One Song, Legacy (Punk!EnglandxReader)

Punk!Ill!England x Poet!Reader


Chapter One





___________ rapped lightly on the old metal door, hoping Alfred or Arthur would answer the door quickly.  She involuntary shuddered as she felt a chilling breeze seep through her worn coat.  “Come on, losers…” ________  was agitated by the frigid weather.  It was December 24th, 1989. New York was covered in Christmas Spirit. People were scrambling about to shop for last minute gifts, shops were mercilessly blaring bad holiday hits from their expensive speakers and there had to be over a thousand “Santa Claus’s” ringing bells to get people to donate to the Salvation Army. “Such a happy scene. People are wasting their money on gifts that’ll get thrown in the trash while one fifth of the city’s population is in need. Happy birthday, Jesus.”  Her thoughts were interrupted when the door swung open, revealing Alfred.  


“__________!”  He yelled excitedly as he engulfed her in a hug.  “Nice to see you too, dude.” ________ laughed as she pried herself from the young filmmaker’s iron grip.  “It’s been a long time… Is Francis here yet?”  She walked in and set her bag on the metal table and looked around the cold, leaky loft apartment.  “Not yet. He said around 7pm, but who knows with the greyhound?”  ________ gave a grunt in reply.  Distant chords echoed through the air from the balcony.  The young poet focused her sight to the window.  “Is he…?” She said with light concern.  “He’s fine. Been taking his medication. Still writing that crappy song.” Alfred laughed lightly.  ________ gave a small smile in return.  She returned her gaze to the window listening for more broken, distant chords.

-------------

Arthur plucked aimlessly at his guitar trying to find the right notes to complete a melody.  “One song…glory…” He sang softly. He cleared his throat and tried again, the cold winter air drying out his vocal chords.  “One song, one last refrain…glory. From the pretty boy front man… Who wasted opportunity…” He let out a frustrated sigh.  Nothing sounded right. He, for the life of him, couldn’t put a decent phrase together that would effectively express how he felt. After all, he hadn’t much time left before he…


“Still haven’t written that song, eh?” ______’s voice snapped him out of train of thought.  “Nah.  Nothing sounds right.  I’ll get it, though…”  Arthur replied looking out at the skyline. He heard ________ sit beside him.   They both sat there in silence.  The cold didn’t really affect them since the apartment itself wasn’t much warmer.  _______ glanced at Arthur. He’d lost a bit more weight, which was a given.  They really couldn’t afford to eat regularly.  His usually vibrant emerald eyes held a bit of worry.  Arthur was slowly losing himself, and there was nothing _______ could do to stop it.  


Sensing that he was under _________’s watchful glare, he spoke with his gaze straight ahead.  “Can’t resist my good looks, eh love? “His tone was coated in cockiness.  _______ looked away with mild disgust.  “In your dreams, Kirkland.”  That made him smile.  He enjoyed her company, more than he would want to admit.  But with his deteriorating heath, he would probably have to admit it to her soon… “Kirkland, it’s freakin’ cold out here. Let’s go in before we freeze our butts off.” He laughed softly as he followed ________ back inside the loft.  

Alfred had started a fire using a giant metal barrel and left over lighter fluid.  Arthur scoured the floor and picked up some old sheet music and threw it in. “The music ignites the night with passionate fire…”  He said, thickening up his North London accent for a dramatic effect.  Alfred laughed in heartily and threw a thick stack of yellowed papers in while reciting “The narration crackles and pops with incendiary wit!”  Arthur raised a thick eyebrow.  “Wasn’t that from your upcoming movie?”  Alfred scoffed.  “From here on out, I write without a script. Hopefully something comes of it, other than my old stuff…” He replied bitterly.  


The three heard the gears in the lock shifted and the door swung open to reveal a very exhausted Francis.  “Joyeux Noel!” He slowly cantered in and set his suitcase on the floor. “Zat is zhe last time I travel from California to New York by bus.”  The young college professor sighed and flopped in the cracked leather couch by the fire.   ________ sat next to him. “How was the teaching gig at Berkley?”  

“Zhey fired me for my theory of actual reality…”  

“That sucks” Alfred said.

“Then, how’d you get back home?” Arthur asked as he sat in a chair adjacent from the fire.

“I ‘ad enough money from my last paycheck… I’ll go and pick up somesing tomorrow.”  Francis replied, his voice muffled.  
Alfred shoved his hands in his pockets as he walked over to the windows that lead to the balcony. He started to shut the windows.  He paused when he looked down below on the street. There were a couple of guys stapling neon yellow pieces of paper on all the doors of the run-down buildings on the 14th street.  “Alfred, what are you staring at?”  _______ joined him and looked down. They both gave each other a knowing look.

“Eviction notice…”