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“I heard it myself, he was right there!”
“Mon dieu.” Francis places a hand over his chest, dumbfounded by the news. “Is he all right?”
“Wait, you’re certain this is Arthur we’re talking about, right?”
“I told you a million times he walked right past me!”
“I don’t get it,” Matthew mutters, cutting through the trio’s very heated conversation amongst the office’s break room. He takes a sip from his coffee cup, hissing at how little it’s cooled down since his last attempt. “What’s the big deal? He’s probably just in a good mood today.”
The three pairs of eyes that then turned to stare at him from across the coffee table made him feel like the most oblivious person on the planet. But after a firm reassessment of just who’s looking at him, the feeling quickly withdraws. Blowing on it a bit beforehand, takes another sip of his coffee.
“So he came into work humming, no big deal.”
Francis is the first to snap out of his dumbfounded trance. “Matthieu, I know you’re fairly new here, but you have to understand that Arthur isn’t happy practically all the time - especially at work. I’ve known him for years, and the only thing that’ll put a smile on that face is an evening out with a good bottle of whisky.”
“First of all, I’ve already been here for almost a year.” It’s just that some people didn’t seem to notice up until recently, but he’s use to that. “Second of all, I’m friends with Arthur too, you know. He’s just happy because today’s the day that—“
“You aren’t considered a regular until you’ve seen Arthur at the annual Christmas party, newbie.” This time, it’s Gilbert who interrupts, having freshly downed his double espresso. It’s only a matter of time before he’s skyrocketing across the office corridor on a swivel chair. “Now we all know our own boss pretty well - the guy’s had a stick the size of Big Ben up his ass for the past three years since I got here.”
“Nice to hear, Gil.” The sentence is half-hearted. “Now as I was saying, he’s just happy because today’s the day that his watch goes off - I saw it a week ago when he handed me some papers and I asked him about it.”
Gilbert's indignant squawk of surprise contrasts with the sound of Francis choking on his mouthful of coffee as his paper cup hit and spilt across the table. Matthew immediately pulls the cup back upright, reaching for the tissues on a nearby counter while patting the Frenchman’s back.
Antonio smiles at the reactions of his two friends, taking a sip from the carton of juice he’d gotten in place of coffee. “It seems like it won’t be a stick that’s up his ass much longer, no?”
Biting into his cold, dingy tuna sandwich, Arthur sighs happily.
Today’s the day. The day he’ll meet his soulmate.
Before, the numbers on his watch would always sit there, tormenting him. From the day they learnt their meanings in Year 3, they’ve always hung like a shadow over him. From his early years, comments such as “look at how long his is!” and “ew, he’s gonna be so old when they meet, with wrinkles and everything!” were tossed around almost every other lunch break (not that seven year olds actually knew what twenty-seven year olds looked like, he was just surrounded by a class of college sweethearts.)
That feeling of shame came back to bite him back almost a year ago, when Francis called him at three in the morning to brag about how he’d found love in one of their new potential employees - to which Arthur replied with a disgruntled “fuck you” and a middle finger the Frenchman most definitely didn’t see before he hung up.
But, none of that mattered today.
Throwing away the half-eaten sandwich - not even the rising nausea in his gut caused by the stench of week-old fish could ruin his gusto - and exiting the coffee shop, Arthur hums (the same action that’d caused such a commotion at his workplace earlier). Not even the thought of returning from his lunch break to the stack of papers on his desk could ruin his mood.
He nears a small alleyway, too obliviously joyful to notice the strange collection of figures standing just out of the light’s reach. His pace slows down as he lifts his wrist closer to his face, pulling his suit sleeve up to check the watch one more tim—
Thump!
He falls to the ground, barely registering the bloom of pain in the crown of his skull before everything cuts off to black.
When he wakes up, he believes he’s still asleep.
Information of his surroundings come to him slowly. First it’s the feeling of sitting upright on an uncomfortably sturdy wooden chair, second it’s the throbbing echo of pain at the back of his head, then it’s the strip of cloth tied tightly over his mouth, and then it’s the chilling realization that - as icing to the cake - he’s blindfolded.
He’s been kidnapped.
The realization makes him to double over and vomit. He struggles in his seat, realizing that his wrists have been bound behind the back of the chair. His commotion seems to have attracted the attention of other people in the room, as the sound of footsteps and shuffling come from all sides.
“He’s woken up.”
“‘bout time. I thought we’d have to have our own little wake up call.”
One pair of footsteps seems to come closer than the rest. Arthur jolts away instinctively, chair legs scraping against the hard floor. The footsteps stop, and Arthur somehow feels less at ease than when they were approaching.
A gloved hand yanks him up with a fistful of hair. “Relax we’re not gonna do anything to ya.” The voice is right against the shell of his ear, so thick and grimy he can feel the bile surging up in his throat. “Just be patient and don’t move, yeah? We want this deal to go as smoothly as possible.”
At that, he releases Arthur’s hair and walks away.
He has no choice but to comply and stay silent. Luckily, the remaining people in the room seem to have no interest in doing nothing but keeping it that way. They go off on a tangent, talking about the news, weather, and what they plan to do with their share of the hostage money - you know, just light conversation.
Remembering something, Arthur shakes his wrist.
The watch is still on it.
If he could, he’d breathe out a sigh of relief - the last thing he’d want is for one of these goons to be his soulmate. Not that it’s still impossible - watches only fall through direct contact or being addressed verbally. At least one of them is off the list.
However, the thought only seems to worry him even further. He’s been kidnapped, on the day he’ll meet his soulmate. Of everything he believed could go wrong - a coffee stain on his shirt, forgetting remove the price tag of his new suit - this had to happen. Under what circumstances will he meet his future partner now? No, no, priorities, Arthur. Just how will he get out of this situation in the first place?
Why not have both?
The very thought of it makes a spark of joy flicker in the darkness of the situation. It made sense - the person to get him out of this dreadful turn of events (with help, of course), the man or woman who’ll rescue him from these cruel captors, is his soulmate.
His hero.
As if on cue, Arthur hears the sounds of muffled footsteps, followed by the open and close of a rather large metal door. “Just got word from the boss, Jones is coming.” The casual banter somewhere behind him stops, followed by the sound of a cigarette dropping and being crushed into the concrete.
Who?
“Ah, shit,” a new voice hisses, fiddling with something heavy in his hands that Arthur most certainly did not like the sound of. “He got here earlier than expected. Anybody with him?”
They’re expecting him? Despite his situation, a bubble of giddiness rises through his chest. Perhaps this “Jones” is part of a police squad or a rescue team. The chances of his hero arriving to save him are still likely.
“He’s alone.”
What?
“Huh, I didn’t expect him to pay us a casual visit,” another one of them grunts. “Get ready, boys. We’ll need to give him a warm welcome.”
Things stay silent for a good several minutes. At least that’s how it felt to Arthur. An occasional murmur or comment was passed, but he didn’t bother to strain his ears to hear what they were saying. He couldn’t even if he tried, not when the light ticking of his watch seemed to resonate through his body, not when the anticipation in his stomach seemed to curl and twist it into knots worthy of every boy scout’s badge known to man.
He hears footsteps (loud and thumping - boots possibly?) approaching from beyond the heavy door, and the knots seem to tighten exponentially. So much so that he doesn’t notice the complete lack of response from the men around him, or the soft comment of “Look sharp.” from his left.
The door opens, and he doesn’t realize he’s been holding his breath up until that point.
It’s silent for a long time (why aren’t they doing anything!?) before those heavy footsteps from before begin to move once more - circling him in the darkness like a hawk. A bead of sweat drops from his temple, heartbeat quickening as if he were bound prey in the face of an unholy predator.
Somehow, that doesn’t seem too far off from the current situation.
“So this is Arthur Kirkland, huh? Head of the division?” The voice is vibrant and innocent, and it rings alarm bells in his head like never before. “He’s…smaller than I expected. Cute.”
Despite himself, Arthur feels himself flush at the comment - just who did this man think he was?
“This is him, Mr.Jones.” Mr.Jones? Is he their superior? As if this could get any worse. “We found him during his lunch break - nobody noticed the abduction. We’re ready to begin negotiations b—“
“Don’t be so business-y right off the boat, dude.” He hears the telltale sound of a gloved hand landing on someone’s shoulder. “And no need to be all formal and shit, and just call me Alfred! I already know you guys were slacking off anyways - recording devices aren’t hard to come by these days.”
There are a few sharp intakes of breath somewhere behind him, contrasting with the resounding chuckle in front of him that makes the hairs on the back of his neck prickle with heat. The circling begins again - the air more tense than it was before - and this time he makes a full revolution before speaking again.
Alfred laughs, and the very way it echoes and reverberates through the room they’re in strikes Arthur to his core. “He’s perfect. Think of all the money we’ll make off of him!"
The man pivots, boots crunching against the cement floor, and walks toward Arthur. Gloved fingers slide softly onto his cheek, making Arthur jolt and whine against the cloth in his mouth. With a chuckle, Alfred lifts the blindfold off and Arthur’s heart seizes when he’s faced with a pair of smirking blue eyes, glinting with almost electric flair in the dim light.
His watch clicks and falls unceremoniously from his wrist.
Their watches hit the ground simultaneously, basking in the echoing silence that they leave the room in.
After a few seconds of surprise, the smirk returns again - wider this time. Arthur’s heartbeat quickens, sparks of primordial instinct shooting through his veins. He’s a demon, his mind screams at him, an absolute demon.
“Looks like we’ll be having a lot of fun together, won’t we, Artie?”