Of course, it never occurred to Arthur that the repair shop that Alfred worked for might, in fact, have multiple men in their employ and that even if he did happen to accidentally flush a cherry bomb down his toilet, he wouldn't necessarily be graced by the sight of Alfred's glorious arse bent over as he attempted to fix the ensuing disaster.
Because when he went to answer the door, fully prepared to laughingly blame his broken toilet on the incredible and persisting nuisance that was his nephew, (he really did have a nephew, by the way; his name was Peter and he was fucking annoying as hell, so this fib wasn't a stretch. Not by a long shot.) he was sadly not greeted by shining blue eye, a killer smile, delectable muscles barely contained by a thin t-shirt, tanned skin that glistened in the sun - well. You get the idea.
It was actually, and rather depressingly, the exact opposite. This man had chocolate brown eyes and an intense scowl that twisted his mouth so viciously that Arthur wondered if the man even knew how to smile. The man stood there, arms crossed, foot tapping in obvious impatience.
“Kirkland?” he asked rudely, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes?” Arthur asked, unimpressed.
“Lovino Vargas,” he said, “I'm your repairman.”
There was a long pause, wherein Mr. Vargas managed to sink his brows even further into a truly frightening scowl, one that might even outdo Arthur's own impressive glare, and the Englishman tried to decide whether or not it was acceptable to turn the man away based purely on the fact that his arse didn't inspire poetry. Arthur liked to imagine he wasn't that big of a dick, though, despite his tendency to write about them (oh fuck, that pun was so bad it wasn't even worth laughing at in his sad, sad excuse for a brain right now) and so he opened the door further.
“Lovely,” Arthur said, deadpan, and led the man to the toilet that sorely needed to be fixed. He opened the door and the man just stood there, staring at the broken porcelain for long moments before looking at Arthur.
“What the fuck did you do?” he asked, frowning, and Arthur could just barely detect a hint of Italian in his accent, peeking out through his cussing.
“My nephew flushed a cherry bomb down the toilet,” Arthur explained, then turned. “Just fix it.”
Act Natural [2a/?]
Of course, it never occurred to Arthur that the repair shop that Alfred worked for might, in fact, have multiple men in their employ and that even if he did happen to accidentally flush a cherry bomb down his toilet, he wouldn't necessarily be graced by the sight of Alfred's glorious arse bent over as he attempted to fix the ensuing disaster.
Because when he went to answer the door, fully prepared to laughingly blame his broken toilet on the incredible and persisting nuisance that was his nephew, (he really did have a nephew, by the way; his name was Peter and he was fucking annoying as hell, so this fib wasn't a stretch. Not by a long shot.) he was sadly not greeted by shining blue eye, a killer smile, delectable muscles barely contained by a thin t-shirt, tanned skin that glistened in the sun - well. You get the idea.
It was actually, and rather depressingly, the exact opposite. This man had chocolate brown eyes and an intense scowl that twisted his mouth so viciously that Arthur wondered if the man even knew how to smile. The man stood there, arms crossed, foot tapping in obvious impatience.
“Kirkland?” he asked rudely, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes?” Arthur asked, unimpressed.
“Lovino Vargas,” he said, “I'm your repairman.”
There was a long pause, wherein Mr. Vargas managed to sink his brows even further into a truly frightening scowl, one that might even outdo Arthur's own impressive glare, and the Englishman tried to decide whether or not it was acceptable to turn the man away based purely on the fact that his arse didn't inspire poetry. Arthur liked to imagine he wasn't that big of a dick, though, despite his tendency to write about them (oh fuck, that pun was so bad it wasn't even worth laughing at in his sad, sad excuse for a brain right now) and so he opened the door further.
“Lovely,” Arthur said, deadpan, and led the man to the toilet that sorely needed to be fixed. He opened the door and the man just stood there, staring at the broken porcelain for long moments before looking at Arthur.
“What the fuck did you do?” he asked, frowning, and Arthur could just barely detect a hint of Italian in his accent, peeking out through his cussing.
“My nephew flushed a cherry bomb down the toilet,” Arthur explained, then turned. “Just fix it.”