Matthieu Bonnefoy. Matt wrote it on the job application, almost flinching as he did so. If there was one thing he hated most, it was his name. It reminded him of his father; an idiot if their ever was one. In fact, he had another kid named Matthew. Matt wished he'd gotten that name. It was much easier for Americans to spell.

Yes, what a surprise, the man with a last name like 'Bonnefoy' was French. Matt had traveled quite a bit, though. Born in France, moved to French-speaking Canada when he was about five and grew up there. Recently he had moved to America for a fresh start. He was still trying to ditch the stupid accent, so he didn't talk much. In fact, he would have preferred a job /without/ a lot of talking. As a cashier in this organic food store he had found around the corner of his new apartment, he would actually have to talk to people, discuss pesticide-free brussel sprouts. As if he cared. But a job was a job, and they were hiring.

"Are you ready?"

Matt looked up to see an auburn haired man, perhaps about his age.

"Yes," Matt replied. He meant it to be polite (and at least a little American sounding), but instead it sounded gruff. The blond mentally punched himself.

"Alright, best way to learn if you're chill is to test you out. I'm Al, by the way," he added as he handed Matt an apron. It had the name of the store on it- Universal Organics -next to a little tree.

"Matt," replied the other, but couldn't help blurting in his surly manner: "Test me out, like a car or something?"

Matt feared he'd be reprimanded, but Al smiled crookedly, revealing a few missing teeth.

"Yeah," he chuckled- a dry, raspy sound. "Guess you could say that."

That was surprising. Matt wasn't used to people accepting his backtalk. As he pulled on his apron and tied his hair back into a ponytail, he studied Al. The reddish brown colour had to come from a bottle the way it caught the light. Matt himself was familiar with this, he tended to dye the ends of his own hair a more strawberry blond than the dishwater roots, mostly to distinguish his hair from his father's. But then again, even if Al's hair was natural, that seemed to be the only thing that was. He had tired, lidded eyes that were magnified by charcoal liner smudged on them, and the eyes themselves...well, Matt could've sworn he saw a glint of red. He had several piercings on his ears, one in his eyebrow, and two in his bottom lip. When he rolled up his sleeves, Matt saw a few tattoos that must've extended further up his arm. He almost missed the subject of his studying saying something:

"What?" Matt asked, having not been paying attention.

"I know I look funny," repeated Al, "But there's no need to stare, darlin'."

Matt smiled in that wry, closed-mouth way he had. He decided he liked Al, from his rebellious piercings and his tattoos to his crooked grin and his raspy voice. He was sure they'd get along.

"You did pretty well," Al mumbled, scribbling something on a clipboard as he had been all day. "Your people skills need a little work, but then so do mine."

Matt nodded wordlessly.

"So, you're as good as hired!"

"Really?" Matt's eyebrows raised incredulously as he accepted the hand Al offered for him to shake. It was a strong handshake. Al winked at him.

"I consider myself an excellent judge of character, darlin'."

Matt ducked his head and Al chuckled dryly. The two pulled off their aprons, and walked out together; Al had admitted that his shift was supposed to be over about an hour ago. The sun was already setting behind the horizon. Was it that late already? Had Matt actually had...fun at his day of vegetable freak training?

"Got a ride?" Al asked, pulling on a cool leather jacket. Matt shivered slightly in his flimsy flannel shirt.

"Was gonna take the bus," Matt grumbled, looking at his feet.

"Well, doll, there goes your bus," the other laughed, pointing at said bus, which was currently rolling away from its stop and down the street. "Let me give you a ride."

"Where's your car?" Matt wasn't used to people giving him anything. Al only grinned mysteriously and walked into the parking lot, swinging his keys and whistling. What he led Matt to was hardly a car. It was a beautiful black motorcycle.

"Wow," Matt crooned. "What a bike."

"Mmhm, I call her Beatrice."

"Reminds me of my Harley."

Al cocked his head. "You had a Harley?"

"Yeah," Matt scuffed his foot against the ground, stuck his hands in his pockets, and shrugged. "Crashed it."

"I'm sorry, darlin'." Matt wondered why the American always used that stupid pet name. Al swung one leg over the side of the motorcycle and patted the seat behind him. "Hop on, Frenchie."

Matt growled. So he had noticed his accent. Matt thought he had been doing so well, too. "Fuck off." And then: "What, no helmets?"

Al smiled devilishly over his shoulder. "I live a dangerous life, doll."

"Obviously," Matt agreed with a sneer and an eye roll, but hopped on behind him and wrapped his arms around Al's waist reluctantly. The leather of his jacket smelled nice, like tobacco and cologne. Al started the bike, shouting over the sputtering engine:

"Alright, which way?"

Matt gave a short list of directions, to which Al obeyed. Matt closed his eyes and just leant into the soft leather, not caring how emasculating it felt or looked. Soon the roaring motor cut out, and the wind through Matt's hair ceased. He opened his eyes to Al's cocky smile and his apartment complex looming over them.

"I like you, Matt," Al chuckled as they hopped off the bike.

"Yeah? Why's that?" Matt narrowed his eyes, but his heartbeat quickened. Al couldn't know. No, not this soon.

"Because you're real trusting," Al lightly punched his arm and climbed back on his bike. "I could be a serial killer."

Matt smiled wryly. "I consider myself an excellent judge of character, darlin'."

Al laughed and started his bike up. "Tomorrow," he yelled over the engine, "Eight o'clock."

As he wheeled away, Matt mumbled at his back: "I'll be there."