So this is one of my first "serious" story series that I am doing. It's a small idea I got today [since I was looking up on Indie films] and decided to write it out. I hope people will be able to enjoy it aside from my smut and crack work, since I'm a pretty well-rounded person when it comes to writing. Well, this might be an England x France fic, but nothing too over the top. Don't worry, I'll be sure to warn if anything, but don't expect too much from it. I'll end up using a lot of my atrocious French in this series, so don't be shy with corrections. Anyhoo, enjoy.
The sound of rapid keys of the typewriter echos off the walls of the empty room. Although, it was not quite empty-in the sense of crumpled papers littering the laminate floors and books stacked proudly on the mahogany desk-but it lacked something. The man typing away stopped, groaning. Snatching the paper out of the machine, he crumpled it, dropping it on the floor to join with the other forgotten papers.
"I haven't figured out anything to write about and it's been a good three weeks!" the blond-haired man growled, lighting a cigarette ,"Bloody hell, I'm getting old".
He took a long drag of the cigarette, soon releasing a sizable cloud of smoke through his nose. The bitter scent of ash and nicotine refilled the man's lungs, making him cough a bit. The smell already lingered to his clothing, due to his stress induced by his failed playwrights. Arthur Kirkland had once basked in the glory days of being a large director of movies and enjoyed every minute of it. He would attend grand parties-thrown in celebration of his new film, of course-and speak to important people. He would be stopped by paparazzi on the streets, whether he would be out for his daily stroll around the city or he would be out grocery shopping. Eventually, it would all die down.
Nothing good ever lasts.
His movies would not take off as they used to-due to new rival industries. No one would understand the subtle messages in his movie, which made people skip out on his well thought-out films for something more action-packed-which was mostly something involving cheap violent scenes and dirty sex scenes. Ticket sales plummeted drastically and Arthur was out of a job. He hammered out playwrights in a time frame of two weeks-where he usually stayed up with the assistance of his record player or a shot of 'high spirits' or two. The film companies denied playwright after playwright, but when he finally did find someone to accept his proposal, a script was expected within a week. That's when his tobacco addiction kicked in.
A month back, he had finally polished up his script and managed to get it to his 'boss' in a matter of minutes before the deadline was cut off.
"God, you look terrible", the man commented on the Englishman's appearance, averting his eyes to the script. He thumbed through it with glazed eyes and handed it back to him ,"I'm sorry , but I expected more when I read through this. Tell you what, I'm not supposed to be doing this, but I'll give you a month to rewrite this, and only a month. And you better look pretty damn decent than you do right now".
Arthur sat back, letting an audible sigh emit from his throat ,"Guess I'll go out for a bit..."
He got up from his wooden chair and slipped the jacket off the coat rack by the door, heading out of his apartment flat. It was a gloomy windy day-as it always was in March-and the sky had shown no signs of the sun's warm rays beaming through the murky ashy clouds. The blond man strolled over to a bus stop, leaning against a brass bulletin of the bus routes. He glanced around, watching as people pass by and cars drive through the narrow streets, honking at the other delayed vehicles. It felt so different being outside, present to the world, but yet, now being noticed. People would pass by without a slight glance, only a bump of shoulders followed by an exchange of "excuse me"'s. He felt invisible.
Almost as if I don't exist.
Arthur noticed another man stopping beside him, holding an umbrella. He has wavy blond hair that reached down to his shoulders and radiant sapphire eyes, that seemed just as playful as his smile. The man looked over at Arthur, nodding his head.
"Pretty windy today, oui?" the man asked with a nasally- yet melodic- accent.
"Ahh, yes", the Englishman answered, pulling out a small box of cigarettes. He looked over at the man, holding out the box to him ,"Care for a fag?"
"Non, I do not smoke", the man shook his head, smiling apologetically ,"It is... très mauvais, oui?"
"Bad, oui?" he repeated, laughing a bit ,"I am sorry, I do not speak too fluent English".
The Englishman nodded, lighting his cigarette ,"Yes, I see".
The French man studied Arthur a bit more, his gracious eyes widening a bit ,"Mon dieu! You are the director Monsieur Kirkland, oui?"
Arthur looked at him with equally-shocked emerald eyes ,"Why yes, I am..."
He actually knows who I am?
"I just adore your films", the blond-haired man complimented ,"My, what a grand honor to meet you! I am called Francis".
"A pleasure", the Englishman gulped, shaking his hand.
"So, Monsieur Kirkland", the French man smiled ,"Where are you off to?"
Arthur looked up at the gloomy sky, pondering ,'Yes, where am I off to?'
"To tell you the truth? I haven't the slightest idea, really".
Francis laughed lightly ,"Surely that cannot be true? Are you off to a grande fête-oh, pardon-I mean a... big party for your latest premiere, oui?"
"N-No, I haven't made a film, let alone a debut, in years", Arthur explained, taking a drag from his cigarette ,"All I've been doing is running to all these people who are actually willing to read my playwrights and getting each of them denied. I also have a bloody script due in a week or less, and God forbid that won't get done".
"That is too bad to hear, Monsieur Kirkland", the man looked at him remorsefully ,"But I do wish for your script to be finished. Ah, here's my bus, I do hope we will meet again! Au revoir, Monsieur Kirkland!"
Arthur watched the bus drive off, putting out the butt of his cigarette with his shoe ,"I hope so too.."
He sauntered back to his flat, somewhat more hopeful with his script. He felt ideas rushing through his head-no, playing in his head just as if it were a movie scene. He can visualize the actors and the emotions they share for each other. He threw his coat onto his brass hanger, running over to his typewriter as he typed away. Never has he felt this inspired in years.
Is this what I needed?
After hours of sitting at his typewriter-and this time, no abandoned papers scattering on the floor-he got off his chair, stretching his arms a bit; He was quite content that he could actually get some sleep that night. He cleared off his bed-which used to be a make-shift shelf-of all the books and camera films that resided on the mattress. With an audible, yet muffled, thud, he sprawled out on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
How is it that I got all of these ideas? Did I actually need someone to talk to?
He realized that he hadn't spoke to anyone for a while. He closed off all contact with his old friends-that he made back then during his filming career-and even family members. He would avoid any reunions or toss out letters carelessly, not wanting to be disturbed from his work. Is this all he needed? A simple talk? He closed his eyes, drifting off into well-needed sleep.