~ Disclaimer: I do not own anything!~
I: Problem(s)
Enter Matthew:
Things were going well, really they were. He had made it out of high school alive, a feat in and of itself, and was currently a content junior at the university having almost completed his dual major in History and Education. His overwhelming love of learning and academia compelled him to excel each term despite his overload of credits, while his professors were nearly all refreshed by the timid but polite young man. (Though, he'd never quite get around to noticing that.) Hell, he was lucky enough to get a research internship that had him practically living in the library. (Which was A-OK by him, mind you.)
All he had to do from here was continue with his grades, advance his thesis, get his applications done by next fall and prepare to dive into the graduate work he had so anticipated. After all, a serious dissertation on Canadian history- including but not limited to the best sport ever, the best condiment ever, and the most charming endangered species… he couldn't wait.
And then he got the letter, and immediately thought better of it.
Dear Mr. Williams,
We are pleased to address your interest in participating in our world-renowned graduate program here at the University. We thank you for your time and are including further informational pamphlets on the departments you requested. Also for your convenience and future planning, we have included your estimated enrollment deposit due prior to your registration.
We hope to hear from you!
Dean of the Graduate Board at HU
"MAPLE!" the blonde's voice came out like a shrill, wounded cry, viewing the university's "offer."
Reviewing the document, he received the estimated enrollment deposit cutely sealed in another envelope, rather like a present shouting "Surprise! I'm gonna ransack your wallet now!"
Assuming of course, that he had much of wallet, which he did not.
Matthew Williams had a problem. Is this what doom looked like? It hadn't occurred to him that it would be a concept with so many zeroes.
What I am supposed to do now? He paced around his tiny apartment, which resembled a large closet, in distress, pulling indiscriminately at his disarrayed blond hair.
He certainly couldn't just give up on Grad school, not when he'd worked so hard to get here. But that was a lot of money that he presently didn't have a fraction of. Sure he worked off hours at the library and they reimbursed him more kindly then they should, but that just got him through the week. Nothing like…
~ don't wanna be an American idiot~
His phone sung softly, discarded on the corner of his desk, the tone identifying the contact, and flashing an incoming message from…well, we'll just say problem # Brother.
From: The Hero of the Day
Hey! Hey! HEY! :) :) I have awesome news 4 u!
Matthew sighed, as was his usual response, his hand reflexively reaching up to rub his tired violet-eyes, a habit. "You mean you have awesome news about you I'm sure…" he mumbled absentmindedly.
It wasn't that he didn't love his brother. He assures himself of this regularly. Of course he did. He was HIS brother. But…he couldn't help but think it wasn't a little unfair. I mean, what did he do to piss off Karma/God/whatever while his brother was showered with affluence and well being. Alfred Jones, well, he got everything.
For nothing.
"Hey Mattie! You're never gonna believe this! They totally crowned me Prom king, you should have been there. Brother to the king!"
"Mattie Mattie, look at this letter. I got this great scholarship. Like, I go to school for free if I join the football team!"
"MATTIE! I completely aced this exam. I didn't even have to anything it was so great. The teacher says I have excellent charisma! SCORE!"
"Mattie! So I won that contest for the political science department! Look at this great car I got with the prize money. Man, everyone is gonna love me in this!"
Which he proceeded to wreck within six hours, and so on, if you get the drift.
Matthew scratched his head, sighing again while looking pleadingly at the fuzzy white teddy bear on his bed. He silently hoped that just maybe his beloved plush might have a better solution.
Round black orbs stared at the Canadian without any input. As usual.
The violet-eyed boy certainly didn't like admitting it, but his brother might be his best option this time. Matthew spent all his time with his school, engrossed in his study, hell, he'd never even appropriately explored the city around campus. (Aside from the nice bookstore and the grocer with the discount pancake supplies.) In this case, Alfred had something he didn't.
Connections? A social life? Everything? Shut up…
He shook his head and began pushing the small keys on his cell phone. Yes, he still had one of those phones. Everyone else reminded him about it plenty, too.
From: Matt Williams
Okay. Hey can we talk about it over lunch? I might need your help with something. Do you happen to know anywhere that is hiring?
Pause. That was it. This was his brand new low. Asking Alfred. Alfred fucking Jones, for help. His pride might never recover. Not that he had much to begin with, but still.
~don't wanna be an American idiot~
From: The Hero of the Day
Hell yeah! I'll hook you up in no time! That's my specialty! Just like everything else ya know? :) Catch ya in the diner in 20? Then you can tell me all about it.
Matthew examined the not-so- interesting details of his shoes for a few moments before settling on going through with this with a restrained sigh.
The sooner I go the sooner it's over. Besides, grad school right?
His eyes flick over to the envelope with it's contents scattered over the desk, the word "DOOM!" written over the address front in less-than pristine Sharpie. Beaten by Alfred time and time again? Maybe. Matthew could concede to that. Beaten by a letter, a few impersonal type marks on a flimsy piece of paper. No.
Not today.
A determined, steady hand grabs his coat from the hanger by the door and stepping out, pulling the warm fabric over his shoulders. Violet eyes spare one last look at his bear, cuddly and happy as ever. "Wish me luck?" Silence greets him in return.
He closed the door.
I'm gonna need it.
Elsewhere, not too far from the HU campus on a convenient, bustling corner, a café/bar named The Empire Grill was sluggishly coming to life. The business opened their doors at two, just after lunch, offering cheap food to entice the late-lunch crowd and hopefully inspiring said folk to return after their day at a more exciting hour, where there was more money to be spent and more fun to be had. The location was good, but business, business was struggling this past year. A distinct lack of staff was getting them down and frankly, the night life had been lacking in the last month or so. Maybe on account of the last bust? Still, people should always come out for fun, once in awhile...
Fun. The bartender reflexively groaned in a state of near desperation. That's what this place could use right now. Christ, is it at least dinner yet?
The tall, platinum-haired man slumped onto his empty bar, his eyes flashing between boredom and sheer irritation.
The clock across the room read three. It made him shudder in disgust. As did the sight of the sparse customers dotting the restaurant's tables. These types were the ones that just sat by themselves or with another person or so… and did EXTREMELY un-awesome things. Usually they scurried away before dinner, when ANYTHING worthwhile could actually happen. Instead, the stared awkwardly at their food or busied their dull selves reading. He shivered uncomfortably. One fiddled with a calculator, while fervently scribbling on an assignment, presumably for the nearby university. It was almost enough to make him gag.
Really, he shouldn't even be here until about five' o'clock. These people didn't require his skills. But the boss, he required all of his full-timers to be here…
"Gilbert!" A male, but flowery voice called from across the floor.
And he was about to require something else. Gag.
The scruffy, blond haired owner of the joint, approached the bar with a playful, but nagging enthusiasm. The bartender was accosted by the smell off him, an overdose of cologne. Floral. Uck.
"I know this is our slowest time of day Gil, but surely you can find something productive to do…" The older man whined the last few syllables, as the bartender shook his head.
"I know, I know." The bartender was scarcely amused with the realization. "Glasses. Polished. I'm on it Frenchie." He turned, pulling a fresh cloth from under the bar and began to pull the drinkware from it's wire racking in a callous, utterly familiar manner.
"Tisk Tisk. You really should refrain from calling me such things. I am your boss Mr. Beilshmidt. Besides, if your brother finds you slacking, you'll having another violent shaking coming. I'm sure you remember last time...unless there was brain damage, which wouldn't surprise me actually..." the boss prattled on, but Gil had long since stopped listening.
His brow twitched at the memory. Last time, oh yeah. He had sort of…well, lost his way and found himself not behind his workstation but instead behind this tight little number in a red dress and… well. He gained what amounted to whiplash after his brother-a serious, domineering blond who just so happened to be the bouncer at the same joint- discovered what was amiss and shook him into next month with a stream of German curses that nearly made Francis blush.
He rubbed his neck for comfort, attempting to shrug off both his boss' commentary and a lingering ache he'd swear was never going to go away.
"You might have been right two weeks ago." the bartender interjects, on the topic of his brother that is. "But if I'm not mistaken, I believe he's a little occupied as of late ogling that cute little bus-boy you hired to clean up for us." A crooked smile crosses the Frenchman's face.
"Oh I've noticed, I think Ludwig is the only one that hasn't. Can't blame him though, he is an adorable thing isn't he? Beams like a little star."
"Eh. You're just a pervert." Gilbert shrugs, continuing to polish the glassware. A burst from the the kitchen startles the two, whilst the doors slammed into each respective wall. A short, tense, INTENSE brunette stormed out carrying a tray with food to a shocked customer who scarcely had the courage to say thank you as the food was nearly thrown on his table.
Said angry man, made his way towards the bar, and the two wide-eyed men on either side of it.
"Someone's pissy…Hey there Roma-" Gilbert began with a smirk.
"SHUT. UP." He glared at the taller man before turning his attention to the owner of the establishment. "AND YOU…" His fists were curled into angry balls. "WHEN. THE FUCK. ARE YOU GONNA GET. A WAITRESS?" His body shook as he demanded some damn answers. Right. Damn. Now.
"Easy my dear cook." The Frenchman's hands raise infront of him in a gesture of peace. "As soon as we have a worthy applicant, of course…"
"If we ever get an applicant…" Gilbert added in a mutter, shining a martini glass innocently.
"SHUT. UP. Well you find SOMEONE. SOON. I. Do Not. Do. People. GOT IT?"
"Of course, of course…" Francis carefully put a guiding arm around his irritated employee to quickly urge the man back towards the kitchen where he belonged. Before he tried to eat someone. Or worse. "As soon as we have someone, Romano. Now go along, back to the kitchen, get the next order for this gentleman now…"
Romano twitched, hastening his steps and whipping the doors open (again) while the wood carved a slightly deeper niche into its impact point on the wall.
Francis sighed. Whatever am I going to do with him?
From inside the kitchen, the angry man didn't seem to be improving in mood, as another voice cooed in an attempt to calm him down.
"Loviiiii, easy with the door. Gil just painted the wall yesterday. Again."
"DO NOT CALL ME THAT DAMMIT!"
"I guess I'll hire whoever comes along…" Francis sighed, glancing at the bartender with tired eyes. "But anywho…back to work!" With a wave, he sidled off to 'work,' as it were, likely polishing off that bottle of wine he'd started a few hours ago.
Gilbert shook his head and smiled, moving onto the pint glasses. The bar was soooo much safer than the kitchen. But really though, they did need a waitress, bad. Hell a waiter a would do. But waitress sounded better. Sexy. He could definitely use a waitress.
"They'd better be hot Frenchie!" he called. A prompt thumbs up draws a smirk over the bartender's lips. Good.
And there you have it. Chapter I. It's been a while since I've written anything so I'm certainly rusty. I love feedback. Hit me with whatever you got!
Romano: *holds up cast iron skillet*
Antonio: 0_0 NOT THAT!
o_o yeah. Not that. Thanks for reading! (PS: more characters to come in later chapters )
