CHAPTER SEVEN.

When they parted the night before, Alfred had smiled shyly at Matthew and asked hesitantly if they would be able to hang out again sometime soon.

And Matthew, not using any of his brain cells for some odd reason, agreed. Said that yes, they could hang out again sometime when their schedules didn't clash.

So, after he had left, Matthew stayed up no later than ten o'clock that night, watching television and alternating between painting and sketching before he went to bed, where he immediately passed out upon his head meeting the pillow.

It. Felt. Amazing.

The last thing the Canadian expected when he got up that morning was to find Alfred in his kitchen, blasting Bob Dylan on a portable iPod dock at nine in the morning (he had slept through his alarm, thankfully) and singing along to the music as he cooked something nameless that smelled absolutely delicious at his rarely-used stove.

At first, of course, Matthew did not realize that there was somebody in his kitchen that he knew. All he did know was that someone was playing Bob Dylan and making more noise than what was acceptable on a Wednesday morning at nine am. In his apartment; when he was the only one that lived there, or at least should have been there at that hour in the morning, considering when he went to bed that there was no one else in his apartment. So, armed with the Glock 23 pistol he kept fully-loaded in his bedside table at all times, the (somewhat paranoid) man made his way out into the kitchen, back pressed against the wall and muttering rapidly beneath his breath as he went, trying to calm himself.

It's nothing, it's nothing. It's just the neighbours next door playing their music and you can hear it through the walls. That's all. Nothing serious, nothing to worry about.

Although it still did not quite explain the fact that there was someone making a ruckus out in the main room of his apartment.

Just sewer rats. Playing with the pots and pans and knives. Yeah. That sounds about right. Really big fucking rats that crawled up through the toilet in the middle of the night, decided that your toes weren't worth eating and so they've robbed you of the last little bit of food in your fridge so they can have a feed for themselves. That's totally reasonable. Totally.

He rounded the corner, gun held out in front of him and shaking, removed the safety and snarled. "Who the fuck ar-"

Alfred turned around mid-growl, a piece of green pepper in his mouth. Upon seeing the gun pointed in his direction, he went three shades of white and a peculiar hue of gray as he gave a startled yell, the pepper falling from his mouth, vaulting himself over the counter and landing upon the floor on the other side with a crash. A chair crashed to the ground with him, giving a splintering sound.

Matthew, on the other hand, startled by the sudden movement and noise and the fact that it was Alfred he was holding at gun point and not someone in there to attempt raping him, dropped the gun, yelped as it discharged a live round with a crack that nearly shattered his ear drums, and started cursing with such vehemence that it would have made a sailor blush and excuse himself from the bar counter from the sheer humiliation of hearing such a soft-spoken lad out-cuss him like it was nobody's business.

And Bob Dylan just kept on singing.

Did he not realize that this was a very inappropriate time for him to be singing about love? Like, really. Read the mood, Dylan. Read the fucking mood and just shut up.

Slowly but surely, Alfred's eyes peeked up over the ledge of the counter, globular with terror and shining. All the Canadian could do was stare at the bullet hole in his counter. Well now, that was unfortunate. And he had painted those cupboard doors just last month, too. Shit. Now he had to replace them altogether before his land lord found out.

"G-Good morning Vietnam?"

Eyes snapped in his direction the moment the words were out of his mouth. Matthew contemplated launching the scalding hot frying pan at Alfred's face. If there was one thing he would love, it would be hearing the ring of cast iron coming in contact with his face and hopefully the pan would be hot enough to make a lovely sizzling sound as it did so. Talk about a symphony. Instead he crossed the space and turned the burner off so the food did not catch fire and in a soft, dangerously friendly and murderously icy voice, he looked at the lawyer that was probably after (metaphorically, hopefully) shitting his pants and smiled, saying, "Yes, yes. Good morning. Why are you in my apartment?" Before Alfred could get an answer in edge-wise, the apartment owner held up a hand to stop him. He was still smiling that same 'I Know What You Did Last Summer' smile - creepy and all-knowing, and more than ready to fuck his shit up so badly his grandmother felt it. "Actually, I want to know how you got in first. Then we may progress to the reason 'why'."

"Your door was unlocked," he mumbled, finally standing upright once he was sure the Canadian, now exhibiting the first symptoms of a treacherous, unnerving calm that could only mean bad things were coming his way - an unwavering smile, a pleasant disposition despite very well wanting to tear into the face of the individual in question, small hands clenched into tight fists and shaking - was not going to pick the gun back up and shoot him instead of the cupboard. Though, he still couldn't be sure he wasn't going to. "So, I just … let myself in. Didn't wanna wake you or anythin'."

Smacking his forehead, Matthew cursed. Of course. Of fucking course. The door was fucking unlocked. Un-fucking-locked. Of course! He was asking to get killed in his sleep. Just asking for it. This was his goddamn fault, after all. He turned his gaze back to Alfred. The man remained silent, not looking at the other but staring uncomfortably at the floor as he just kept on chewing his lips. He looked as guilty as a child that had been caught stealing cookies from the jar just before dinnertime. "Well?" he asked in an overtly pleasant voice, making the lawyer jump. "We've established how, so now I want to know why."

"And I'm here becaaaause, um … Iwantedtocookyoubreakfast."

He blinked once. Twice. What?

"C-Come again?"

"Breakfast. I wanted to cook it for you."

"…Get out of my apartment, and take your fuckin' Bob Dylan with you."

Alfred bit his lip even harder, squirmed and looked away. "B-But it's almost done and it's only an omelette!" he protested in a whine, finally feeling brave enough to walk around the counter and stand in front if the other. He wasn't dressed the way he usually was - normally found only in immaculate, pressed clothing by some designer with a name he couldn't pronounce - but in a rather casual manner for once: jeans slung low on his hips, a tight black t-shirt that looked like something James Dean would have favoured, and over that shirt a baggy purple hoodie. Blonde hair was mussed, as though he had simply rolled out of bed, pulled on his clothes and come over to his apartment to cook. He gave a weak, boyish grin to the younger man still in his pyjamas - which consisted of nothing other than a pair of ratty plaid lounge pants - as a lovely tint of red flooded its way into his cheeks. When they locked eyes, the American looked away quickly, visibly swallowing.

The Canadian glared as he felt himself blush as well, knowing very well that he had a pair of blue eyes sweeping over his exposed chest and taking in his alabaster-coloured flesh. Squirming as well, he tucked his arms behind his back as he quickly averted his gaze, scowling. In reality he wanted to cover his chest from the other's hawkish gaze, but he didn't really feel like showing off his Picasso Museum of Scars. Such conflicting desires. It made him want to rip his hairs out one by one.

"Whatever. Just whatever," Matthew mumbled irritably, throwing his hands up and turning away from the American to collect his gun up off the floor and put the safety back on, lest it accidentally went off again. He held onto it tightly, knuckles going white, and made his way back to the bedroom, growling and cursing beneath his breath the entire while. He could tell Alfred was watching his movements with the gun in his hand; he could tell it from the way his body tensed, how the hand he had placed on the counter curled into a fist. And Matthew couldn't help but smirk coldly at this. Pussy. As tempting as it was, he wouldn't shoot the bastard; he didn't need a criminal record attached to his life. He was the kind of guy that got raped in jail, whether he dropped the soap in the showers or not. Jailbait was his name, and butt rape was- never mind. Best not to finish that sentence.

"Do whatever the fuck you want," Matt called back over his shoulder as he entered his room, slamming and locking the door behind him. "Just don't play with any matches or kerosene. Or scissors, especially not those."

Leaning back against the door, the wood cold on his bare back, he let his head fall backwards with a soft thump as his eyes fluttered shut.

This was not how he wanted to start the day.

This was not how he wanted to start any day to be completely honest. He was growing to like his solitude; he was growing to like the silence that was attached to it. He had grown accustomed to silent mornings, to quietly getting ready for work, not a noise in his apartment other than the radio playing in the kitchen. Being the sole occupant, it was just the norm for him.

What he was not accustomed to was there being another presence in his apartment upon waking. He was not accustomed to having someone cooking him food (other than Gilbert who on occasion 'accidentally' brought too much food for his lunch and would coyly offer Matthew the rest) without even asking for it - or ever, for that matter - and he most certainly was not used to someone pursuing him to hang out with him. It made him feel awkward, uncomfortable, like his safety was compromised and, honestly, he hated these foreign feelings for how they were just after latching onto his person and refusing to let go. The discomfort and ill-ease pooled in his stomach, making him feel nauseated, weak and numb all over.

All he wanted to be was alone in his shitty little apartment to spend the day painting, working out his bills, and reading. Was that too much to ask for?

Yes Matthew, yes it is too much to ask for. Now shut up and stop whining about it, you little asshole.

For once, McKnight was desperately wrong. He didn't need someone in his life - he could tell that now; it was so easy to see it, too. All he had to do was open his eyes up and look. Just having someone else around was throwing off his mental and emotional balance, knocking his equilibrium helter-skelter. He just felt so off-kilter, and so painfully claustrophobic because of all of this. The youth grabbed the sides of his head, tugged at his hair gently and massaged his temples with the pads of his thumbs, screwing his eyes shut and moaning softly. He wanted to be alone again.

Actually, scratch that; he needed to be alone again.

Another groan escaped him; his thoughts were slowly turning incoherent again, much to his dismay. Focus could wait until later. He then proceeded to launch himself onto his bed, grab his pillow and blanket, shove them both over his mouth and he screamed until he was afraid his throat was going to start bleeding.

Breathless, he rubbed his face as his thin chest rose and fell rapidly in an attempt at catching his breath. It was damn near impossible with the way his lungs were burning. After managing to do so, he lay motionless on the bed, curled in on himself, knees drawn to his chest and unwilling to grab the blanket again and pull it over him despite shivering against the cold permeating his room. One cough escaped him and he shut his mouth and breathed deeply through his nose, swallowing repeatedly before it could turn into any more. However, the tickle remained, lurking in his throat. The tickle then turned into a series off full-blown hacks all the same, and by the time he was done coughing, his ribs were tender to the touch, tears were streaming from his eyes and his stomach was in one big knot.

This was not a very good way to start the day.

- Sore throat - check.
- Tender ribs from coughing - check.
- Freezing his fucking ass off, as per usual - check.
- A crazy fucking Yankee in his kitchen - double check. ("Bob Dylan counts as a crazy Yankee, so shut up," Matthew said decidedly to the lamp on his bedside as it gave him an accusatory glare.)

Pausing, he realized that he had to add one more point to the list:

- Talking to the lamp again - fucking check.

A bad way to start the day, indeed.

(The lamp, by the way, is a terrible conversationalist and should never be taken seriously. No matter how convincing its gentle coaxing into getting stoned is, or how logical that coaxing might sound. Fuck a lamp's logic. They don't know shit about logic. Never listen to a lamp. Ever.)

Some five minutes later, there was a knock at his bedroom door. It was quick and sharp, and Matthew more or less growled when he heard it, squirming and burying himself even further into the sheets. He had been spending the past little while staring out his balcony door - the only perk to his apartment was the fact that he had a balcony in his bedroom, of all things - and out across the tops of all the nearby buildings, slipping in and out of a state of sleep. As tempting as it was to just go back to sleep for the rest of the day, there were things he needed to get done, and falling asleep was not going to help get them done. A yawn escaped him and he returned to watching the world that lay beyond the bullet-proof Plexiglas.

The sky was gray and heavy, almost bordering on black, a threat of impending weather. As much as he loved snow, snow storms and all that jazz, he didn't want one to happen. At least, not yet; the last thing he wanted was a storm to hit with Alfred hanging around. Hopefully he would be after leaving by the time anything happened (if you could call the weather they got in New York during the winter bad and worthy of closing down the entire metropolis for the day when compared to what they would get back at home in Grand Prairie), thus immobilizing the city and stranding the Yankee bastard in his apartment.

He would really contemplate kicking the bucket then.

"Um, your food is ready if you wanna come out and get it."

At this, Matthew smiled. He couldn't help it; the smile just happened. Well, at least he could say that there would be at least one blessing for the day: he wasn't being treated like a woman and being served breakfast in bed, thank the Lord. If Alfred had to come up to the door with the food on a tray or something, he might have freaked out. Or cried. Or maybe he would possibly do both at the same time.

Begrudgingly all the same, he hoisted himself up off of the bed, hauled open his closet and grabbed a thick black sweater off of a hanger and yanked it down over his head, ruffling his already messy hair as he did so. No way was he going back out there in only his sleeping pants; the last thing he wanted was another once-over by the American's gluttonous eyes (as lovely as they were, a traitorous voice in his head sneered). Glasses were knocked off of his face and clattered to the floor, he finger-combed his hair and then bent down to pick them up, setting the old frames back down upon the bridge of his nose. Then he frowned and removed them, quickly cleaning them with the sleeve of his sweater before he set them back down. Smudged glasses were his kryptonite. Or, at least one of his kryptonite's - there were already a few to his name.

Wandering back out into the kitchen as he pulled his hair back into a sloppy bun, rubbing the gooey sleep that had made its way back into his eyes from them, Matthew flopped down at the counter, sitting upon a stool and glaring at the offending food before him. Despite looking and smelling so utterly delectable, that egg was the cause of all this mess. Well, that and his apparent inability to lock the front door. The music had switched from playing Bob Dylan to some band he didn't quite recognize, but it wasn't too upbeat for first thing in the morning, and it wasn't absolutely terrible, so he could live with it. Music was music after all, and even if it was something unbelievably dreadful he still found something in it to love.

Picking up a fork that was set beside the plate, he tentatively prodded at the omelette before turning his gaze to the man leaning against the counter, sipping nonchalantly from a Starbucks' cup, gazing across the room and out through the windows - it appeared he, too, was concentrating on the weather outside. Was he hoping for snow, or praying against it? Then again, he probably wasn't concerned with it at all, and had his thoughts elsewhere altogether. Turning his gaze away from the other, Matthew peered at the egg anxiously as though he were expecting to rear up and attack him. "What's in this?" he demanded sharply, looking up once more at his companion over the rims of his wire frame glasses.

Alfred glanced at him. His cheeks were still tinted slightly pink. Matthew frowned slightly at this; was he always blushing? Or was he just an incredibly healthy person? Did healthy people have red cheeks all the time? Such stupid questions. He had no clue; he couldn't include Gilbert in the category of robust individuals that might blush because, hell, Gilbert was even whiter than he was. Bastard was an albino through and through. "Red and green peppers, ham, pineapple, cheese, diced onions, ground up chives and rosemary, and a tad bit of grated lemongrass for a bit of panache. There's ground black pepper in there, as well," he said cheerfully.

A sound that could have either been approval or discomfort from indigestion came from Matthew and he picked up his knife, cutting a small piece and placing it on his tongue. Once he chewed it and swallowed, he stared at the man next to him. "Can I ask you another question?"

"Shoot." There was a pause. Matthew smirked darkly. Alfred looked positively scared. "Actually, don't. Please don't. But, yes, you may ask a question."

"Why are you cooking me food?"

He was given a shrug as his answer and Matthew sighed in exasperation, wanting to slam his head down onto the counter and just knock himself out for the rest of the day. Fuck having things to do, he wanted blissful unconsciousness. "Have you ever noticed how skinny you are, man?" the American asked in return, studying the younger man seated beside him with a concerned look in his eyes. "I mean, like, that's just not healthy."

Ah, well that was his motivation for coming around was. Something like that was just plain embarrassing. "So you're taking it upon yourself to fatten me up?" he asked in an idle manner as he cut off another bit of the omelette, watching the other as he ate it.

"Well, I don't wanna make you fat or anythin', but you could stand to put on a few pounds, yeah," Alfred said with a shrug, sipping his coffee.

Matthew just stared. "In other words, you're trying to fatten me up."

They remained in a combative silence for a long moment, the thickening atmosphere between them being punctured by some Elvis Presley. "By the way, I got you a hot chocolate from Starbucks," Alfred said suddenly, obviously side-stepping the entire conversation and forcing it to go in a new direction. There was a soft chuckle and Matthew couldn't help but shake his head slightly. Idiot. "Cause I didn't know if you liked coffee or tea, and well everyone likes hot chocolate so I figured you wouldn't mind that. It's up in the microwave. Lemme just turn it on to heat it up a-"

"OH GOD, DON'T. PLEASE, NO. DON'T."

Matthew mightn't have liked the guy, but really now, he didn't want the poor blundering imbecile to die in a freak accident like what would be bound to happen if they used the microwave oven. An exploding chicken coop might have been a hilarious way to go, but not a detonating microwave. That was just demeaning.

Practically jumping out of his skin, Alfred turned his gaze upon the suddenly frantic Canadian, blinking rapidly, edging away slightly. "What the fuck dude, it's just a microwave."

"That microwave has been here since the apartment building was opened," Matthew said in a flat voice, gesturing violently at the offending piece of kitchen appliance in question. "Back in the sixties."

Alfred grimaced. "That's just wrong. Why don't you just get a new one?" From the offended look the lawyer wore as he glared at the microwave, it was obvious that he thought something like that was absolutely repulsive. Not that he could be blamed for it though.

Upon moving in, Matthew had been of the same opinion, especially when he had learned that the people that had lived in there before him had stuck a hamster in the microwave, turned it on, and caused the little rodent to explode. And that it wasn't the only little critter that had met their untimely fate at the hands of the Radarange Oven. Even the mere thought of the drink being in there, sharing the space where a hamster had been detonated in an untimely manner, had him wanting to vomit all over the place. But the food in his stomach, making it warm and heavy, was just too good to get rid of no matter how dire the circumstances.

"Part of the policy of living in the place," Matt grumbled as cut off another piece of the omelette. So good, he decided with a dopey smile. Damn, he could really get used to something like this - well, the having someone cook him food part. And it definitely helped that he was a good cook, too. Everything else he could do without. "No smoking. No noise after eleven in the night. No pets. No more than five people living in an apartment, and no more than twenty at a time. Provide your own furniture and you pay fifteen percent of the price of heating oil. As well, you're not allowed to replace any of the appliances until they actually break. As you can probably tell, it hasn't broken yet so I can't do shit. And it has to be a technical malfunction, not picking it up and launching it off the rooftop and down onto the street because, believe you me; I would have already done it five times over to every thing in this damn kitchen."

"That's unfortunate," Alfred commented grimly, going over to the microwave and removing the cup, frowning as he peered into the interior. He pointed. "Hey … what's that stain in the back?"

"It's only fossilized hamster guts," Matthew said in a nonchalant voice as he finished off his omelette, licking the remnants of pepper off of the fork as he set it down onto the plate. My, what a lovely meal. He'd have to get the exact recipe for it. "Nothing to worry about. Just don't … touch it."

A groan of disgust escaped Alfred and he slammed the door shut so hard the microwave rattled on its perch above the stove. "You're shitting me. You are fucking shitting me, man."

Loose tendrils of blonde curly hair swayed, the small bun that remained intact bobbing as he shook his head. "The people that lived in here before me were into science and shit, so they liked exploding little animals in the microwave," he said as he stood, running the cold water for a few minutes so it went clear, blocking Alfred's line of view of the sink, before he rinsed the plate off. He stacked it in the sink with the frying pan. "I found some, ah, interesting things when I first moved in here. I don't understand people like that. Are all you Americans crazy or something?" Shit. He was babbling. Glancing around, he hauled open a cupboard, took down one of his pill bottles and popped the cap on it. He shook a Valium out into his palm and downed it with the glass of orange juice he had yet to touch, chasing it down with a Zoloft. There, now his breakfast was finished. He scowled.

"Well, we're not all crazy," he said in an off-hand manner, watching Matt take his pills with a sidelong stare of curiosity, "although I have seen and jailed some of the craziest bastards New York has to offer."

"I keep forgetting you're a lawyer," Matthew muttered, taking the cup of cooled hot chocolate with a small nod as he sat down on the sofa, drawing his knees up to his chest as Alfred stood alone in the kitchen, watching the floor and occasionally scuffing the toe of his socks across the surface. They said nothing more to each other, simply listened to the music playing in the kitchen - which had progressed to John Lennon at this point - and stared at either the floor or the wall, drinking their respective drinks. It seemed that Alfred wanted to say something, as he would occasionally open his mouth, looking at the younger man as he did so. But then his mouth would fall shut and he would look back to the floor and sigh, the only sound that would pass his lips.

It was curious, but he seemed so much more different than what he had thought. Even last night he had talked non-stop, but now? Alfred was quiet, anxious even. He was wringing his hands slowly as though he could not make up his mind about what to do with them. The emotions were appearing against his will, but Matt suddenly found himself feeling bad. Bad about what, he didn't quite know. Was he feeling bad about making all of Alfred's attempts at friendship seem one-sided? Was he feeling bad about how he was being such of a, well, such of a dick to him? Or maybe there was something else making him feel bad, something he couldn't quite put a finger on just yet. The only thing he was sure of was that it made him feel like a colossal pile of shit. This guy was serious about becoming friends, and here he was, just putting up with him for the sake of humouring the man. Matthew knew it wasn't right, but he still wasn't going to do anything about it to remedy the situation.

All Matthew really wanted to say to him was 'stop making me out to be the bad guy'. But, what he did know was that there was no way in saying that without telling a lie. It dawned on Matthew that, if it was possible, he had just sunk to a brand new low grâce à la American in his apartment trying very desperately (it was obvious) to win over his elusive affection.

Congratulations, you are the proverbial scum on the bottom of the fish tank.

Even the Algae Eaters don't want to eat you. You've done well for yourself, now fester there.

Matthew decided that he really, really hated himself. A lot.

Then Alfred stretched and awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. He still couldn't bring himself to look over at the other. "I, ah, I would do the dishes for you but you don't seem to have any hot water…"

"That happens," Matthew said with a shrug. "The water's, like, rationed throughout the building an-"

Suddenly, the apartment went deathly silent. The music had gone off, and even the tell-tale whirr of the refrigerator had ceased. Alfred looked around, frowning, and approached the iPod dock, tapping it. "Odd. It has no power." He tapped it again and made a humming sound of curiosity.

A prolonged groan of what could only be called despair escaped the Canadian curled up on the sofa and - in a moment of pure frustration - he launched a pillow at the wall across from him before flopping over and burying his face into the cushions. He smacked his fist off of the pillows and, as badly as he wanted to kick his feet and scream like a child might, he refrained from doing it. It was really damn tempting, though. And it would be an amazing way to get rid of all that pent-up stress. 'No,' he told himself, gritting his teeth. 'Must. Act. Own. Age.'

Frowning at the display, Alfred approached the prostrate Canadian and tapped him on the head in an almost fearful manner. "What's up?"

He was given a muffled inquiry of 'what's the date?' in reply, the speaker not even bothering to look back up once he saw that lawyer was stood directly in front of him. And if he couldn't hear his question, it just meant he needed to get his hearing checked, not that Matthew needed to get his face up out of the pillows. Totally not that at all.

"December 18th." A pause. "What does needing to know the date have to do with anything?"

Matthew positively bemoaned life and everything associated with it upon hearing this, slamming his fist down on the arm of the sofa this time instead of just the cushions and kicking his feet savagely. Swinging his feet back down to the floor when he was finished and panting, he stood and stormed over to the fridge. Fingertips danced across the surface as he glared at the papers there before ripping one off of the surface, a pineapple magnet clattering to the tile flooring, sliding under the fridge. He studied it briefly, a frown forming on his lips, before tossing it onto the counter and sitting down once more, this time on the floor, as he rubbed his face slowly.

This had to be a joke. His power had been cut. Again. A big fat fucking ha-ha. C'mon, let's fuck around with that kid again because he can't afford jack-shit. 'Yeah, really fucking funny you guys,' Matthew thought bitterly as he pressed in on his eyes with a hoarse sigh. What a long week this was turning out to be. And it was only half-way through.

Anyway, what was this, the third or fourth time this year the Light and Power Company had pulled the plug on him? As he thought, running a hand through his hair, he realized that it was actually the fifth time it had happened. Great. He let his head fall back, tears stinging his eyes. When he thought about it, he probably would have been better off living on the streets after all. At least that way he wouldn't have to worry about paying bills; his only concern then would be finding something to eat and somewhere to sleep. That was nothing compared to working out his taxes, his joint-paid psychiatric healthcare bills, his regular bills, his rent, his grocery money … oh, wait, he was getting into the negative dollars now. Never mind. The streets sounded better by a tenfold.

"Is everything alright?" Matthew looked up, blinking rapidly, to see Alfred crouched down in front of him. They were unbearably close together, and a shiver of anxiety rippled along his skin, crawling over his flesh and leaving the tickling sensation a spider might with its eight legs and tiny, prickly feet. But his concern seemed so goddamn genuine, which was the most exasperating part of it all.

Where the hell had this lawyer come from? There was no way the arrogant man he served at the supermarket was the same one crouched in front of him with a hand on his knee for balance. There was no fucking way; they were just too goddamn different. Different in the way they carried themselves; different in the way they spoke. Hell, they were even different in the way they approached Matthew.

He just could not wrap his head around how someone could change so fast. Really, all this was getting to be too much for him.

"Yes, everything's fine," he lied smoothly, gently pushing the hand from his knee without looking at it. The warmth that had started forming there was uncomfortable; it made him feel like he was going to be sick. He ignored how Alfred's expression faltered into something that resembled hurt.

"If you say so," Alfred murmured, pulling back and sitting fully on the floor instead of crouching in front of the Canadian. He trained his eyes on the floor and sighed heavily, running a hand through his cropped blonde locks.

Deciding that sitting around and moping was going to do nothing about his current predicament, Matthew stood and stretched, running a hand through his hair, pulling out the bun in the process. "I have to go out for a while," he muttered. Hopefully he had enough of his rent set aside to go and pay off the bill to get his power back by the evening. "Um, thanks for breakfast, Alfred. I, ah, I appreciated it…" There. He said it. Now that wasn't too hard, was it?

At this, Alfred positively beamed, grabbing his iPod and iPod dock as he stood, too. The iPod disappeared into the pocket of his sweater. "No problem!" he chirped with a smile that didn't come close to meeting his eyes, grabbing the black pea coat slung over the arm chair and hauling it on over his sweater. "Oh, and don't let the food in your fridge go to waste, a'ight? As well, I took the liberty of buying you some Robitussin, Buckley's Liquid mixture and throat lozenges for that cough of yours. Make sure you actually take them, got it?"

All Matthew could do was nod weakly and pray that nothing in there would go bad too fast on him. "Yeah, ah, th-thanks."

"By the way, don't forget to lock the door this time around." And then, with a shy wave and the blue music system tucked under his arm, Alfred was gone, leaving Matthew standing alone in his powerless apartment. As he looked around, vision blurry, he saw for the first time just how empty it was. How hollow it was.

He hated it with a passion.

It felt so hard to breathe all of a sudden, and then he noticed the wetness on his cheeks that had appeared the moment he heard the lock on his door slide into place. He cursed, wiping the tears away as he sat down on the floor once more.

Even though he was the only one there, the tears were still a humiliating sign that he was weak.

That he was only human.

And he hated that with a passion, too.


As Alfred Jones drove away from the apartment building, hands resting limply on the bottom part of the steering wheel, he did not feel like himself. He felt empty, hollow, and oh-so very alone. Nausea pooled in the pit of his gut, and he would have pulled over to the side of the road to get out and vomit if it weren't for his irrational fear that he would get mugged the moment he set foot outside of the safe confines of his vehicle with OnStar services and white leather interior.

This was useless.

Slamming the breaks on as he hauled over onto the side of the road, Alfred shut off his Benz but left the radio playing, not wanting to be sat in total silence as he slumped down in his seat and rested his head against the steering wheel.

Maybe it was too early for him to be gauging his success, but even by his standards, this - winning over Matthew's trust, affections, whatever that fuck it was he needed to do to get on his good side (if he had one) - was practically impossible. There was no way he could see past the Great Wall of Social Isolation Matthew had slapped up between himself and everyone - and Alfred knew he was most definitely included in this category.

Or maybe he was just expecting too much. That was a major possibility, just not one he really liked. The lawyer folded his arms on the top of the steering wheel and rested his chin atop them, staring out through the windshield. Snow had yet to start falling, but despite being only ten in the morning, it was nearly black out. Running a hand through his hair, he picked at his cow's lick in a moment of frustration, grumbling. He was used to getting his way with people immediately, be it romantically, in terms of friendship, or even in the work place. People just bent to his whim, let him have his way, and wanted to get involved with him. Perhaps it was excessive arrogance, but he was almost surprised that the Canadian had yet to 'succumb' to what women labelled as his irresistible All-American charm.

In fact, he seemed to be strongly opposed to it. Maybe that was just a Canadian thing or something. He really did not know. Let's oppose anything that's not Canadian, eh?

Yeah, that sounded about right.

So he grumbled and plucked at his jeans and the hem of his black pea coat, staring angrily out across the street and the back of the car parked in front of him. This was just so utterly hopeless…

And he couldn't help but smell a challenge attached to it.

But this kind of a challenge was different, and he didn't feel as though he would be able to go for it the way he would normally. Which was usually balls-first and with an 'I'm the fucking hero now sit the fuck down' attitude. It seemed to him as though there would be too much effort involved, too much of a risk-failure; he knew this because of the simple fact that he damn well knew that Matthew wasn't even going to try.

For all he knew, the kid was probably just humouring him. And he would continue to do so for the next two weeks, and once he got agitated enough with the lawyer being around he'd file for a restraining order of up to 500 meters and he would then go out and buy a nice, rabid Rottweiler two days away from being euthanized for sheer neural psychosis as a small, precautionary measure. Considering the fact that he already had the gun part taken care of, might as well throw a psychotic animal into the mix.

Perhaps this was all pointless. Perhaps this had been a bad idea from the start. Perhaps he was just being stupid, thinking that he could get this kid to fall head over heels for him in the same way he had just by locking eyes with indigo ones that seemed to go purple when the light hit them a certain way. Perhaps this kid had been alone for too long and didn't see that- He paused, pensive.

Didn't see what, exactly?

Alfred reburied his face in his arms and heaved a sighed, pulling the purple hood of his sweater out from the confines of his jacket and up over his head as he just sat there and moped. Without even looking up, he slammed a hand down on the radio, killing the noise, not wanting to listen to whatever the fuck it was the idiotic DJ was going on about. So, he opted for silence. It was better for thinking, anyway.

The lawyer stayed in the spot for some time, head down on the steering wheel, face buried in the sleeves of his jacket, until someone came over and pounded on the driver's side window. Immediately, as his head shot up one hand went to the glove compartment, where he kept his Browning GP35. Matthew wasn't the only one that kept a gun close-by; to top that off, Alfred just so happened to have five. Which was a small collection, considering the ones some of his lawyer friends kept - his friend, Jeff, kept seven alone on the main floor of his house. If there was ever a paranoid bastard, it was Jeff, a life insurance salesman that considered himself God's gift to all humanity in general, not just women.

He was relieved, however, when he saw it was only a police office, dressed warmly in a black trench coat accented by a home-knit scarf. Blonde hair cut off at the chin framed his face narrow and his frown lessened as Alfred rolled down his window. "Morning, officer," he said. "Can I help you?"

"Only two things," the NYPD officer said. "First things first, I was just making sure you were alive; I've been watching you for the past fifteen minutes now and I haven't seen you move once until just now. I was starting to get a little worried." Alfred blinked and glanced at the clock. It was quarter past eleven in the morning. He cringed. "Second thing is, you're parked in a loading zone, so I'm going to have to ask you to move your vehicle to another location, or accept a ticket for a fine, and considering how close it is to Christmas, I don't really want to have to give one out just right now. Which is it going to be?"

Alfred smiled weakly. "I'll just be on my way now then, if that's the case," he said with a pathetic chuckle, running a hand through his hair as he rummaged through the glove compartment - his gun was thankfully well-concealed - and removed a pair of black leather driving gloves, hauling them over pale hands that had gone stiff from the cold as he turned the key in the ignition. He smiled at the young-looking police officer. "Have a good Christmas, Sir."

The officer nodded and smiled, adjusting his white and red scarf. "You too," he said as he crossed the street, heading back over to his cruiser which was more than likely a lot warmer than the crisp New York air.

Jerking the gearshift back into reverse as he lightly pressed on the gas, he thrust it forward into drive as he pulled off the shoulder and onto the road, watching his speed and the rear view mirror simultaneously, making sure the officer wasn't following behind him. He wasn't. Once he pulled onto another street, he slammed his foot down onto the gas peddle, tires screeching as the car jumped from thirty to sixty miles per hour in a matter of seconds, leaving thick black rubber marks on the salty-gray blacktop.

There was a certain someone he needed to visit, and although he was the last person he would normally go to for advice - of any kind, let alone of the romantic kind - he figured that it was do it or bust.

And he was so not going bust on this.

Not on his watch.

After half an hour of swerving in and out of light traffic, crossing through Times Square at a crawl because of heavy automobile and pedestrian traffic alike (he couldn't help but see ten and twenty point signs every time a person walked across the front of his car), he arrived at Arthur's house. The Briton's black Buick was parked on the sidewalk and was still covered by a light dusting of snow. Good; the American had been worried that his brother might have been gone out for the day.

Sliding across some black ice and landing with one tire up over the curb, Alfred cringed and pulled the car in reverse, backed up and heard his tires start squealing as he got caught on a chunk of ice and on a patch of black ice at the same time. He cursed and left the vehicle as it was, stepping out of the Benz and slamming the door shut as he skidded across the street and past his brother's Buick Lacrosse, hopping up onto the sidewalk as he adjusted his jacket, pulling down the hood of his sweater. Blonde hair stood on end and he quickly smoothed out the strands. Regretfully it was still snowing, but the flurries were few, so he didn't quite need the hood now.

Up and over the six concrete stairs, and he pounded on the thick oak front door, shuffling and tapping his toes on the ground to get some feeling back into his icy feet. Sneakers were not a good choice for the mess that the streets were in, which was for sure.

The door opened and there stood Arthur, wearing a pair of black jeans and an old button down shirt, rolled up and buttoned at the elbows. Blonde hair stuck off wildly and he rose an eyebrow at Alfred. His hands were covered with paint splatters and pen marks as he pulled the door back further, granting his brother entrance to the main foyer.

"Hey. What are you doing here?" he asked. "Didn't you have a property dispute case today?"

"Nah, I gave it to one of the guys to take care of," Alfred replied with a small, dismissive wave as he was welcomed into the three-story house.

Ducking into the warm home that smelt of furniture polish, Indian take-out and sunshine - did sunshine even have a fucking smell? Because goddammit, it if did, his brother's house had the patent for it - with thanks, Alfred toed off his damp sneakers and yanked off his jacket. It was taken from him and hung on a coat rack as his brother motioned for him to follow him up over the three steps that led them further into the house.

There were fancy Christmas decorations everywhere: pine garlands curling along the banister of the stairs, white sparkling lights attached. Old World Santa's were propped up here and there alongside old fashion reindeers, candles and snowmen. It had such a warm, cozy feeling to it that Alfred felt his stomach clenched with nausea. The same thing happened every time he set foot in the Kirkland house; this overwhelming sense of loneliness overcame him and he couldn't help but feel as though he were a subpart of the human species. And as he inhaled, he could smell what might have been gingerbread cookies. That just made it all worse.

Alfred cringed. "You're not baking, are you?" he asked worriedly.

Arthur scowled and yanked his younger brother into a side room. "Shut your trap," he snapped, flicking a light on. It was a small room they were in, and it was filled with books. Arthur's study. "Peter and Morgan are baking a gingerbread house. I haven't touched any of it, you cheap little wank."

Laughing, Alfred sat down on the floor in front of a stack of books and started rooting through them. The majority of what was there were all folklore-based, which just so happened to be his brother's university minor was. Books on fairytales, books on magic, books on creatures of lore. They were all there. In fact, if it weren't for the fact that the elder did everything with an iron fist, he would have had absolutely no idea as to why Arthur was a judge in the first place.

"It's a good thing you haven't touched it," he said with a smirk, "because we don't need you poisoning everyone."

"Oh, do shut up," Arthur grumbled as he sat down at an artist's board, placing a set of glasses on the bridge of his nose as he took up a felt tip pen. Before he did anything, he flicked the desk lamp on and once more hunched over the paper that was tacked to the paint-stained wood of the drawing board.

"Now," he said as he pressed the tip of the pen to the paper, "what are you even here for?"

There was a lengthy silence, punctured only by the dull chatter coming through the walls from the kitchen and the squeaking of a pen on paper.

Perplexed by this, Arthur set down his pen and pushed his glasses onto the top of his head, looking over at his brother as he did so. Alfred was sat there, looking through a book on faeries, fingertips running across the smooth, shiny surface of one of the many paintings in there, a lost look on his face.

"Alfred?"

He was ignored, and at this, the Englishman frowned deeply and he stood, approaching the younger and sitting down on the floor by him, knees drawn to his chest. "C'mon, talk to me," he said softly, losing the harshness he had been using previously when speaking to the younger. "What's eating you?"

"The high acidity content of your food after it's passed through the Mesosphere," the American said dryly, shutting the book and setting it back down on the pile. Humour, however, was devoid from his voice and expression. There was no dripping sarcasm like there would have usually been, just boredom, discontent. "That's what eating at me. Or at my skin, at least."

"Well, at least we know whatever it is has yet to affect your sense of humour, or lack thereof," Arthur muttered as he watched his brother lie back on the floor, covering his eyes with his sweater sleeves regardless of the smudges it would create on his glasses.

"Har de fucking har," Alfred muttered. He removed his arm and looked up at his brother, blue eyes watery. "I need advice."

Arthur froze. Was the world coming to an end or something? He voiced this opinion to the lawyer lying upon the floor and smirked lightly as he scowled.

"Seriously bro, this isn't funny shit at all and I'm fucking serious," Alfred snarled, eyes narrowing as he sat up. "I honest to God need your advice. You're the one that's been able to have two marriages within a span of seven years when I haven't even had a serious date in my entire life. And I'll be turning twenty-seven come July. There's something you know that I don't, and would you please share this crucial bit of knowledge with me?"

"I have a British accent and you don't," Arthur said in a flat voice as he stared at his brother. "Women on your side of the pond eat them up like those hamburgers you adore so much."

"Arthur," came the growled-out warning.

"Okay, okay, my apologies," he relented, holding his hands up as a sign of surrender. "Now, tell me my little half-breed of a baby brother, what it is you need my advice for."

"Alright, so it's like this," Alfred began, propping himself up on one elbow as he made a slow down motion with his hand that the Briton rolled his eyes at. "You know Matthew, right?"

Pausing, Arthur frowned. "That enchanting little lad at the supermarket that I thought was not a lad but a lass?"

"Yeah, him. Why do you, of all people, find him enchanting?" As his brother moved to answer his question, Alfred shook his head. "Actually, I really don't want to know why you find him enchanting. You're just a lecherous pedo. Or a male cougar. One or the other.

"Anyway, we hung out last night - if you can call me cooking him food after bringing him to his apartment because he was after passing out at work 'hanging out', but I digress - and he just didn't seem very, I don't know, interested in my existence. And then this morning, I cooked him an omelette and it seemed like he really didn't want me there, like at all, so I just don't know what to do," he said, flopping back in exasperation, arms splayed out to either of his sides.

"Has it ever occurred to you that he might not want to eat your food and call it friendship?" Arthur asked. "How old is he?"

"I'm thinking a bit younger than me. Maybe in his early twenties?" Alfred suggested.

"Bloody hell, you don't even know how old he is?"

"How the fuck am I supposed to know how old he is when he'll barely talk to me unless I'm the one that starts the conversation?"

"You could at least ask him, genius. That'll give you something to talk about then, won't it?" Arthur demanded sharply, rolling his eyes. God, for someone that managed to sleep with anything that had two legs, a hole and a heartbeat and graduated from Harvard Law with top academic status and honours, this … brother … of his was inconceivably stupid. Clearly, he had inherited none of his family's common sense, just the book smarts. "For the love of all things sacred and holy, Alfred, make an attempt that won't be so goddamn one-sided. Find out something he likes. Indulge him in the things he enjoys. Just not to the point that you're treating him like a woman, for Christ's sake. Do you know anything he might like, or have you been too bloody wrapped up in talking about yourself to ask?"

"He likes art," Alfred said rapidly, shooting upright, "and he likes reading and music and films and stuff. Politics, too."

Arthur blinked several times. "So you've actually asked him what his interests are," he stated in an incredulous-sounding voice.

"No, but he's a painter," the lawyer said with a shrug. "And I was nosing around his 'fridge-"

"Alfred!"

"-And I came across an acceptance letter to the New York School of Visual Arts. He was going to minor in humanities and sciences and major in visual arts, from what I read there. And, from the paintings by him that I saw up and around his crappy little apartment-"

"My God, have some respect for the lad!"

"-Shut up, you old vulture and let me finish." Arthur made an insulted, squawking noise that only emphasized the 'vulture' part, and he bristled at the nonchalant tone the American used to insult him. "And they're all really politically driven, and really good, too. Like commentary on Class Wars, different types of economies, the War on Terrorism. Everything. From what I saw, he's just after taking an artistic stab at whatever he can get his creative little hands on. So maybe he would like going to one of those contemporary art galleries in Manhattan, or in SoHo and the Upper East Side. Maybe he'd like it. A-And we could go to a movie or something. Uh, he has a few of those documentary, indie-type flicks. He'd like something like that. Hopefully."

Stretching and letting his legs straighten out on the floor, the Englishman crossed them at the ankles and leant backwards. "See, that's a start," he said softly, gently punching Alfred's upper arm. "You know, you're rather pathetic for someone that's such a persnickety little Yank."

"…I don't even want to know what the fuck that means," Alfred said in a flat voice.

Arthur simply smirked and stood, brushing off his pants as he went back over to his art board, pulling his glasses back down and picking his pen back up. "Give it two months," he said as he bent back over his drawing, chewing on the cap as he swept his eyes over the piece. "If you don't make any progress at all within two months - even if it's only the tiniest bit, like him just smiling at you and meaning it, that's called progress, by the way - abandon ship. It's not worth beating yourself up over and trying to pursue him, got it? Oh, and another point of inquiry, this isn't you on another one of your hero complex trips is it?"

Averting his eyes, Alfred stared pointedly at a map of the world, tacked onto the wall across from him. "Whatever are you talking about, Arthur?" he asked pleasantly.

"Don't play dumb with me," the Briton snapped, rolling his eyes. "We all remember when you cleared out your college savings fund - all thirty thousand dollars of it - and donated it to the Red Cross and OXFAM. And the fact that you bought a country mile of the Amazon Rainforest and named it after our Great Aunt Maud. Then there was that time when you were a sophomore and you were just after getting your driver's licence. God, this is my favourite story. You thought it would be an excellent idea to go about the city and provide food for all the stray cats you could find, as well as homeless people and you spent nearly a thousand dollars in the run of a week on Subway, Starbucks, and Whiskas. I thought father was going to burst a blood vessel when you did that."

"Too bad he didn't," he muttered in reply, scowling darkly. "And I don't have a hero complex. I just don't like seeing people unhappy, or being unable to help when I know I can."

"Father also paid for your entire Harvard education and you don't even owe him a penny for it, so I suggest you be grateful," Arthur retaliated. His younger brother stuck out his tongue saucily. "And yes, you do have a hero complex, Alfred. Mind now, it's not an entirely bad thing, I'll admit that much to you. But just don't make this out to be some sort of hero mission for yourself, this interest you've taken in what's-his-name."

"It's Matthew," Alfred pointed out sharply. "And this isn't some sort of 'hero mission'. I like the kid, okay? He's a saucy little snot, he makes me smile more often than not, and he tells it like it is. Shit like that is hard to find, especially when it comes to today's generation. And he doesn't seem at all wrapped up in himself."

"Unlike you," Arthur muttered, leaning down over his drawing and resuming his work, smirking to himself as he did so. "Just be patient in pursuing him, okay? He might be the kind of person that needs space. So just don't be overbearing. All I have to say is have patience, sit it out for two or three months and if that doesn't work, just stay friends - don't abandon him just because you can't get into his bloody trousers, alright? That would be your biggest mistake right there."

Sighing, Alfred nodded absently. His brother, as much as he hated to admit it, had reason in saying what he did. Turns out he actually knew his stuff after all. Leaning over and plucking up another book for the pile (they were endless, his brother's books on faeries), he opened it up and started browsing through it, a small smile on his face.

Then, he pointed to an illustration. "Hey, this is one of your drawings," Alfred said with a smile, running his finger across the jaw line of what was supposed to be a fairy queen. "Wasn't this the one you had published in a fantasy art magazine a few years ago?"

Nodding absent-mindedly, Arthur dragged his pen down the side of the paper slowly, almost nose-to-paper with the sheet. "Indeed it is," he murmured in an off-hand voice, not looking up. He continued darkening the final shadow lines. "Three years ago, their March issue. That book is a compilation of all the submissions they've received since August past. Complimentary shipment to me and everything. Rather nice of the blokes."

Making a soft humming noise of approval and agreement, Alfred relocated himself to lean against the wall as he sifted through the pages, licking his thumb on occasion to turn the page as it would sometimes stick to the one behind it. He sat like a little kid would, legs cross and elbows resting on his knees, cheeks in his palms. The book was perched in his lap. "What are you drawing now?"

"Peter wanted me to draw him a dragon and a knight, so that's what I'm doing," he said quietly, capping the pen for a moment before grabbing another one from the cup, this one with a finer tip. It was gray in colour, and Arthur checked it on his skin before giving a ho-hum of approval.

Chuckles. "He sure did inherit your love for all aspects of the fantasy world," Alfred commented, sounding pleased. He browsed through another few pages before stopping suddenly, hand hovering over the corner of the page, body freezing. Eyes went wide and his jaw dropped at a picture of two very nude faeries in a rather compromising position.

They published things like that in a mainstream art magazine?

Holy. Shit.

Mind blown. Coherent thought no longer possible.

Achievement unlocked.

"Morgan hates it, though," Arthur said, rolling his eyes. "Says she doesn't want her son to be some namby-pamby, bohemian little urchin. Then I just remind her that she's just his step-mother and that she has no say when it comes to his interests. I think it makes her quite mad when I say that. I do love her and mean well by it, though."

Soft, slightly malevolent cackles that almost seemed to say otherwise left Arthur as he stretched, arms reaching above his head and a grunt leaving his lips. Then he slouched back down and capped his pen, popping it back into the container he had taken it from. Deft fingers moved across the clips at the top and he removed the drawing on what appeared to be a twelve by fourteen piece of white bristol board. "Care to stay for an early tea?" he inquired as he blew on the damp ink work.

"Might as well since I'm here as it is," his brother snickered, shutting the book and setting it down on the floor by the pile as he stood, going over to stand behind the seated judge that happened to be a fantasy artist in his spare time. He scanned his eyes across the paper, and then nodded his approval. "Peter's gonna like it. I'm sure of it," Alfred said with a smile, resting his chin on the crown of Arthur's head.

Arthur turned his radioactive green eyes upwards and to his brother. "I hope he does. I've spent two weeks on this piece," he said, running a messy hand through his hair, getting paint and ink mixed in amongst the wheat-coloured strands. Standing, he lazily slung an arm around Alfred's shoulder. "Come now, brother dearest. Let's get something to eat and we can talk a little more about your predicament."

"Will the Wicked Bitch of the West make me a sandwich?" Alfred inquired sweetly, batting his eyelashes at the same time.

"I'm right here, you jackass," came a saucy, distinctly female and Boston area-accented voice from the archway. "So take a look around before you actually say something about me, alright?"

The two brothers looked up, and Alfred winked coyly at Morgan, who leant against the doorway, glaring at him with piercing gray eyes, brows furrowed and eyes slits. Thick, curly black hair framed her narrow, pretty face as she glared daggers at the younger of the two. Her entire expression just screamed bloody blue murder.

She shook her slowly. "There's a reason you're still single," she snapped as she pivoted on her heel, storming down the hallway and back to, presumably, the kitchen, where Peter was with the gingerbread house. "And I think we just discovered what it is!"

Face falling, Alfred sighed and ran a hand through his hair, looking to the judge who watched him with a somewhat sympathetic expression. A hand was placed on his shoulder, squeezing the broad blade in a friendly manner.

Despite the excessive arguments they went through on a weekly basis, and as cheesy as it sounded, they were there for each other when the time was right. And they most certainly never overdid it. They were far more partial to small, meaningful gestures, not exuberant acts of kindness towards one another. For them, those sorts of things just went completely unnoticed. But a smile of reassurance; A consoling squeeze of the shoulder? That was all either of them needed from the other. Nothing more, nothing less: just simple, human comfort. The American gave a weak smile despite what had been said, his hand moving to cover his brother's, fingers curling around ones covered in paint and ink. He squeezed it for a brief moment before letting go as the hand fell from his shoulder and back to the owner's side as though nothing had happened between them just then.

Everything was back to normal, or as normal as it would ever be between the two half-siblings.

"Well, that's also another reason why I like Matthew," Alfred said suddenly as a smile formed on his face where there had previously been an expression of hurt. He rocked back and forth on his heels, hands tucked into the pockets of his sweater.

Arthur blinked, confusion evident on his pasty, narrow face. "Oh? And what might that be?"

"The little fucker actually has a sense of humour, unlike that slag you got hitched to."


Whoever guesses which APH character the police man is wins a brownie. And, just to make a note seeing as several people have brought it up: I am aware that Gilbert has red eyes and I've been writing him as having blue ones. This is for the simple fact that normal people (although in the case of Gilbert this is debatable - this 'normal' bznss) generally do not have red eyes, therefore giving him red eyes is out of the question. I'm going for as realistic as I can make it. But he might get contacts that are red. I haven't really decided on that just yet.

Thanks for reading and leaving all those reviews, haha!