Chapter Text
When Arthur got the letter, his interest was piqued.
It was an invitation to a formal party taking place in six weeks, where country’s representatives were all invited to get acquainted.
This was surprising to Arthur, as representatives for countries were nearly never allowed to interact outside of political settings out of fear of their thoughts of eachother not aligning with how their countries’ political status with their respective countries were at the time. It was likely that arranging this had taken months of letters sent and permissions asked and stressing over planning.
The letter explained in pretty, feminine handwriting where it would be hosted, the dress code, the transportation methods, the basic rules, and it was signed in loopy cursive:
F. Bonnefoy
It was hosted in France, by Francis Bonnefoy.
Arthur hadn’t interacted with Bonnefoy often, but his brief experiences with him were enough to make Arthur dislike Francis even more than he already did. Not only were their countries political enemies, Bonnefoy just got on Arthur’s nerves. Something about his unapologetically himself demeanour irked Arthur. At first, he was somewhat interested, but now he simply disliked Bonnefoy. The man was too open and too showy for Arthur’s liking; it made him uncomfortable.
Arthur immediately began to dread the occasion of meeting the other representatives. He remembered Jones, Braginsky, both of the Vargas brothers, and other of the representatives from brief meetings, usually through their bosses or during their bosses’ major conference meetings, and he didn’t interact with them nearly at all either. He found it easier to simply parade himself around as the living version of his country’s beliefs.
Throughout the rest of his day, Arthur was doing anything he could to avoid thinking of the upcoming event. It wasn’t like he could skip it, anyways—he represented a major country. His absence would be extremely questionable.
That night, Arthur went to his room to wind down, he shut his door and slumped on the edge of his bed. He looked for a few seconds at the letter still folded on the nightstand before deciding to ignore it for a little longer and pull his boots off and leave them beside his bed, beginning to strip his uniform off so he could shower.
It was one of the things Arthur quite liked about living in the palace, he was allowed to shower whenever he wished and for however long he wanted, and that applied to other things, he could do whatever he felt like for that time. Unless he was needed for something, he was entirely unbothered. Nobody spoke to him otherwise and he was quite fine with that.
After he showered, Arthur changed into his usual sleep pants and checked to make sure he had locked his door twice before shutting off his lights climbing into bed.
His thoughts went to the upcoming formal party and he rolled over to turn on his lamp and reread the letter. What would he wear to this occasion? Who would he speak with? What would he even do? He was horrid at making conversation and socializing, and he’d probably screw anything he actually did up.
To stop himself from worrying, he decided he’d plan things out tomorrow and set the note back on his nightstand and shut off the light, but it still took him awhile to fall asleep, his thoughts wandering into imaginary scenarios of him making mistakes at the formal party, interacting with specific people, somehow starting fights, all until sleep overtook his mind.
Arthur woke at six to the horns outside signalling the factory workers it was time to get up for work, and his dream quickly came back to him, throwing him for a loop.
He had been in some big ballroom, presumably where his mind had decided the formal party would be set, and he’d been talking with Bonnefoy, laughing with him about their respective countries’ conflicts as if they weren’t supposed to hate each other. He specifically remembered Bonnefoy’s outfit, how he’d been in a suit and a dress skirt at the same time, and it had baffled Arthur. Surely Bonnefoy’s boss wouldn’t have let him wear something like that to what was basically a business party with a bunch of other representatives.
Trying to forget his dream, Arthur got out of bed and showered, shaved his face, brushed his teeth, dressed, and got ready for the day.
Today, Arthur’s boss spoke with him about the upcoming formal party.
While his boss wasn’t the queen, his boss’s boss was basically the queen. His boss was more of an enforcer that told him what the queen wanted and said and made sure if he stepped out of line he would be disciplined.
Arthur’s boss, a mid-fifties man with dark brown eyes explained where he would be going for the formal party, how he would act in France, where he’d be allowed to go in Lyon, the town where the formal party would be taking place, how he’d be staying for two weeks as those were the times they could get him transported there and back, so he’d basically be on vacation.
Arthur’s apprehension didn’t budge despite the idea of two weeks free of responsibility. He would feel so lost without anything being required of him, and it made him feel worse. He felt a little sick at the idea, even.
He was to simply wear his redcoat uniform to the formal party, and that, too, rubbed Arthur the wrong way. He found it unlikely other representatives would be wearing their old uniforms, and he hated the idea of sticking out among the other representatives like that. He felt like a child being dressed by his mother.
But with begrudging acceptance, he left his boss’s workroom to find his uniform.