Code Red is a term often coined in hospitals to warn of a fire. This is, of course, the widely accepted definition and use of the term, but Urban Dictionary defines it a bit differently; Code Red: a term used to describe an incredibly attractive person.
At the moment, Alfred figured, both definitions worked pretty well. Why? Well, fire is hot. What else is hot? The person who'd just entered La Signora, the Italian-style coffee shop. Damn. Taking a swig of his latte, Alfred decided something. Matthew must be informed of this new development.
He plucked up a scone from his plate, weighed it in his palm, then, without any consideration of hindsight, flung it across the table. Coincidentally, Matthew bent lower over his textbook at the exact same time to make a note in the margin.
Oh, would you look at that, Alfred thought, watching as the scone sailed over Matthew's head and across the shop. Immediately, Alfred realized that he should not have thrown the scone. Not because it was rude, but because he had wanted to eat it. At least I still have this bagel—
"What the fuck!?" One of the baristas had turned around at precisely the right moment and met the pastry head on.
Shit. Alfred hastily shoved the bagel into his mouth and pretended to be thoroughly engrossed by a pencil sketch of a cannoli hanging on the nearby wall. He nodded thoughtfully, as if approving of the artist's use of… pencil. One, two, three…
… eight, nine, ten. Okay. Alfred slowly looked over his shoulder. Thankfully, the barista had directed his suspicions not to Alfred's table in the far corner of the café, but to the customers that stood in line. He regarded them with such an expression of dubiousness and contempt that Alfred was hit with the hindsight from earlier. That, the American thought, was close. Now. I was supposed to be doing something… oh yes. The Code Red.
Matthew needed to be informed, and quickly. And not via flying pastry. If it became too late, then Matthew would never have a chance to glance upon the man's glorious ass— face. Then Matthew would never have a chance to glance upon that glorious face. Face.
Fact. I am the superior brother. Alfred sat up straight. Fact. Matthew cannot be allowed to miss this. Alfred fixed his attention on his brother. Therefore, violence is the answer. He'll thank me for this later. Alfred paused. Will he? Mmm… 'course he will. With that, Alfred drew back his fist, lunged across the table, and screeched, "CodeRedCodeRedCodeRed!"
"OW!"
Splenda and environmentally-friendly napkins skidded across the table and fluttered to the ground as Alfred's violent display thoroughly disturbed the small arrangement of sweeteners and napkins.
"Why would you do that." Matthew sighed, eyeing the packets, specifically his own that he'd been attempting to open. It sat sadly on the floor, looking as forlorn as its previous owner. "There's sugar everywhere now. The employees don't want to clean this up. Crétin." Matthew reached for a new packet. At that moment, Alfred elected to elbow Matthew, causing sugar to once again spill onto the table.
"ALFRED."
Across the shop, the barista gave the two a scathing glare. The grinding of coffee beans suddenly sounded extremely ominous.
"You're making a mess, and you're going to get us kicked out," Matthew snapped, attempting to assemble the mess of napkins into neat pile. "Just knock it off— What the hell is wrong with you?"
"Code-mother-fucking-Reddd," Alfred hissed in lieu of an answer. "Never mind your sugar. Across the room, third in line. Wearing a scarf. Carrying a black messenger bag. I said Code Red, and I mean the reddest code I have ever seen. Like. Goddamn. Tall, pale, ah-may-zing body— got a big nose though, I dunno how you feel 'bout that. I think it's sexy." He paused for a breath. "How d'you feel 'bout dating a doctor? Because he looks absolutely delicious in scrubs. Those are some quality legs, and I mean quality." The American placed a hand over his heart. "Quality. He probably just arrived from a shift at a hospital or something to order a coffee. Want me to skeet on over there and see if he's single?"
"First of all, lower your voice," Matthew glanced around the café. Thankfully, no one had noticed Alfred's rapid commentary. He attempted to grab another packet of sugar. "Second of all, no. It's rude. We don't even know the person; he's here to get a coffee, and he might not want to be approached. So, stop staring and be. Quiet. Going out in public with you is bad enough."
"Matthew," Alfred said quietly. "How shall I put this? Hm." He leaned over the table and steepled his fingers, squinting at Matthew over the rim of his glasses. "Just turn around and look. Just. Friggin'. Look."
"Fine." Matthew couldn't deny that his curiosity was piqued, so he twisted around in his chair to peer across the coffee shop toward the line in front. "Alfred, where is— Holy shit."
Just as Alfred had said, there was a Code Red standing in line, but Mon Dieu. He is one of the nicest looking guys I've ever seen, German guy from Walmart included. Or wasn't he Prussian? Something like that. Matthew looked back at Alfred and raised his eyebrows.
"So now do you see why I gotta head over there and see if Dr. Delicious is looking for a patient?"
"Alfred, no. You can't just go up to random people like that and ask if they're single, especially if you're going to use a pun while doing so. He's a random person, and I don't really care, so neither do you. Drop it." He tore open the sugar packet.
All was then peaceful—
"MATTHEW. Oh my god, Matthew, looklooklooklooklook."
—for a split second.
Alfred seized Matthew's arm and vibrated. Matthew swore he could feel his brain crash into the side of his skull with the force of Alfred's excitement. "He's putting on glasses. He's putting on glasses to read the menu. Bless my soul. Bless. Bless." The American clasped his hands together. "I am blessed."
"Alfred. Would you please, please, please let go of my arm and let me put some goddamn sugar in my goddamn coffee. Please." But even as he scolded his brother, Matthew craned his head to get another look at the man.
Indeed, the doctor had slipped on a pair of wire-framed glasses and was now thoughtfully considering the menu. Sweet mother of maple. I need a moment. If possible, the frames made the man's face more appealing, and, even from here, Matthew could see how they accentuated his violet eyes.
"See? See?" Alfred gestured wildly with half a bagel. "Stop being such a butt and go over there. You can't let this one go just like you did with the German guy at Walmart. Or didn't he say he was Prussian or something? Whatever, doesn't matter. You just can't."
"Al, I don't want to…" Matthew faltered as he tried to formulate an acceptable excuse. "He's, uh, probably not even gay."
Alfred chuckled. "Mattie, Matthew. Do you really honestly think that? Take a long, hard look at him and tell me if you think he's completely straight."
"Well, I—"
"Mhm, not with that ass and not with that scarf. Just go on over there and sNATCH that scarf." Alfred mimed grabbing something, presumably a scarf, and pursed his lips in a sassy manner that vaguely reminded Matthew of the movie Mean Girls. "How're you supposed to know if you don't try?"
It was a good point, but not good enough for Matthew to embarrass himself in front of a stranger, possibly face rejection, and gain yet another moment for himself to cringe at later while in the shower because of his crippling awkwardness. "Because I really don't want to," Matthew explained. "Alfred—"
"Then how're you supposed to set up an appointment with that hottie? If I wasn't taken, you'd better believe I'd be all over him. You need a boyfriend, my bro, and let me tell you. Let. Me. Tell. You." Alfred staccatoed each word by clapping his hands. "Starting with the guy whose ass looks like Jesus himself came down from heaven, sculpted it from gold, kissed, slapped, and blessed both cheeks is the place to start."
Matthew stole another glance. Okay, yes, that was a rather magnificent ass— and those legs. Those were very long, muscular legs… No, no, NO. Think of how incredibly awkward it would be if Alfred or I went over there. Don't get involved. Yeah, he looks amazing, but I do not need a boyfriend.
He'd tap that though. Matthew would totally tap that.
"Now. We need a diversion, that's what we need. Something so he'll come over here, seeing as you're obviously way too SHY to go and do anything yourself—" Alfred was cut off by an indignant 'hey!' "—Okay, okay, I have something." Alfred leaned in low over his drink and licked whipped cream from the straw. His expression was one of such graveness that Matthew stayed silent. "Listen to this. How about I pretend to pass out so he'll come over and see if I'm alright, then you sweep in with a suave line and capture his heart. How's this: Are you a doctor? Cause you just cured my erectile dysfuncti—"
"Alfred, no. What the fu—"
"Or how about, 'You'd better be a cardiologist, because something about you makes me want to give you my heart."
"Those are all horrible and cringey and should never be used. Ever. Unless you want to be slapped, which in that case, you should. I honestly do not see how any of the lines you have ever used have worked." Matthew shook his head in exasperated wonder.
"But Mattieee… How're you supposed to find a boyfriend if you don't try? Maybe my lines are a bit too brill for this, but you can improv, right? Remember the summer class you took in high school? That was drama and stuff, right? You can totally improv. Anyways, you do need a boyfriend. It's been three years since Fra—"
"Don't. Say his name," Matthew warned, all traces of humor swept from his face. "I swear to god, Alfred. Don't say his name, or I will hurt you. I don't need to 'get over' anyone. I do not need a boyfriend. I don't need anything, got it?"
Alfred's brow crinkled. After a moment of staring into Matthew's vehement glare, he sighed and nodded."Your loss," he muttered, sipping his coffee. The table lapsed into tentative silence.
Matthew let out a breath of relief. Good. Now they can carry on like it's a normal day. He picked up yet another packet of sugar and tore off the top, carefully shaking the granules into his now-cooled drink.
It's never a normal day with Alfred, though, because that's when Alfred slumped in his chair and fell onto the glossed hardwood floor of the coffee shop.
This. This right here is why we can't have nice things. Matthew sucked in air through his teeth and crinkled the mostly-full sugar packet in his hand, kneading his temple with the other. I am so done.
Collective gasps sounded throughout the coffee shop as every single head snapped towards the back of the café and eyes latched onto Matthew's table. The only sound present was the distant (ominous) grinding of coffee beans. On the ground, Alfred twitched sporadically.
He is dead.
"Ah, um, e-everything's alright," Matthew whispered as he slid out of his seat. His voice seemed detached from the movement of his lips. Everyone in the shop was turned towards his table. They all stared at Matthew as he tried to defuse the situation. He swallowed. Everyone's looking. "It's okay, really…" His voice decrescendoed, trailing off at the end into silence.
No one moved.
Suddenly, the still scene of shock was broken, as if it was a photograph and one of the frozen figures had just begun to move; someone stepped out of line and began to stride towards Matthew, weaving through tables to reach the one in the very corner where Alfred lay convulsing on the ground—
—and there was the handsome doctor, towering over Matthew. Words halted in the Canadian's throat as he gaped up at the man, trying in vain to form a coherent sentence, or at least a sentence.
"Do not worry," the man spoke, ignoring Matthew's temporary muteness as he slipped off his glasses and stowed them away in his pocket. "I am a doctor, yes?" He deftly unclipped a square piece of plastic pinned to his coat and handed it to Matthew. Following the action, he brushed past the Canadian and kneeled beside Alfred. Credit to the American, he kept still.
Matthew clutched the card, almost breaking the plastic in his grip. Eyebrows furrowed, he looked down at it and turned the card over in his hands. On it was a picture of the man with words printed neatly underneath: Ivan Wynters Braginsky, MD. There was more information on the ID, but a name and picture were all Matthew could process at the moment. The plastic creaked as his grip tightened. Jesus. How do I always manage to get into these situations? Ughhh.
Realizing that time was still moving and he wasn't the sole person in La Signora, Matthew glanced up again. The patrons had mostly returned about their normal business, although most still stole flint-eyed glances at the scene in the back of the coffee shop. At least we're not the obvious center of attention anymore, Matthew thought, even though his skin still prickled uncomfortably under the glances. He shivered, then turned around to see what Dr. Braginski... Ivan was doing.
Sacrébleu! At the risk of sounding like a clichéd Frenchman, Matthew cursed; the scene before him was just too… sacrébleu to not to.
Alfred had been positioned so that he was laying flat on his back whilst Ivan kneeled beside him, seemingly oblivious to the rubbernecking of the patrons. His attention was focused solely on Alfred as he gently tilted up the American's chin, supporting the back of Alfred's head with one hand while used the other to place two fingers underneath his jawline. They rested there for a moment until Ivan gave a small nod and withdrew his hand. "He is breathing, so that is good," the doctor informed as he caught Matthew's questioning eye.
As he dipped his chin in affirmation, (for what else was there to do?), Matthew noticed that Ivan's voice was quiet, but each word was accentuated with strong, precise tone, as if the fate of the world rested precariously on each individual word. Why am I noticing this?
"Fainting is caused when the blood supply to the brain is briefly inadequate, but it does not have to be anything serious. It is known as syncope. Since he has a pulse, it is important to raise his legs over his heart level to increase blood flow to the brain." In sync with his words, Dr. Braginsky slowly elevated Alfred's legs and placed beneath them his messenger bag.
From the floor, Alfred popped open his eyes and flicked his tongue out at Matthew. 'Gettin' felt up by a hot doc,' he mouthed. 'His hands are HUGE.' He waggled his eyebrows.
Despite the situation, Matthew felt his face go up in flames. He fixed what he hoped was a livid expression on his face and glowered at Alfred, praying that the red on his cheeks would be mistaken for anger.
"Fainting often has no medical significance unless the patient is not breathing, but it is still a good precaution to loosen any restrictive pieces of clothing." Dr. Braginski continued, ere reaching down and beginning to unbuckle Alfred's belt...
Holy FUCK. Matthew's nails bit into his palms, forming crescent welts in the skin as he glared at the ceiling, at the table, anywhere but the scene before him. I want to die, I want to die, I would love to die right now, please let me die pleeease. Matthew could see Alfred's weighty smirk from his peripheral vision, as he mouthed something else—
'This could be you tonight.'
Later, Matthew told himself as fantasies of homicide consumed his mind, later.
Conveniently missing the entire exchange, Ivan spoke again. "If he does not come to in about…" the doctor paused and glanced at his watch, "... twenty-nine seconds, then 911 will need to be called. You," he pointed across the café to the offended-looking barista, "be ready to dial, yes?"
Despite his mien, the barista nodded mutely. He picked up the phone and let his thumb rest on the nine. Everyone in the shop stilled comically as all waited in perturbed silence. A few of the patrons began to count the seconds. Matthew's knuckles turned white. He better not allow an ambulance to be called. I'll kill him.
"Hhhnnngnnnh." Exactly twenty-eight seconds later, Alfred let out a slow, melodramatic groan and allowed his eyes to delicately flutter open.
The coffee shop seemed to sag all at once, and movement picked up again, allowing a low hum of conversation and laughter to create a loose, quiet din that displayed evident relief. "Che cavolo!" Muttering curses under his breath, the barista slammed the phone down, hung up his apron, and promptly stormed out of the café.
"What… what happened?" Alfred propped himself up onto his elbows and squinted groggily at Ivan and Matthew, feigning befuddled ignorance.
"You briefly fell unconscious," Ivan explained, gently placing a palm on the American's chest. "Do not get up yet, or you may faint again."
"You a doctor or something?" Alfred inquired innocently.
As Ivan introduced himself, Matthew moved behind the doctor to catch Alfred's eye, then crushed the packet of sugar in his hand and let the granules plummet to the floor. 'This is you when we get home.'
"Thank you so much," Alfred said sincerely to Ivan, disregarding Matthew's threat. "I was feeling a little faint, but I'm all good now. Good thing you were here." He climbed to his feet and wobbled with carefully calculated unsteadiness.
"Yes," Ivan agreed, offering his arm to steady the American. Alfred took it gratefully, almost plastering himself to the side of the doctor as he pretended to sag weakly. He looked directly at Matthew and mouthed, 'Spicy.'
"You know what, yeah, I'd better take him home," Matthew spat through gritted teeth, forcing out a grin laced with fake concern. "Wouldn't want anything else to happen, eh? C'mon, Alfred."
The American dodged Matthew's attempt to grab his elbow and skirted away from his brother, smirking all the while. "You know what, I suddenly feel better." He picked up his latte and patted Ivan on the shoulder. "It's a miracle, just like the fact that you're still single, Matthew. Thank the Lord, amirite? Thanks once again, doc, nice knowing ya. I'll catch a cab, don't worry, see ya later, and hasta la vista." With that, he flicked the back of Matthew's head, saluted the coffee shop, and waltzed out the door.
"Oh, I'll definitely be seeing you later," Matthew fumed. "Hasta la vista my ass, you are gonna—" He stopped. Someone was standing next to him. A tall someone. A broad-shouldered someone. A someone that held a messenger bag… !
"I am so, so, so sorry for the trouble," Matthew began to babble, words stumbling and gushing over themselves in an attempt to mitigate his embarrassment. "We didn't mean to cause a scene, I really am sorry, and, oh, oh! I still have your ID! I-I apologize, here—" He offered Ivan back his ID, his hand shaking. "I'd like to offer to pay for your drink, I insist, since we probably disturbed your break; I am sorry, really, it's the least I can do, I..." he trailed off as Ivan raised his palm.
"There is no need," said Ivan simply. "It is alright. I am glad your, ah…"
"Brother," Matthew supplied quickly, then ducked his head to avoid meeting Ivan's steady gaze. He scolded himself silently, counting his faults along with each spilled sugar grain on the floor.
"Thank you," Ivan nodded. "I am glad your brother is alright. That is all. You do not need to apologize, and, even then, one apology would have done it." He smiled in amusement. "What you can do, however, is accompany me while I get my coffee, yes?"
"Eh?" The Canadian's head snapped up before he could stop himself, and then he couldn't look away; Ivan's expression was one of unyielding sternness, yet he detected a sense of alluring desire that made his heart skip several beats. He grinned. "...Er, yeah. I guess it's the least I can do."
Code Red indeed.
A/N: Off of a random writing prompt found on Pinterest. Thanks for reading, PLEASE review. I started writing this one shot in JULY and I edited and revised so. many. times. Also, probably the most unprofessional thing I've ever written, word-wise.
And yes, some is OOC. I was on slight crack when I wrote this I mean that's why there was a slight crack warning in the summary what
please review ;3