Summary: Dr. Kirkland, after a long string of events, finds himself shuttled into the dusty old town of Sandy Flats, adjusting to the hilarious characters, dark villains, and charming heroes of a classic but eccentric Western town.
Pairings: USUK, possible FRCAN, SPROM, GERITA, and GREJAP. Moments containing FRUK.
Warnings: Yaoi/Boys-Love, heavy language and possible suggestive situations. Minor violence.
Chapter One: The Art of being Overwhelmed
If there was one fact that Arthur Kirkland would bet his life on, it would be that he had never travelled somewhere as incredibly dry and barren as Sandy Flats, with its cracking paint and dusty barrels and horse-posts out front of every building. The carriage cabby tilted his hat at the doctor, nodding curtly before snapping the reigns and trotting off back in the general direction of the train station, leaving Arthur quite alone in front of an empty-looking street. What the Brit could have sworn was a tumbleweed floated by in the distance and he felt the warm sun making him incredibly uncomfortable in his several layers of clothing. He stepped towards the intimidating buildings, noting the shadows toppling over their porches, rocking chairs swaying, empty.
Finally seeing, after several buildings that looked either abandoned or unwelcoming, a sign hanging off of one of the porches with peeling gold paint that read 'Sheriff', Arthur let out a sigh of relief. He could find his room and board, his medical supplies, his patients, his quarters and see if anyone had the decency to leave a kettle for tea, even in this sweltering weather. The second step onto the porch creaked noticeably, and, almost immediately, someone called out from inside the darkness of the open room. An earthen, hearty smell of ripe tomatoes hit Arthur like a wall, adding to the suppressive heat as he stepped into the sheriff's office, head going a little dizzy.
"I told you, Alfred, I have – oh… Who are you?" A chestnut haired man asked, blinking his dazzlingly brilliant green eyes that matched Arthur's in what he had believed was an unmatched emerald hue. The sheriff's hair was half-covered by a large hat, one of the flaps hanging lazily to the side, the entire accessory lopsided and looking a tad goofy. The man looked pleasant but absent.
"Dr. Arthur Kirkland, pleasure to meet you, but I'm afraid the agency did not tell me your name, Mr…?" Arthur trailed off, gesturing politely and bowing curtly to the other, who simply fell gracefully into his chair, propped his boots up onto his desk, scattering several papers, and pulled a tomato out of a bag to take a bite out of it.
"Antonio Fernandez Carriedo," he said simply, rolling his 'r's with a thick Spanish accent, smiling childishly. Arthur blinked and they stared at one another in silence for a moment, the Spaniard looking grateful to be eating a tomato and the Englishman watching him do so impatiently but in slight awe.
"Uhm, Mr. Carriedo, I believe that I am to be introduced to my rooms…?" he prompted, feeling the back of his neck begin to grow damp from the heat. He would take off his jacket were it not for the fear of large dark spots under his arms.
The Sheriff looked as if he had had a brilliant epiphany and reached for something in a drawer of his desk before the second step creaked loudly, making the Englishman wince before what sounded like a rowdy pub crowd crashed into the room, tumbling and shouting and making a hell of a commotion. He (it turned to be, surprisingly enough, one person) had bold blonde hair that looked terribly messy, with a particularly deviant strand sticking up from his part, wide blue eyes sparkling despite the dusty atmosphere, and a smile that looked like it could send a telegram from this barren town to Beijing via the north pole. From his gaudy hat with a leather strap around it to the gleaming spurs on his boots, the man was poised with an aggressively optimistic demeanour, attractive features, and toned muscles. Naturally, he had what could only be a tied-up bandit tossed casually over his shoulder, playing idly with the ropes binding the criminal.
"Oi! Antonio, bud, caught me another of 'em varmints! This un's Smarmy Sam, I believe. Tha's what, a good 200 dolla's for the dirty dog, righ'?" he asked, voice loud and smooth, unbroken by his rich accent. Arthur stood, nearly shoved out of the way by the man's mere presence, gawking at him as he tossed the unconscious villain to the side, breaking out into another spectacular grin as the Sheriff handed him the cash. "Yee haw! I'll be able t' buy me-self a bran' new rifle with my savin's now!" he hollered loudly, tipping his hat and turning to leave. Carriedo looked unmoved and stood up, trying to haul the particularly large criminal, Smarmy Sam, into the back room. Perhaps there were jail cells back there.
Arthur cleared his throat, becoming rather impatient with this small-town Western tomfoolery. "Mr. Carriedo, my board, if you please," he hissed, polite smile curling into a displeased scowl. The Spaniard nodded pleasantly, pulling a key off the shelf and tossing it haphazardly toward the doctor.
"Third house on the right, just past the General Store. Downstairs are your offices. No patients yet!" he said with a sincere smile before leaning over and grabbing another tomato out of the sack.
"Bloody Spanish bastard and that damned cowboy, nearly stomped on my foot!" Arthur huffed as he trudged through the empty street, counting the houses until he reached his new post. Quite suddenly, he heard a frantic shout.
"R-Romano! D-Don't d-do that!" a terrified voice hollered, squealing like a little girl from inside the General Store. With no one around to investigate, the Brit took it in to his own power, hurdling over the steps into the dark building and immediately looking around, running a hand through his impossibly messy hair. Two mahogany-haired boys, one looking nearly at tears, the other frowning deeply, stood by a stack of cans, the frowning one turning to see Arthur.
"WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT, YOU BASTARD?" he roared, turning almost purple and picking up a can. Arthur gaped at him, freezing in the spot as the metal cylinder flew towards him.
"Romano! Feliciano! What are you doing?" a curt, sharp voice barked, snapping the Englishman into reality just quick enough to dodge the flying can. He turned towards the doorway to the back room, which was now full of the overwhelming silhouette of a muscular blonde man, his hair slicked back with an intimidating amount of hair gel. The two Italians (he could safely assume that they were such based on his fundamental linguistic knowledge and the way that the darker haired one was raging, the other muttering 'pasta' under his breath) turned to face the man, saluting him sharply, not without loud complaints from the rude brother. "Well, get back to work. No more horsing around!" the man ordered before turning his attention to Arthur, who preferred his situation without it. "Who are you?" he asked, eyes narrowing, sounding entirely less approachable than the scatterbrained sheriff.
"Ah – err… D-doctor A-arthur Kirkl-land…" he stammered, taking a step back as the burly man took one closer, raising a blonde eyebrow in suspicion.
"And what are you doing here?" he pressed.
Arthur could only gesture wildly at the building next door, ready to break down and cry from all of these bloody insane people in the town. Home had never been so wild and deranged! Perhaps it was the heat; it might have driven these people a little crazy after a long while.
"You're from next door? Well get back over there, you lazy shmuck!" the other hollered, face turning a little red from the stress on his vocal chords. Arthur wasn't sure if 'shmuck' was a word, but decided not to press the matter, turning and having his feet nearly slide out from under him in his attempt to leave the loony General Store as quickly as possible, praying that he wouldn't have any more encounters before he reached his rooms next door.
Five beds, all made with crisp linen sheets, lined the downstairs to the left along with a small hallway that led to a private examination room and a very large store cupboard. Arthur smiled softly, letting the door shut with a click as he looked around, walking up the staircase to the direct centre of his vision, only a metre away from the front door. The staircase was squat and narrow, the ceiling much too low. There were no railings, and Arthur struggled to drag his baggage up, but eventually managed to reach another miniscule hallway with three doors. One led to a square kitchen with a round table with two chairs, a tea kettle on the stove and a cupboard hanging awkwardly over a sink embedded in a counter, directly next to an oven and stove range. A window on the adjacent wall looked out over the barren Western landscape.
The next door revealed a tiny bathroom with uneven, lopsided, crammed tiles, a mirror with what looked suspiciously like black paint smeared over a corner, and another small set of cupboards. The next room was a bedroom, with a rickety metal one-man bed, a shelf, and a gramophone, a few records strewn over the shelf. Another window looked out at the canyon far off.
Arthur swung his arm around, throwing his baggage onto the bed and flinching at the unattractive squeal it gave before sitting down in the lone chair by the gramophone. What a curious introduction to a ridiculous little town.
… Yes. It is me. Don't expect this to be finished, because I have a bad track record (take a gander at my stories; only the one shots are finished). It's been 4 months, one bad relationship, two messy break ups, and a lot of stress later. Please, guys, support me and maybe I can follow through with this one.
Thank you all very much, in advance.