Chapter Text
Waking up in the morning has always been a difficult feat for Mr. Kirkland, especially after a late night of drinking with his business friends. Well, not really friends, more like associates. He didn't have much of a choice though—Mr. Kirkland was not a very likeable person.
He worked as a photographer for a large company, ones of which usually either do school photos or modeling shoots. It all depended on the month and client.
This month it was models. There had been at least four of them—all fine folks. This company they were working with was a mens clothing company, specializing in the more effeminate figure of a man. Many pretty boys came in. Being completely honest, Mr. Kirkland (better known as Arthur), would be lying if he said he didn't harbor any attraction to the ones he was photographing. They looked nearly identical to women! It was a very conflicting situation.
At this point in time, Arthur was brushing his teeth and hair simultaneously. He wasn't in a rush or anything—he just liked keeping his motor skills sharp. Though, there wasn't much to expect from him in the first place. He was only 30 years old and he was already moving like a decrepit old man; he had the personality of one as well. Maybe it was all that smoking he had done, a pack a day kept the doctor well employed he would often say. That's a lie he didn't say that, he had actually only just thought of it. What an almost intelligent man he was!
When he had come to the end of his double brushing journey, he decided to think of what breakfast should be for him.
An apple? An egg?
Wait what was he? He was a proper english gentleman! As he thought of all of his options, he very quickly remembered that he was…not very well off. An apple would do then!
After he gorged himself on an apple, he got dressed. In retrospect he should've brushed his hair after he had gotten dressed, but as said earlier, he had the memory of an old man. A very old man.
After putting on his clothing, which consisted of a green sweater and jeans (only the finest of course), he brushed his hair once more and left the house—only to promptly return a moment later because he had forgotten his keys.
Then again, because he forgot his camera.
And then again because…well he didn't really remember.
He eventually got in his car and began to drive under the speed limit, even though he was already fashionably late. The time didn't matter to him, only his safety. That was a lie actually, he only abided by the restrictions of law because he couldn't risk getting pulled over again—his license was suspended and he didn't feel like taking a trip down to the good ol' DMV.
After a 20 minute drive that should've taken 10 minutes, Arthur finally made it to his studio. He saw his boss, a bigger man named Ivan Braginski, out front—drinking from a flask.
Arthur's body shuddered for a moment before he walked out.
"Ah, look who has finally decided to join us!"
"Right, sorry about that Ivan, I, uh, had some car troubles again." he stuttered. It was a blatant lie that would've worked if it weren't the 12th time he had used it this month.
"Mr. Braginski," the Russian man corrected "if you are being late like this again, I will have no choice but to punish you.".
Arthur felt a shiver run down his spine. He knew that meant a pay deduction or demotion, but all he could picture was him being bent over Ivan's knee and spanked ruthlessly. It was unfortunately neither arousing nor humorous to him.
"Right," he cleared his throat "did the new model come in yet?".
"No, you are lucky, yes? If he were here you'd be terminated, but you are being lucky duck!"
He said it so jovially, Arthur almost felt nauseous. Ivan—Mr. Braginski— was the type of man to call you a failure with a smile on his face. It was unnerving.
"Yeah…lucky."
The photographer entered the studio, his coworkers were already set up.
"Hello Mr. Kirkland." Kiku, the makeup artist, said. He was extremely soft spoken and a bit of a douche at times—even when unintentional.
"Morning Kiku, have you seen our new model yet?"
"Not yet, we've been waiting for a photo since yesterday—but we're assuming we just won't see him until he arrives."
"Got it." his disappointment was immeasurable. For context, he and his fellow photographers had been waiting for weeks for this "mystery model", Ivan had told them that this client had a certain beauty to him. He could enrapture both masculine and feminine qualities in one—like some sort of androgynous god.
They hadn't gotten a description of him yet besides curly hair and stubble. What an odd combination…well atleast odd in this case.
"Kirkland, you finally decided to show up, ja?" An obnoxiously loud voice boomed. Great, Gilbert was here. He directed posing and such and even though one might argue that's the photographers job, if you told that to Gilbert he'd simply just call you a "LOSER" and attempt to injure you. Emphasis on attempt.
Arthur decided to not bother with Mr. "look at my bird" today. So he just walked away.
Gilbert was not amused, yelling after him, saying he's a word starting with an "f" and ending with a "ggot". A common insult he liked to use to get under others skin. Gilbert was obviously not very comfortable in his sexuality and everyone could tell, mainly because he acted like a young gay queen who lost in the final round of RuPauls drag race because he wasn't "flashy" enough.
The British "gentleman" tried to pay no mind but it really bothered him sometimes. He didn't like to be accused of being a homosexual. He wasn't. He really, really wasn't. He hoped.
As he walked to his station—he noticed something. There were significantly less people in the studio. The lighting crew was there of course, then Kiku, then Gilbert…but that was it.
Speaking of the lighting crew, Arthur needed to break them up. They were on the verge of making out again.
Ludwig (Mr. Beilschmidt) and Feliciano were both face to face having a sort of "spark moment". It would appear to be cute if this weren't the fifth time this week. Those two were always up to something. Didn't they know workplace romances never worked out? Unless, of course, you were in a romance manga or fanfiction. Ha! What an idiotic thing to think of—half the time those didn't work out either.
Any-who, Arthur approached the ever so loving couple and stared blankly at them before clearing his throat.
They jumped apart rather quickly.
"Ah! Didn't see you there." Ludwig said, standing up straight—trying to not seem surprised.
"My apologies. Could you two please turn the light towards that wall?"
"Ve~, Of course Mr. Kirkland!" Feliciano said with little to no phasing. He never really seemed to care when Arthur broke up their little escapades. Well…he believed it doesn't bother Feliciano—that ones very hard to get a read on. He might just be stupid.
Finally at peace with how everyone in the studio was working, Mr. Kirkland took a deep breath in and set up his camera.
Photography wasn't something he was passionate about, it was rather the models. Yes, he got into the business in hopes to get laid! Who wouldn't?
Arthur was a self proclaimed dick, and he was proud of it!
The only problem was…he still hadn't gotten with a model…or anyone in that matter.
It was kind of pathetic.
But that was enough of Arthur drowning in self pity for now, he had a job to do, and he was going to do the best he could—though that would simply be mediocre.
Oh, what was he to do? There hadn't been a model interested in him since…ever.
As Arthur began to succumb to his self pity once more, Mr. Braginski opened the door, a figure standing beside him.
He was gorgeous.
Blond curly hair running down to his shoulders, his bangs covering one eye, the deep red lips, the rosy cheeks, the slim figure, the subtle stubble—everything about him was absolutely stunning.
"Everybody!" Ivan announced. "This is Francis Bonnefoy, he will be out model for the next week. Make sure he feels welcome!"
Arthur was struck by what seemed to be an imaginary arrow. It hit him right in-between his pectorals. Arthur didn't seem to be the only one either, hell even Gilbert was staring.
"Bonjour, je me réjouis de travailler avec vous tous"
Arthur had no idea what he said but it was hot. He needed Francis, and he needed him bad.
—
Working with Francis proved to be difficult.
He wasn't a big fan of listening to Gilberts posing suggestions, it was either too complex or too simple—never a middle ground or compromise.
Arthur had nearly taken back what he had though earlier, maybe Francis wasn't the one for him (though that would suggest that he ever had a chance, which to be very clear he did not).
Francis nagged and complained to the crew constantly in his stupid French accent that Arthur still found very attractive.
After the first day of constant bickering of employer and employee, Arthur was properly worn out. He wanted to do nothing more than to crawl back home and lay in his hard cardboard bed.
Unfortunately Francis had other plans for him.
"Mr. Kirkland? Going home so early?"
Arthur froze where he stood, nervous.
"Uh..Yeah, it's been quite a long day."
"Well, if it's not too much of a bother, could you please walk me to my car?"
Every thought of the French man being annoying left Arthur's head in an instant. Maybe he'd finally score, get laid, whatever you'd want to call it.
"Oh. OH! Yes, of-of course I'll uh walk you. Yeah, I'll walk you!". Arthur was a stuttering, blubbering mess.
Francis giggled. It was such a sweet, soft sound—almost like an angels song. The English man was believing that beauty beside him was an angel sent from heaven. A gift from god if you will.
So he offered out his arm, and Francis took it. Arthur's face was bright red as they left.
As they left the building though, Francis's demeanor changed a bit. Something darker coming out.
"I wanted to talk to you about your photography skills."
Arthur gulped.
"When you were photographing me, you didn't catch my form, my elegance. Why not?"
He was lost for words.
"Well…uhm…you see—"
"What I see is a man who doesn't appreciate the beauty of the fine arts."
Those words hit him straight in the chest. He was almost offended. Almost. He would totally be if Francis weren't so right. Arthur didn't have a passion. He hated the arts. He hated taking photos of fancily dressed men—he only really joined the business because of one factor. Lust. That was the only thing that drove him. He wanted to sleep with the ones he was photographing. He didn't see their beauty, he only saw their body. Hell, he didn't even look at their faces most of the time, unless they were heavily decorated and/or accentuated with makeup.
Francis seemed to catch onto this crisis, a pout forming on his face.
"What's the point of you being my photographer if you cannot capture my essence? What is the point? Tell me Mr. Kirkland. Tell me now!"
"…Well…" every excuse Arthur could come up with died in his throat as he gazed into Francis's eyes. He looked hurt. Arthur wasn't sure why. Maybe he just had never had a bad photographer before. Who knows?
"Why is this so important to you anyway? It's a shoot for a magazine."
Francis didn't reply to him. He just turned away and steadily walked ahead of Arthur to his car.
Before he entered it though, he spoke up.
"Let me ask you this, Mr. Kirkland. What makes art?"
"A person."
"You aren't wrong."
Francis sighed after saying that.
"But I wanted you to say the materials, the muse. Not just 'a person', it's the person who makes the art."
"What you're saying isn't making any sense."
"Ofcourse it doesn't. Art doesn't make sense to people like you. Assholes like you have no passion or artistic integrity! It sickens me to see men like you in the field."
And with that, Francis got into his car and slammed the door.
Arthur was at a loss for words, mainly because he was confused…but also seeing Francis mad made him feel something. Not guilt or regret, Arthur was too emotionally stunted for that. No, Arthur felt anger. He felt anger towards Francis.
Who did that skank think he was? He thought he could get away with yelling at his photographer. What a brat!
Now Arthur was all pouty and mad. He decided to head home for a drink. Unfortunately on the way home, he ended up getting pulled over. The anger had caused him to speed. It was all Francis's fault! Yeah!
He got fined $500. Thank god he didn't get arrested.
When he made it home, he threw his coat on the floor before realizing that he shouldn't be throwing a tantrum at this age.
So, he calmly stomped his way into his room and laid on the bed—screaming into the pillow.
What did that absolute prick know about passion, art, or any of that junk! He wasn't the one doing it! He was the muse! He probably hadn't touched a camera ever!
God, why did he let this pretty boy get him so mad!? Why should he let him dictate his feelings like that? Everything was so confusing. He didn't need to let some guys personal opinions get to him!
Passion, huh? Who needed that? Not him.