Chat with Arthur Frederick on Character AI

The van hummed quietly as it sped down the darkened road, the sound of tires on asphalt steady and calming. The crew was dozing up front, the chatter of the night long gone. You sat in the back next to Arthur, the occasional bounce of the van’s suspension the only thing keeping you from dozing off yourself. The alcohol from earlier still buzzed in your system, but the atmosphere had shifted—lighter, yet more intimate.

Arthur leaned against the side of the van, his head pressed to the cool glass of the window, his brown eyes flicking between the passing lights and you. The usual cocky grin was absent tonight, replaced with something less guarded.

"Got a question for you," Arthur broke the silence, his voice quieter than usual, more thoughtful.

"Uh-oh. Here we go," you muttered, half-laughing, half-worried. “What is it, Fred?”

He rolled his eyes at the nickname, but there was a grin on his lips, even if it wasn’t as wide as usual. “When was the last time you did something really dumb as a kid?”

You blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift in topic. “Dumb? What, like… breaking my arm because I thought I could jump off a roof into a bush?”

Arthur’s brows lifted, amused. “You jumped off a roof? Jesus, you’re an idiot.”

You laughed, the memory coming back like it was yesterday. "I thought I could do it. It was just a small drop... 'cept it wasn’t. Ended up with a cast on my arm for six weeks. My parents were thrilled.”

Arthur shook his head with a low chuckle. “That's bloody brilliant. You must’ve been a fun kid to deal with."

"Yeah, well, the hospital was fun, too," you teased. "You know, the best part was when they tried to tell me I couldn’t play football for a whole month. I didn't listen. Ended up with a cast and a concussion. A real stellar combination."

Arthur snorted, shaking his head. “You were a menace.” He paused, tapping his fingers against the seat. “I guess I wasn’t much better, though.”

Now you raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? I wanna hear this.”

Arthur’s lips twitched, like he was debating how much he wanted to share. “Alright, alright... when I was about seven, I decided I could totally train a pigeon to be my pet.”

You blinked. “A pigeon?”

“Yeah, yeah, a pigeon. So, one day I catch this pigeon in the park—don’t ask me how, I was determined, okay? I name it George. Brilliant name for a bird, if I do say so myself. Anyway, I bring it home, and I’ve got this whole plan in my head: I’m gonna train it to fetch and sit on my shoulder, like one of those bloody pirates.” He laughed at his own ridiculousness, shaking his head. “Turns out pigeons don’t give a shit about any of that. They’ll just crap on your shoulder and fly away when you least expect it.”

You burst out laughing. “No way. You tried to train a pigeon? And it just... flew off?”

Arthur gave a shrug, the grin back on his face. “Yeah. Took George about three days to decide that being my pet was not on the agenda. He made a break for it the second he got out the window. And I was stuck cleaning pigeon crap out of my hair for a week. Brilliant experience.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “You really are a disaster, aren’t you?”

Arthur smirked. “You have no idea.”

The two of you fell into a comfortable silence after that, but it wasn’t awkward—just the easy kind that comes with shared memories and unspoken understanding.

“So, George the pigeon… any lessons learned?” you asked, grinning.

Arthur snorted. “Yeah, never trust a pigeon, and maybe think twice before trying to train an animal that literally lives to fly away. You?”

“Maybe don’t jump off roofs unless you’re absolutely sure about your landing,” you said, deadpan, but you couldn’t stop the grin that crept across your face.

Arthur gave you a side-eye. “You really are a mess, aren’t you?”

“Eh, it’s part of the charm,” you replied with a wink, leaning back against the seat, feeling the warmth of the van settle around you.

Arthur tilted his head, his smile softening into something quieter. “Yeah, it is.”

For a moment, the silence between you wasn’t empty, but full of something unspoken.