Chapter Text
June 12th, 2013
Lagos, Portugal
Arthur hated the heat.
He hated the sun. Hated how suffocated his skin felt, and how his blonde hair stuck to his neck and forehead. Hated how his sweat seeped into his green eyes, and how it didn't even seem matter, because he couldn't see his laptop screen anyway.
And the sand. God, what had he been thinking? It must have crept its way into his computer's ports by now, absolutely destroying the hardware. At least, that's for sure what it was doing to him. And he quite liked his hardware, thank you very much.
Arthur agitatedly balanced the laptop on his knees, reaching down to scratch his outstretched leg. The sand made him itch.
From his spot on their blanket, he could see his brothers in the distance. All four of them. They swam in the warm ocean waves, and chased each other across the sun-kissed sand, and laughed loud enough that Arthur was sure everyone could tell they were tourists.
And for a moment, he figured maybe he should join them, in all their tourist-y merriment. But then who would finish his code?
He pulled his sunhat — large, frilly, and possibly from the women's section — somehow even further down his head, wiping away the sweat from his bare upper lip. His little battery-operated fan had stopped working long ago, and had rolled away somewhere beside him, leaving him to cook in the Iberian sun. This, he felt, warranted his irritation. Ever the little prince, Alasdair had teased. As if the man wasn't high-maintenance in his own ways.
Though perhaps Arthur should feel… happy? No… grateful? No!
Happy. Happy that Alasdair had wanted him to come on his college graduation trip. Not grateful. Grateful would imply that Arthur didn't deserve to be here. Grateful would be sad.
Truthfully — though Arthur would never reveal this truth outside the sanctity of his therapist's office — it was nice to be thought of. Nice to feel like maybe his eldest brother actually wanted to spend some time with him.
Then again, this invite was most likely outstretched because Alasdair and Francis' on-again-off-again relationship was currently off, otherwise they'd be together in Paris. And perhaps Alasdair would've dragged the rest of his brothers to Paris too. But he didn't. Thank God. Weren't their joint Kirkland-Bonnefoy family Christmases enough? Arthur felt it was enough. Enough of Francis. Maybe even too much of Francis.
Arthur also knew that if he hadn't come, then the hotels, and the flights, and the excursions, would have never gotten booked or planned.
So whatever. His brothers could wait. It's not like Arthur could swim anyway.
He picked up his water bottle which jingled from the ice inside, and took a few sips before going back to typing on his computer. He didn't count how much time had passed when Dylan fell by his side, breathless and laughing. He tossed Arthur's water bottle to their feet, and grumbled about the portable fan that had been caught under his back.
"What are you working on?" he asked, peering up at Arthur through the glare of the sun.
Arthur yawned in reply and blinked heavily. The heat was annoying, but it did a good job of putting him to sleep too. And the code didn't help. God, it was boring. "That project thing… for that one lab…" he eventually replied absentmindedly, biting his lip as his code returned an error. He must've forgotten a bracket somewhere. Ugh.
Dylan nodded from beside him, a smile on his face, "When you graduate, you gotta take us somewhere even better than Lagos."
"You mean more expensive."
Dylan's smile grew wider, Arthur could feel it. He turned to face his older brother, unamused.
Of all his brothers, Dylan looked the most like him. Blonde hair, a slim frame. Of course, their signature Kirkland green eyes. He was a year older, but just a little shorter. And he was always smiling. He was gentle, and kind, and Arthur was sure that he sucked up all the goodness that had been left in the womb.
Dylan was the fourth of the Kirkland boys. Arthur the fifth. The Bonnefoy's — though really just Francis, and sometimes Véronique — would joke that their parents really must've wanted a girl. Arthur hated to admit that they might've made an astute observation. It was all boys. And in swift succession.
Alasdair. Then the next year, the twins: Sean and Connor. Then the year after that: Dylan. And then finally, one more year later: Arthur.
He figured Mum and Da gave up after that. Maybe they thought Arthur could be their daughter. Maybe they realized Alasdair really liked Prince Adam from Beauty and the Beast. He'd keep replaying the end reveal. Talk about an embarrassing first crush.
"I haven't even started uni yet," the youngest Kirkland boy chided his brother.
Dylan, ever the angel, ever the optimist, replied, "Yeah, but you'll be done before you know it."
Arthur rolled his eyes back to his laptop. Then he sighed. God had split the heavens and shone down a light, and once again, as always, Dylan was speaking truths.
Arthur would be done before he knew it. And so would this trip.
He slammed his laptop shut.
Then reopened it to make sure his code saved.
Then slammed it shut again. And gently tucked it into his backpack.
"Are you even wearing sunscreen?" he asked Dylan, who shrugged in reply. Idiot.
Arthur stood, stretching every muscle in his lean body. He slipped off his short-sleeved white button-up, and dropped it to his feet. Then he held out a hand to Dylan, who clasped it and allowed himself to be pulled up.
"Finally ready to have fun?" Dylan laughed. Arthur rolled his eyes, before kicking sand up at his brother and running to the ocean. The wind swept up his sunhat, sending it flying into the clear blue sky. It whipped back his golden hair and roared in his ears. And somehow, it was all welcome.
Arthur wasn't sure how much salt water he swallowed that afternoon, but did he know by evening that whatever amount it was, it hadn't filled his stomach.
"You're still shite at swimming," Alasdair said, reaching out to brush sand from Arthur's shoulder. Arthur absentmindedly swatted his hand away, focused on the menu of the little bistro they now found themselves seated outside.
"Oh, excuse the hell out of me, mate." Alasdair raised his hands in mock surrender, earning a glare from Arthur. Alasdair with his smug face, and his broad shoulders, and his ever so effortless umber hair. There was wind, a lot of wind. How did his hair still look like that?
What is it like being the bigger man, Alasdair? What is it like knowing how to swim?
"Cataplana de Marisco," Connor announced, tapping his menu, "Gotta get it."
"I don't think you said a single one of those words right," Sean stared down at his menu in disbelief. He then fell forward laughing, catching his hands in his fiery auburn hair. Connor laughed from beside him, a perfect mimicry of his brother. Or was Sean the mimicry? They always lied about who was older.
"Let's just get all of it," Dylan said, exasperated, "My stomach is eating itself."
"Behave," Arthur admonished, "I didn't budget us for 'all of it'."
"Tomorrow isn't guaranteed, let's eat tonight!"
"What podcasts have you been listening to now?"
From the end of the table Alasdair's phone vibrated, shaking their glasses like an earthquake shook buildings. Silence afell the brothers, all Kirkland green eyes gazed upon their eldest. Alasdair felt it, hot and shameless. He kept his own Kirkland green eyes glued to his menu, clearing his throat and rubbing his neck.
Then his phone vibrated again. This embarrassing, controlling, life-ending little—
Arthur reached for his phone.
Alasdair swiftly snatched it away from under his hand.
He then realized his mistake seeing Arthur's devilish grin. Or what he perceived as Arthur's devilish grin. Arthur with his smug face, and his nimble fingers, and his ever so effortlessly composed disposition.
What is it like being the better man, Arthur? What is it like not worrying about your phone?
"I was just going to mute it, mate," Arthur said, arching a — large — brow. Perhaps that was another signature Kirkland feature.
Alasdair scowled at him in response, placing his phone on his lap.
"Well? You're not gonna check who it is?" Dylan questioned. Arthur almost laughed. He couldn't tell if he was being nosy or genuinely concerned. But knowing Dylan, it was probably the latter.
"Why would I check?" Alasdair grumbled in response.
"Could be Mum," Sean chimed.
Arthur snapped his fingers and pointed to his brother in agreement. "Could be Mum," he parroted, willing his tone to be gentle.
Alasdair let his head fall to his side. He shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, "We all know it isn't Mum."
"Who is it then?" Connor asked innocently, "I'm hungry, I want to order soon."
Alasdair groaned, picking up his phone. He brought it to his face before cracking one eye open. He saw the messenger. Tossed the phone. It landed on the table with a clatter, sending drops of water free-falling from their glasses.
"Ach…" Dylan cooed, genuinely remorseful for his eldest brother. Arthur, on the other hand, excitedly grabbed the phone.
"You graduated, bravo," Arthur read out the texts, putting on a French accent, "Thinking of you, Cher."
The youngest Kirkland cringed at the last text, letting his guard down enough for Alasdair to seize the phone from his grip. Francis. Of course it had been Francis. Ew.
Sure, Arthur figured, he wasn't bad to look at. He had an aquiline nose, and sky blue eyes, and wavy blonde hair. And for as long as Arthur could remember, he'd always had a playful smile pulling at the edges of his lips.
But he was arrogant, and snide, and far too much… himself. And from Francis's perspective, Arthur was all those things too.
Still, maybe Alasdair only saw his appearance. But Arthur knew that wasn't the case. He knew Alasdair loved Francis's endless talking, and his thinly-veiled insults, and especially his melodramatic trysts.
"I shouldn't reply, right?" Alasdair prompted the question to his counsel, hoping for all the wrong answers.
"Of course not!" Arthur almost yelled. He then took a moment to gather himself, and spoke again, calmer, "He's toxic, Dair. You can do better."
"But if you still love him…" Dylan trailed off. The gall of this man. Arthur could reach beside him and rip his fluffy blonde hair right out.
"You're kidding." Arthur seethed.
"I'm not."
"You've got to be."
"I'm not, Arthur. If he loves him—"
"I replied," Alasdair announced, cutting through Dylan and Arthur's argument. All heads whipped towards the eldest again, barring Connor, who was rather focused on waving down a waiter.
Sean spoke before Arthur had the chance to reprimand, "What'd you say?"
"Just, 'Thanks'," Alasdair cut his hand through the air with finality.
Then his phone vibrated four more times.
"Good response," Sean decided, nodding in appreciation.
They didn't teach you self-respect at Edinburgh? You got a full scholarship, yet no brains. An economist ignoring trends. Arthur had quite the battalion of responses to his brother's actions. Really, he should write them down. They'd only stay fresh in his mind for so long. And as luck would have it, their waiter chose to approach now. Fantastic.
Arthur held a glare in Alasdair's direction before sighing. He was the only one that had been practicing Portuguese leading up to their trip. Arthur turned to their waiter, plastering on a tired smile. He anticipated this would be a ride for both of them.
Turns out he did a pretty good job learning. Some stutters here and there, but that was to be expected. Nearly the whole menu and a fairly priced bottle of wine came out for the Kirklands. And they ate in silence. That was how they knew the food was good.
The walk back to their rental was loud, but only because Connor and Sean insisted on singing in the streets. They gripped on to each other's shoulders and stumbled over cobbled paths. Alasdair walked a good distance behind them. Partially out of embarrassment, and partially because he took the time to call Francis. Dylan laughed ahead of the twins, recording them on his phone, and yelling out requests for songs he wanted them to sing. And Arthur marched in the far front, his phone on the edge of death, but hanging on to navigate them home.
Each brother got their own room. Arthur made sure of it. He didn't mind spending a little more to ensure their privacy. It was on all Alasdair's card anyway.
But their flights had been cheap, as cheap as Arthur could find them. They'd flown in to Lagos at 6AM, and dilly-dallied in a manner no one had ever dilly-dallied before. A world record, they were proud to say, sure that their medal of recognition would already be waiting for them back in London when they returned.
But such success takes it out of you. As soon as they reached the rental, each Kirkland wordlessly retreated to their rooms, ready to turn in for the night.
And when the sun arose the next morning, Arthur found himself the only one awake.
Heat exhaustion. The idiots.
They only drank ocean water.