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When Arthur heard he’d be going to the beach, he required a handful of things: a few crates of beer -Alistair said he’d sort it- a sun cream to shield four pasty men, and a bloody good book to read. Every summer he’d choose a genre: last year’s being crime, the one before that some rather dark humour, and this time round he fancied something richer. Less grit and more chivalry tales. He bypassed the glorious thrillers, glanced the romance books -no, next time- opting for the history section instead.
Fiction, or non-fiction? he hummed, shifting his weight from foot to foot. There was a pleasure in recalling the past, just to learn from mistakes of old, but in the company of his older brothers British history wasn’t ideal. Each one felt strongly about a different place: Alistair loved Scotland, Seamus Ireland, whilst Dylan held a fondness for the Welsh outdoors, having studied there for university. Historical discussions always stoked the flames, and no man would yield to the others’ opinions.
Pacing along the aisle, Arthur decided to broaden his scope. He could read about France perhaps, but then he’d learnt enough about it at school, and could do with a change of scene. Germany was a possible option, filled with numerous beautiful castles, and therefore a number of tales as well. Arthur went east, considering Russia. Mongolia or Thailand maybe, but then something called him back to the west, stopping at the leftmost book display.
“Spain,” Arthur muttered aloud. Spain was different, in a good kind of way. He’d visited once for a family holiday, and whilst many would talk of the sun, the street performers and colourful markets, little Arthur only cared for his ice cream which he’d dropped upon the floor. He spoke his hola with a British twang, and despite the constant mispronounciation of paella and chorizo, he did rather like the-
“Hey. You alive in there, or what?”
Arthur shook off his foggy gaze, seeking the intruder of his Spanish daydreams. He found himself closer to the bookcase than he realised, and right behind him was a man his own height, eyeing the books and Arthur in turn. His wild hair was pulled into a low ponytail, eyes narrowed and temper rising, whilst over his shoulder Arthur found something nicer. A short haired, pleasant version of the man, who gave his companion a pat on the back.
“Leave him alone, he’s alright.”
“He’s in our way!” protested the other, turning to his almost twin. Arthur suspected the pair were related, but the closest bloke looked a few years older, and nagged with the might of his dear Scottish grandmother. 'Friendly intruder', on the other hand, struck Arthur as a sensible soul. He laughed and nudged his brother/cousin/potential dodgy uncle aside, and checked out Arthur with a dangerous smile. Something lovely and warm and absolutely damaging to Arthur’s weak knees, which buckled as he tried to move.
“My apologies,” Arthur blurted, stumbling into the shelves. He slapped a hand out to gain some purchase, and wound up tripping on his foot instead, barely caught by the beautiful, incredible, possibly-a-celestial-being before him, who even chuckled in a sing song tone.
“Steady there.”
“Here we go again,” grumbled his friend(?), choosing to step back from the drama. “I take you out for one nice shopping trip, and you’ve already got someone falling for you. Quite literally at that.”
“I’m just clumsy,” Arthur insisted.
“Nice to meet you, Just Clumsy,” the man scoffed. “I’m João, and this is Antonio.”
“Don’t mind him,” said Antonio, shooting João a hardened stare. “Big baby didn’t get enough coffee this morning. Makes him grumpier than he already is.”
“I see,” Arthur tried to keep up. “And you are?”
“We just told you our names,” João complained.
“I think he means what, not who,” sighed Antonio, addressing Arthur’s question. “We’re brothers. He’s the eldest.”
“Also the wisest and the funniest. And quite possibly the sexiest too.”
“I believe that’s a matter of opinion.”
“Believe what you- oh for the love of...” João stopped himself right before the curse, which was just as well given their location. An old-fashioned ringtone had cut him off, coming from somewhere around his arse, and as he fought to locate his phone Arthur shook off a sickening nostalgia. The tune was a classic from years ago, reminiscent of monochrome pixel displays, VHS players and good old cassette tapes. Alistair -his oldest brother- was the first to receive such a phone, and therefore held power over his siblings. He’d often boast of his 8-bit music or that game involving a snake, and if one of the brothers should fall into his favour, they could play it for a minute or five.
Back to Antonio’s grumbling gremlin of a sibling: Arthur’s suspicions were finally confirmed. João unveiled a scratched grey brick, indeed a relic from simpler times, and one glance at the screen had his mood flipping fast. He couldn’t have answered sooner if he tried, bringing it to his ear with a cheery: “Hoi Schatje. Hoe gaat- well now, that’s just rude. My pronounciation is perfect, bedankt.”
Further down the aisle a woman was glaring, whilst her young son tugged the hem of her jacket, and pointed to the noisy crowd. Arthur sympathised to a certain degree, rolling his eyes and smiling, but then João went and marched right past her, blissfully ignorant to the offence he was causing, whilst loudly boasting of his Dutch proficiency.
“You’re going as well?” Arthur asked Antonio, surprised when he shook his head and grimaced.
“He’ll be on the phone for a while. It’s the boyfriend calling.”
“Oh.”
“At any rate, don’t mind him. I feel like I’ve told you that before-”
“It’s alright.”
Antonio’s face said otherwise. His shoulders sank with a hefty sigh, and he lazily scanned the bookshelves, feigning interest in the titles. “João says it’s me we can’t take out, but he’s the one who causes a scene.”
“Well, the phone is rather horrific. I didn’t think they made that model any more.”
“They don’t,” Antonio snorted. “João’s old fashioned like that. Very much a if it’s not broken, I’ll still use it kind of guy. I’m not exactly one to talk, but at least my phone’s more recent, and-”
Important as it was to listen, Arthur found himself caught in a haze. Antonio’s English held a marvellous accent, a slight roll to the r like a purr, and when he laughed it was something else. An echo of his pleasant Spanish daydreams, hot summer days and that poor little ice cream. It wasn’t right to ask just yet, but Arthur wagered he was from such shores, a land far away from miserable England.
“I swear he’s friendly,” Antonio went on. “But like I said earlier, there’s the coffee situation. Actually he- well, it’s a long story really, but we ran out of the usual blend. I said we could buy some more, but you know how it goes with those types, the local one is shit because it’s English, and his lordship needed the- oh.” Antonio blinked, noticing Arthur’s distant stare. “Sorry I-... I went on didn’t I?”
“No no! It was great, I was listening!”
Antonio shrugged it off, slipping into Arthur’s now-favourite smile. “You’re funny. Mr...?”
“Arthur.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Pleasure’s all mine,” Arthur said, then stupidly bowed in turn. He placed a palm against his chest in the process, and whether he meant to entertain or not, Antonio barked a sudden laugh. A delightfully bubbly, infectious sound, which put a daft grin on Arthur’s face, and wrinkled his freckled nose.
“I’m glad I amused you.”
“That you did, sir,” Antonio mocked, putting on a horrible mock-posh accent. “Might I inquire as to your plans after this...” he turned to the bookshelves, and the woman still glaring down the other end, “heaven knows what one would call it. A purchasing escapade?”
“Close enough,” Arthur laughed, not that he knew what to say himself. His family were hardly noble, swore like sailors and fought like the best. Conversations were short and not-so-sweet, blunt awright mates and daft pricks ahoy. “As for your question, Antonio-”
“Call me Toni.”
Arthur swallowed, pushing down a blush. It’s a nickname, nothing more, he told himself, forcing a cough as he continued: “Righty ho. As I was saying. I don’t have anything planned, but I do fancy a cuppa.”
Antonio beamed. “A tea man? I expected no less.”
“You prefer coffee?”
“I do, but-” Antonio paused, clasping both hands behind his back. “I can’t say I dislike your ‘cuppa’. And I know a good place, if you’d like to go now?”
“But your brother-”
“He’ll be fine. I’ll send a text.”
The blush returned with a vengeance, turning Arthur a comical pink. He’d only come to buy a book, nothing more, and somehow he stumbled upon a lovely man, who was now inviting him for out a drink? Even when Antonio tugged his jacket, giggling with a little come on you, Arthur couldn’t quite believe his luck. They shuffled past the scowling woman, listened to muffled Dutch -João still lurking somewhere- and last Arthur recalled was the touch of warm skin. Slender fingers laced in his own.