Above The Line

Chapter Twelve

Alfred was taking a relaxing Saturday morning himself, since tomorrow would be game day, and he needed time to prepare (not to mention pamper himself for a job well done having even gotten this far already). This meant that he woke up later than usual (and usually, he was already one of those guilty of what Arthur considered to be taking a ridiculously late start to the day). The actor lounged in his super comfortable bed for a while, taking in his daily digest of information from his online news aggregate.

Most people considered Alfred to be simple, a man who just perused through the gossiping tabloids and celebrity magazines. No one would have likely expected him to read bits from the Washington Post or the New York Times each morning, or learn about whatever was happening overseas, as he was in the habit of doing. Perhaps it was his young age, or the fact that most people saw him on screen when he was usually shirtless. Whatever it was, Alfred used to resent it, but he had grown accustomed to it by now. The media was always askew from reality. It was just how things worked.

At ten o'clock, Alfred got up and out of bed and padded over to his spacious bathroom, which was in a separate location from his other bathroom that held just his massive bathtub, for evening relaxation purposes only. He brushed his teeth, shaved, and carried out a few other basic routines. Where Arthur would have taken about twenty to thirty minutes, Alfred took nearly an hour and a half. If he didn't, then he would never hear the end of it from his beautician, Gilbert Beilschmidt, who could talk his ear off about the dangers of letting one's skin get "un-awesome."

Alfred skipped breakfast, deciding that he was going to take lunch outside somewhere instead. His cook knew better than to argue with the strong-minded actor, though Alfred knew that she disapproved nevertheless.

Had he taken it, breakfast would have been the standard fare of gourmet cereal and milk, which Alfred requested every Saturday morning. The cereal was of the variety that was sold only by the gram, and the milk, which Alfred was never even allowed to pour by himself, was imported directly from Europe and was tasted every morning for quality assurance.

When he had first begun his climb to fame, Alfred had felt awkward whenever anyone had pampered him and treated him so lavishly. But he had come a long way since then, and had quickly forgotten the hardships of his upbringing, making the rest of this now all seem like secondhand nature. Alfred was now used to it-expected it, though he disguised it well behind gracious smiles and warm thanks. Gratefulness and humility went a long way in the industry, even though everyone knew it was highly contrived. At least, for the sake of the cameras, they pretended it wasn't.

Returning to his room, Alfred found that his bed was already made, his bedside flowers newly changed, and his clothes laid out upon the display rack of his main walk-in closet, one of many he possessed. Elizaveta, his fashion consultant, was always quick to decide what he should wear each day, based on the micro-trends and minor fluctuations in style which she monitored with a ferocity unparalleled. She would then text it to Alfred's head housekeeper, Toris, who would prepare for it to be worn and lay it out-usually all before Alfred even got up in the morning.

Of course, Alfred could have chosen to ignore the suggestions and picked his own items to wear, as he did every so often, but he found it easier to fall into the lull of being cared for. Heck, he didn't even have to tie his own shoelaces on most days, since they had to be symmetrical and just right otherwise Elizaveta would chide him for it. Alfred was pretty sure that the style with which he tied his shoes didn't matter nearly as much as she claimed, but he let her do what she did anyway. It was just easier that way.

The problem was, this led life to be quite boring. Alfred was floating day to day, and he knew that he was spoiled for thinking that his rich and superstar existence was mundane, but he couldn't help it. It was boring. Everyday consisted of the same mindless routine, the appearances, the smiling, the posing for pictures and signing autographs for adoring fans who were in love with everything about Alfred but Alfred himself.

That was why Arthur Kirkland was such an interesting addition to the game, and why Alfred had taken to him almost immediately. Not only was he a fine piece of ass, but he was also different-and Alfred thrived on different.

As of now, the actor had no idea just how much of an interest Arthur could be, but he was completely ready to find out. Tomorrow would be a fantastic day, no matter how it ended up, and there was still much to be done in the meantime.

With the artist on his mind, Alfred dressed with extra fervor, pulled out of his mundane morning funk. He tightened his belt and slipped on his shoes, noticing vaguely in his mind somewhere that Elizaveta seemed to be in a subtle Banana Republic mood this morning. She had theme days sometimes, and Alfred usually didn't care enough to notice what they were. He just wore whatever she told him to wear, much like he put on his face whatever Gilbert told him to put. Sometimes life could be quite boring indeed.

With nothing on his plate for the day, save a possible yet-to-be-confirmed interview that evening on some radio show and a private club party later in the night, Alfred waltzed out the door. He texted Kiku, his manager, with his vague plans for the day, which included some shopping, some eating, and perhaps a trip to a spa. If the man needed Alfred, he'd call.

The actor slipped into the car, told his driver where he wished to go, and they were on their way to none other than The Grove.
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Sorry this chapter is so short, they've been fillers, but they're important.
- NZ