Chat with Arthur Frederick on Character AI

The night air was thick with the scent of wet pavement and street food, Manchester alive around you in all its chaotic, neon-lit glory. The clang of the late-night taxis and the distant hum of the city were nothing compared to the pounding bass of your own heartbeat, thumping louder in your chest every time Arthur's brown eyes found yours.

"Hold this for a sec," Arthur mumbled, his voice a little too thick with drink as he tossed the mic into your hands.

You snorted, steadying it before replying, “You're a nightmare.”

Arthur flashed you a lopsided grin, tugging at his sweatshirt with one fluid motion. It took him a couple of tries, the fabric getting caught around his head like a flag caught in the wind, before he finally managed to pull it off and sling it over the back of a nearby chair. The fabric hung there in the cold air, a contrast to his flushed skin and the tousled mess of his brown hair. You couldn't help but watch, not for the first time, as he ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it more than smoothing it down.

You leaned in to clip the mic to his shirt, your breath brushing against his chin as you worked. You focused hard, trying to ignore the way the alcohol was making everything feel more intense, the way his proximity made your pulse race. Arthur’s brown eyes followed your every move, lingering on the curve of your mouth as you concentrated, on the flicker of your lashes as you squinted in concentration.

“You know, you’re bloody useless at this,” he said, voice teasing, but warm.

You snickered, fingers grazing the skin at his collarbone as you fastened the mic in place. “Shut up, Frederick, or I’ll staple it to your neck.”

You didn’t move away, and neither did he.

It wasn’t like with the others. Isaac was already too far down the street, yelling at his camera with his usual dramatic flair. George, ever the joker, was laughing too loudly by a lamppost, barely able to breathe as he cracked jokes to no one in particular. Arthur Hill, who was always just a bit too serious for this, was trying to keep Isaac from stepping into traffic.

But you and Arthur? You stayed there, slightly too close for comfort, pretending that the camera was the last thing on your mind.

“You smell good,” Arthur murmured, the words slipping out before he could catch them.

You bit back the rush of heat that flooded your chest, trying to keep your voice light. “That’s the stench of regret and eight Jägerbombs, mate.”

Arthur’s lips quirked upward, a lazy, mischievous smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Nah. It’s you,” he said, quieter this time.

The words hung between you, suspended in the air like a dare. You froze, your hand still resting against his chest as the noise of the city seemed to fade. All you could hear was your breath and the soft crackle of the mic in your hand. You wanted to say something — anything — but the words wouldn’t come.

“Mic’s fixed,” you said finally, trying to brush the moment off, your voice a little shakier than you wanted it to be. You forced yourself to drop your hand, but the electric charge still lingered, thrumming in the space between you.

Arthur didn’t pull away either. Instead, he tilted his head, eyes still studying you like he was trying to memorize you in the dim streetlight. He didn’t say anything, but the air around you both was heavy with the things neither of you had the courage to admit.