AN: This is my first writing in a very long time. It's been a while since I've actually been inspired enough to finish something, let alone post it. I liked the idea so much though, and it kept gnawing at me and gnawing at me until I just had to write it up :) The first chapter is mostly Arthur-centric, but I hope you enjoy anyways.
Pairings and characters: eventual USUK, possibly France/Seychelles (I might put some Franada, depending on how it develops), probably vague mentions of Spamano...Otherwise, lots of characters will be making appearances in the future (such as Japan, Russia, China, Lithuania, etc)
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, or any other products mentioned hereafter. All belong to their respective owners.
Well, here goes!
Arthur fidgeted in his airplane seat, obviously uncomfortable from sitting for too long. The cabin was too small, too stale, and he had been there for far too long, with too many unfamiliar faces surrounding him. It occurred to him on this flight just how rude people seemed to be, disregarding him, pushing him and mumbling a weak and forced apology whenever they shoved into him.
He was, needless to say, eager to get off of the plane the instant it arrived. So eager, in fact, that he stood up much too swiftly and forgot about the baggage storage above him. He hissed and grabbed his head, muttering a stream of curses to himself before taking a step forward, into the aisle, and straightening himself. Hastily he grabbed his messenger bag and put it over his shoulder, and then had to wait several minutes before he could actually exit. The lines of people slowly shuffled out of the plane as the captain's voice boomed over the speaker, thanking the passengers for flying with air whatever it was (Arthur couldn't be buggered to remember the name of the company his father chose for him to fly with).
Houston airport was huge, and Arthur stopped only for a moment to stare at the scenery. He had to leave soon in order to make sure he met with his chauffer on time. If he didn't he would be stuck at the airport, and when one had a college orientation (more or less just a short introduction to freshmen to give them a week on campus to prepare and get situated) to go to the next day, that could be bad. With a shake of the head, he looked around for some sort of sign to tell him where to go and, when he found one, navigated his way down to the luggage pick-up station. His eyes scanned over the names of the different flights until he eventually found the right conveyor belt.
Ten minutes passed, and Arthur was growing impatient. He folded his arms and tapped his foot, seeing the same piece of generic brown luggage pass him for the fifth time. It was getting a bit worrisome, especially since the source of the suitcases had slowed down in its task of spewing out luggage. A moment before Arthur was about to storm off to the help desk that was available, there was a massive outpour of more cases.
Damn him for choosing such a generic suitcase. He tore through the pile, picking up a wrong suitcase or two before finally finding his genuine leather one with the correct tag that had his initials elegantly hand stitched into it. His father wanted to have it professionally done, but Arthur had insisted upon stitching the pattern on himself, since there was no need to waste money on such things. Not that his father was one to care about wasting money. England mouth twitched into a ghost of a smile at that and he tugged the suitcase behind him by its wheels.
Now he had to take on the daunting task of finding his chauffer in the massive sea of people that were crowding around the doors, consisting of families hugging, businessmen hailing taxi drivers (who also pooled in the area to make a quick buck), and a few personal drivers.
It took several minutes, but he was finally able to locate his driver, who held up a sign reading "Arthur Kirkland"
"Bonjour, young master." The chauffer, whose name was Francis (if the golden pin on his suit was any indication) spoke and held out his hand, "I am Francis Bonnefoy. I have heard much about you from your father. I will be your personal chauffer and I will be taking care of your father's house, maintenance-wise. I must imagine he has mentioned me, non?"
Arthur frowned, but offered the man his hand to be polite. His father had indeed mentioned something about a caretaker (not for Arthur, of course, he was more than old enough and responsible enough to take care of himself—but for the house. His father didn't want his eldest son to have to do any housework or things that could distract him from his schooling) but, bloody hell, what had possessed his father to hire a French man?
Especially since said man was now kissing his hand (and…was that a wink?), instead of shaking it like any normal person would do.
Oh, that was it. Arthur decided right then and there that there were going to be problems if this man were constantly in his house, especially if he didn't set some guidelines. Arthur promptly pulled back his hand and slapped the man's face.
"Listen you frog, I don't know who you think you are, but you will not get away with acting like this. As of right now, I am your superior and you will not do anything I do not approve of. Do I make myself clear?" Okay, that came out a bit haughty and pretentious, but Arthur could hardly bring himself to care.
"Oh, monsieur! Your words, they wound me!" The man placed a hand dramatically over his heart, but seemed no worse for the wear, "Oui, Master Kirkland, je comprends. No touching. But, honnêtement, you are too young to be so prickly. You remind me of your father. Perhaps too much." The blonde Frenchman gave Arthur a light, teasing smile that just made his blood boil.
"I don't believe it is your place to judge my personality." Arthur hissed out, as calmly as he could manage while his fists were clenching and unclenching mindlessly.
Francis waved his hand airily, as if trying to wave away Arthur's anger, "Oui, oui. In any case, Monsieur Kirkalnd, I do believe the car is waiting. Come now, let's go. We'll continue our lovely chat."
With a huff, Arthur followed Francis to the car (A beautiful black Rolls Royce—polished to perfection) that was waiting in the parking lot for the duo. He pushed his luggage in the boot (after a bit of a tiff with Francis, who insisted upon doing it for him—but he damn well wasn't going to let the bastard manhandle his possessions.) and sat in the back seat, carefully shutting the door as not to slam it. The seats were a rich tan color (real leather, of course) and the interior was silver with dark, cherry-wood trimmings. Arthur vaguely remembered the car from his last visit to America—when he was about 5 or 6 years old.
Francis climbed into the front seat and revved the engine. Arthur almost thought he was going to be treated to some peace and quiet, but as soon as they left the parking lot and got on the highway, Francis spoke up and shattered that hope to tiny bits and pieces.
"So, Mon Cheri, how was your flight? Long and boring, I'd presume."
Arthur sighed, "No, no, it was alright. I got a fair amount of reading done, so it wasn't a complete loss." He answered curtly, figuring it was no use trying to ignore the Frenchman (also, that was very rude, and a gentleman never ignored someone's attempt at conversations. He supposed they didn't slap people either, but…)
"Ah, I see. Well, you'll enjoy the mansion then. Quite secluded, it is. It's a bit far from the University though, but I am sure you will make do, non? You don't quite seem like a social butterfly."
That time, Arthur did ignore him.
But he kept talking, not even slightly put off, "But it will be much harder for you to meet some nice lady friends if you're not staying on campus. Oh well, I'm sure they'll follow you home anyways, you are not a bad catch, especially since many women swoon over European accents. You should pluck those monstrous eyebrows, though, monsieur."
The Briton sputtered indignantly and began yelling at Francis, who just smiled and laughed about how his eyebrows looked worse when he was angry.
Eventually, Arthur calmed down and Francis lapsed into a serene silence for a while, focusing on the road now.
"Why Rice University?"
"Pardon?" Arthur spat out, leaning forward a bit.
"Why Rice University and not, say, Cambridge or Oxford? Or even Harvard. Why Rice? Do not get me wrong, it is a lovely school, but I cannot imagine why you'd choose it over the many other choices…"
"Ah." The Englishman leaned back into the seat, looking out the window and contemplating this for a moment.
Ultimately, it was his father's choice where he would be going to school. Arthur had had his say in it—he was actually hoping to go to Dartmouth in quaint New Hampshire. He made his argument well enough, but it wasn't enough. The reasons to go to Rice University were more expansive than those for Dartmouth. Arthur's mother had gone to Rice University on a full scholarship and had graduated as valedictorian, so his family had a good reputation there. Not only that, but his mother donated so much money to the school, he was sure to go for free because of the connection to the higher-ups he had. There was also the fact that his father currently owned a rather expansive vacation mansion that was only a half hour away from the university (and Arthur's father hated dorm rooms. He thought they were filthy, small, and unfitting for his child. Arthur, personally, didn't think he'd mind them so much, but would never actually know, now). He had tried reasoning, but his father would not give in.
So, there Arthur was, on his way to a beautiful school to earn a law degree and he, quite honestly, wanted nothing to do with either of them.
"My father chose it. If you're so curious, ask him," was all Arthur bluntly said before going back to staring out the window. Francis shot him a look of pity through the rearview mirror, understanding Arthur's situation. He knew his father, and he was indeed an intimidating and forceful man.
Franics hummed quietly, though, "Well, whatever the reason, I'm sure you will enjoy the stay. The mansion's in beautiful shape. The porch even looks out over a beautiful ranch that belongs to the neighbors. But, really, if you want to impress the ladies…you should trim those eyebrows of yours. A mansion may not be enough with those things!"
It was then that Arthur remembered that there was an optional window installed between the front and back seat. He promptly pushed the button and watched it roll up, listening with satisfaction as Francis' chuckle disappeared when it shut.
The rest of the car ride would be quiet, whether Francis wanted it to be or not.
A sharp knock on the glass pane jolted Arthur awake. He blinked his eyes a few times, allowing them to adjust to the newfound light. The first thing he saw was Francis turning his head and knocking on the glass that was separating them. Once he saw that Arthur was awake, he turned his head back to the road (they were currently stopped at an intersection and the light had yet to turn green) and signaled back for Arthur to roll down the glass.
He did so begrudgingly, "What is it?" He asked, voice slightly bleary from just waking up. The window slowly went down, but Francis spoke up immediately
"We will be at the mansion in five minutes, Monsieur. I suggest you wake up a bit."
Arthur nodded and shifted to sit in a more upright position. He continued to gaze out the window until he noticed the music coming from the front of the car.
"Bloody hell, are we listening to French music?"
"Oui, desole Monsieur. Is there something else you would prefer?"
Arthur bit back his desire to say that, yes, he would probably prefer anything, but that just wasn't true. The music wasn't half bad, but not quite Arthur's style. He would take it over American pop music any day, as well.
"Once I get settled here I'll make sure to hook up my mp3 player's connector to the car's stereo." He noticed Francis was about to open his mouth, probably to offer to do it himself, but Arthur silenced him, "I can do it myself. I needn't have you messing with my mp3 player. It was fairly expensive."
Francis just shook his head, smiling, and turned into a long, private road. Arthur noticed a tall, iron gate that surrounded the well-tamed lawn of a large house that was off in the distance a ways. After digging around for his suit's inner pocket, Francis pulled out a small switched and flipped it. The doors slowly opened and the car rolled in. The switch was flipped again, and the elaborate iron gate shut itself.
"Now, M Kirkland, we have two switches for those doors. One will be given to you for emergency use, and one will always be with me. Any visitors who wish to come in will have to use the intercom. I will give you the switch and show you how to use the intercom when you get settled in."
Arthur merely hummed in agreement, staring at the large estate that was spread out before him. The building was a large, white, colonial-style estate. There were tall columns that were two stories high and large double doors in the front. The driveway was wide and was in the shape of a circle, an island in the middle that held a beautifully kept garden (with many rosebushes, Arthur noted).
Francis entered the small roundabout, but followed a part of the driveway that led to a three car garage. Even the garage was pristine; the tools all placed perfectly where they belonged and the floor utterly spotless. Arthur had to wonder if it was just for show. He also took note of another vehicle, a perfectly kept MG. It was a beautiful, deep red and had a large bow placed atop the hood. As the engine was cut off, Arthur pushed open the door and immediately went to admire the other car.
"I assume this is the birthday present my father told me would be waiting for me?" Arthur hummed, running his finger along the edge of the car and then peering in at the seats, which had recently been restored.
"Oui. He did tell me, however, that you shouldn't need it too much, and you are supposed to ask me when you want to use it."
"…bloody hell, does he think I'm ten years old or something?" Arthur muttered towards the car, but Francis caught it.
"Non, he is just trying to protect you, I am sure." There was a stretch of silence where Francis could practically feel contempt radiating from Arthur before he spoke once more, "I will not keep you on a tight leash, mon cheri. Do not fret. I trust that you will not do anything destructive. If you do start, however…"
Arthur shook his head, "Trust me, Bonnefoy, I wouldn't do anything destructive if I wanted to. Having to face my father after doing something reckless isn't worth having all of the fun in the world."
"As much as it's not my place, monsieur…I do hope that view of yours changes." Francis said quietly, grabbing the bags from the trunk before Arthur came and swatted him away, insisting to bring it in himself.
Arthur was allowed to choose any bedroom he so wanted, besides the two downstairs, as one was occupied by Francis and the other by a maid he had yet to meet (she was, apparently, still off grocery shopping). Francis' eyes seemed to sparkle when he talked of her and her beauty, and how it radiated
like the sun or some shit like that. He was hardly paying attention and had wandered off while the Frenchman went off on his tangent.
So, Arthur had four rooms to choose from upstairs. Three, really, since he wouldn't dare think of occupying the master bedroom, which was the preferred bedroom of choice for his father.
The first room he entered was very fitting to the house, it was quaint and the walls were a pale pink. There was a queen bed, and the mattress was comfortable enough, and the window overlooked a pond in the back, but on the whole it was far too girly for England's tastes.
The second bedroom was one that immediately piqued his interest. The carpet from the hallway ended in this room and instead became a lovely dark wooden floor. The furnishings were all very Victorian and antique. The bed was, once again, a queen sized bed with a wrap around canopy and a mountain of pillows on it. He smoothed out the comforter and noted that the dark green sheets were satin.
The curtains were green crushed velvet, and were pulled back by a golden tassel. He stared out the window and noted that from here you could see the neighbor's farmland. It was expansive and beautiful, and he noticed there were horses and various farm animals running around. He could vaguely see the outline of someone with a cowboy hat riding a horse and rounding up some cattle.
He also noted that, in a few hours, the view of the sunset would be phenomenal. Clicking his tongue, he drew away from the window and inspected the antique writing desk, the walk-in closet, and the private bathroom that this and the last room were connected to.
He continued through the bathroom into the last room, and noted that this was the room he and his brother had stayed in as children. It had two twin-sized beds on opposite sides of the room and was decorated with a plethora of fairytale characters. The side that had more fairies and elves and unicorns had been his, while the side that focused more on dragons had been his brother's. He smiled fondly at the now-empty toy chest and the various decorations on the shelf. There was a round white object on his old nightstand and Arthur blinked at the object before recognition washed over him. A bit too eagerly, he flipped the light switch and drew the blinds closed. He went to the object and searched for the on switch.
The white thing had been his nightlight as a kid. When you turned it on, it created a small rainbow and Arthur remembered thinking it was just about the coolest thing ever as a child. It wasn't quite as neat as an adult. But he still smiled at it nonetheless, turned it off and tossed it around in his hands a few times before deciding to take it with him back into the green bedroom.
He placed it on his current nightstand and went back to his suitcases, which were still perched at the doorway into the room. He dragged it over to the large bed and plopped it down, watching it deflate the once-puffy down comforter. He unzipped it swiftly and took out the neatly folded clothes by different categories: undergarments, sleepwear, casual pants and shirts, suits/various nice clothes that should be hung up, and shoes.
He organized the first three accordingly in the slim, sturdy dresser and brought the rest to his walk in closet. When he finished putting all of his clothing away, he made his way to another smaller suitcase and pulled out a few ties, a bow tie, and all of his toiletries. Next up were his books ( a rather large collection was downstairs in the house's library, so he had only brought a few of his personal favorites) and his school supplies, which he organized on the desk.
Content that his room was in perfect order, he flopped down on the bed, taking in the fresh scent of the newly dry-cleaned comforters and pillows. He suspected the other maid had been frantically cleaning the house since she knew he would be coming today. He was happy to see that at least one of his "caretakers" seemed competent enough.
After twenty minutes of rest, Arthur jolted out of his half-asleep state and sat up. He gazed out of the window, the sun getting noticeably closer to the horizon line. It was a lovely evening, kind of hot, but not terribly humid, which made the heat bearable at least.
He figured, since he had nothing better to do, it would be a good time to sit outside on the porch and relax with a good book and a cup of fresh-brewed iced tea. So, that is exactly what he did. Francis insisted on brewing him the tea (And Arthur would never admit that it was actually a decent drink) and brought it out to the porch swing where Arthur was currently sitting.
After that, Arthur very politely requested via threat that Francis leave him alone, and the man happily obliged, holding up his hands defensively and walking back into the house.
So England settled into the silence of the evening, watching the beautiful sun plunge downward and downward until he couldn't read without straining his eyes. So he set down the book, and watched the beautiful dusk take over, the sound of crickets and the sight of fireflies dancing in the yard.
The world seemed set on interrupting his tranquility today, didn't it?
Arthur sunk lower into his seat, closing his eyes and pretending not to hear the voice. He didn't recognize it, so maybe it wasn't directed at him.
"Hey, down here!"
"Hey, you deaf? Yoohoo!"
And Arthur groaned, rubbing his temples. He opened his eyes and stood up, trying to make out the source of the ruckus. His eyes settled on a figure down by the iron fence that surrounded his yard and separated his land from the neighbor's land. He could make out a ten gallon hat and figured it was the same man he had seen earlier working the fields. So this was a neighbor of his.
"May I help you?" Arthur shot out, squinting at him and walking down the staircase of the porch to get closer to the gate.
"Kind of you to offer, but nah, I don't need nothing. Just wanted to say howdy, since I ain't ever seen you around here before." The still vague figure said, and Arthur could hear the grin in his voice. What really got to Arthur was that…awful accent of his and the atrocious use of grammar.
"Well, you haven't ever seen me around here because I've just moved in." He walked closer, warily inspecting the young man. Arthur could now see he had sandy-blonde hair and (probably, it was still a bit too dark to tell) blue eyes. He was currently wearing a white tank top (there was a leather jacket of some sort he was holding over his shoulder with one hand) with dog-tags around his neck. His tan pants were tucked into black, mud-caked combat boots.
Arthur frowned distastefully as the other man held out a hand through an opening in the gate, "So, howdy. Name's Alfred F. Jones. The F stands for Awesome."
Arthur grabbed his hand and weakly shook it (contrasting the American's strong and firm handshake).
"Awesome begins with an A, git." Arthur stated bluntly.
And the other man laughed heartily, like it was the funniest thing he had ever heard, "I know," he reassured once he stopped his boisterous laughter, "but I can never think of something else to say. Fabulous sounds too fruity and Fantastic sounds too much like somethin' you tell a five year old. Plus, it's a conversation starter."
Arthur pursed his lips and contemplated this. Shortly after, he decided that this Alfred fellow was obviously a complete idiot and he would try to leave as soon as possible.
As he was about to speak out some completely absurd excuse to go, Alfred cut him off, "So, what's your name?"
Arthur sighed lightly and spoke in a clipped manner, "Arthur Kirkland."
"Cool! So what part of England are you from, Artie?" Alfred was smiling again, Arthur could see, and the fact that he was talking to him so casually and with an obvious lack of tension, higher respect, or fear threw the Englishman off.
"Please refrain from calling me Artie, my name is Arthur, thank you very much. If you must know, I hail from Portsmouth. It's in Southern England." Again, the sentences were short and clipped, and he hoped that the American would get his point and let him leave.
But, not only was Alfred annoying, he was completely oblivious as well. And he kept on talking, not noticing how Arthur wanted nothing to do with him.
"Well, that sure is neat. Haven't seen too many British people 'round here before. And no one's been in that big old house besides that French guy and the occasional maid for ages. Nice to see someone's using it. Must be annoying." Alfred was now staring at the house curiously, inspecting it as if he'd never seen it before.
"What, pray tell, is annoying?" Arthur bit out
"Well, livin' in it. I'd imagine it's big and lonely. You the only one besides the maids?"
"I have the two maids, yes, but—the rest is none of your business, if you would please refrain from being nosy." It seemed the only way to get through to the man would be via bluntness, as it had seemed to work earlier.
"Oh, am I being nosy?" he laughed again, "Sorry, people tell me I tend to do that at times. Just tell me when I am in the future, I'll be sure to stop."
Now, that certainly was peculiar. He wasn't offended or put off in the slightest. He seemed happy to receive the criticism and took it with open arms, saying he was working on it. That was certainly something new to Arthur. And he really didn't know what to say to that, so he just stuttered out a simple, "of course."
It was then that Francis called out to him from the porch stairs, "Monsieur Kirkland! There you are. Come inside, it is getting dark and I would like you to meet Veronique, the other maid." At this point, Francis reached Arthur and seemed to notice Alfred across the fence, "Oh, allo Alfred. Pleasure to see you again." His voice sounded too strained to Arthur, and he figured the Frenchman didn't think too highly of the American as well.
"You too," Alfred smiled, nonetheless.
"Well, come back in now Monsieur, I will be waiting. I made dessert, if you are interested."
Arthur waved him off and made no effort to hide his snide comment about French cooking. Before turning on his heel, he saw Alfred smile at him one more time before speaking, "Well, it really was nice to meet you. I'll see y'all later, right?"
Arthur raised his eyebrows (this being one of the few times someone had actually…wanted to see him again) and hesitated before giving a weak, "Indeed" of agreement.
That was enough for Alfred, whose smile broke into a large grin before he turned his back to Arthur and clambered his way on to the back of a horse. He gave a small whoop and a squeeze of the stirrups and the horse flew off, taking them both to what Arthur suspected to be a stable in the distance.
Arthur stood staring after the figures had long since disappeared, only another yell from Francis jolting him out of the stupor.
"Veronique, mon petite fluer, ici Monsieur Kirkland!" Francis introduced in his usual flowery manner as England walked in through the large French doors that led back inside to the large kitchen area.
A petite girl who was currently washing a pan turned her head towards the doors. She smiled lightly and turned off the tap. After, she grabbed a green and white dish towel to dry her hands off. She was wearing a simple light blue dress with a white apron over it. Her skin was caramel-colored, and her eyes a deep brown. The hairstyle she was sporting, two red bows bringing her wavy black hair into pigtails, gave her a more childish appearance. But, still, Francis hadn't been kidding when he said she was beautiful.
Arthur smiled back at the younger girl who curtsied for him and introduced herself, "It is nice to see you, young Master Kirkland. I apologize for being late with the grocery shopping."
"No need. I imagine you must be dreadfully busy." Arthur sent her another smile before she returned to the sink, finishing up the dishes that were left behind. He went to the counter to inspect the dessert Francis had put out. It was a fresh batch of mini chocolate soufflés, which sat in small, porcelain ramekins. Outwardly, Arthur frowned at the food, but inwardly he was delighted by the sight of the chocolate desserts. He grabbed a fork (after a bit of rummaging, refusing to hear any advice Veronique or Francis gave him on the location of silverware) and stabbed at one of the soufflés, finishing it in a matter of minutes.
When asked, he said it was mediocre at best, but Francis knew that he secretly enjoyed it, if the way he wolfed it down was any indication. Arthur fell into a casual conversation between Veronique, himself, and Francis. He even found himself laughing a few times as Veronique would slap Francis or step on his feet as he tried to make various moves on her.
Who knew watching a Frenchman writhe in pain could be so damn funny?
After a while, Arthur found himself eating an apple he had found in the fruit bowl. They had been silent for a bit, Veronique continuing to clean various parts of the kitchen for a lack of anything better to do. Francis perked up though, as he always seemed to do in silences.
"Ah, Arthur," He was beginning to refer to him with more casual names. Arthur would stop that later, it was too late for him to honestly care right now, "I saw that you met Alfred, non?"
Arthur looked up at Francis from his current position on the couch and swallowed the bit of apple he had been chewing on. "So I have. What of it?"
"Oh, nothing. I was just curious about your thoughts on him…" Francis spoke carefully, not wanting to say something bad about Alfred in case, heaven forbid, Arthur actually had befriended him.
"He's a sodding git. I don't think I've ever met someone so daft before, honestly." Arthur sighed, "but he is very friendly, it seems."
"Oui, he just introduced himself to me out of the blue one day. He is…tres bizarre. But, he is very kind. And quite easy on the eyes, oui?"
Arthur rolled his eyes, "Is that all you ever think about, frog? And I couldn't tell you—it was far too dark to see him. And I don't quite swing that way."
At this, Francis laughed, "Je comprends, mon cheri, mais, you do not have to be gay to admit that you think another man looks nice. Girls complement one another all the time. Isn't that right, Veronique?" the girl nodded from the stool she was sitting on, "When you get the chance, see him in the daylight. You will understand. He is quite an idiot at times, but…the good-looking ones tend to be."
"And I suppose you're another perfect example of this," Arthur hummed quietly as Francis made another one of his overdramatic reactions and Veronique simply rolled her eyes, letting out a soft chuckle.
Arthur stood and stretched his arms upwards before bringing down his hand to cover a yawn, "Well, if you'll excuse me, I've got a terrible case of jetlag, it's getting late, and I'm quite exhausted. Good night, you two." With that, he nodded as the two said good night back to him and he made his way up the winding marble staircase to his new bedroom.
One quick trip to the bathroom and a change of clothes later, Arthur was settling himself down into the bed. After a few minutes, however, he groaned, sat up and stared at the stiff decorative pillows behind him. He swiftly tore them off of the bed, allowing them to fall to the floor for now, until he reached the bigger, softer pillows underneath. Soon, two ridiculously fluffy comforters joined the mass of pillows on the floor.
Happy with his handiwork, Arthur flopped back into the bed and clicked the bedside lamp off. The room was pitch black and silent, and Arthur was quite comfortable now. He curled up on his side, half covered in the satin sheets and closed his eyes.
Something still felt off, being in this old, only slightly familiar house. He remembered not being able to sleep well here at first as a child either; he always had that "this is not my own bed" scenario in new places. But when he was younger, he had always had his brother by his side or his mother down the hall. Now he wasn't even near anyone he was familiar with. No family, new maids, and new neighbors.
Arthur frowned, and chided himself for acting like such a child. He was officially going to college in a week, for goodness sake.
Still, Arthur reached out to his nightstand and pushed a button on the smooth, white object next to him. The room lit up with familiar color instantly, and Arthur smiled faintly as he stared at the rainbow on the wall. He brought his head down to the pillow once more, and soon enough found himself dozing off.
For anyone who might possibly be confused, Veronique is Seychelles :) And yes, I am well aware that I've referred to Francis as a "maid" several times in this chapter. No, I don't really intend to fix it.
If there are any other questions or concerns, ask me, and I'll be happy to answer to the best of my ability.
Loved it? Thought it was a boring, worthless story? Either way, please review :) They make writers happy!
Thanks for reading!