A/N: This host club!AU fic is brought to you through the collaboration effort of sonofon and HaveYouNoMercy. Please enjoy~?
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, we don't own Axis Powers Hetalia or any of its characters, but we'd love to take credit for Bishie Boulevard.
Having safely taken up his post behind the bar (where the whiskey was coincidentally stored), Alfred F. Jones leaned on the counter-top and carefully took count.
Number one host and decidedly very French Francis Bonnefoy had already reached his quota for the next two weeks, much to Alfred's dismay. He was in the midst of entertaining the wealthy young daughter of a factory parts businessman. The girl was having a bit too much fun, and Francis's hand was heading towards unknown territory: that territory being lawsuits and court. Alfred prided himself for the fact that in his two months of running a host club he'd never been sued. He planned on keeping it that way, too. A waiter was going to be sent over to let Monsieur Francis know that he'd better keep his hands to himself or risk being placed on janitor duty.
Yao was hovering by the buffet table. His customers had been so enamored by him that they'd purchased the whole table. It was good doing business with the nieces of one of the world's top chefs, though Yao's waist would have to be inspected soon. And yet, for all his voracious eating habits, Alfred sadly thought, the Asian host never seemed to gain a pound: once, Alfred had even caught him in the storage room with his little hands on Alfred's precious potato chips.
Yao's gradual Americanization was a good sign since America was the best place and the only place in the whole entire universe, but Yao stealing his potato chips was not. Alfred gingerly poked one fleshy arm and reassured himself that no matter what, he was always beautiful.
Gilbert, meanwhile, had been challenged to another fight. "My hosts are not going to be bloodied up," Alfred had insisted earlier before opening. "A fight's a fight, but you don't need to get into one every single day. A hero isn't like that. A hero maybe fights, uh, every other day. And he always takes Sundays off."
"I'm not going to lose," Gilbert had told him, "I'm too fucking awesome to lose," and promptly proceeded to provoke another barroom brawl, ostensibly over Roderich. Again.
"They're going outside!" Elizabeta cried, as she led her small group of frenzied and certified insane girls past Alfred. They all wore expensive cocktail dresses and expertly-applied make-up. These girls were at the very top of the aristocratic echelon of society, and they were getting excited over a fight. Elizabeta was being a bad influence, he grumbled, but at least she paid. Usually.
Roderich touched a hand to his forehead and stood next to the scotch bottles. "He is mad," he said, reaching under the table and fishing out an icepack. The club was always overly supplied with them. "The man never even said anything to me. Hardly, anyway. He's just looking for an excuse to fight. The brute." Despite this, he too exited out the back door to witness the fray. Alfred was accustomed enough to these occurrences to not even bat an eyelash. History had proven that barroom brawls were very high on the list of things that pleased young ladies, even more so when the person concerned in fighting was decidedly Very Pretty.
Antonio remained oblivious to it all. He sat near Feliciano, and the two were doing a remarkably good job at enticing their customers into purchasing the very expensive and old wines. Once, they'd sold Ivan's vodka—actually, best not talk about it. Alfred watched the reactions of the girls as Antonio tickled Feliciano into the couch the two were sitting on. He was sure he'd just witnessed four spontaneous deaths; cause: overload of cuteness.
"Your purse is like, so cute," Feliks was saying five tables over, and he asked the girl who owned premium alligator leather: "Oh, could I?"
How could she not?
Stroking the fine leather in his hands, and clearly relishing in it, he said: "I saw this in the shopping mall a couple days ago, or, like, you know, yesterday. I couldn't buy it, of course. I haven't the funds." He made a giggle sort of sound and handed the purse back to its owner before crossing one leg over another. The girl's heart skipped a beat.
"I would buy one for you," the girl boldly said, "I would buy ten of them for you. One in each color."
"Ooh, we should totally go shopping some time together—oh, if only my boss didn't condone employee and customer relationships, if you know what I mean. Even if it's like, purely platonic, you know? Some people are so serious it's not even funny. It's like the Medieval Ages all over again. Next thing you know, we'll be forced to marry only with his approval."
"I—I like being friends with you, Feliks," said the girl, "even if it's just platonic—I mean, especially because it's platonic, I—" she blushed while her younger sister next to her widened her eyes out of awe and respect for the man who knew the minute differences between alligator and crocodile leather.
At precisely four fifteen, it was all over. Alfred straightened out the Closed sign for the Triple H Club and sighed. Another day gone. It was dark out, and all the customers were finally gone, the last ones having been stone-cold drunk and an absolute pain. Had he not been a hero, he might actually have been worried.
Sharply spinning around, his nose narrowly missed hitting a hand palm turned upwards in a demanding position. Francis, smiling, shook his outstretched hand. He grinned.
Alfred sighed. "Your customers might like the invasion of privacy, but I certainly do not, Francis."
"Touchy today, are we? Would you like me to give you a rose and call you my one and only?"
"He's friggin' pissed," Gilbert sneered. "Did you see him during that last hour? His face was all red like a tomato, and he could not speak at all, and he was trying to stay awake, only he was failing, and meanwhile I—"
"Was being an absolute simpleton," Francis shot back.
"Oh, you, I'm gonna have some unfinished business with you."
"I am always ready, cheri," he gravely replied, and lightly tapped his manhood. Gilbert scowled and stormed as far away as possible from him.
"I just want my check," Antonio smiled. Feliciano nodded in agreement, and from his seat, he weakly lifted his hand and said, "Pasta. I like pasta. Pizza's good too, but pasta."
Today was Friday, and Friday meant paychecks. Meandering over to the bar, Alfred wiped some liquor off the surface and hoisted himself up. Once he was standing on top of the counter, he clapped his hands and coughed for attention. His employees looked up him with, he was imagining, an expression of hope as one could only experience from meeting a hero. Francis's eyes trained itself on the envelopes; everyone else followed suit. Alfred's heart swelled with pride from what he thought was the group's genuine and deep admiration for him.
He was confident with his team. Because they were a team, and he was definitely the best leader a team could ever have. Almost like a hero. No, Alfred F. Jones was the hero.
"When am I going to get my fucking money?" Yawning, Gilbert glared at the man who was standing on a bar counter with an increasingly hazy look in his eyes, as if he was staring off into some distant, euphoric vision. Alfred F. Jones was stupid.
"You'll get it soon enough." Alfred stared down from his perch. "And now, for King Host of the month," he cleared his throat, waiting for a drum roll. Instead, he got an "Open it open it open it open it open ittttt!" from Feliciano and glares from everyone else, who were too tired or hung over for such antics. They wanted to take the money and leave. "Spoilsports," Alfred pouted, and, taking the top envelope from the stack, he said with a flourish, "Francis!"
"As if that was a surprise," Francis said, brushing the dying rose against his lips out of habit.
"Bitch, I'm so going to beat you next month!" Gilbert said.
"Please," said Roderich, brushing stray strands of hair out of his eyes, "must you shout?"
"I'll shout if I want to, so fuck off!"
"Someone is awfully drunk," Antonio cheerfully noted.
"Drunk, drunk, drunk," repeated Feliciano, and fell over the table with his arms stretched out in front of him.
Francis, ignoring them all, opened his envelope and peered inside. Closing it, he tossed his hair over his shoulders and laughed. "Ah, Alfred, I believe you've mixed them up. This must be Feliks'."
"That's like, way rude," Feliks said, flicking his wrist.
"It is the truth," Francis said in that haughty French way, and threw his hair back for the added effect. Feliks stuck out his tongue.
"There's no mistake, Francis. Heroes never make mistakes," Alfred proclaimed, before tossing another envelope to Antonio.
Francis paled and put his hand to his forehead. "Non, this cannot be. My pay cannot possibly be this low."
"It's not a mistake, and that is your pay. Now don't you want to congratulate me for even giving you that? You could out on the streets right now with nothing on you, not even a dying rose. As the movies say, always look on the bright side of life!"
Francis looked disgusted. Gilbert laughed. Alfred smiled and congratulated Yao on his sales boosts. "But you're going to need to watch your waist," he warned with an admonishing finger and what he thought was a reprimanding face.
"That's okay," Yao said, giving Alfred a thumbs up, "I just drink green tea and I lose it all!"
Alfred tried not to look too happy. "Seriously? But, I mean, ugh, green tea? That stuff is like bleach, only green. It's no good without sugar. And also, I know who's been taking my chips, Yao. My eyes are on you. Heroes have twenty-four seven surveillance installed everywhere."
"Chips, what chips?"
"Chips? Where?" asked Gilbert.
"Oh, dear," sighed Roderich. "Couldn't you just give us our paychecks so we can leave?"
It certainly reminded everyone why they were even staying overtime in the first place. "Why didn't you just say that in the beginning?" Gilbert asked, as they slowly filed out of the club in their overcoats and bags.
"I suppose I just over-estimated everyone," said Roderich.
"Over-estimated? Why—"
Francis's laugh lasted all the way down the boulevard.
There was a certain calmness that Alfred felt from being alone in the club. It was so busy and packed during the day that he almost forgot that it could be quiet. He decided that while he liked the silence, he much preferred the noise. Noise meant people, and he liked people. He was always inviting them over to his house, and he was always offering, giving. But the slight clink of a glass disturbed his inner soliloquy—
A thief? He heard footsteps, and he gripped his rag in his hands. As the person come closer, he could feel his heart unintentionally picking up its pace.
"This is a free country!" he called out as he swung blindly with his rag, striking out behind him. Turning around sharply, his eyes widened at the sight.
Elizabeta stood in front of him, martini glass in hand. "I should report you for sexual harassment, Alfred."
"What?"Alfred almost screamed. "Why? How? Why are you still here?"
Elizabeta took another sip and shrugged. "It's a free country, isn't it?" she smiled.
Seeing her smile somehow allowed him to smile, too.
"Anyhow, your little business is running along quite smoothly," she mused, watching him through the glass.
"It'd be even better, you know, if you actually paid for most of the drinks you take from my bar. . ." Alfred drifted off, stuffing the rag into a pocket.
She set her empty glass onto the bar and linked her arm in his and directed them both towards the door. Just as he turned around to lock the door, she pecked him on the cheek and forcibly stuffed a bill down his jacket pocket. Then, she left.
"Wait—"
Alfred shook his head and pulled out the note from his collar, head spinning with possibilities from the whisper she had given him right after that kiss. He could still hear her words as he inspected the crisp and clean fifty dollar bill.
"I want Moe Wednesdays."