Chapter One: Impending Doom; but First, an Introduction to Who is Doomed and How

As one of Poughkeepsie, NY's finest journalists, it was Alfred F. Jones' duty to stick his nose in everyone else's shit. Metaphorically, of course.

Besides scrounging up information and writing articles for The Poughkeepsie Journal, Alfred was fond of volunteering at the local animal shelter, eating entire pots of mac and cheese by himself, and tending to his Webkinz account he'd had since he was five. But committed as Alfred was to cherishing his digital frog, he was without a partner to cherish in real life. Destitute, he would roam the streets of his town and visit numerous storefront cafés, a trail of donut/brownie/cookie crumbs falling behind him like he was some sort of chronically depressed Hansel.

At first glance, Alfred's singleness appeared to be an enigma. He wasn't unattractive, and he seemed to be in possession of all his brain cells. So, then, what was it? What kept Alfred from meeting his future spouse and sweeping them off their feet?

The answer to that question is simple, and sad. Alfred was woefully, terminally, and calamitously a social nincompoop. Ever since the ripe age of nine, when he'd sent a kickball flying into his fourth-grade girlfriend's face and broken her nose, Alfred had sabotaged relationship after relationship with his inability to act like a functional, well-adjusted human being outside of the workplace.

Alfred's older brother, Matthew, liked to call the predicament "dumbass disease," an affliction of which Alfred was the only known sufferer. Matthew had made many of these observations over the years, for he usually witnessed Alfred's social calamities first hand. Lately, he seemed to be present for more and more of these mishanters; it was Matthew's colleague who was the current cause of Alfred's lamentations.

This was because Matthew was a firefighter, and though he was a bit on the lanky side himself, he had no shortage of big, burly firefighting friends. It was the biggest and burliest firefighter of all who had caught Alfred's eye. Ivan Braginsky.

The two of them had met once. Twice, technically, but the first time was informal. Alfred liked to forget it had ever happened. Matthew, on the other hand, loved to remind Alfred that spaghetti is, in fact, very, very flammable.

The second time Alfred had met Ivan was through the grace of Matthew. He had been dating Ivan's sister, Katyusha, at the time. The interaction had taken place at a trendy, upscale Italian restaurant— by all means, the perfect rendezvous point for a classy night. But classy was far from it; the night had been a cesspool of embarrassment for Alfred. It had all started with Matthew, who, upon spotting Alfred's large plate of spaghetti, decided a dramatic retelling of Alfred's unintentional pyromania was essential.

From then on, Alfred declined any invitation to hang out with Matthew and Katyusha in fear that Ivan would tag along. He claimed to be 'traumatized.' That snafu had taken place around half a year ago. Six months later, Matthew was engaged to Ivan's sister, and the wedding wasn't too far off. Something had to change soon.

Ironically enough, it was Matthew who would set that particular fire ablaze. But it was Alfred who would pour a can of gasoline on those flames, swallow several lit matches, and ultimately burn all his bridges to the ground.

{-}

Though the carcass of a home sat smoldering behind him, and the scene was crawling with emergency personnel, Matthew's attention was on his phone. Or, more accurately, the inane question that was emanating from its speakers:

"Sooo… how was fire fighting today?"

Matthew let the query hang in the air.

After a few seconds, Alfred realized Matthew was judging him, and a series of indignant sputters sounded over the line. "What? I want to know about your day! About the fires you fought! The flames you smelted! The heat you braved! Your comrades—"

Matthew blinked sweat from his eyes. "Actually, Al, I'm still doing those things."

A pause. "You are?"

Matthew glanced behind him. Mostly police left, but his crew was loading up the trucks. Everyone was covered with a fine layer of soot, including himself, and he knew there were desires for cold showers all around. "Yeah, I am, but I'll be home soon. Then you can ask me about Ivan all you want, because we both know that's the reason you called."

"How dare you! Can't I check up on my brother without being accused of manipulation?"

"No, you can't. This is the third time you've done this in the past week— Oh. Hold on." The sound of boots on concrete broke prompted Matthew to glance up (and up and up and up) to meet the gaze of his fellow firefighter and future brother-in-law. Matthew muted his phone before he said, "Hello, Ivan."

"Matthew." Ivan inclined his head. He lowered himself onto the curb with a barely-audible huff and gave Matthew a pointed look. Although the visor of Ivan's helmet was streaked with grime, there was no missing the sobriety of his gaze.

With a quick, "I gotta go," Matthew ended the call and slipped the phone into his pocket. "My brother," he explained.

Ivan took his time removing his helmet. He set it on the concrete behind him. "Your brother," he stated. "Alfred, yes?"

Alfred would be elated Ivan remembers his name, Matthew thought dryly. He didn't dare speak the thought aloud though; Alfred would never forgive him if he spilled the beans. "Yeah. Alfred. He was, eh, worried about me."

Ivan sat back, resting his palms against the sidewalk. "Hm. Jog my memory. Alfred was the one with the—"

"—with the spaghetti, yes," Matthew finished for him.

"And with the—"

"—with the chocolate milk, yes." Matthew's own face flushed in second-hand embarrassment at the memory. Alfred's uncanny ability to ignore the filter most people had between their brains and mouths had caused him to have terminal foot-in-mouth disease. Which led to him insisting that if the trendy, upscale Italian restaurant had chocolate ice cream, they could surely make chocolate milk. The sentiment hadn't been serious. It was a half-formed train of thought that had slipped out before Alfred knew what he was saying.

Even so, Alfred was forever known as the guy who set fire to boiling water and spaghetti and almost got into a fight with a waiter at an Italian restaurant over chocolate milk.

"I hope you have not allowed him near a kitchen again," Ivan mused, his humor making itself known through a half-smile.

"Not without supervision. Which isn't hard to do. He says the new gas stove scares him."

"I see." The half-smile lingered on Ivan's face for a bit longer, but it disappeared as he let out a massive sigh. "Matvey, there is something you must know."

Matthew furrowed his brow. "I'm listening," he said, not without hesitance.

"Here is 'the deal,' as they say. I like you. Katyusha likes you. Even Natalya likes you. But there is an issue." Ivan's shoulders seemed to block out the sun as he loomed over Matthew. "Do you know what the issue is, Matvey?"

Unconsciously, Matvey leaned away. "You're not giving me another shovel talk, are you?" he squeaked. "I mean, uh." Matthew cleared his throat, and his next words came out sounding considerably less terrified. "No, I don't, eh, know what it is. The issue. I don't… yeah."

"Not another shovel talk. The issue is with your brother."

"With Al? What did he do?" Now Matthew sounded confused. To his knowledge, Alfred hadn't seen Ivan or Katyusha in the past six months. And even then, Alfred's antics tended to harm only himself.

"It is what he is not doing that is the issue. Katyusha was telling me the other day, she feels as if she is not acquainted well enough with your family like you are with hers." At the mention of his sister, Ivan's expression softened. "She wanted to make sure he knew that the invitation for dinner tomorrow night still extends to him."

"Oh, well. He knows alright, but I don't think…

"Katyusha is very sad," Ivan pressed. "She must feel as if it is her own fault, that your brother avoids his future sister-in-law."

A pained look crossed Matthew's face. "No, no, it's not her fault, it's just that…" But his protests were swallowed by Ivan's dour explanations.

"Family is important to Katyusha, yes? She—"

"Alfred is busy, you know, so he—"

"—and ever since Natalya returned to Russia, it has been the two of us—"

"He just likes to have time to himself—"

"Katyusha has a lot of time to herself." Ivan stared into Matthew's eyes. "Plenty of time to feel very sad."

It was a coup de grâce, and Matthew knew it. Alfred may be his brother, but no one had the right to make his fiancée feel down. And it was just one house party. He'd force Alfred to come, and afterward, Alfred could return to his hobbit hole and continue to pine over Ivan in peace. Simple. There wasn't much damage Alfred could do to his reputation in one night, not when he was under supervision. Constant vigilance would be key. But it would be worth it.

So, after a moment of consideration, Matthew acquiesced. "He'll be there tomorrow. Consider this his RSVP."

The change in Ivan was immediate. "Ax, как хорошо!" He gave Matthew a hearty slap across the back. "Wonderful! Katyusha will be so pleased."

"I'm, I'm sure she will," Matthew wheezed, forehead almost touching his knees as he doubled over. "Please don't do that again."

"Ah, sorry." Ivan patted him on the shoulder— but gently. "I forget how skinny you are sometimes. Katyusha will fix that soon enough, yes?"

{-}

Alfred took the news exactly as well as Matthew had predicted.

"I'm not going," he announced with finality. To accentuate his point, Alfred snatched a pillow off the couch and plopped down in its place. "This is where I will be staying for the next day. Try and stop me, bitch boy." He stuck out his tongue.

"Oh, yeah?" Matthew put his hands on his hips. "And what are you going to do for entertainment. The remote is over there." He pointed to the TV stand. It was several feet away from the couch, well out of reach, even for Alfred's desperate maneuvers. (Matthew had once seen Alfred snag a bag of chips with chopsticks from five feet away. Kind of amazing, to be honest.)

Alfred grinned devilishly. "Boy Scouts taught me to always come prepared, bro." He tugged his laptop from underneath the back cushions of the couch.

Matthew's mouth fell open. "Alfred!" he admonished. "Someone could have sat on that! How many times have I told you to—" he cut himself off. It was no use. Besides, he had another trump card. "And what are you going to do for food? If you order takeout online, you still have to get up and answer the door." There. Alfred was at an impassé.

"Mm-mm." Alfred wagged his finger. "Good point, but, per usual, I am one step ahead of you." He pulled a crushed bag of chips from the folds of his cottoned fortress. "Sustenance," he declared, holding the snack in the air like it was baby Jesus.

There was only one person on the planet who made Matthew want to tear his hair out in frustration, and that culprit was sitting right in front of him, grinning in victory. Oh, so Alfred wanted to play games? Fine.

Matthew fixed a draconian expression on his face. "You. Got. Crumbs. On. The. Carpet." With each word, he strode forward. He'd always been an inch taller than his brother, and he knew for a fact Alfred hated to be looked down upon, physically or otherwise.

Alfred's grin fell away. He'd sinned cardinally. "C'mon, Mattie." He held his hands up in a placating gesture. "I'll, um, I'll get the vacuum, no need to be irrational, eheheh." He climbed over the back of the couch. Good. Now there was a barrier between him and his irate brother, who was becoming less irate by the second…?

"You're off the couch, Al."

"Goddammit!" Melodramatic as always, Alfred collapsed to the floor. In the heat of a moment, he'd forgotten to cushion his fall, so a small "ow." followed his descent.

"You're welcome. Now go upstairs and figure out what to wear. That'll occupy you for, say, a good four hours or so?"

Alfred clambered to his feet. "Be quiet, you ass. You just want me to make a fool out of myself again, which we both know will happen. I don't even know what to talk about."

"Alfred." Matthew pinched the bridge of his nose. "Alfred, your job is literally to know what to talk about and make it sound as interesting as possible. You can manage."

"I can't manage anything! I'm astounded you would even suggest that."

Deep breaths, Matthew told himself. Deep breaths.

He suffered through several more bouts of whining, protests, and bargaining. Through picking out an appropriate wine to bring over that was both classy and casual. Through Alfred's endless list of things that could go wrong. Through picking out an outfit that was, quote, "sophisticated and understated, like, not too flashy, y'know? But also brings out my eyes and my hair and my muscles and my ass, yeah?" But, in the end, that was that. Alfred was coming.

And that really was that, because the next day, Alfred found himself wearing a nice, collared shirt, holding a bottle of Montoya Cabernet, and standing on the porch of Ivan Braginsky's house. He was, to be frank about it, a mess.

Matthew stepped forward to ring the doorbell. The sound was like a death sentence for Alfred. He turned to Matthew, his expression pained, and began to panic in whispered tones. "I can't do this, Matthew, I really can't do this—"

The door swung open to reveal the beaming figure of Katyusha. "Matvey! And Alfred! Come in!"

Matthew strolled into the house. He put an arm around Katyusha's shoulders and shot a smirk at Alfred. "Too late," he mouthed.

A/N: For those of you who are concerned about the Matthew/Katyusha relationship, calm ur tits. It's not even a side plot. Just setting things up for the big kahuna. This story is going to go hard and fast, and it will be FULL of secondhand embarrassment.

Special thanks to Ameena, Kaitlyn, and Danny for looking over exactly six sentences in here. You guys have no idea how much you helped me, and I am way better for it. Thank you.

REVIEW. PLEASE. :)