CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE.

Although he was unsure as to how he managed to pull it off, Jeff managed to pay off all his student loans three years in advance. He had woken up on a Monday morning, to the sound of the mail hitting the floor after coming through the slot in his door. Anyway, sleeping on the floor by the television had been uncomfortable - it had been the first place he had dropped his work bag in front of the TV, and then when he realized he had to climb a flight of stairs to get to his sleeping loft, he had said fuck it, dropped to the floor and slept there in his work clothing.

But all the same, he had woken up to the sound of the mail hitting the floor. Once he had gone through it - chain letter, flyers, junk mail, Get Your Free Air Wick Air Freshener Now!, junk mail, light bill, You Should Probably Pay This Bill Tomorrow Or You're Fucked - he had found the letter from Harvard. The moment he had seen it, he felt his gut drop because oh sweet fuck they didn't get my last payment and they're going to send their mafia and they're gonna slice the muscles off the back of my legs oh man I am doomed. Or they've upped their interest rates and now they're gonna tell me that I actually owe them in the ballpark of another several thousand dollars. Bastards.

Apparently he had already finished paying everything off, and the last deposit he had made was actually being returned to him. All $7,000 of it.

It was bordering close to being something he could almost consider a miracle. Three years earlier than he had intended, and his debts were all paid off. Every last one of them. The only thing he had to worry about now was paying off his mortgage, bills and his car. And it meant he could go back and get his masters in business and economics sooner than he had planned if he really wanted to.

Jeff said it was because he was a high-ranking sorcerer and he could do whatever the fuck he wanted.

Allan said it was because he was a workaholic with no sex life, insomnia and a detrimental coffee addiction.

(Four points for you, Allan Coco!)

Alfred and Chris, choosing the neutral side of things, decided that they had absolutely no opinion on the situation. No opinion whatsoever other than the fact that it brought them sheer happiness when Jeff decided they were all going out partying and he was buying them all their drinks for the duration of the evening. They had long since deemed themselves the Wise Men of the group.

Either way, he had seven grand to fuck around with. Which called for some serious rounds of drinks, a new expresso machine to save on the constant funding he was providing for Starbucks, and a four day holiday from spreadsheets, policies, neurotic elderly people unable to comprehend the most basic elements of their life insurance, and trying to find the best loopholes for said elderly persons.

First and foremost were the drinks; everything and everyone else could wait their goddamn turn.

Hanging out at the back of their usual downtown Manhattan haunt, the four (stooges) had claimed a booth for their own nefarious reasonings and were already on their fourth round of drinks. Matthew had decided to bail on their shenanigans, given that Gilbert had returned from California the night before and, despite suffering some serious jet lag, they were going to another bar and partying themselves sick with Antonio, Mathias, Ivan and a few other people that he had apparently gone to school with - he smiled a little at recalling the conversation they had had before going out, and he had been unable to help but laugh a little at just how nervous his lover had been at the thought of being around some people he hadn't seen since he had graduated.

Content to let Matthew run off and do his own thing, because it meant neither of them had to exactly worry about being the designated driver for the night - thank God for cabs for that one reason - Alfred sunk back into the comfortable velour seating, beer glass in hand. As much as he wanted to get up and go dancing, the glass in his hand was appealing. Way too appealing, actually. It also required energy he just did not have; being awake since six and running on only four hours sleep was just about wrecking him. The fact that there were people that did that on a regular basis blew his mind. The fact that he was dating a person that did it on a regular basis blew his mind.

Sipping the beer and grimacing when a bit of foam got up his nose, he snorted, almost choking on it before setting the glass back down. The other three were too engrossed in their conversation to take notice of his choking.

Wiping where liquid dribbled down his chin and just under his nose with the back of his hand, leaning his weight on the table. They were contemplating ordering another bucket of beer. Jones perked up, squirming closer. Another bucket of beer sounded absolutely fantastic. Getting a bucket of beer for himself sounded even better. But he wouldn't do that because for one, Jeff would beat him to a snot if he tried to spend any money - "Dude, this is my evening and I am buying the drinks, and if you don't like it you can kindly mosey along and fuck yourself on a nuclear missile." Otherwise, the only money he had was for a cab back to his place. Or to Matthew's, if he felt like harassing his partner, who would more than likely be as hungover as all sin.

Matthew had explicitly told him about five hours ago what he and Gilbert were planning on achieving, and that if he showed up at around five or six am, drunk and expecting to cuddle, that he could prepare to receive an elbow in either the face or more tender regions of his body and he would feel zero fucking remorse.

But if he showed up at Al's place, or his own with Alfred there waiting for him, at that time then it was perfectly okay. Then they could cuddle all they wanted.

(He said his logic was even better than his Lamp's, and Alfred decided to keep his comments about his lover's sanity to himself. Mainly because he liked having his jaw in one piece and his dick attached to his body.)

Picking his cigarette up out of the ashtray and taking a drag, he let the smoke out through his nose before throwing in his two cents to the men in the process of debating more alcohol and how to go about ordering it: "I think we should do a double round."

The guys looked at him. "Oh?" Jeff asked, grinning. "Why's that?"

"Elementary my dear Jeff," Alfred said. "We won't have to wait half as long for the next round when we already got it there in front of us. So we should get eight beers at a time instead of four. And who knows, some bars offer discounts when you purchase a double round."

Pointing at the attorney, Jeff cackled as he waved down a waitress with his other hand. "I like your thinking, Jones," he declared. "Always have, always will."

"That's cause you two share the same wavelength when it comes to drinking," said Chris in a flat voice, hands resting at the bottom of his glass.

Alfred arched his eyebrow. "And I don't see you denying the fantasticness of my idea."

"Well, I didn't disagree with you-"

"So, you're saying my idea was good, and that I'm right?"

Pulling back a little, Chris stared at him. "Basically. It is a good idea when you think about it, as long as the booze comes with a lot of ice."

Standing and slapping his hand on the table, the lawyer wore a victorious look on his slightly flushed face. "Ha! I win!" he said loudly. "You have never agreed with me on anything, and you've never told me I had a good idea. I. Fucking. Win."

Floundering, Chris spluttered and shook his head. "I never said-"

"Yes you did!" Alfred said in a shrill voice, pointing at him. "Yes you did! I have witnesses and if I need them to back it up they will, right guys?"

Shrugging, Allan drained back what was left of his beer as Jeff gave their newest order to the confused-looking barista. "He does have a point, Chris," he said. "Why I don't know, but you did tell him it was a good idea and that you agreed with him."

"But I'm drunk," Chris groaned. "That should cancel it out completely. Booze impairs judgement, right?"

"Oh shut up, you sore loser," Alfred said smugly, sitting down and folding his arms behind his head. "You just can't handle admitting to my sheer brilliance."

Chris swore, shooting him a particularly dirty look before draining back what was left of his beer.

"Maybe I should mark this down on a calendar or something," Jones contemplated, grinning at how easily riled up the other lawyer was. "It'd make for a good yearly celebration."

"Dude, I will break you," threatened Chris. "And I will enjoy every moment of it."

Alfred laughed. "I'll use Matthew as my personal-shield-guard-dog hybrid."

"I wouldn't argue that," Jeff said as the waitress walked away. "That fucker will pour an ice cold drink all over your crotch and he will ruin your favourite pants. He is soulless."

Turning his attention from Chris to the other, Alfred shook his head. "That was forever ago. How are you still all bent up over that?"

"Two words about the Ice Queen," he said in a voice that was barely audible over the music in the bar. "Favourite. Pants. He ruined them, man, and he totally shut me down before I even had a chance to start."

"He tends to do that," the lawyer snorted, running a hand through his messy blonde hair. There was a fond look in his eyes. "Trust me. It's his thing. And he's good at it."

"What else is he good at?" Jeff asked, expression turning devious. Green-gray eyes glinted wickedly and he pursed his lips. "I'm sure he has a few other talents."

Choking into his glass, Alfred spluttered and had to get thumped on the back by the slightly grudging lawyer next to him (he was probably preventing him from choking just for show; hey guys look at me I'm being a good friend). "That's for me to know, and you to not find out."

Jeff scoffed, waving the DA off with an affronted expression. I buy you drinks and this is the thanks I get? was what it seemed to say. "You're such a louse," he sighed, dramatically shaking his head. A bark of laughter left Alfred. "I mean, c'mon, humour a bro?"

"I'd rather not," he muttered around the mouth of his glass, dangling his cigarette between his knuckles as he sipped his beer. "You're free to imagine all you like, if that makes you feel any better." A shudder passed through Chris a moment after he said that, and Alfred slapped him over the back of the head without even disturbing the ash on the tip of his smoke. "Fucking pervert."

"You're the one that told him to imagine, thus creating an unstable chain of events," said Chris. "So you're the one that's a fucking pervert, you fucking pervert."

"It's just a figure of speech, you idiot-"

"Or let's just fix the whole problem before it even starts," Allan instructed with a bright grin, "and we can say you're all perverts."

"Yourself included," Jeff said, nodding sagely as he tasted his vodka. He pulled the glass away and admired the contents for a moment. "Mm, Tropicana and Finlandia. This is gorgeous. I need more of this European beauty in my body."

"Myself include-" he stopped and narrowed his eyes. "You can go and fuck yourself, good sir."

"And who's buying everyone's drinks tonight?" reminded the Texan with a cold-sounding, authoritative voice. Wills was smiling smugly, cheek propped in his palm as he twirled his ice cubes around in his drink, using his finger to propel the little ice chunks through the alcohol before picking up one to pop in his mouth and munch on. A shiver ran through Alfred as he heard the ice breaking between his teeth, imagining the sensation against his own teeth.

Unable to reply right away, Allan stared blankly at the blonde. Once the programmer's silence persisted longer than a few minutes and the look on his face turned to one of frustration, he just slammed back the rest of his beer and glared out across the center of the bar.

"Yeah, that's right," he said, settling back against the back of the booth, arms over his chest. "I think there's a damn good chance that it might be me."

Muttering viciously beneath his breath in a string of vile-sounding Spanish - Alfred found himself a bit frightened when he took a moment to consider what it was he said, the nasty little threat that involved Jeff's nether regions and a hot iron poker - Allan gave Jeff this worrying sort of death glare that caught even the Texan in question off-guard. That had been nasty.

Honestly, when he thought about it, sometimes their friendship was terrifyingly similar to what he and Matthew had been like during the first two months or so - or it was like Matthew being friends with someone just like himself and feeling the exact same way towards the mirror image of himself as he had felt towards the lawyer in the first place. To top it off, that mirror image had to feel the same way, too. A wholly terrifying consideration.

While they had been best friends since preschool, there were times when they still had to gag the urge to beat the other into some sort of senseless submission. A quarter of the time they decided to not even bother with fighting back the urge and they'd just knock the shit out of each other.

It was actually kind of alarming at times.

Not entirely liking where things could end up going, Alfred clapped his hands, laughing awkwardly. "I thought Vanessa and Chris were coming tonight, too?"

Turning his attention from the obvious growing desire to throttle his fellow southerner, Allan grunted. Chris nodded, proving to be the more useful of the two. "I think they might be stopping by later," he said. "I know they were considering it, or at least Vanessa was. More than likely she'll show up around eleven-thirty or so, but whether or not both of them do, I 'unno."

"One is better than none," Alfred said with a lascivious wink.

Biting the corners of his mouth, Chris ran a hand down over his face before groaning. "And what about you, huh?" he demanded. "Where's Matthew? Since when does he ever miss out on a chance to get drunk for free?"

"That's because his friend got back a month earlier from California than what he thought," Alfred said with a crooked grin. It was kind of scary how well his friends knew the Canadian. "He wasn't expecting him back until mid-December, so they're off elsewhere with a bunch of their friends, laying claim to some bar down yonder road in celebration."

"Man, we should have either just crashed their party, or we should have just dragged them all along with us and just had one big ol' bash," Jeff said with a groan. "That would have been fuckin' fantastic."

"I'd call Mattie up and tell him and the guys to c'mon over, but I've already gotten one drunk- or stoned-text from him. I can't decide which one it is 'cos it's a little more incoherent than usual."

"He's naturally incoherent the moment you put alcohol in his body whether it gets him wasted or not," Allan snorted.

"Yeah, he tends to end up a bit of a state when he's drunk-"

"Tends to?" Chris looked slightly amazed. "Hello understatement of the year."

"…Okay, he usually ends up a complete state."

"That's more like it."

With a deepening scowl, Alfred let the guys talk amongst themselves, occasionally paying attention when there was laughter but otherwise he ignored them in favour of watching the antics of the other people in the bar. There were a few people dancing - not too many, but a good enough crowd had been drawn - and there were even more people just milling around amongst groups of people, drinks in hand and laughing obnoxiously. One group of scantily clad women wandered by their table, probably no more than twenty a piece with their fake IDs and augmented breasts, clinging to their bright blue cosmopolitans and giggling like witches. The fact that he could hear their laughter over the music in the bar was a testament to the generic annoyingness of drunken, party animal sorority girls. Some of them were wonderful, intelligent women, but then there were the others that made up that stereotype - the ones that crawled around bars at all hours; boozing until they wound up either crouched in front of a toilet puking their guts up or in bed with some faceless individual.

He realized, with some chagrin, that those were the sorts of girls he had spent so much time sleeping with throughout university.

(At least by the time his last year had rolled around and he had been admitted to the law program at Harvard he had upgraded from sleeping with ditzy sorority girls to sleeping with business and law students in their first and second year.)

(And then by the time he had gotten to New York and landed a job, it was to high class hookers, a few other lawyers here and there that practiced in jurisdictions outside of Manhattan and Brooklyn, and the occasional secretary. He wasn't sure if it was an upgrade or a downgrade, but he wasn't about to question the fact that he was still able to get them in bed without much effort.)

'Nothing like a little all-American, boy-next-door charm,' he thought dryly as he sipped another beer. 'I seriously abused that stigma. Flayed the fuckin' shit out of it.'

Which he had, and thankfully Matthew had managed to see right through it.

(If Matthew had fallen for that, he might have lost all hope in everything ever.)

Following the group of women with his eyes but managing to keep his head stationary so that he didn't look like as big a creep as what he felt for watching them, Alfred directed his attention to the straggler of the group. The girl was somehow managing to totter along in stilettos that had to be at least four inches high, and the girl wearing them was probably already around five-seven or five-eight. And she kept tugging down the back of her dangerously short, body-hugging dress, laughing as her drink sloshed over her hand and down onto the floor, splattering up over her legs and her stilt-like shoes.

Shaking his head ruefully, Alfred returned to scanning the bar. The amount of people on the dance floor seemed to be growing a lot faster than he had realized; while there had only been maybe twenty people there a few songs ago, at least another fifteen had joined in amongst the masses of twisting people.

There was something about dancing people that fascinated him, especially when it was a large group of people as such, and whatever it was had managed to captivate him since he had been a kid. Maybe it was the chaotic yet eerily synchronized movement of the congregation of party-goers that kept his attention over the lights and music, a consideration that had a higher merit to it than the other two. While he himself loved to dance, at the moment he didn't have even a quarter of the energy it would end up requiring so he thought it better to stay there and quietly observe from the sidelines, something he hadn't done in a long time. It had literally been years since he had gone out drinking and it hadn't involved him dancing with someone by the end of the night (then again, the night wasn't even close to being over so that could end up changing very quickly).

For now, he was content to simply look on and remain apart from everything else that was happening. Sometimes being an outlier was almost emotionally gratifying. Either way, watching the still-growing group of people on the dance floor gave him something to look at for a few minutes before he grew bored with that, too, and he turned his focus back to his beer.

Alfred stretched lazily, sliding down a little in his seat. He finished off his smoke and, once he turned his attention elsewhere, he jolted a little when he saw it was just him and Chris sat there. How the hell had they left without him managing to notice it? Had he really been that spaced out? Glancing at the iPhone on the table, which read that two more messages had shown up in the space of twenty minutes (Matthew thought himself to be the most brilliant and wittiest individual on the face of the Earth when he was drunk and he took it upon himself to share that brilliance and wit with everyone he possibly could. Alfred always ended up being that sucker but, hey, he could deal with it. He was just glad he had talked his boyfriend into getting unlimited texting). The other lawyer had his arms folded over his chest and was staring out over the club with a vacant expression similar to the one Alfred had been wearing just moments before. He was doing the exact same thing - people watching. Creep.

"Where'd the guys go?" Jones asked, stretching his arms up over his head before slouching in his spot.

"I have no idea. I think they might be gone dancing or something, cause Jeff was saying something about wanting to."

"Makes sense," Alfred said, "when you consider the fact that they're probably the biggest party animals we know, next to ourselves."

Chris laughed, picking up his beer. He grinned over at the slightly older American. "They put our college freshmen selves to shame."

"I'm pretty sure I only remember a quarter of my freshman year," Al groaned.

"Remember that moonshine I tried to make in the chem lab?" Chris asked. He gave a fond sigh at the memory.

Feeling his stomach turn at the mere mention of the word, the attorney groaned and shook his head slowly. "There were definitely a few people itching to turn that fuckin' lab into a meth lab. And that moonshine nearly killed us, fuckhead. I was throwing up for almost a week. I still have nightmares about that if I've been drinking too much," he said.

"Maybe I should try and brew up another batch in the staff kitchen at the court house one of these days," he hummed thoughtfully. "See what fun we can have. I mean, that would be a good way to start the weekend, right?"

Alfred shook his head slowly. "Who are you and what the fuck have you done with Chris?"

His expression went blank. "I'm actually an alien from the former, ousted planet Pluto. I sold his mind and soul on the black market to a sex ring so I could take over his body, continue to woo his wife and buy a new car. How does that sound?"

"It's bordering on plausible, but it needs a bit of work. You're doing good so far."

Chris shot him a dirty look before rolling his eyes. "I know how to have fun," he sniffed.

"You just choose not to?"

The look he received this time around was even colder than the last one and the attorney quickly averted his gaze, smiling wickedly and cackling twistedly. "I just happen to be a mature adult and I choose the appropriate time and place to have fun, unlike you, Mr. Jones."

"I'm just a kid at heart," Jones said, his smile thinning out. "Growing up is one of my many kryptonites."

"You-"

There, he said it - it was out there in all its humanizing, ego-crippling glory (what was left of his ego, anyway; the past eight or nine months had managed to take him down a few pegs and then some).

He, Alfred F. Jones - twenty-seven and with a different Rolex for every day of the week - was still afraid of having to convert to acting like a total adult.

The longer he could cling to his comics, his videogames, the collection of action figures sitting on the top shelf of the bookcase in his bedroom and the apparent sense of wonder he still had that both amazed and attracted people to him, the longer he could put-off being a whole part of the so-called real world.

While he was, admittedly, a good eighty percent part of the world of grown-up assholes given his investment in his profession, education and lifestyle, there was still that modicum of lingering optimism still latched on to him that naively believed that there was still a way he could create brighter, if not at least a little more stable, future for others.

The longer he could hold on to all of that, the longer he could put-off growing up.

The longer he could avoid growing up, the risk of turning into a jaded lump of humanity - or, in other words, turning into a man like his father - was cast aside for another few years.

Turning into a man like his father was the very last thing he wanted. Sure, the guy was disgustingly successful and rich, but Alfred was too. There was a difference between them though; one that he had made sure was there, something that would easily set them apart should anyone ever make the mistake of comparing them. Unlike the old man, he was trying to find better ways to put that success and money of his to a use that would at least remotely benefit others. His father just sat on his growing pile of money and stocks like he was some sort of King of the Hill.

A Short Summary:
Alfred F. Jones is afraid to grow up and
accidentally become someone frighteningly
similar to his father in the process because
in his opinion that would suck. A lot.

Running a hand through his hair and staring at his beer glass, Jones no longer felt any interest in finishing the drink. Nothing would please him more now than to go home and sleep for what was left of the weekend.

Chris watched the other, quietly taking in the growing expression of unhappiness he wore. "Listen, I've been meaning to ask you for a while now," he said, moving to sit closer to the other, "but how have you been?"

It took a moment for the full meaning of the question to sink in, but when it did he ducked his head. "I'm good," said Alfred. "Real good, actually. Staying with therapy has been doing wonders for me, and according to my doc, he thinks I should be good enough to give up therapy by the time February rolls around."

"Well, shit, that's good to hear," the lawyer said, brownish-yellow coloured eyes widening and a small smile forming on his face. Alfred was a bit taken aback by the reaction, but it warmed him. He kept that to himself though, and instead picked up his glass of beer to mask his smile. Chris glanced surreptitiously in the direction of the dance floor before looking back to him. "Your brother, Judge Kirkland, came to me a few times to talk about it, actually. He was really worried about you, but he didn't want to bother you. Figured you had enough on your plate to handle, dealing with your withdrawls and trying for the first week or two to straighten everything out with Matt, and then with you trying to get back into the habit of working normal hours again."

"Arthur went to you to talk about it?" he asked, incredulous.

"I have no idea why either, but yeah," he said. "He was sort of embarrassed about it at first, but I told him it was fine and he spilled practically everything. I mean, I'm sure there are things he left out, but some of the stuff he told me about while you two were over in England…" Chris shook his head, almost piteously. Alfred bristled at the gesture. "Fuck, getting hit by a truck would have been easier to handle."

Laughing bitterly and taking a mouthful of beer, Jones shook his head slowly and traced a finger around the blunt edge. "I think I would have liked that more."

Chris shrugged. "Think you'd still be like it now if things hadn't happened the way they did?"

This was enough to stump him. He scratched the back of his neck, sinking back in his seat and frowning. He hadn't given it much thought up until now - because well, really, the last thing he needed to be concerning himself with was any thought at all of his old habits. What if he caught himself thinking about them a little too often and then, because of all the unintentional recollections, he found himself craving the drug he had managed to escape from? Everything he had achieved could be unravelled so easily that it terrified him. Sure, he had people to fall back on that would be there if he needed someone to help ease him through the mess, but that wasn't the point.

"I don't know," he admitted finally. His head felt fried; it was too late to be putting too much thought into anything other than his next drink - which he needed pretty badly at this point, and it was going to have to be something stronger. "I really don't know. I mean, I had been weaning myself off of it as it was, going three and four days at a time without doing any lines, but my body still had a pretty high tolerance to the shit and it took three or four lines of coke before I'd feel anything at all. So maybe I would have brought myself off of it by now, or maybe I'd be down to one or two lines a week. Who knows?"

Chris cast another wary glance about them, and the lawyer briefly admired his friend's tact. Cautious bastard. At least one of them was; someone had to be, after all. "Do you … ever find yourself missing it?"

"Not … not now. I did at first, for the first two months or so, even when I was back in New York," Alfred said. Staring out across the floor - he had caught the occasional glimpse of Jeff and Allan, but not very often - he saw everything as a brightly coloured yet dark blur. Don't get into this, a little voice murmured; don't go down this road just yet, Jones. "I missed the initial rush of the high. Like, the way my head would spin and everything would just slide into focus and sharpen, and the way I'd just wake up and come around so fast. Hell, there were a few times I went to court as high as a kite for the first few hours of a hearing. When I was at my worst with the drug, I was doing four lines twice a day. Like, I wouldn't have admitted it then, but I was a fuckin' mess, man. Total road kill. I didn't miss that, it was the way it gave me energy and I just … functioned, but I wasn't functioning on it at the same time. Not normally, at least."

Silence hung between them for a brief moment, the other nodding slowly as he took in what he said. "Can I be blunt for a second?" Chris asked.

"Yeah, sure, why not," he chuckled. It couldn't be too bad, right? "Go on."

"I think cocaine made you a proper asshole. I mean, I wanted to punch you in the face on more than one occasion, and now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure you were like a kite on those days."

Never mind.

He had forgotten Chris had taken classes on how to be a proper dick at Harvard.

"Well, coke was my excuse," Alfred said dryly. "What the fuck was yours?"

Making a face, DePaulo rolled his eyes. "Asshole," he muttered. "Sorry if I'm turning this into a game of twenty-one questions, but now I'm kind of curious. What drugs have you done? Cause I'm pretty sure you didn't just stick to coke."

"It's cool man, I don't exactly mind," Alfred said with a short laugh. "But I've done morphine, heroin, obviously cocaine, I've obviously smoked more than my fair share of weed but I don't consider that bad at all, Demerol, Ecstasy, Oxy Contin. Stuff like that. Extreme pain killers."

"How the fuck did you manage to get your hands on half of that shit?" he asked, amazed. "Like, you did all of that during university, right? How the fuck did you manage to get your hands on it?"

"When you have money, you have connections," Alfred said lamely.

Chris nodded sullenly; he knew damn well what he meant by that. "That's crazy though. I have no idea how you fast-tracked university, had a spot on the football team as a quarterback, got excellent marks and managed to spend at least a quarter of it drunk and another quarter of it high."

"I'm just magical," Alfred gloated. "Like a fuckin' Leprechaun or somethin'. I can multi-task like it's nobody's business, and I can write an argument out whether I'm sober or high and still tag myself as winning. Now, my turn for a question: why are you only asking me about this now? How come you've never asked me about all this before?"

He looked embarrassed. "Well, I don't know," he muttered evasively. "Because the guys aren't around, we're not at work and I can."

"Dude, you suck even more than I do at talking about your emotions," Jones laughed. "'Fess up."

"And Vanessa had told me I've gotten better at it, too." Mock disappointment sounded in his voice. "But, I don't know, I … I kind of feel like we're better friends now, so maybe it's alright if I ask you these things. And, well, I know I've never been the best friend to have, cause … yeah… and I mean … uh. Yeah. But I think pretty highly of you, even … even if you are a gigantic weirdo. But, I mean, I'd like to think you're our village weirdo so it's cool and you're, like, my bro and that means we can … talk about this stuff. Just not our emotions because man, I really cannot do that. But, I mean, we're good, right?"

He hadn't expected to hear that. At all.

"Wow," said Alfred. He blinked. That had taken some serious balls. "I … did you just … wow."

Chris' face had gone red, and not just from the alcohol. "Fuck off, I'm drunk." To prove his point, he drained back what was left of his beer and slumped in his seat, looking away.

"As much as I appreciate hearing that, you need to stop talking and get another beer," Alfred advised. "Or maybe you shouldn't, because I think you're channelling my sloppy, soppy drunk of a half-brother. I didn't think you had enough emotions in you to last a minute at a time."

"Vanessa makes me talk about how I feel at least twice a day," he muttered. "She's teaching me this emotions thing. I don't like it."

"It's because the Berlin Wall has an easier time conveying feeling than you do." Although it was close enough to what Alfred had planned on saying, that was not him speaking, unless his balls had suddenly retracted and he had gone through some sort of spontaneous reverse puberty. Both men turned around quickly, looking up with wide eyes.

A grin spreading across his face as the woman moved to sit down with them, Chris slid an arm around Vanessa's waist and chuckled. "Well speak of the Devil," he said against her cheek as he kissed her. "We were just talking about you. I thought you were going to call if you were coming over?"

Vanessa shrugged. "I like the element of surprise," she clucked, trailing her fingers down over the man's chest. "And you two were talking about me? I hope it was all nice stuff." She gave this Chris a sort of look that said it had better be all nice stuff, Mister.

Laughing, Alfred slid over closer to the couple, sandwiching the pharmacist in between. The young woman gave a laugh of delight before planting a kiss on the district attorney's cheek. "Of course it was all nice stuff, darlin'," he said with a grin. "Like about how nice your ass is. I mean, you have a fantastic ass, Vanessa. I wish I had an ass like that to call my own."

Arms slid around his shoulders and a body pressed against his back, and Alfred looked back to find Allan's wife Christine there, a wicked smile on her deeply tanned face. The third Texan of their group, her family actually came from deep in Southern Mexico but she had grown up in the same small town as the other two, had gone to Harvard with them and just so happened to be Allan's childhood sweetheart. It was sweet, in a nauseatingly precious sort of way. "Matthew has a nice ass, too," she said with a grin. "I'm sure you call that one your own already, don't you?"

Alfred managed to by-pass going red and went into a completely different colour spectrum altogether. "You cruel, wintry-hearted monster," he squawked. "Why would you say some-"

"Honey, you aren't man enough to take it up the ass, so it clearly has to be the other way around."

There was no way he was hearing this. No goddamn way. And if he really was hearing it, why wasn't the floor opening up already to swallow him whole? Alfred whined. "Do you guys, like, hate me or something? What have I done to deserve such abuse?"

"It's cause we love you," Vanessa amended, petting him with a giggle. Chrissy kept her weight stationary on the lawyer, preening his blonde hair with her fingers. "And this happens to be our way of showing that love."

"Yeah, it's cause we love you, Alfred," Allan said, alerting the group to the presence of him and Jeff. "Wait, hang on, why do we love Alfred again? I thought we had some sort of group agreement that he's to receive no love for the next thirteen years?"

"Fuck you all, I can totally get all the love I need elsewhere," Alfred snorted. "Like from my cat, for example. She loves me more on a bad day than all of you half-wits combined."

"If it weren't for the fact that you and Matthew are a very successful couple, I'd have written you off as a high-maintenance crazy cat lady," Allan said as he took a seat across from them.

"I officially disown all of you," Alfred said, sitting up and gently pushing Chrissy and Vanessa away so he could sit by himself in a way. "I want nothing to do with any of you ever again. And I want a glass of Bourbon, Jeff, so you better get on that if you're the one buying drinks." The two women laughed before converging on him once more, if only to annoy him. The guys laughed while he groaned, head falling back between his shoulder blades as he huffed.

"What do you want in your drink?" Jeff asked with a laugh as he waved a waitress over, the one that had been tending to them most of the evening.

"… I want Bourbon in my drink."

He assumed that was easy enough to follow.

"And ice cubes. Ice cubes are good."

By the time his drink did show up, he was parched and had gotten to the point of taking ice cubes from their bucket of beer and sucking on them to try and work some moisture back into his mouth. Vanessa and Chrissy were still sat on either side of him, talking with their respective husbands and laughing as they did. Jeff had already vanished again into the crowds because, well, he was a bit of a party animal and spent even more time than any of them did on the dance floor. The need to party probably came on strong after pulling hours like he did, so no one couldn't really blame the guy.

And Alfred, on the other hand, simply sat there and quietly drank his whiskey, occasionally swirling the ice cubes around the glass. He had already talked himself to the point of emotional exhaustion, so maybe that was why he was isolating himself from their pockets of discussion.

Normally, this would have bothered him to the point of nausea and he'd feel awful, but not awful enough to do anything about it. He'd feel this crippling loneliness that numbed him and he wouldn't say a word unless he was spoken to because, for some absurd reason, he'd rather sit off in his own little world to brood endlessly instead of making the effort to try and join in.

But now, he didn't mind. Maybe it was because he had already talked himself sick, but he didn't feel as though he were isolating himself from them for a change.

"Woah, Princess, I didn't know you had your own harem!"

Okay, well, maybe sitting there and saying absolutely nothing was destined to change.

A grin breaking across his face and turning in the direction his partner's voice originated from, Alfred slung his arms around the girls' shoulders. "Oh, I thought I'd surprise you one of these days with them. Beautiful lot of ladies, aren't they?" The two women laughed, slapping him lightly on either shoulder before scooting away. "They're apparently rather modest though, for some crazy reason. I mean, if I was that beautiful I wouldn't be fuckin' modest about it at all."

Matthew was grinning (and visibly drunk; his normally pale cheeks were flushed a lovely shade of red and he staggered a little with each step he took) as he and Gilbert approached the table, arms wrapped around one another. Shimmying around and crawling over the seats so he could curl up behind the lawyer, legs and arms draped around his mid-section, Williams reeked of booze and there was an underlying smell of what was possibly marijuana. The artist pressed close, and he grazed his smooth neck with his lips before planting a messy kiss on the older man's cheek. Gilbert plopped down across the table from them, sitting next to Allan and giving him a grin.

They were both a collective mess, and they looked thoroughly pleased with their existence.

"You guys are absolutely plastered, aren't you?" Chris asked with a low laugh. The smiles they wore were enough of an answer for them. "I thought Al said you were partying elsewhere?"

"Mm, we were until Mathias and genius here got us kicked out," Matthew said darkly, shooting the platinum blonde a cold look. Gilbert returned the look with a kissy-face, puckering his lips and batting his translucent lashes in his direction. "I don't even know what they did, but we got dragged out of the bar - although watching a tiny white guy escorting Ivan's huge Russian ass out of the bar - peacefully, none the less - was the funniest thing I will ever see in my lifetime-"

"Matthew, can I please tell you something before you keep talking?" Alfred asked calmly.

"Course y'can!" He hiccoughed. "S'on your mind?"

"You smell like a Mexican stand-off."

"That's because me gusta la tequila," he cackled and slurred all at once. "Antonio taught me that. It means I like Tequila, in Spanish. Spanish is such a cool language. And it's hot. Y'should speak Spanish."

"Duly noted." Damn straight it was duly noted; he was going to take sweet, sweet advantage of that. "But seriously, is that any reason to smell like a Mexican stand-off?"

"Of course it is! Tequila makes my tummy warm, and then I feel all good and warm and fuzzy inside because my tummy likes to be warm. Alcohol is a good tummy-warmer, I bet y'didn't know that."

Gilbert dropped his weight on the table, torso flat against the surface. "Birdie here drank a 40-ouncer of Corazón Maya. I don't know how he's still alive."

Alfred turned to look at his partner. Matthew was still grinning. "What else have you been drinking?" he asked flatly.

"Not too much," he hummed, resting his chin on a broad shoulder. "I've had some vodka and Kahlúa. It just so happens that Tequila kills me every time I drink it. But I love it, so that's why I drink it even if it doesn't love me!" A wandering hand grabbed up his glass of Bourbon and Matthew sipped daintily from it with a grimace. "Mm, I hate that shit."

Laughing and prying the glass out of his hand with little effort, Alfred took a mouthful of it, loving the way it seared his throat on the way down and made his head swim briefly. "Then don't drink it if you don't like it," he teased.

"I would if I wasn't thirsty," he snapped with a small scowl. There was still a bit of a smile on his face and Jones chuckled at the expression. "Antonio's gone getting drinks or whatever it is he said he was planning on doing…"

While the last thing he knew Matthew needed was another drink, Alfred just shook his head and chuckled lowly, exchanging humoured looks with Chris. The other lawyer was stifling his laughter and had his cellphone in his hand. A moment later, Al's iPhone vibrated.

Prying it out of his jeans pocket without managing to disturb Matthew - who was now focused on talking with Jeff about something or other - glanced at the message. He smothered a bark of laughter with the back of his hand.

Vanessa wants to know if we can take him home
with us. She said she's always wanted her own drunk,
gay boy for a pet. Do I have to disappoint her?

With a furtive glance to his lover, Alfred confirmed his lack of attention before replying:

I can't make no promises or anything, but
maybe I can bring it up with him and I'll let
you know what he says, alright?

Chris looked up at him and winked before nudging his wife and showing her the message. She glanced at it as she pushed her red hair out of her face, and a bright smile broke out across it. Clapping her hands and scooting over to sit next to Matthew, she shot Christine a conspiratorial look before the two women hauled the Canadian - who was now looking properly bewildered and a little scared - out from behind Alfred to study him as though he were a specimen under a microscope of sorts.

"U-Uh, hey … there?"

Vanessa and Chrissy gave each other wicked smiles before focusing on the young man they had sandwiched between them. "I think this is our first time properly meeting," Chrissy said, trailing her manicured fingers through his soft blonde hair. "I'm Christine, Allan's wife."

Matthew blanched. "Y-You're married?" he squeaked, starting to panic a little. He looked over to Allan with wide, worried eyes and the Texan just grinned at him as he watched his wife harass the artist.

"Yeah, I know, crazy idea," she said with an eye roll. "Three years to that thing over there? Something must be wrong with me. Anyway, enough about me. Tell me about you, Mr. Williams. All I know is that you're Alfred's boy, so I need a bit more than that."

The colour had started to return to his face as the woman continually preened his hair, trying to hold back her laughter as he squirmed a bit. "Well, what do you want to know?"

"Mm, doesn't matter. Where you're from, what you do for a living, interests, if you enjoy the occasional, casual threesome-"

"Christine!" Allan looked shocked and his wife gave him an indifferent look. "Shut up!"

"What!"

"Jesus Christ woman, you can't just go around asking people if they enjoy threesomes."

Chrissy pouted and huffed. "And what's wrong with doing that?"

"So many things are wrong with that," Allan moaned from across the table, running a hand down over his face. "Just … don't ask people those things. Or at least not when you've just met them. Like, really. Don't. Please."

"Your problem is that no one ever asks you if you enjoy having threesomes." Turning to face the flustered young man beside her, she arched a brow and cocked her head. "Well? Do you?"

Spluttering and turning even redder, Matthew made a choked noise before shrugging. "I … um … okay well sure. There's nothing wrong with them as long as, y'know, there's enough love to go around, then I am all for a threesome."

Chrissy looked to Alfred. "I hope you're paying attention to this, Jones."

Alfred tapped his temple and gave his boyfriend a sly smile. "Trust me, sweetie, I'm keeping everything stored up here for future reference. Things like this just do not go astray with me."

Matthew looked like he wanted to slide under the table and never come back out. He refrained from doing so for the simple fact that Antonio had just showed up with three bottles of vodka in hand. Accepting his bottle of Absolut, Matthew popped the top and sipped on it, nodding. Absolut Citron. Best flavoured vodka on the face of the earth, and he could drink it back like it was water.

Pointing at the Canadian as he took a seat next to Gilbert, Antonio was grinning. "Like I said earlier, no more Tequila for you. Next thing we know, you'll be craving tacos and chalupas, and you'll suddenly sprout a sombrero or something."

Snickering around the mouth of his bottle, Matthew shot him a wry smile as he leant a little too far to the side, Vanessa reaching out and straightening him up. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Anyway, where did Mathias go?"

"I think Ivan is beating him up in a back alley for ruining his stellar reputation at that bar," Gilbert said. "You'd think a tank like ol' Vanya would have a bad rap sheet when it comes to bars and behaviour of the like, but nope. He's a little fucking angel. Matthew's gotten himself kicked out of more bars than Ivan has."

Nodding his agreement, Antonio looked a little worried. "I would not be entirely surprised," he commented as he struggled momentarily with the cap on his own drink. "Mathias is doomed if that's the case."

"We should probably be good friends and find out if something has happened to him," Gilbert commented. "So we can plan his funeral and shit."

"That's a good idea," Antonio said distractedly, staring into his bottle before taking a swig.

Neither of them moved.

An example of friendship at its finest.

Alfred turned to look at Matthew, who was now looking as though he were quite enjoying the presence of the women on either side of him; he was grinning lasciviously as he chatted quietly with them - "Yeah, I work at a supermarket, but I mean, it's not as bad as everyone makes it out to be. And I paint on the side, so it's totally cool" - with his arms draped around either of their shoulders.

"You've been kicked out of bars before?" he asked, incredulous. "I thought you were all about stellar behaviour, man. What is this horseshit."

"I was really drunk once and I kind of leaned over the bar and groped the bartender," Matthew commented with a growing smile. "He really didn't like it, but I'm pretty sure he was rockin' half of a boner when I did. Apparently grabbing someone's crotch without warning them is a form of harassment."

"Wow." It was all Alfred could bring himself to say about it. "Like, wow."

Sliding out of the grasp of the women and inching over to curl into the lawyer's side, draping his legs across the man's lap and letting his free hand (when he wasn't holding the bottle of vodka he was nursing) rest on his lower abdomen, Matthew grinned up at him. "That was also when I was seventeen. Because frequenting bars when you were underage was so much more fun than now."

Wrapping an arm around him as he sipped some more Bourbon, getting down to the bottom of the glass where the whiskey that festered there was strongest, he shook his head with a low chuckle. "Man, I think I was about nineteen before I snuck into any bars," Alfred commented.

"Yeah, I remember that, too," Allan said. "I think it was the first time any of us had gone to a bar, and we were all underage. I can't remember if we got kicked out or not though."

"I think we did," Chris said, nodding slowly. "But only because this was a time before Jeff was capable of holding his liquor and he got us kicked out after our third rounds of drinks because he thought he'd be a fuckin' hotshot and take more shots than his pathetic little body could handle."

"Fuck you man," Jeff grumbled, slumping a little in his chair. "That was the only time that ever happened. You're all assholes for bringing that up."

"Assholes that love you," Vanessa reminded him with a light, sipping on her radioactive green martini. When had that shown up? Alfred glanced around the table to find that the majority of the people had refills of whatever it was they had been drinking beforehand - and his nearly-empty glass of Bourbon had been replaced with a full one. Matthew was either really taking his time with his vodka, or he had already ploughed through that one and had gotten a new one. Either he was just being a total space cadet or if he was drunker than he actually felt.

(But because of the fact that Matthew had been rubbing small circles on the lower part of his abdomen and he hadn't reacted at all to it simply told him that he was, indeed, a space cadet.)

Pressing a subtle kiss and watching the others from the corner of his eyes, Alfred let his lips graze behind his boyfriend's ear and he grinned at how the younger man laughed quietly and slid his arm around him even tighter than before.

"Mm, we should dance for a bit," Matthew said mid-yawn.

He watched the artist for a moment. "I don't know about that, Pet," he murmured. "You look awfully tired. I mean, you've been up since like five o'clock this morning and you didn't sleep that much last night, either."

Matthew sighed. "I think I slept two hours? I had way too much going through my mind for me to settle down," he admitted, glancing to the dance floor and back to the older man with a petulant expression. "But by the time I got even slightly tired, I was too frustrated to even bother sleeping."

"I'm pretty sure you spent at least a quarter of that just pacing around, didn't you?" Alfred hummed into his ear, resting his cheek on the top of his head; he was after sliding down far enough against him in order to do so.

"And watching TV, yeah." He sounded slightly apologetic. "Sorry if I woke you up or anything."

"Nah, it's cool," laughed the lawyer, "I didn't sleep that great either, but it wasn't because you were up or anything."

Falling silent, Matthew sighed and shut his eyes, chin resting on the lawyer's shoulder as he occasionally sipped his vodka. Alfred nudged him back into a sort of awareness, "D'you still want to go and dance?"

The words were no sooner out of his mouth - in fact, he hadn't even finished saying it - when Matthew stood and hauled Al up to stand with him, politely excusing themselves.

They managed to get away without any major disaster (with the exception of nearly peeing himself from laughing so hard at Alfred tripping up over the bottom of the table), tugging one another towards the center of the dance floor; neither of them were fond of staying on the outskirts of the crowd, and even though it was bordering on humid the closer they got to the middle, they almost preferred it that way.

Last time they had danced had been back in April; sure they had gone out drinking with the guys since then, but Alfred was admittedly a little too shy to ask Matt to go and dance, and maybe it was because of this shyness that his partner hadn't bothered with asking him; sort of assumed he didn't want to.

Well, he had gotten over that shyness. And it was damn well time he had.

(Or just about.)

Pulling Matthew's lanky frame close so that they were pressed body-to-body, Alfred let an arm settle on his narrow waist while arms moved to wrap around his neck, one hand going to rest on his chest. Jones let one of his hands trail from his hip, down over the curve of his ass and then in the end lingering on the back of his thigh. Neither of them actually knew what the song was - like most clubs, it was a remix of a mash-up of a remix - but it was easy enough to dance to. Then again, there wasn't a lot of skill required to grind as sensually as possible against someone.

Although it did feel really good if the person happened to be damn good at dancing like that.

Lips pressed to the space by the artist's jaw, he kept a tight grip on his body as they rocked together. He remembered someone once calling this sex with your clothes on. Glancing around to take in for a brief moment all the other people dancing around them, Alfred considered it. Whoever had said it was probably the most observant person around.

Matthew's hand sliding up the back of his shirt caught his attention and, eyes widening behind his glasses, he looked over to his partner; he was grinning sinuously, and then pressed forward to gently nip the man's lower lip. "Space cadet," he murmured into his ear, laughing. He still smelt of Tequila despite having some vodka to cover it up, but he didn't smell like weed anymore. It almost smelt good on him.

Chuckling, Alfred rubbed the back of his thigh affectionately before sucking in a breath as Matthew ghosted his body down along him in a fluid dip before sliding back up along him, hands sliding up under his shirt and along his stomach before moving to settle once more on his chest and shoulder.

There was a word for that. Actually, there were a few words that ranged from Arousing to Vixen to Tease and to Goddamnit You're Going To Kill Me Matthew And It's Not Going To Be A Pretty Death.

When he did it again, twisting around so that his back was pressed to the American's chest and his hands rested on narrow hips, Alfred realized that Matthew was probably trying to be the death of him.

The wicked smirk he tossed over his shoulder simply proved that he was shamelessly trying to turn him on.

Not that it wasn't working, either.

It was nearly an hour later before either of them thought of leaving the dance floor, laughing and breathless and damp with sweat. Once or twice they had swapped partners, Alfred opting to dance with some tall brunette - in fact, he realized that it had been the same brunette he had seen straggling behind the group of giggling girls he had seen earlier. While he danced with her, Matthew had landed himself with a tiny little red head that clung to him like a leech while trying to hold onto a martini at the same time. When he had slunk back over to him afterwards, looking slightly displeased, Jones realized that his boyfriend was wearing most of the girl's martini over the front of his t-shirt.

Once they got back to the table, dropped down and settled back in, Matthew announced quite loudly that he was bored again. Which wasn't much of a surprise.

Shooting Alfred a conspiratorial look of sorts, he smirked and then threw down a declaration; a challenge should the man wish to participate and show off those supposed women-snaring skills of his.

"You have always claimed, Alfred Jones, to be a lady killer," he announced, a smile growing on his face. The moment he said this, he perked up and sat back, arms across his chest and listening to the Canadian. "Frankly, I believe it but at the same time I hold some doubts. In fact, I think I could get more phone numbers than you can. What d'you say? Care to prove me wrong, Princess?"

Was he actually challenging the prowess of his charm, charisma and good looks that he had long-since prided himself on?

No way. No fucking way was he going to allow himself to be beaten at his own game - and by his boyfriend, none the less, and in front of his friends and said boyfriend's friends who were, at this point, cackling and goading them on. (Mathias and Ivan had shown up, the former sporting a forming black eye, thus crediting the idea that the Russian had beaten the living snot out of the Dane in a back alley).

No one messed with his skills. No one.

"Oh, you are so on."

Settling back in his chair, Jeff looked between the two and smirked. "Well, if you don't mind, I'll help with giving you a head start there, Ice Queen," he said, pulling a pen out of his pocket and scrawling his cell number down on a napkin before handing it to Mattie. Indigo eyes widened. "Text me sometime, baby; I've been told I'm an excellent texting buddy." He gave a solicitous wink accompanied by one of his salesman grins, bright and wide and filled with promising guarantees.

Enter pair of pants number two to be ruined.

(He did, however, thank him politely for the advanced jump on the game as Alfred fumed quietly to himself and bolted from the table to the first lean, long-legged beauty he could find.)

Then, with this aside and both of them having split up and claimed various sides (and floors) of the bar as their turf, or so to speak, they played the phone number game, in which they tried to get more phone numbers than the other. Alfred was playing along mainly for the simple fact that he wanted to see if he was just as good as he once was, and to make up for the total suffering his pride had just undergone, the wounds handed to him on a silver platter by his boyfriend.

Matthew was playing it for the simple fact of having something fun to do that he knew Alfred would secretly get a kick out of, too.

By the time 3am rolled around and they had both gotten slightly sick of flirting with random people, they made their way back to the table - surprisingly, everyone was still there, even if Gilbert was half-asleep from the jet lag - and they tossed down their various napkins and slips of paper and debit receipts to be tallied; Mathias took Alfred's while Chris took Matthew's spoils so that there was no backhanded cheating or anything of the like.

It ended up being a tie, much to their surprise, although Matthew had ended up with a slew of numbers belonging to either gender, which slightly astounded the lawyer.

(And it made him a quarter jealous too, but he just considered himself silly so he quietly laughed it off and kissed him a little harder than usual when no one else was looking.)

(Matthew secretly liked it when he got possessive of him, but he'd sooner be shot dead than admit to it.)

Deciding that then would be a good time to leave, before someone suggested another round of shots or a round two to be a tie-breaker for their silly little competition - or before Matthew suggested they go dancing again; if he did, and they went back out there, it would end up with Alfred dragging him to either the nearest empty bathroom or vehicle to not-so-secretly have his way with him because it should have been damn well illegal to dip and swivel his hips like that.

Before any of that happened it would be best if they left, otherwise they'd be there until last call. Which wouldn't be a first, but he didn't like making a habit of it.

Four am had rolled around before they got back to Alfred's place. They had at first considered going to Matt's place before they had hailed a taxi, but decided against it because they didn't want their walking around waking up the people sleeping beneath their feet. Sound travelled fairly well throughout the house given it was close to being seventy-years-old and the walls back then had been built a lot thinner than what they were now. Hell, half of the time houses built within recent memory were soundproofed in various places. So, wisely enough, they chose to crash at Al's place.

Crash in the most literal sense; they were barely through the front door of the man's apartment and they simply flopped on the floor and lay there, staring up at the cathedral-like ceiling until Oreo padded over to the pair of exhausted, drunken men and mewed for attention while nosing at their flushed cheeks.

And even then, with all that urging to get up, it still took them a little longer than necessary to pick themselves up off of the floor.

As Alfred flopped on the sofa, a hand covering his face as he yawned, Matthew stumbled over to the kitchen and started running the tap as he rummaged through the cupboard for a glass. Even though he had a water container and filtration system, for some reason he preferred tap water for drinking over mineral or bottled stuff.

Or maybe that had something to do with the fact that he had boycotted using plastic bottles - which meant no sodas, no bottled water, just about anything that came in a plastic bottle - with the exception of laundry detergents, cleaners things of that sort, but it was all a) bought in bulk and b) the environmentally friendly stuff. He had abolished all of it from his apartment, and was actually doing an amazing job of keeping it up.

There were times when Alfred found himself tempted to try the same thing, but he was a little too addicted to coke (with the ice cubes, thank you kindly) and his few other creature comforts that came in a plastic bottle to try all of it.

Sooner or later, though, and Matthew would probably try to convince him to give it a try or something, and maybe then he would actually give it a try because hey, there would be a little bit of motivation there then, right?

For now, he'd wait until he received the eventual shove in the right direction, which Matthew would provide soon enough for him.

(Like he usually did.)

Lying on the sofa with his arm still draped over his face and Oreo now curled into his side like his personal, fluffy heater, he groaned as he felt tiny pinpricks for claws digging into his stomach as the animal kneaded at his body to make him more comfortable to lie on. With his free hand he reached down and scratched at the space behind her ears, smiling at the high-pitched mewl that left her; 'You left me alone all evening,' it seemed to say as she let out another one that sounded almost more like a squawk than anything. 'And you expect me to be happy? Not likely, buster. You better be prepared to stay here for a while.'

Saying that he wasn't prepared to spend the rest of his night (or morning, it all depended on which way you wanted to look at it) on the sofa would have been a lie. The prospect of climbing the stairs and getting to the top in one solid, alive piece was a daunting one. So on the sofa he would stay for the rest of the night because there would be no risk of sliding down over the stairs as he climbed up over them, bones turning into a pile of goop as he did.

A heavier weight that bypassed the cat's by a good few light years collapsed on top of him and he let out a grunt, eyes flying wide and raising his arm to peer down at the man now lying atop him. Blonde hair was nestled beneath his chin and Alfred sighed, keeping the arm he had been using to shield his eyes with over the younger's back, pressing him in place.

"Tired?" he asked.

"No shit, Captain Obvious."

Alfred scoffed as he kissed the top of his head, rubbing small, soothing circles on his back as he did so. "Hey hey, there's no need to be saucy."

"Okay, I'm sorry," Matthew hummed, curling in close to him. The cat gave him a dirty look, as if to say, 'excuse me, but what the hell do you think you're doing, lying all over my human like that?'

Surprised by how easily placated the artist was, Alfred decided to not say anything against it and he simply attributed it to him being so drunk. He tended to be a little more malleable when he was like that, anyway, which was the only real personality change he went through when there was alcohol in his body. That, and the few occasions where booze turned him into a raging slut. But that was okay, because he very rarely acted on it - thankfully, neither of them had ever gotten further than clothing half-off with booze in their systems, because they always ended up too tired to go past that point and would sooner pass out cold and sleep than fool around. Like right now, for instance; Matthew had probably burned off all that sexual energy he had been storing while they had been dancing and running around the bar trying to pick up as many individuals as they possibly could.

Because normally, by the time they had gotten back, Alfred probably would have been at least shirtless. Now, though, neither of them had the will to move let alone take off clothing.

Looking up and frowning when Matthew sat upright, swaying a bit on his lover's hips before stretching, he slid off of him and staggered back over to the fridge and studied the front of it in the scant light of the condo; there was a lamp on in the far corner by one of his bookcases, but it barely reached to where to kitchen was situated.

The Canadian seemed to stay there for a long time - longer than usual - simply staring at a little piece of paper. His body had gone stock still and he didn't make the slightest attempt at moving.

Sitting up as well, Alfred swung his feet over the side of the sofa as he scooped the cat up and plopped her down in his lap. She stared up at him for a moment before kneading at his thighs as she settled in there instead. Low chuckles left him as he ran a hand down over her spine and slid his hand over her tail, plucking the end up before letting it slap back down against him. Then he looked over to Matthew. "S'wrong, Pet?"

"You told me I was off today."

"Well, yeah," Alfred said with a growing frown. He picked the cat up and put her to the side as he stood, the room spinning around him as he made his way over to his lover. The man wore a look of abject horror on his pretty face and Alfred felt himself beginning to worry a bit. "I mean, I looked at your schedule yesterday and-"

"… Al, you looked at the wrong one. That was last week's schedule you looked at."

A moment of silence to mourn the fatal mistake. Then: "… Fuck."

"Yeah."

Matthew let his head hit the top part of the fridge and he sighed, running a hand through his hair and then rubbing at the back of his neck.

"What time are you working then?" Alfred asked, moving to slide his arms around his waist. While he didn't resist, but he still stayed with his head pressed flat against the refrigerator door.

With a quiet groan, the Canadian shook his head. "I'm working at six-"

Alfred perked up a bit. "That's not too bad. I mean you can sleep most of it off and-"

"I'm working at six o'clock in the morning, Alfred."

"Oh." That was in less than two hours. Oreo, seated by her owner's feet, meowed, setting the mood for them.

"This sucks," Matthew said, sagging a little.

"You can say that again."

"… This really sucks."

Well, he didn't say for him to not take him seriously.

Hey guys! Sorry for the crazy long delay for this chapter; when I got back from my trip, I ended up working a lot and having very little time to do anything at all. So with what time I had, I managed to get all this out. Hopefully it's not too disappointing.

Thanks for reading guys, and holy crap there are so many reviews for this thing. It's kind of mind-blowing!

Until next time, guys!