It was a crisp Sunday morning in the capital when Alfred decided to whip out his class schedule so he could lord all his incredibly well considered choices over his best and only roommate, Matthew Williams.
Matthew was an international student from Montreal. The long, wavy blond hair and glasses he sported for his farsightedness made people assume that he was a bookish and quiet type. Normally, they'd be absolutely right. And this was a normal case.
Matthew was as meek as his appearance would suggest. He didn't like sports, not because he couldn't play, he was actually quite talented at ice hockey when he lived back in Montreal, and he could catch a baseball fine when it wasn't being launched at his face- Alfred claimed it was an accident, but lightning doesn't strike a tree twice and people don't accidentally throw 70mph fast pitches at your nose fives times – but he preferred reading quietly in a library to sweating profusely on a football field in a Washington DC summer. Since he loved peace and quiet this, of course, meant that he was assigned to the most obnoxious and gregarious brute ever to grace the face of a college campus:
Alfred F. Jones.
He was sitting atop one of the bunk beds they'd set up together three days ago, something that looked dangerous and precarious since it was actually just two separate beds placed on top of each other, and waving his class schedule like it was his doctorate's diploma. Matthew, meanwhile, had been hoping to get some writing done, but soon gave up trying to write the Great Canadian Novel once his roommate started whining.
"Come on, Matt," Alfred insisted when he still refused to turn around. "I want to tell you about my schedule. I stayed up 'til midnight so I could get this awesome schedule and there's this one class that I really wanna tell you about. I even got my textbooks today." His voice wavered uncertainly, bemusement crossing his features as he nudged the cardboard box that presumably held his textbooks with his sneaker. "I think the bookstore gave me a free doorstopper."
Against his will, he found his curiosity peaked. He threw a tentative glance over his shoulder, taking in the picture of Alfred staring uncomprehendingly at a copy of Les Miserables.
In a well-perfected exasperated tone, Matthew started, "That's not a doorstopper, Al. That's a book. It's called Les Miserables."
When his roommate continued to blink dumbly at the book, he racked his brain for something he would understand and, finding it, added, "It was made into movie two years ago. Hugh Jackman and Russel Crowe were in it."
Alfred's face lit up with recognition. "Oh, that movie with all the singing?" Opening the book expectantly, he continued, "Is there singing in this, too?" He flipped the book upside down and shook it, like he was waiting for Gavroche to just pop out, fall on the floor, and start a musical number.
After giving his temples a thorough massage, Matthew explained to him, "Well, there is singing in that book, but you won't hear it. That's not how a book works." Obviously.
"Oh. Right." Alfred at least had the decency to look mildly sheepish at the rebuke.
Just when it seemed like there might be some actual quiet, Alfred leapt down from his perch with a thud. No doubt ticking off the guys who lived downstairs.
Clear eyes shining, he said, "Let's sing a song, Mattie!"
And that was the first time Matt thought to himself that his roommate was truly insane.
"I'm not singing with you, Alfred."
"Come on, it'll be fun."
"I said no."
"Fine." Alfred crossed his arms and glowered. "I'm sing it by myself, then." He cleared his throat, threw the book on Matt's bed with a smirk, and then got into character. His guileless expression hardened into granite, blue eyes growing cold and hate-filled as he looked down at Matthew like he was the scum on the bottom of his shoe:
Valjean, at last, we see each other plain. Monsieur Le Maire, you'll wear a different chain.
To Matthew's surprise, Alfred didn't overplay the words. His singing wasn't perfect by any means, but it was harsh, cruel, and condescending. The part of him that got caught up in these things wondered if Alfred would really take him to jail. Then he heard his own voice ring out:
Before you say another word, Javert -
He rose from his seat, missing the spark of challenge illuminating Alfred's expression, because he was speaking to Javert, and all he could see was contempt.
Before you chain me up like a slave again, listen to me, there is something I must do- He gestured desperately at his laptop. - This woman leaves behind a suffering child. There is none but me who can intercede-
In the face of unyielding ice, he begged - In mercy's name, three days are all I need. Then I'll return. I pledge my word. Then I'll return.
In response, Alfred, the veins in his neck bulging, took a few steps towards him, stopping only when they were barely an inch apart, and sneered:
HA! You must think me mad!
Matthew stumbled back; shocked by the venom in his words and the expression of icy rage his face had contorted into.
I've hunted you across the years. Men like you can never change. A maaaan… such as yoooou.
Before Alfred had even finished his verse, he'd snatched the pillow from the bottom bunk and wielded it as though it were the saber of a French general. It sagged limply, but the two of them were two focused on their painted world to care about how reality felt about anything.
Straightening his spine, Matthew clenched his fists and rejoined the fray. Giving up here wasn't an option. Not when his laptop was counting on him to save its child!
The chair behind him would have made a good weapon, but he wanted to shield himself, not bludgeon Alfred to death. His computer was also out of the question, since it was supposed to be Fantine and he couldn't use Fantine to block sword strikes and bash Jav- Alfred over the head.
Impulsively, he grabbed a pencil. Alfred shot him a quizzical glance, then shrugged with a kind of nonchalant resignation that was common among actors when their partners improvised.
Believe of me- Matthew parried a pillowy blow with his pencil. It still smacked him in the face, the smack just didn't count. Really, thinking about it, he should have picked up the chair. He could have broken it on his knee and wielded it like a club. What you will. On second thought, maybe there was such a thing as too realistic. There is a duty I am sworn to do.
Alfred snarled, looking as threatening as a man swordfighting with a fluffy pillow could, Men like you can never change.
Blocking another strike, Matthew screamed back, You know nothing of my life!
It was probably a blessing that it was not finals week. Somewhere around when Matthew began imagining it was life's mission to protect and raise his Mac's daughter, Apple, the two of them began shouting and grunting the lyrics as though they were either on stage or truly fighting for their lives at the water's edge.
A sharp prick from the pencil stung Alfred's shoulder just as he landed a solid smack on Matthew's face. Inwardly, he laughed. Who would have thought stuck-up studious Mattie had so much fire in him?
Speaking of fire, Matthew disengaged from the battle, retreated a few steps, then aimed the tip of his pencil at Alfred's jugular, his eyes glittering with desperation and a higher purpose.
I am warning you, Javert!
He took a confident step forward, his body shielding his computer, and Alfred realized with no small amount of amusement that he was protecting the laptop in Fantine's place. Sure, it was missing arms, hair, legs, and teeth, but Fantine was missing most of that too, so casting the computer in her role wasn't too far a stretch. Hey, it was doing a great job at staying motionless and playing dead. It even seemed as though it weren't breathing. A truly Oscar winning performance.
I'm the stronger man by far.
Alfred twisted to avoid a rather vicious jab to the ribs.
Matthew lifted a fist to the Heavens and boomed, There is power in me yet my race is not yet run!
As much as the two wanted to continue, neither were very sure of the words that came next. They hummed and mumbled for a few extra seconds before devolving into helpless peals of laughter.
"A pencil?" Alfred managed, wiping tears from his eyes. "Really?"
His face flushed and glowing from the excitement, Matthew replied easily, "Oh? Should the mighty wielder of the pillow, defender of beds, really be questioning my weapon of choice? At least a pencil is pointy."
"Are you saying the pen is mightier than the pillow?"
A playful smirk danced on the Canadian's features."Was there ever any doubt?"
After that, there was less animosity between the two. When you pretend to be Javert and Valjean, you realize just how small and petty your dislike really is in comparison.
Things weren't too different. Matthew still spent most of his time studying and Alfred was as personable as ever, but the latter often made an effort to tone it down when the former was studying and Matthew made sure to put the books away and speak with him every now and then.
By the time the school's club festival came around, they were leaving the dorm room together. Almost- but not quite - friends.
Not yet, anyway.