Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Oh for God's sake, all these stores are identical!"

It’s the third day in a row that Francis insists on dragging Arthur across possibly the entire state on what has got to be the most useless ‘fashion trip’ in history. He knows Francis engages in unproductive activities on occasion, but bypassing the brilliant beach in lieu of more branded shops is a painful waste of their final-year summer break. A break they’re supposed to be taking advantage of fully before having to plunge back into university obligations when they get back to New York.

"Why, of course non, mon ami!" Francis exclaims, looking profusely offended if the hand splayed across his own chest is any indication. "You must appreciate the individuality of different branches in various locations!”

"Yes, but they all contain the same bloody garments! And their interior designs are exact replicas of each other! I mean, look," Arthur points at the large Zara store they happen to pass by, glaring intensely at the mannequins behind the glass windows. “I am convinced I saw the exact same store yesterday at that shopping district kilometres away."

Heaving a deep, exasperated sigh, Francis steers Arthur away from the shop windows with a stern hand on his shoulder. "One, dear Arthur, it is incredibly rude to point and stare. Were you not taught that in your early years?” Arthur rolls his eyes, muttering profanities under his breath. "And deux, it is called upkeeping a brand, though I guess a man as poorly-versed in the world of business like you would not understand."

"Drop that patronising tone, you frog. And for your information, we’re both majoring in Theatre, so that insult hardly applies." Roughly shrugging the hand off his shoulder, Arthur huffs rather resignedly as if accepting his fate; getting dragged around to see clothes by a Frenchman. "Alright, fine. I suppose this would be a great addition to my CV — mentioning that I had to get my legs amputated from walking around a monster of a shopping district."

"Mon dieu, that’s the spirit! Ah,” croons Francis as he pauses suddenly. "Since we are going to the beach, why not have a little look at some casual wear?" 

Arthur flicks his gaze up to where Francis is pointing and is almost knocked off his feet by the obnoxious, completely unnecessary wall of LED screens. 

"Bloody hell, what the fuck." The collage of four vertical screens depicts a scenery of gently rolling waves and a happy-looking surfer waddling between the laps of water, complete with seagulls dipping in and out of the video at regular intervals. The exposure of the video has been cranked up so high Arthur can't do anything but blink stars out of his eyes. "Talk about subtlety."

Francis laughs, already at the entrance and waving for him. "Well, what are you standing there like a clueless teenage boy for?"

“Attempting to recover from the retinal abuse, thank you very much." Arthur smacks his lips when he runs his eyes over the bold lettering of the store's name hung above the screens, bright against the black walls. Hollister California. "No wonder," he mutters. "It's a sodding American brand."

His complaint falls on deaf ears as Francis has already slipped through glass doors, signaling the end of their conversation. With a heavy air of reluctance, Arthur steps into the store, prepared for the tiresome designs and colours and graphic shirts. He’s so preoccupied with the self-induced negativity that he almost misses the blur of black shirts and perfectly gelled hair passing in front of him. A strange feeling tugs at his chest, and he cranes his neck to get a better view of the store. That’s when his jaw drops open. 

If someone were to ask Arthur to describe that precise moment — the moment when the sky seems to split open to make way for divine light — he would have been too inarticulate to form a grammatically correct sentence. In the dim lighting of the space, Arthur can see at least four very tall and very fit looking men clad in shirts that are far too tight for their build. Two of them have perfectly clean-shaven faces that look too soft for post-pubescent men, and there is a stubble decorating the chins of the other two. This particular look gives them a carefree yet polished aura — Arthur almost comes to the verdict that they look mysterious, if not for the laughter they unexpectedly burst into. They jostle each other about as they continue to tell jokes, acting like they’re in a high school cafeteria instead of a professional work setting. Arthur shuffles closer to their vicinity. Upon closer inspection, their name tags say ‘Andersen’, ‘Feliks’, ‘Antonio’ and ‘Gilbert’. 

Two girls walk past and try as he might, Arthur can’t help but ogle a little — one of them has her beautiful brown hair untied, falling into gorgeous locks down her back. She flashes Arthur a smile and a small ‘hi!’, and Arthur returns the gesture, stealing a glance at her name tag: ‘Elizabeta’. Her companion, a little younger with her short blonde hair tied up in a ribbon — ‘Erika’ — nods shyly at him.

They are all employees, he realises, and Arthur almost weeps because they look ethereal. Ethereal to the point that they’re practically glowing, and all of a sudden Arthur understands the severe lack of lighting in the store.

When Francis saunters past him, he pounces.

“Fuck. Francis!” With a forceful tug, Arthur drags Francis into the safe cove of the dressing room chamber, under a sign that, to Arthur’s dismay, simply evokes another wave of fantasies. ‘Clothing Optional Beyond This Point’. He shakes his head, growling. “What in the blazing hell is this store, exactly?"

“Er, I beg your pardon?” Francis blinks, evidently puzzled. 

“Are they trying to sell terribly-designed garments or terribly good-looking employees?” Arthur groans in frustration, head in his hands in shame. 

Realisation dawns on Francis’ face, and despite the urge to laugh at Arthur's face right there and then, he settles for a snort and throws an arm around his friend’s shoulder. “Oh dear, oh dear, what do we have here?" 

“A lot of confusion and the possible redefinition of the word ‘branding’. In the business sense.” Arthur hisses back. With a single swipe of his hand, he makes to grab Francis’ collar. “Now, let’s get a move on and make our exit right this instant —"

“Woah, woah, slow down there.” Only then does Arthur notice a shopping bag slung over his shoulder, and Francis produces a few skimpy-looking tops and tight-fitting denim to wave them in his face. “Unlike you, I actually have some clothes I want to try out and buy."

“No,” he pleads. “Don’t leave me alone in this carnal environment."

“Desolée, Kirkland, but you are on your own for the moment.” Francis disappears behind a final whip of the changing room curtains, humming under his breath in a way that grates at Arthur’s nerves.

There seems to be an unspoken challenge hanging in the air — a test to see just how long Arthur can last in the absence of Francis’ support. Well, he huffs, straightening up slightly. A British gentleman should not be so weak to such superficial matters, after all.

Steeling himself with a newfound resolution, he manages to skim through the shelves and the pieces of clothing hung up for display in relative peace. Across the room, the ‘Feliks’ employee is chatting amiably to a customer, asking her trivial questions and responding with just a tad too much enthusiasm.

Arthur rolls his eyes. It’s apparent now that these employees are paid to stand there looking good and flirt. A creative marketing strategy, but it annoys him for some reason — although he is definitely not vexed about the fact that he’s been in the store for quite a while and no one seems to be making any move on him. Arthur casts a weary glance at his green vest and comfortable slacks. Is it because of what he’s wearing? Sure, it may be a little too warm for California’s climate, but it’s not exactly repulsive either. At least, not in his opinion. Shaking off his thoughts, he walks grimly over to another section of the store, glazing over the display.

He comes across a rack of hanging sweaters, a little too thin and loose-fitting to actually be used in cold climates. But the designs aren’t half bad. In fact, the knit is quite well-done that the subtle detailing of tribal patterns across the collar is prominent. He leans in closer as he sifts through the different sizes of said sweater, marveling at the consistency of the quality and committing their motifs to memory — maybe he could use them for future crocheting —

Suddenly there’s a head of mussed up blonde hair, startling cerulean eyes peeking into his between the hangers and a loud greeting of: “Hi there!" 

An involuntary squeak escapes his throat and Arthur leaps away from the clothing rack with the stealth of a gazelle, looking like he has just come into contact with a very hot stove instead of a very hot employee.

Arthur quickly reviews the last thought that crossed his mind as the employee straightens up, brushing invisible lint off his too-tight work shirt and looks up, with an apologetic expression on his — for heaven’s sake... 

“Sorry! I’m so sorry!” The employee stumbles over to Arthur, looking absolutely ridiculous with his big, long limbs waving about like a badly-coordinated marionette. “Are you alright? Gee, I didn’t mean to scare you, I just wanted to say hi."

“Is it a prime objective to give your customers a heart attack?” Arthur says, a little irately.

“I thought that’s what a hero should do; you know, greet everyone and stuff!"

It is a stupid explanation coming out of the mouth of a stupidly attractive face. Arthur can’t help but rake his gaze over the employee’s slightly tanned cheekbones framed behind thin-wired glasses and blonde locks that look far too well-groomed for it to be unintentional, save for a cowlick that seem to be unbending to any type of hair product. His body — his body — is well-toned, a subtle six-pack protruding from his figure-hugging shirt and just enough muscles to scream ‘fit!’ without making him look like an obsessed gym rat. He must be a surfer, or at least involved in some type of water sport. His appearance is simply begging to be complemented by a tall, garishly decorated surfboard.

Arthur can physically feel the heat rise to his face as he tries desperately to look nonchalant by choking out a meek, “Alright."

The boy flashes him a smile in return, and Arthur swears he nearly passes out on the spot.

“Um. I’m just, about to go. My friend, he’s —“ He casts a furtive glance around — desperate, like spending another minute around this boy is would cause him death of asphyxiation — and finds Francis handing cash to the lady at the cashier. “Paying!"

Ignoring anything else that might come out the boy’s mouth, Arthur bolts out of the denim section, forcefully grabs Francis by his sleeve and drags the both of them out the store. As soon as they’re back outside Arthur trips over his feet once and wheezes loudly, inhaling through his nose in a distraught manner until he ends up coughing and hacking from the abuse to his respiratory system. 

“Debile! Why are you breathing like there is not enough oxygen in the world?” Francis chastises him. “And what was that grabbing for? Could you not see that I was having a moment with the lovely lady over there?"

It’s futile, Arthur’s effort to stand upright. Eventually his legs give way and he collapses onto his knees on the pavement, earning curious looks from passersby and a shriek from Francis.

“What are you doing there! Arthur, get up this instant!” Francis harrumphed in exasperation. “Are you sulking?"

“No… No. Why in the world would I be stroppy?” His bottom lip quivers as he looks up at Francis. “I think I have just returned from heaven. Or hell. For fuck’s sake, I can’t tell which it was!"

“As much as I’d like to indulge you in your pathetic whinging, let us go elsewhere —" 

“Francis, you don’t understand!” Arthur wails. “He peeked through the clothes rack! And I bet you the blooming kid knew exactly what he was doing!"

Francis snatches Arthur by his collar and proceeds to drag him across the brick road. “We’re going back to the hotel, and you can do the crying there."

Arthur, still drunk on the Californian beauty, can do nothing but feel knackered and just a tad bit pathetic.

-

Much to Arthur’s dismay, Francis has to fly back to New York the next day. This little fact has somehow managed to escape his memory despite Francis informing him of the arrangement prior their trip.

“But Francis, how am I supposed to go back? Alone?"

“C’est ton problème,” Francis shrugs, tugging at his now carefully zipped up luggage. “I did tell you beforehand to find your own entertainment for the remaining week."

Despite all the subtle requests that soon turn to outright desperate begging, Francis leaves Arthur alone to fend for himself with nothing more than a far too cheery Adieu! and a reminder of the pile of work waiting for him back in New York.

“This might be your last chance to find true happiness!"

-

When Arthur finds himself back in the sun-kissed promenade, there’s a tugging feeling of hypocrisy at the back of his head — because if he was acting true to his earlier claims, he would have been out of the city, probably even the state just to find some variety, both in activities and food. Although he’s not sure where the habit stemmed off from, he’s always been a little of an explorer. Staying cooped up in one place has never suited him; he’d grow too restless, too stifled in the same choking atmosphere every day. That’s why he likes the United States and New York so wholeheartedly — the cityscape is always changing, there are always new people to meet, new things to learn, new musicals to watch and new food from an ethnicity he has never even heard of to eat. 

So when he finds himself in front of Hollister again, in the flip flops he’d worn yesterday and sunglasses perched on his nose, Arthur tries not to think of how skewed his mind must have been. 

“Hi, welcome to Hollister!” A girl with lush black hair and tanned skin waves at Arthur, welcoming him with a million-watt smile. She has a tiny lilt in her accent, which Arthur finds very pleasant. “I’m Angélique. Sorry, our greeter is off getting his afternoon coffee, so you’ll have to make do with me!"

Arthur raises an eyebrow. He’s not even aware that such culture is endorsed in the brand, let alone taken as a matter serious enough for a sincere apology. He waves a hand. “Please, don’t worry about minor details.” 

Relief seems to spread through the girl’s face as she gestures inside. “In that case, please! Have a look around. We just stocked up on our new collection of fragrances this morning; maybe you’ll find one to your liking."

“I’ll be sure to browse through them, thank you,” nods Arthur politely as he steps into the store, although his mind has already wandered off to thoughts of a certain head of blonde locks and a pair of wiry glasses.

“Alfred! There you are!” At the sound of Angélique’s voice, Arthur gives a sidelong glance back at the entrance — only for him to whip his head around and do a double-take, because for the love of all things legal, this is definitely not one of them — 

“Hey, Ange, sorry! The line held me up. Was pretty long ‘cause, you know, it’s lunch break and stuff.” 

It’s him. The boy from yesterday who obviously thinks his shift is a stretched-out version of hide-and-seek. Arthur has to bite his tongue to stop from squealing hysterically because apart from his flawless face that seems to glow even brighter under the dim lighting of the store — is that even normal? — the boy is also shirtless.

With only a pair of jeans slung low on his hips, showcasing hipbones that can probably cut through diamond, the boy seems to be unperturbed by the hungry stares people milling about direct him. And Arthur can’t blame them; not when his delectable-looking abs are on display, biceps flexing every time he takes a swig at his cup of coffee, when he exposes the line of his neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he drains the caffeine drink. When he turns around, Arthur gets an eyeful of back muscles that very nearly sends him kneeling on the ground again. But Arthur doesn’t, gripping at the nearest T-shirt as he teeters towards the edge of sanity. By now he’s fairly convinced that this boy — Alfred, apparently — is doing all this with the ill-intent of annihilating every sexually active human being on the planet in a matter of seconds.

To Arthur’s horror, Angélique seems unfazed by Alfred as she simply rolls her eyes. “That’s no excuse. Maybe you should just go to another coffee shop then."

“I tried, I swear! But I’ve got the worst luck ever — the coffee shops I go to are always full!"

Arthur wants to scoff. It’s hard to determine whether Alfred is bluffing or he’s genuinely oblivious to the fact that he must be attracting crowds no matter which corner of California he prances off to. 

“Well, whatever. But you’ve missed greeting a lot of customers by now."

“What? Really? Darn it, just when it’s my turn! Let me make it up to you, please."

“You don’t need to make it up to me,” hisses Angélique. Abruptly, she points in the general direction of where Arthur is standing, forcing him to pretend to be impervious to their conversation. “You can start with the gentleman over there." 

Even without turning to look, Arthur can imagine Alfred right now — craning his neck, eyes searching for the ‘gentleman’ his co-worker is referring to, finally spotting him.

“Oh! Hey! It’s you from yesterday!"

If the laws of physics allowed it, by now Arthur would have transported himself to an unassuming black hole to be crushed and his existence erased from the face of the Earth. Embarrassment courses through him like an electric shock because Alfred remembers him.

“Uh — um —" 

“Sorry I missed you —“ Alfred abruptly pauses as he stares at Arthur’s undeniably reddening face, staring into his eyes like they possess the biggest scientific revelation of the century. Arthur lifts a hand to touch his face, about to ask the employee if he’s got some leftover scone crumbs on there when Alfred shakes himself out of his stupor and beams. “Sorry! Got a little held up during lunch."

“I — it’s okay, you’ve got no obligation to —"

“Here’s a totally Hollister-y greeting for ya!" 

And without further warnings, Arthur finds himself wrapped in strong, steady arms that radiate heat like they’re trying to warm Arthur up on a winter morning, instead of a sweltering afternoon on the West Coat of the United States. His chin is tucked over a bare shoulder and his green sweater vest is pressing onto a bare chest, and Arthur’s not sure how long Alfred squeezes him for but it’s enough to make his senses go haywire. His heart feels like it’s about to burst out of his chest, because there’s certainly a shortage of oxygen in his proximity from the way his nose is attacked with the smell of… summer, happiness and sunshine, really.

After what seems to be eons, Alfred finally lets go and shoots him a satisfied grin. “There! Job’s done and dusted!” Arthur wants to retort, ask if it’s really a necessary component of his occupation, but all he can do is choke and splutter as he tries to restock the air he’s been deprived off. “Oh, dude, sorry. Guess I was a little too enthusiastic?"

“Enthusiastic?” Arthur wheezes out. 

“Yeah. It’s been a pretty slow day, so I was assigned as a greeter just before I had my lunch break. You’re our first lucky customer!” 

Lucky indeed, he thinks. Arthur’s not sure why Alfred starts to lean back on the black wall when he’s supposed to greet customers, but he’s not about to complain. On the boy's neck hangs a necklace that looks handmade, the string holding the charm messily twined together with strands of wool severely out of place. 

Alfred catches him staring looks down at his necklace. “Oh, this? I made it last summer with my friends to commemorate the end of our high school lives! Pretty cool, huh?" 

“Uh, sure,” mumbles Arthur a little disbelievingly as he takes one more good look at Alfred's form. "So you’re a freshman at university then?” 

“Yeah, I work here part-time for the extra cash."

Having done his research the previous night, Arthur brings up a subject he’s very much inquisitive about. “I thought it was quite difficult to get a job at Holl —“ he pauses, searching frantically for the name of the brand around the shop. “Hollister."

Alfred takes a look around the shop, as if surveying his very own humble abode. “Um. I don’t really know, actually? I was just on my way back home from surfing class when I got recruited,” he chuckles, embarrassed, and if it was anyone else Arthur would have labeled them as a bit of a show-off — but there’s a certain air of naivety around  him that Arthur passes it off as childish modesty.

On another note, that’s two things checked off of Arthur’s list. Surfer, check. Getting the job effortlessly, check. 

“Not surprised,” murmurs Arthur, too low for the employee to hear. 

"What about you? Where are you from?” The boy leans onto one of the polished black walls. “You don’t sound like you’re from around here."

“Yeah, I’m English. I study at NYU. Last year. Theatre.” Arthur’s not sure what’s prompting him to reply so robotically. He clears his throat as an attempt at dispeling the erratic beating of his heart. “My friend and I are here on a summer-break trip. Before we have to start on our thesis. Well, we were, but he had to leave on short notice, the git. So I’m here all in my lonesome.” Realising that he’s rambling, Arthur bites his tongue to stop himself from proceeding any further.

The boy whistles through his teeth. “Sounds intense.” There’s an awkward silence that wedges between them, stretching long enough for Arthur to wonder if it’s his cue to leave and let Alfred do his job. But then he offers Arthur his hand. “Right! I forgot. I’m Alfred Jones by the way. It’s nice to meet you! And welcome to Hollister! Again."

Regardless of the overwhelming urge to tell Alfred ‘I know’, Arthur bites his bottom lip and feigns ignorance. The second Arthur’s palm makes contact with Alfred’s, an electric sensation shoots up his arm — so powerful that he has to draw back after only a measly shake. “Arthur Kirkland. As to you."

“I sure hope that you’ll be a regular customer for the rest of your stay.” The statement, said so casually, throws Arthur off slightly. His chest does a little flip, wishing Alfred truly means what he’s saying. But Arthur doesn’t allow himself to yearn because he knows the statement is a sales tactic and nothing more. 

He gives Alfred a wry smile, knowing deep down that despite everything his feet and mind will lead him to turn up in this very store every day without fail. “I’m quite certain that I will be."

“That’s great! Because you could really do with some, you know, lightening up. I mean,” Alfred cocks his head innocently at his attire; his usual green sweater vest with the white shirt underneath it tucked neatly into loose khaki shorts. “Don’t you feel hot in that?"

The hairs on the back of Arthur’s neck prickle up as Alfred tugs on the bottom of his shirt, untucking it — and suddenly a slew of inappropriate thoughts cross Arthur’s mind in quick successions. Scrambling up, he tries to stop Alfred from whatever he’s doing before more damage could be done to his lower regions and his conscious mind.

“Yes! That’s why I’m… about to go back right now. Well. See you later." 

Fleeing a store and leaving behind a terribly confused employee is plenty shameful, and Arthur can’t help but sigh in relief that he’s got his limbs under control, even though he is still heady from Alfred’s lingering touches. Arthur is certain that he’s nearing his wit’s end. 

-

After assessing the potential risks and the damages that could be inflicted, Arthur decides there’s no harm in seeking refuge from the heat. Not in a coffee shop — Arthur would never be caught dead in an American coffee shop. He doesn’t drink coffee; finds the taste repulsive, and whatever ‘tea’ they serve there is blander than tap water. No, a coffee shop would be less of a respite and more of a slow and painful torture for such a muggy afternoon. The air conditioning system in a particular clothing shop, on the other hand, is more than suited to Arthur’s taste. 

That’s the explanation he tries to offer when Alfred welcomes him with the enthusiasm of an attention-seeking puppy. The sight is so endearing that when Alfred gives him one of his dazzling smiles, Arthur can’t help but do the same.

“It’s much cooler in here than it is outdoors. That’s why I came back. No other reason, really,” says Arthur a little too hurriedly, although the blotches of scarlet on his cheeks and ears belie his clarification. 

“Oh good! I was so worried I scared you off — or worse, offended you or something.” 

Arthur shakes his head, trying to meet his gaze but failing. “Don’t be ridiculous." 

“Oh, phew. I’m so relieved!” Alfred chuckles. “You know, you’ve visited a few times now and you’ve never really bought anything."

A sudden wave of embarrassment hits Arthur so hard that he has to cough in order to mask his mortification.

“When I tried, I was always interrupted, so —“ Arthur quickly bites his lip. That didn’t come out right. He's making it sound like he hates Alfred’s company in the store, when really he’s just too damn agitated and flustered to do anything right. How was he supposed to explain that every time he got here, he’d be way too distracted by Alfred to even walk past the first section of the store, let alone browse properly?

Yet Alfred continues to grin at him, all jaunty and attentive — and gauging from his expression, remains completely oblivious to Arthur’s little verbal slip. This amuses Arthur greatly. Maybe Alfred can't recognise an insult (or a compliment, for that matter) even if it hit him right in the face.

“Ah, a lovely girl yesterday — Angélique, I think her name was — told me that you’ve got new fragrances stocked up?” 

“Oh, yes we have! Would you like to see them?"

He nods in consent. “I’d love to."

Arthur walks on in a slight daze, a little proud of himself for the quick-thinking he’s done and the stuttering he hasn’t done. His temporary reverie is broken when Alfred turns around, gives him a quick but polite once-over and says: “You look great, by the way. Definitely less stuffy-looking,” and continues to walk on like the statement is nothing. 

It’s true that today Arthur has gone out of his way to try and dress a little lighter and more casual, under Alfred’s indirect advice. His apparel is nothing unique or fancy — a white button-up that’s on the sheer side with its sleeves rolled up,  knee-length denim, a blue-ribboned boater and a pair of sunnies. Although he has dressed with the intention to impress, Arthur is still left behind blubbering and desolately trying to recollect his composure that is steadily diminishing.

As they walk further into the store, it becomes progressively noisier with what seems to be idle chatter and youthful laughter. Curious, Arthur looks around to survey the space while still keeping Alfred’s retreating back in view. The shop is packed full of people of both genders, all either browsing for clothes or talking to each other. Without a strict uniform code in place, Arthur can’t tell the Hollister employees and the customers apart.

There’s a tall, black shelf at the end of the store filled to the brim with plastic bottles and tanks folded neatly on the bottom. Alfred stops in front of it to point a thumb at the display. “Here they are! They’re awesome, aren’t they?"

“Sorry for prying,” Arthur says as he hears another bout of boisterous laughter from the neighbouring section of the store. “But am I correct in saying that this store slightly overstaffed?"

“Uh, yeah, definitely.” The way Alfred scratches the back of his neck seems to be a tell-tale sign of embarrassment, even though Arthur can’t fathom why he’d be so. “You’d be lucky if you were manning the cashier or even be charged to refold clothes. Most of us a lot of the time kind of just stand around and talk to customers. But it’s okay!” He winks. “The manager says it’s intentional. He says it creates a party atmosphere, and as the hero I should make sure it’s as lively as it can be right?"

“Right…” Someone definitely needs to have a word with the marketing team, Arthur thinks. To congratulate them, because this whole set-up is clearly working, judging by the size of the line in front of the cashier.

“Are you sure it’s alright for you to accompany me like this?” Arthur asks, hesitating at the word ‘accompanying’. It sounds far too formal, yet he’s unable to think up of a better alternative.

“Huh?” Alfred blinks. “Yeah. Sure, why not? I’m not a greeter today, so I’m free to do what I like! And you did ask for the fragrances right?” He grins lopsidedly. “Gotta give the best service I can!" 

“Of course,” says Arthur, heaving a steadying sigh. “Then what scents do you recommend?"

“Well, our classic is definitely the Crescent Bay. It's on the fruity side, which is sorta my thing. Probably why Solana Beach smells a little bland to me."

“Sorry to interrupt,” Arthur interjects. “But aren’t these ladies’ fragrances?"

Alfred shrugs. “Yeah, but so what? They smell nice."

At Alfred’s equable reply, Arthur conceals a tiny grin. Most of his actions have suggested his free-spiritedness and his general unconcerned attitude towards social stigmas, and this particular standpoint proves to be an extra point in Arthur’s books. “I suppose so."

“These body mists won’t last you long though, since they’ll wear off quickly. If you’re a heavy user, I’d recommend you the colognes. Now this,” he stops dramatically, pointing at a row of glass bottles neatly lined up, “is our pride and joy. Get this baby and you’ll always have a piece of California with you even back in New York."

The cheesy persuasion pulls a snicker out of Arthur’s lips. Maybe he’s just imagining it, but Alfred seems to light up a fraction when he throws him an amused smile. “I’m not entirely convinced."

“Aw, really? I thought that line was pretty good. I even personalised it for you! Well, time for the tester then.” There are small strips of white paper sitting in a small glass cup beside the line of fragrances. Arthur’s about to reach out for them when he feels something wet on the back of his neck.

“Wha —what was that?"

“Testing,” replies Alfred breezily, as if he hasn’t just sprayed the back of Arthur’s neck with cologne.

“On my neck? How am I supposed to smell it now?”

“Hey, no worries. I’ll give you my testimony. 100% truth, don’t worry."

It happens so swiftly that Arthur isn’t given a chance to react before Alfred cups his nape gently to tug him forward, and his nose ever so slightly brushes along Arthur’s skin as the younger inhales. Alfred’s palm is slightly cold but Arthur’s face turns impossibly hot that he feels about ready to combust.

“Al — Alfred —"

“Hmm.” The appreciative hum Alfred emits makes Arthur bite back a groan, his chest tightening at the sound. And just as quickly as it had come, Alfred’s already drawing back, an innocent smile plastered on his lips. “Yup! Definitely smells great!" 

Arthur brings the back of his hand up to his nose. No blood yet. Fantastic. “Are you positive?"

“Heck yeah!” All Arthur can think of when Alfred flashes him a thumbs-up is how absurd it is for Alfred to be able to act so casually after he almost (unknowingly) maimed Arthur with the lingering touch of his soft lips. 

But Arthur isn’t satisfied. Rarely does his gluttonous side ever show, but at this exact moment it’s raring on its hindlegs and practically roaring for more.

“What about those body sprays? Are they any good?” This has Alfred perking up, and Arthur’s chest constricting again.

He’s irrevocably infatuated with this golden-haired boy, and he’s not exactly trying to get out of it. 

-

True to Alfred’s wish, over the next few days Arthur frequently drops by Hollister as often as he visits the beach — which, really, is all there is to do in California. Much to his delight, Alfred seems to be free each time he drops by, and thus the pair spends the majority of their time ambling around the store while Arthur pretends to peruse through their low-cut shirts, listening intently to Alfred rambling on about his surfing classes, friends and typical freshman complaints. For reasons unknown to Arthur, Alfred always insists on opening up a vacant cash register just so he can skip the long queues, and even stages a mock-sulk if Arthur adamantly refuses. He always argues that Arthur is now one of their ‘most loyal customers ever!’

Often, they get so lost in each other’s company that Arthur doesn’t realise he’s been monopolising almost the entirety of Alfred’s shift until one of his co-workers tells him he’s free for the rest of the day. Sometimes Arthur briefly wonders if it’s wise for him to spend so lavishly just to see Alfred smile and tell him to have a great day — which is completely unnecessary, because who wouldn’t have a great day when he’s sent home wit a smile like that? But he always comes to the conclusion that it’s alright, because Arthur always leaves the store with one or two full shopping bags, a miserably empty wallet and a multitude of rather childish stories piled up in his heart. 

“Here’s your change and your receipt.” The voice pushes him off his train of thoughts as he stares at the bills in his hand, already dreading to count up how much spare cash he still has for the rest of his stay. He looks up at Alfred, whose broad smile is still as blinding as ever. "Thank you for shopping at Hollister and have a nice day,” he winks. “Mr. Kirkland."

He decides it’s worth every dollar to hear his name roll off the young American’s tongue.

-

It’s a stunning afternoon with the sun beating down incessantly on the strip of golden beach. On a whim, Arthur has decided to finally shrug off his ‘uptight’ demeanour and take a dip in the brilliantly azure (albeit pretty chilly) sea. Surprising even to himself, he has grown tired of sitting down under a great umbrella, reclining on a lounge chair with a slow-paced book in hand while occasionally spectating the beach volleyball matches sporadically initiated in patches of the coast. It still remains a mystery where the bout of confidence that has driven him to rent a surfboard came from, although Arthur has a pretty good idea.

After spending a good portion of the afternoon wrestling pitifully with the sufrboard in the waves — and firmly ignoring the snickers thrown in his direction, those blasted athletic teenagers — Arthur returns to his lounge chair to towel himself dry and perhaps slap on some more sunblock, just to be sure. After all, his skin has always been rather susceptible to sunburns. Checking the time on his watch, he’s about to get ready to make his scheduled trip to his favourite store when he reaches out for his shirt, only for his fist to clench over nothing. 

Arthur blinks. There has to be some kind of mistake. He distinctly remembers folding up his shirt very neatly and placing it right beside his copy of Pygmalion, which is lying untouched on the lounge chair. Fearing the worst, he scrambles to get on his knees, checking the ground to see if the wind had blown it away despite the fact that the day was a fairly calm one.

Someone has stolen his shirt — and for what valid reason, Arthur can’t fathom. But Arthur is less ticked off that he’s lost his shirt and more pissed that he has no idea how he’s going to face the subject of his infatuation in this state. Face probably a little bronzed, hair very disheveled and shirt evidently missing. If Arthur wanted to show up topless, he would have put a little more effort to actually show off what little he’s got.

Through sheer obstinacy, he turns up at the store anyway, his arms crossed over his chest in a last bid to keep his dignity intact. As always, Alfred is standing ready at the door; but whatever salutation he’s had prepared dies off at the tip of his tongue and he falls silent, opting to stare blankly at Arthur. 

“Some wanker nicked my shirt,” Arthur gruffly explains, scowling in an attempt to hide his reddening face.

“Uh. How, exactly?"

Arthur tries to ignore the way Alfred’s seems to be staring at him, unblinking. “I was just having a swim, and when I came back it was gone. Tried to look for it for a while, but eventually gave up. Petty thievery isn’t uncommon, so it would’ve been pointless if I’d stayed back and tried to suss the situation out…"

He lets out a breath of frustration and brushes his hair out of his face, letting the cool breeze hit his exposed forehead when he notices something in his peripheral vision. Is he hallucinating, or is Alfred gulping?

“Well, can you let me through now? I’m just going to go and get a shirt and come back out in a jiffy —" 

“Oh. Right. Sure.” Alfred jumps away from the doorway like it’s suddenly burning hot. “Um. Yeah. Take a — take your pick."

A light shiver runs down Arthur’s back as he steps into the store, but the air conditioning isn’t responsible for it. There’s something satisfying in watching Alfred’s eloquence declining — Alfred, the smooth-talking employee is all of a sudden scuffing his shoes on the floorboards and pointedly avoiding Arthur’s gaze. His usually radiant confidence is shining less today, like someone has forgotten to polish it and has left it to mope. While Arthur quickly speed-walks to the section of his choice, Alfred trips over twice, causing Arthur to chuckle and Alfred to grumble.

It’s only when Arthur is changing into the shirt of his choice (plain black, with ‘1990’ in blue-tinted floral print), all the while mulling over the strange behaviour does Arthur realise that he sees himself in the younger boy’s flustered actions.

“Looks good on you. As expected… of course,” says Alfred once Arthur is back outside, and he recognises it as a recovery attempt on Alfred’s part. He chuckles.

“Never out of compliments, I see."

“Sorry,” the younger boy scratches the back of his neck. “Not really one for words. There’s a reason I majored in Aeronautics."

Alfred’s shot at what seems to be flirting is left hanging in the air, until he clears his throat and suggests that Arthur heads off to the cash register — a gesture he’s thankful for. Over the counter, they act in relative professionalism (‘Seventeen dollars ninety-five is your total’) although Arthur is starting to become hyperaware of every glance Alfred steals of him over his glasses and the fringe that falls into his eyes.

Just as Arthur receives his change and is about to turn back, Alfred calls out his name. He suppresses a small smile. “Yes?"

“I get off work at 5:30. I know you might be busy but…” There’s that habit again, Arthur muses. Alfred seems to always scratch his nape whenever he’s embarrassed. “Would you… would you mind meeting me at the coffee shop? And hang out for a bit?"

Arthur has seen a lot of flirting in the store, but never an outright request for a date. “Is this part of your job requirement?"

Alfred frowns and forcefully shakes his head. “Not at all. It’s… it’s just something I’ve been wanting to do. With you."

He doesn’t drink coffee, but Arthur would never pass up an evening with Alfred Jones. “It’d be my pleasure."

-

“I’m leaving tomorrow.” 

Arthur gasps as Alfred’s hands slip under his black tee, fingers ghosting over his flat stomach with calculated touches before sliding to grasp at his sides, pressing him harder onto the bed. Alfred stops sucking at his neck long enough to drawl out: “Where?"

“Back to New York." 

Arthur pulls his head away with a slight tug on Alfred's hair, bringing their mouths together in a messy, sloppy kiss. As Alfred runs his tongue over his teeth and licks the roof of his mouth, pulling out quiet moans and igniting shivers down his back, Arthur wonders how they've ended up in his hotel room after a fairly chaste conversation over bland tea and strong coffee. Maybe it's a result of Alfred shyly gripping his hand over the table, or the look in his eyes that Arthur is so familiar with, because he’s seen the exact expression on his own face every time he looks at Alfred. 

Whatever it is, Arthur knows he’s not going to regret it.

“Oh, right. That’s a long way away,” says Alfred thoughtfully as they pull apart breathlessly. Arthur snorts.

“Thank you, Mr. Obvious.” He licks at his lips, slightly nervous, but he knows he needs to get it off his chest. “I… I don’t want this to be just… a summer fling, or anything of that kind. Because I think I want something genuine between us."

There’s a pause, so heavy that Arthur feels dread creep up into his chest as Alfred draws back far enough to meet the Englishman’s eyes. Fucking hell, he internally curses. I’ve gone and messed it up again. Arthur berates himself for not considering Alfred’s feelings — as heartbreaking as it is, maybe Alfred doesn’t see him the same way. Maybe for such a free-spirited being, this really is just a summer fling, a temporary link that would be broken once the night is over. 

Arthur releases the grip on Alfred’s now-wrinkled tee, all the while suppressing a wince because trying to voice it out loud is a little more painful than he had expected it to be. 

"I apologise,” he blurts out. “Forget what I said. I mean, I don’t want to make it a burden.” He lets out a puff of air, his fringe lifting up slightly. "Sorry, I’m such a crap company —"

“Don’t.” Alfred sighs, cutting off Arthur. 

"Pardon?"

“Don’t tell me… you didn’t mean what you said." 

Alfred reaches up, taking his glasses off and carelessly setting it on the bedside table. And for the first time that evening Arthur braves a proper look into his eyes and tries to truly observe and decode his thought process. He  then sighs part in awe and part in relief — awed at the brilliant blue of it even in the darkness, and relieved because in them, he sees nothing but sincerity.

“You think you want something genuine between us? Gee, I hope you don’t just think you want it. Because I know for sure that I want this. I want,” he takes a deep breath. “I want you."

The guffaw that comes out of Arthur’s lips is inescapable, and he only feels slightly guilty for because Alfred’s expression is close to offended. “I don’t know how you make that sound so chaste while we’re in this position."

“I guess I mean it in both senses."

Arthur aims a kick to Alfred’s shin, earning him a pained groan. “You’re rather silly, falling for someone that quickly."

“My intuition is always correct,” he licks his lips. “And anyway, I’d love to learn more about you, Arthur."

“You can start now with lesson one.” Arthur leans back, letting Alfred back him up against the headboard — but the younger catches him off guard when he tugs at him to roll them around, letting Arthur straddle his hips. Like this, Alfred looks so content and comfortable, almost purring like a sated cat. Arthur groans low in his throat as he bends down to nibble at Alfred’s supple lips again, swallowing his whimpers as he strokes his cheek with a soft thumb.

“And for the follow-up sessions, you can take a trip up to New York." 

“Yes, sir.” Alfred says as he withdraws to claim his neck again, breath warm on his skin. “Only if I get to be your favourite student."

“Please,” he smiles, leaning up to press his forehead against Alfred’s. “You'll be my only student, Jones."