thought of Gil's previous visit to my house before I'd opened the door. "So?" I'd said as the door squeaked open.
"'So?' I zought he vas a hero of yours." Gilbert had raised a brow and crossed his arms.
" I'd leaned against the door frame, hoping to give my German neighbor the "even-if-hell-freezes-over-there's-still-no-way-your-coming-in-here" signal. "As of recent, I have a new hero. But I'm willing to meet him and talk," I'd agreed with a swish of my (h/c) hair.
"I knew you couldn't resist ze offer. Pick you up tomorrow at fünf? Und that's evening, sveetheart." The German had smirked as I had closed the door.
Well, this is going to be interesting, I'd thought.
Gilbert did what he'd promised and brought me to meet Arthur Kirkland, although he had a different appeal to me now that he was England, the country, in the flesh. It had taken a few slaps, given on my behalf, and some name-calling, but I'd finally felt satisfied and believed everything Gilbert told me.
We had still been in the car when the state of Brandenburg-Prussia sat back in his leather seat and crossed his arms.
"So, you're East Germany, Toni's Spain, and Blondie is France? Oh, and Arthur's England, who has three siblings: America, Canada, and France. Also, you have a brother, Ludwig, who's the personification of Germany
Did I miss anything?" I'd looked at Gil with my hand out.
"Nein. Sounds like you got everyzing. Let's have you meet your hero und ve'll see vat happens next, ja?"
(It was a little confusing for me at first, but I understood that I'd had a crush on the country of England since I'd turned fifteen over eight years ago. No wonder I recognized him at the Ugly Beavers concert.)
When the door had opened, I'd been introduced to a new environment that I can't quite say I enjoyed: a blonde with a scarf was asking a feminine-looking man if he wanted to "become One", Toni and a shorter brown-haired man were arguing over some country named Italy, and an annoyed looking Arthur was being harassed by Francis.
Another blonde, this one taller and blue-eyed, had slammed his hand on the table that everyone seemed to be sitting around. He'd yelled, "East, vat a pleasure it is for you to join us! Bitte, sit down, you dummkopf, or I vill start ze training again!"
Prussia, my "companion" for the time being, had rushed to a seat, as had the rest of the others that had been standing.
Of course, I stood there like an idiot. "Oh," I'd softly said, glancing around for an open seat.
"Zere is an empty chair by moi, ______," France had said, his brows slightly displaced as if to invite me over.
"Uh, no. I think I'll stand." I'd smirked as I'd walked over to the wall nearest the door Gil and I had come in.
My whole objective is to talk to Arthur! This isn't supposed to have anything to do with Francis or Toni.
As if reading my thoughts, Arthur had caught my eye while I'd been staring out the window of the three-story conference center. His thick eyebrows, piercings included, had risen in question.
I'd rolled my eyes and tuned out the blonde German, huffing as I'd rolled my eyes. (I could tell he was German because of his accent. That and he came to Gilbert's apartment every once in a while, so I assumed he was "West", Gilbert's brother.)
I'd stood for the first few hours, but my legs couldn't take it anymore. I'd sat in a chair one that I'd pulled from near Francis after the meeting had adjourned for a small restroom break. I'd sat in that chair 'til we were dismissed: the countries had claimed that sleep was more important than discussing tariffs.
So, as I'd made the tiring trek to the car, Arthur had stopped me on my way down the stairs:
I'd slowly turned around, "Arthur?"
"II wanted to bloody say something before you left. I"
I'd shushed him by putting my finger to his lips. "I need to say something first. I've sorta had a crush on you since, oh, maybe eight years ago?" I'd looked up to the ceiling like I was trying to calculate the amount of time. "I'd wanted to speak to you before this," I'd talked faster as I continued, "but this was the only time I've had to courage to"
This time, Arthur had shut me up with a rather gentle kiss. It had been surprising, given his exterior.
When we'd pulled apart, I'd realized I didn't have to explain myself.
That realization was furthered when Arthur had said, "I know, love," before he'd kissed me again.
That's how Arthur and I officially met. We've been dating for over three years now and I know he still remembers that day.