A/N: Hello! This is the coauthor. :D As you must have gathered from Immortal x Snow's previous author's note, we're co-writing this fic. She wrote chapter one. I'm writing chapter two. And we're going to alternate.

This fic is primarily supposed to be funny. Its main objective is to make you roll your eyes and think, "What were these two smoking? Wilde weed?!"

However.

Warnings for mentions of domestic abuse.

On that happy note, enjoy this chapter :D

(Also, ignore what that sweetheart Immortal x Snow said in the previous chapter. I can't write humour to save my life, or her life, or anyone's life, because I am a cold potato in the humour department.)

And finally: I know that in canon, Ancient Greece is Greece's mother, but here she's his grandma.

An Indeterminate, Specifically Vague But Definitely Considerable (Yet Not Very Long) Time Later

"Matthew...mon coeur, wake up."

Matthew had very delicate arms. Francis loved it when he slept like this, completely still. His breathing was always slow, his brow creaseless. He wouldn't curl his fists or mumble or stutter. He wouldn't recede into the quietest corners of any room, hiding away from the world.

Asleep, Matthew was calm. He opened up a little, his shoulders loosening, his hair falling over his eyes. His sleeves would ride up sometimes, exposing those delicate arms of his.

It was always the left one that made Francis cringe, because there, the damage was obvious. Three circular scars—cigarette burns—from when the boy was twelve, still stood out too prominently. The first time he saw them, Francis couldn't bring himself to smoke for a whole month.

"Matthew?" He ran his hand through the teenager's hair. Francis did not, as a matter of course, make too much physical contact with the boy. Matthew was terribly jumpy about being touched in any way, and while he didn't outright flinch or shriek, he always visibly tensed. "You'll get late for school. I've made you pancakes. With maple syrup."

At the sound of those words, Matthew's eyes slowly fluttered open. He squinted at the opposite wall for a second before his languid gaze met Francis's eyes. "Good morning," he mumbled sleepily, not making a move to get up.

"Did you fall asleep reading again?" Francis knew Matthew always liked reading himself to sleep. This usually meant he would stay up well past midnight. It was a silly question to even ask, really, because sticking out from under Matthew's pillow was.

That. Book.

"Mmh, yes." Matthew rubbed his eyes and slowly sat up, yawning and stretching. "Am I going to be late for school?"

Yes.

Francis let out an airy laugh. "Well, I was actually thinking you could take the day off."

This caught Matthew's attention instantly. He narrowed his eyes in a single flash of suspicion before his gaze retreated to something softer, something more uncertain. "Why?" he asked, already a little tense. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Francis replied gently. "It's just...well, how much school does one really need in a week? I mean, you went yesterday."

"Yesterday was Monday. Today's Tuesday."

"Now you sound like that irritating Rebecca Black song."

Matthew cracked a small grin. "Sorry."

Though Francis was smiling, there was a silent scream of frustration forcing its way between his teeth. He wanted to keep an eye on Matthew, wanted to make sure everything was all right with him.

(One day, Francis had promised himself, one day, Matthew will trust me.)

(One day, Francis had promised himself, one day, Matthew will call me 'Papa'.)

Mostly, they were locals. The three Awesome Oldies, as Alfred mentally referred to them, Antonio—who would pop in for a quick Franz Coffee during his lunch hour—Berwald and his friend Tino, who went to Matthew's high school and sat in a quiet booth to do their homework—and Elizabeta, who would often pick up several of their famous bread rolls to take back home. (Apparently, her husband Roderich loved them, but felt it beneath him to visit a cafe that called its bread rolls William Butter Yeast.)

Occasionally, there'd be the travel-worn tourist looking for a place to pee. Alfred knew how to spot them instantly. They always had this look of wonder and exhaustion about them. Their clothes would be a little wrinkled, their faces a little dusty, and Alfred could sometimes spot an accent, too. They'd sit nervously at their tables and peer into the menus for a long time, emitting soft chuckles as they read the names.

Nineteen-Eighty FOOD was not a terribly famous place, but Alfred liked that. It was popular enough to break even and turn a healthy profit. They had a good reputation on Yelp too. But it still managed to keep its quiet, friendly air. He knew every single one of his customers, and every single one of his customers knew him.

They were all a family here.

"Mattie, watcha reading?" Alfred peered over Matthew's shoulder. He knew it annoyed the other boy to no end, which was kind of the point.

Matthew lowered his book and raised an eyebrow, the two actions performed in such perfect synchronicity that it seemed almost scripted. "Animal Farm," Matthew replied easily.

"Heeeeey, our meat platter is called Animal Farm!"

Alfred had initially even suggested that they have little toothpick flags sticking out of the meat, showing their names. The there would be three fat pieces of pork—called Napoleon, Snowball and Squealer. The leg of lamb would be called Muriel. The cows in Animal Farm didn't have names, but Alfred wanted to call the beef Benjamin, and the chicken breast would be called Boxer—because, why not?

It was a brilliant idea.

Which Francis turned down instantly.

"We are not naming pieces of meat after characters in a political allegory!"

"It's perfect, when you think about it," Matthew had meekly supplied. "We're all just pieces of meat in the eyes of the power-hungry."

"Yeah, see! Mattie agrees! People will find it funny!"

"No."

"Okay, forget it. Can I name the meat after Disney movies instead? At least those are easier to swallow. Pun intended, of course!" Alfred had laughed heartily to himself, holding his sides and wiping tears from his eyes. "We can call the pork Pumba, Piglet and Hamm. The lamb can be Djali—"

"Alfred, go wash the dishes."

Anyway, bottom line was, Alfred didn't get to name the meat. A shame, really. He had so many ideas.

"Is that pure maple syrup?" Alfred said suddenly, really looking at the stuff Matthew was sipping. He was drinking it from an actual whiskey glass, smacking his lips, his pink tongue poking out from between his teeth occasionally.

When Matthew did nothing but grin sneakily, Alfred smirked. "Dude. Niiiice. But really, I can out-drink you."

"No, you can't." And Matthew turned his eyes back to his novel. Alfred reached forward and snatched the book away from him, ignoring Matthew's cry of surprise.

"Anything you can do, I can do better," Alfred sing-songed. "Including drinking pure maple syrup straight from a glass."

"Is that a challenge?"

Alfred narrowed his eyes, his smirk deepening. "Why yes, yes it is. We'll do it like shots."

And that was how Francis found them half an hour later, clutching onto each other and giggling and hiccuping, with no less than seventeen shot glasses surrounding them and over three bottles of maple syrup lying empty on the table.

"We have customers to serve!" Francis tried to sound angry, but his rueful head-shaking (and that long, tired sigh), just made him seem exasperated.

"Dudethere'slike...nobodyhere...hehehehe…" Alfred's rambles suddenly stopped and his eyes filled with tears. "Mattie I love you you're the cutest friend I could ever have I love sugar so much maple yaaaay!"

"Maple," Matthew agreed with a large, pacified smile. "Maple cakes. Honey. Winnie the Pooh." He paused and with trembling hands, picked up an empty shot glass to examine the single trickle of syrup running down its side. "Diabetes."

"So who won the bet?" Alfred piped up.

"I did."

"Really?"

"Really, Alfred."

"Bro."

"Yes?"

"Hardcore, bro."

The next afternoon began with a resounding crash. Alfred had been serving Grandpa Vargas his usual Edgar Allan Pie (they had two Poe-themed desserts, because Poe's name was poerfect) when he heard it. Francis was in the kitchen with the door shut, so Alfred's eyes went instantly to Mattie, who stood in the middle of the dining area with the shards of a plate at his feet.

"Whoops, excuse me!" Alfred jumped to his feet, "You okay, Mattie?"

Matthew was standing rigid, eyes trained downwards at the broken plate. And then slowly, his fingers started to curl up. Alfred noticed this instantly. He wasn't sure what was going on inside Matthew's head when he did that, but it happened at least a few times a week, and he always seemed more rattled afterwards.

Then, with a smile so forced it made clowns look friendly, Matthew looked about the dining room and said, "Sorry, everyone! Please, go back to your meals!"

The regulars all knew Matthew, of course. People stared in surprise, but Matthew's shining reputation protected him from any negative attention. It didn't take much for things to go back to normal in the cafe.

Except that Matthew was slowly, slowly, curling into himself.

Alfred almost didn't notice it.

Almost.

Because it looked as though Matthew were kneeling to clean up his mess. It was only when he noticed his friend trembling that he thought, well, fuck.

He glanced only momentarily towards Grandpa Vargas. "Excuse me just a moment, okay?"

"Takphh youh thime," the elderly man replied with his mouth full of pie.

Alfred darted towards the other boy, quickly said, "Wait, let me get a broom, you'll—"

Too late.

Matthew let out a hiss and a soft cry, pulling back his hand as his finger plumed red.

"Crap, you okay?" Alfred got to Mattie just as things started to go to hell.

Something...happened...when Matthew saw the blood.

It seemed to break him.

Because all at once, his eyes filled and his breaths came in short, rapid gasps and in an instant, he started spewing out half-formed thoughts and it was all terrifying—

"Oh my gosh Alfred I'm so sorry oh my gosh I didn't mean to—I—please don't—sorry—no!" and he was inching away from Alfred, shaking and crying, wiping his bleeding finger on his shirt, drowning in his own panic.

"Mattie." Alfred's eyes darted about the room. People were staring. He was making a scene, oh hell.

Getting Matthew in the kitchen was easy enough. He was light in Alfred's arms, easy to steady. Matthew was protesting verbally, but his words were soft, and sounded more like terrified whimpers. Alfred wasn't even sure what he was saying anymore, except, "Sorry, sorry, sorry," over and over again.

Alfred was not used to such sudden changes in behavior. He hadn't been expecting an almost 180-turn around in Matthew. So the second they got through the kitchen doors, the second Francis turned and saw them, Matthew's trembling went completely still. And then he forcefully wrenched himself out of Alfred's grasp, stumbled just slightly before reaching out and touching a wall for support. And then he forced another smile, but this one wasn't terrifying or too fake. It was simply weak. It looked just about ready to slip off his features. Hell, the tears were still leaking out of his eyes, one drop at a time.

"Matthew?" Francis cried, swooping in on him. "Mon cher, what's wrong? What happened?" He shot Alfred a look. What did you DO?

If it had been any other situation, Alfred would have found Francis's protectiveness hilarious. Francis had really only been protective about his designer shoes, his one prized possession, harping on about tongues and welts in a manner that made Alfred wonder if Francis was only talking about his shoes.

So to see that protectiveness magnified like this should have been hilarious.

Except it wasn't. It could never be.

I didn't do ANYTHING. He's YOUR son. Fix him!

"I'm fine," Matthew said automatically. He took a step away from Francis. "Really. I'm fine. I just scraped my finger accidentally." He glanced down at the bloody mess his hand had become. "It's not as bad as it looks. I'm going to go clean this."

"Mat—" Francis started, but like a wisp, Matthew had already disappeared out of the kitchen and to the bathroom to sort himself out.

Alfred watched Francis's eyes follow him before the older man's expression just fell. It almost looked like he was going to cry himself. Instead, Francis just bit his bottom lip, hard, before turning his back on Alfred and going back to the stove.

Alfred swallowed. "Mattie accidentally broke a plate."

Francis froze in the middle of stirring cake batter. "Oh."

Alfred shifted his weight from one foot to another. "I'll...I'll go clean it up."

Francis nodded without turning around. "Please."

Alfred could not sleep. After everything that happened today, how could he? He could still recall every detail of Matthew's pale skin, his wide, terrified eyes, and his soft sorry, sorry, sorry.

He was trying to forget.

And nothing was better for forgetting than late-night crap TV and cheap beers.

Alfred was channel-surfing, zoning out, tasting the acid of the alcohol on his tongue when a too-familiar voice caught his attention. He almost missed it, but that catch of the sharp, shapely English accent made him lower the remote and stare.

That guy...looked familiar. Unkempt blonde hair, plain suit and—if two furry caterpillars rolled around in glue, dropped themselves in dog hair, and then got drunk on the unswept floor of a salon, they'd still be less fat and furry than that guy's eyebrows.

Alfred would recognise those eyebrows anywhere.

"Dude," he said to himself, leaning forward and staring into the TV screen.

"And now, an exclusive interview with award-winning novelist, Arthur Kirkland. Mr. Kirkland has just released his new book, Confessions of a Man Caught in a Comma, a fascinating treatise on the inevitable nature of the human condition." The interviewer, a pretty brunette, laughed flirtatiously at this Arthur Kirkland. "We're happy to have you here this morning, Arthur."

Morning, huh? So this must be a rerun. That made sense. Why would they screen an interview at two a.m.?

"It's my pleasure, Sandra."

"So Arthur, this is your seventh consecutive best-seller, isn't it? That's quite impressive. Congratulations!"

"Thank you, Sandra."

Geez, Arthur had no camera presence at all, did he? Alfred sat back against his couch, watching in absolute fascination. Arthur was watching the interviewer with poorly-disguised smugness. Like, hey, look at me, I'm a pseudo-intellectual jackass who reads Joyce for fun.

Presently, Sandra said, "I think we're all keen to hear about your interest human fallibility, as your books tend to center around that theme."

Arthur cleared his throat, placing one hand over the other in an effort to look intelligent ('effort' being the operative word). "Well, it's a subject that's tickled the fancy of many a writer, of course. My interest is really in studying the various aspects of it. Another book of mine—The Phenomenological Pirates—is an example of the recklessness of human ambition. It's also a philosophical analysis, trying to understand a simple question: why are we?—in all its different forms."

"Dude, what the fuck are you talking about?" Alfred said aloud to the TV screen. "And Phenomenowhatical Pirates?"

"I see," said Sandra, although she clearly did not. She smiled in a very pacifying, 'I'm trying to be patient with you' way. "And your latest book is about an inner sense of human self-worth and the loss of one's direction, is that correct?"

"Well, I think that's being a little textbook about it. If you wanted to sum it up in one sentence—which I doubt you could—that's what you'd say, but of course, there's so much more to it. It's really a deeper questioning of what focuses us, what gives us a purpose to breathe, think, act."

Arthur sounded boring.

"Right." Sandra smiled at him again, saccharine as ever. "And is it true you finished the final draft of your book in a literary cafe?"

Wait. What.

"Yes," Arthur said a little stiffly. "The Nineteen-Eighty FOOD in Sacramento."

Sandra laughed. "Yes, I've heard rumour about that place from some other writers. People you know. Apparently they've made puns about writers. Like… what was it?"

"Franz Coffee," Arthur supplied, now looking decidedly green. "Like Franz Kafka."

Sandra laughed again. "How creative!"

Arthur's lips became a thin line. "Indeed."

And Alfred watched all of this in absolute astonishment. Then he bolted for the telephone and hastily punched in a number.

By now, Francis had become a little tired of Alfred's late night, hysteria-infused phone calls.

"FRANCIS. FRANCIS. FRANCIS."

"MON DIEU,WHAT DO YOU WANT? DO YOU KNOW HOW LATE IT IS?"

"TURN ON THE TV."

"No!"

"TURN ON THE TV." Alfred then hastily shouted the name of a TV channel. "DO IT. NOW. OHMYGOSH DO IT."

"Is everything okay?" Matthew's sleepy voice drifted into the room, and Francis had to lower the receiver (and then his voice) to respond.

"Alfred just called me in a mania."

"Oh." Matthew rubbed his eyes. He seemed to contemplate the severity of this for a moment, eyes scrunching up as he noticed Alfred's voice shouting even through the receiver, filling the room with a sort of soft, tinny yelling. Deciding that Alfred did this too often and it wasn't worth losing any sleep over, he turned around and ambled back to his room, saying, "I'm going back to bed."

"Sleep well!" Francis called after him before pressing the bridge of his nose and putting the phone back to his ear. "Alfred," he said in his most long-suffering tone, "Why do you need me to turn on the TV at two in the morning?"

"Because you need to watch this interview. Dude, hurry up, you're going to miss it!"

"Whose interview is it?" Francis asked, curious despite himself.

"You know that customer who came in that one time? In the rain? He looked like a smelly cat?"

"Who?" Francis wondered, his gaze drifting to the ceiling. "Heracles Karpusi?" he asked finally, because he always smelled of cats. "Why would Heracles be on TV?"

"Not him! The one who kept shouting about our puns! He left a hundred dollar bill and wrote something all night? Dude, apparently, that guy is a famous writer. Arthur Kirkland or something! And GUESS WHAT? YOU'LL NEVER GUESS!"

"WHAT?" Francis shouted back.

"HE FINISHED THE DRAFT OF HIS BOOK IN OUR CAFE. THAT NIGHT. AND HE MENTIONED THIS. ON TV."

"Are you seri—"

"DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS?"

"Alfred—"

"WE'RE FAMOUS, BRO. FAMOUS! WE'RE GOING TO HAVE SO MANY CUSTOMERS! WE'LL BE RICH!"

"Somehow, I doubt that," Francis said drily.

"AND HERE I THOUGHT HE WAS A BUM."

"What sort of bum would have a MacBook Pro?"

"A tech-savvy bum, Francis," Alfred said as though Francis had asked him something stupid like, does my hair look okay? (Of course it did. Francis's hair was right up there with that of Michelangelo's David.)

"BUT THAT'S NOT THE POINT!" Alfred shouted. "THE POINT IS, THIS TIME TOMORROW, WE'RE GOING TO BE THE MOST POPULAR CAFE IN AMERICA!"

The problem was, Alfred was absolutely right.

One Week Later

"...Grandpa Vargas...tell my family...that I love them...Tell them I'm sorry...tell them...tell them—"

"ALFRED! WE NEED TWO AGATHA CRISPIES, A FRANZ COFFEE AND AN OLD MAN AND THE TEA AT TABLE TWELVE!"

Alfred was not being dramatic when he said, "I think I'm going to faint." He was already seeing spots as he jumped at the ferocity in Francis's voice and turned violently. He hadn't eaten today. He'd barely finished his coffee. For a whole week, he'd been dashing around like a mad headless chicken, serving people enough food to satisfy an entire army of Ronald Weasleys. Francis was going downright mental just cooking for everyone. (Alfred highly suspected that the fumes from the kitchen were making him a little high.) Matthew could only help out when he wasn't at school, and even then, he was falling behind in all his classes because he didn't have time to finish his homework.

(Some would call this child labour. Alfred didn't dare remind Francis of that. He didn't want to be beaten to death with a spatula.)

And their beloved, homely, tiny, sweet little cafe was overrun.

Apart from their regulars and the tourists, now they had all sorts of freaks sitting around, including businessmen, artists, annoying families, and the worst: hipsters.

"Snot-faced vintage-clothed Beat poetry-reading potheads," Alfred muttered under his breath as he walked away from table seven, where an annoying hipster couple had asked for two Allen Gins-bergs—basically gin and tonic water—in the middle of the day. "I want to howl," he added as he made the drinks. Then, "Who the hell am I talking to?" Then, "Nobody would even understand that pun." Then, "Maybe Mattie would appreciate it." Then, "Again, who the hell am I talking to?"

Over the course of the week, Alfred had nearly tripped over six different children, spilled almost twenty drinks, unintentionally insulted about three makeup-caked women (and one man), and asked a fat bald guy when the baby was due. (It was a total accident.) (Really.)

The cafe was loud these days. Disgustingly so. It wasn't fun loud: nobody could even hear the rock ballads playing on the stereo. Only the sound of chaotic shrieking children could be heard, and if you managed to have a conversation over that din, it was always generously punctuated with doses of, "WHAT? I DIDN'T HEAR YOU!" reverberating through the room.

Alfred could easily hired another waiter or twenty. They certainly had the cash. The cafe was rolling in money, tips pouring in like manna from heaven. (If manna was a bunch of crumpled notes and chipped coins from the depths of a scratched wallet, handed over by someone wearing an 'I don't give a fuck about you, lesser mortal' expression.)

But they couldn't find anyone. Francis said they had to keep looking, it had only been two hours since they'd put up fliers, blah-blah-blah, but the only people who seemed interested were convicts or bored housewives or a terrifying combination of both.

"Grandma Karpusi, Grandma Hassan!" Alfred managed to call out as he (tried to) make his way through the crowd of people in the cafe. The two women had just entered, taking their seats at Grandpa Vargas's table. Grandma Helena Karpusi was Heracles's grandmother, and bore a resemblance. Her brown hair was quickly turning grey but her green eyes still maintained a very youthful light. Grandma Hatshepsut Hassan was darker with caramel eyes and black hair that somehow never lost its colour, though she was probably older than both her friends put together.

"What a lot of people there are here these days," Grandma Helena said, looking around in wonder.

"Yes," Alfred muttered as he handed them menu cards. "And all of them are so stupid."

"Well, as Aristotle famously said," she replied, her voice grand, "The intelligence of a creature known as a crowd is the square root of the number of people in it."

Alfred stared. "Are you sure Aristotle said that?"

"Phu-lease," Grandpa Vargas interjected, rolling his eyes, "That's from Terry Prachett. My grandson Lovino loves Terry Prachett, so I know."

"Buttface Lovino reads Terry Prachett?" Alfred cried. "Wait, no. Buttface Lovino reads?"

"Hey! I'm Greek!" Helena snapped. "I'd know what Aristotle said!"

"But you told me just the other day that Aristotle was Mace-Macedo—" Alfred just ran a hand through his hair. "Mace Windu."

"Macedonian," Hatshepsut said coolly, without looking at anyone. "And forgive Helena. She hasn't taken her pills."

"Pills for what?" asked Alfred.

"Insanity," both Romulus and Hatshepsut said in unision.

"It's Alzheimer's, you uncouth Romans."

"Hey now!" Hatshepsut snapped, narrowing her eyes. "Please don't call me a Roman."

Romulus leaned forward, smirking. "Now, now, let me show you just how uncouth Romans can be."

"Ew." Alfred just took a step back, shaking his head, hands up in surrender. "Just ew, Grandpa Vargas. I'm going to go. There." He pointed vaguely at someone in the distance. "And you three can call me when you're done flirting and being gross."

Then a hand shot out to hold Alfred's wrist, and the unnaturally strong Grandpa Vargas pulled him close to whisper in his ear. "Alfred," he said, nearly laughing, "You love puns, don't you?"

"Yeah, of course! Why?"

"How about this one: Viagra Woolf."

Alfred let out an unmanly shriek, a flustered, "No!" and scuttled off, shouting, "You're so ewww and GROSS!"

The week moved onto the next week, as weeks were wont to do. Alfred saw the people he considered his family slowly crumble before him. It started with Matthew, who in an uncharacteristic burst of frustration smashed a pastry with his fist.

"Dude," Alfred started, not sure what to say as Matthew's previously band-aid covered hand was now caked in...well, cake.

"They asked for a Lady of the Cake!" he insisted, eyes glinting furiously. Vanilla cream fell from his fingers and onto the floor. "So I gave them a Lady of the Cake! Now they're saying they asked for Edgar Allan Poedding! I'll give them an Edgar Allan Pounding, Alfred! They've been passive-aggressive demons since they got here!"

And then, after saying that, Matthew looked at the remains of the cake on his hand, the mess on the plate, and the slowly falling crumbs. Then, as Alfred (and Ed Sheeran), predicted, he crumbled like said pastry.

"I'm horrible." He trembled, eyes filling. "I should have just listened to them more carefully. I'm sorry for losing my temper, Alfred. I'll pay you back for that Lady of the Cake, I promise."

"No, no, you don't have to—"

But Matthew had already proceeded to slink off to the restrooms, where he would wash his hands, wipe his eyes, and then go to the kitchen to ask for Edgar Allan Poedding instead.

It was then Francis's turn, as he, to boost his self-esteem and keep him going, wore his prized possession to work. Anyone with eyes could have told him this was a bad idea. Francis probably knew it was. Those leather shoes of his were very fine, very polished, not a scratch on them. Francis only wore them on special occasions, like birthdays or MasterChef finales. Never to work.

Because what happened was bound to happen, and at six in the evening, Alfred entered the kitchen to find Francis curled up into a little ball, howling.

"Francis! Francis, dude, are you all right?" Alfred looked up at Matthew, panicked, because Francis never broke down, ever, unless he was watching the last few minutes of Titanic. (He always turned on the waterworks just as Rose says, "I'll never let go, I promise." Good luck trying to get Francis to calm down after that. Good freaking luck.)

"I saw it happen," Matthew said breathlessly, reaching out to pat Francis's shoulder, but just about stopping himself.

"Saw what happen?"

Just then, the ball of human tears called Francis Bonnefoy let out a pathetic wail. "My SHOES. They just—and the eggs—and it's all—" before promptly bursting into a fresh round of broken sobs.

"He was beating eggs," Matthew started patiently, "And he placed the bowl on the counter. And while he was moving around to do something else, he knocked them over. And they fell on his shoes."

"Oh. Shit."

Francis let out a whimper.

"And that's not all," Matthew went on. "He basically freaked out when the eggs fell on his shoes, right? And then in the process, he knocked over the flour, milk and sugar and those fell too. On his shoes."

"So basically," Alfred summarised, "Francis made a cake out of leather Armanis?"

"It's Louis Vuitton, you uncultured American," Francis wailed. "And yes! I made a cake out of leather Louis Vuitton!" He finally uncurled himself slightly and looked up at Alfred.

Al had never seen Francis so… un-Francis-like. His eyes were red-rimmed, cheeks wet, snot running down his nose, lips very pink… He was the absolute picture of agony.

His shoes were another matter. The brown leather was now wet, white and yellow, garnished with sugar crystals and dripping milk and egg. How was Francis still wearing them? They looked disgusting.

"I'll never be able to afford anything like these ever again," Francis moaned, curling up and crying again.

Matthew knelt down and petted Francis's shoulder gingerly. "There, there."

"Maybe you can make a bet with Gilbert. Loser buys the other a pair of new Louis Vuittons. Then you make sure you win." Alfred somehow felt that his comment wasn't helping matters much. At least, that's what he gathered from that withering look Matthew sent his way.

So it was after Matthew crumbled like a pastry after crumbling a pastry, and after Francis crumbled like a pastry after making a pastry of his designer shoes, that Alfred decided something had to be done.

And while he sat all alone, well after closing time, downing one cheap beer after another, that the thought struck him.

This was all Arthur Kirkland's fault. If stupid Kirkland hadn't come in that night and finished his stupid novel and mentioned their (wonderful) cafe in his stupid interview then Alfred and his friends (family) wouldn't be in this stupid mess with these stupid customers.

And Francis would still have his precious shoes.

This was all Kirkland's fault.

And Kirkland would have to pay.

Alfred reached for his smartphone before he knew what he even wanted to do, and opened the browser. He typed in:

Artuf Kirkdlan famous authr concatc details

After which Google said:

Did you mean: Arthur Kirkland famous author contact details?

To which Alfred said out loud, "Yes, obviously bro," except that it sounded like, "Yesovioushly bruh," before he took another large swig of beer. Then he pressed the polite spelling correction Google had so kindly provided, and opened the first link that popped up.

It was Arthur Stupidface Kirkland's official website.

There was a contact number for his publisher's office.

Alfred smirked as he stared at the digits, then proceeded to type them into his phone.

Nobody answered. (Nobody would; it was one-thirty in the morning.)

Alfred could have simply put the phone down. He should have. He could have walked away from doing something silly in his drunk fog. He should have.

But instead, he let the mechanical beep of the voicemail wash over him, and then left the nastiest message his alcohol-drenched brain could think of.

Alfred almost thought he was a Hangover movie (Part Four? Part Five? How many useless sequels does that series have, anyway?), because he couldn't remember a thing. He had one hell of a headache, and random phrases, like sexually repressed porcupine and haggis-eating cannibalistic sheep floating around in his mind. He had no idea where they'd come from or even what they meant, but for now, his head hurt too much to care.

He'd fallen asleep on his couch, still in his clothes from yesterday, with a ghastly taste in his mouth. Alfred moved with the slow lumbering of a sloth underwater, his primary thought process consisting of: fuck sunlight and I love you, coffee. Several times he felt like throwing up, but the feeling passed and his stomach settled with some uneasy swirling.

How was he going to deal with work today? Maybe he could just call in sick.

Alfred stared blearily at his phone. The screen had a about a hundred cracks radiating all over, and no matter what he did, the damn thing wouldn't switch on. "What did I even end up doing with it last night?" Alfred wondered, and for a moment, he had a vision of having thrown it across the room whilst screaming in an animalistic way.

Ugh, he'd had too many fucking beers.

Staggering to his ancient telephone and picking up the receiver, he dialed Francis automatically, quietly glad that he knew the number off by-heart.

"...Francis?"

"Alfred, you sound awful."

"So do you, Francis."

"You remember that one time I made you eat salad?"

"Yeah."

"You sound worse than you did back then."

"Yeah. You sound like shit too."

"I had to throw away my shoes. So I had a little cry."

"I'm sorry."

"Me too. What's up?"

"I want to call in sick."

"Sick?"

"Yeah. I, uh, have a fever."

"Sick?"

"That's what having a fever means, right?"

"YOU SELFISH LITTLE BRAT!"

Francis's sudden shriek tore through Alfred's mobile, rammed into his eardrum and reverberated in the inside of his skull with concussion-inducing force, making Alfred audibly groan.

"I know you just drank yourself silly last night," Francis went on, "That's what you do. And you never get sick. You're just hungover, and frankly, Alfred, I don't care. I have enough to deal with. Like those customers and Matt—those customers!" He said the last bit a little hastily.

"What's wrong with Matthew?" Alfred asked, pressing the back of his palm into his eye.

"Nothing," Francis snapped. "Get your butt to work or I'll make you eat salad again. For the rest of your life. No, you know what, I'll go to Burger King and McDonalds with your picture, telling them that if you come in there asking for a hamburger, to not serve you."

"That's cruel. That's just below the belt."

"Yes," Francis growled. "See you at work."

When the line clicked, Alfred dropped his phone on the dining table and lowered his forehead to the placemat, groaning. He was going to need so much more coffee to get through today…

Ring

"MOMMY I WANT EXTRA CHOCOLATE IN MY PIE!"

"ALESSA, YOU PIPE DOWN THIS INSTANT!"

Ring

"Wait, so, 'Inferno' is the name of your chili?"

"Um, yes, it's homemade."

"I don't get the literary reference."

"Like...Dante's Inferno?"

"...Who?"

"The Divine Comedy…? By Dante?"

"Is that a movie?"

"I don't know, Marlene, sounds like some church stuff. Andrew—your name is Andrew, right?"

"Um, it's Matthew—"

"Right, Andy, we consider ourselves reasonably well-read here, but you might want to explain this 'Divine Comedy' business."

"Um...okay…"

Ring

"And so I told that bitch—"

"Don't say bitch, you sexist pig!"

Ring

"Corporations are ruining the planet!"

"Yeah, down with Apple. I prefer android phones anyway."

"No, you don't get it! Corporations are—"

Ring

Alfred groaned loudly, not that anyone could hear his pitiful cries over the noise in the cafe. Rubbing his temples, he staggered his way down the length of the floor and put the phone to his ear. "Hey, sorry to keep you waiting. This is the Nineteen-Eighty FOOD and you're speaking to Alfred. How may I help you?"

"Hi there," said the oddly too-sugary voice on the other end. "I was just returning your wonderful call, which, by the way, made me buy fifteen new pairs of earplugs. And then I had to look up your little establishment on Yelp to get this number. But boy, I think it was worth it."

"Uh, what?" Alfred asked, turning his back to the cafe and pressing the receiver into his ear a little harder. "Who is this?"

"In your own words—" the speaker paused, as though looking something up, "Arthur Fucking Kirkland."

Those three little words hit Alfred like bullets in his brain. The night was coming back to him. The beer. His angst. The telephone. That message. It all came back to him in such force that he had to physically hold onto the bar counter, lest he fall down from the sheer shock of it. "Oh." Alfred mumbled, ears ringing. "Oh, shit."

"'Oh shit' is right. You threatened me within no less than half an inch of my life enough times that I could easily have you arrested this second."

"Dude. Omg. Dude. Listen." Alfred ran a shaky hand through his hair. He never, ever let his temper get the better of him. This wasn't his first time in the service business. He'd worked as a waiter and bartender in other restaurants for years now. "Listen. I'm sorry. I was drunk. And tired. And—and, look, honestly, there are so many PEOPLE here. All the time. I can't keep up."

"'Omg'?" Arthur scoffed, "Can't you even talk like a normal person, you blithering buffoon?"

Alfred was about to apologise again, on reflex. He knew he'd fucked up BADLY. He knew he'd have to say sorry at least five more times to make this okay. So what Arthur said caught him off guard. "Excuse me?"

"You heard what I said." An overdramatic, clipped huff sliced through the line. "I can't even take idiots like you seriously."

"That's rude." Alfred blinked, more surprised than anything. "You don't have to be so nasty. I mean, haven't you ever just had a little too many?"

"Don't talk to me about being rude or nasty when you're the one who threatened to, and I quote, 'burn your bushy eyebrows off your face and feed them to frogs.' I mean," Arthur said coolly, "That doesn't even make sense." He paused and then added, "You also called me, and once more I quote, 'sexually repressed porcupine' and 'haggis-eating cannibalistic sheep.' First of all, haggis is Scottish and I'm English, thank you very much. Secondly, what are you, twelve?"

Ah, so that explained those random phrases floating around in Alfred's head.

Alfred was about to respond, hopefully with something passive-aggressive but intelligent, when he heard Francis shout from the kitchen, "ALFRED! MATTHEW SAYS YOU'VE BEEN IGNORING TABLE FOUR AND THEY WANT THEIR MACHIAVELLI MOJITOS! MERDE!"

Alfred was numb to the yelling. Instead, Francis's harassed state as he slunk back into the kitchen only reminded him of why he'd called Kirkland up last night anyway. Because the people he cared about were stressed and unhappy. And because it was Arthur Fucking Kirkland's fault.

Alfred narrowed his eyes. "You know," he says coldly into the phone, "This IS your fault. This is a family-run cafe and my family is running itself to the ground trying to keep it up. You reduced Francis to a crying mess and Mathew can't sit and read like he wants to, and it upsets him. Your fucking INTERVIEW ruined EVERYTHING. And don't tell me to hire more people because there are no decent candidates. So, Arthur Fucking Kirkland, FIX WHAT YOU DID."

"Fix it? FIX IT? I am not helping ANYONE who threatens to use my hair to wipe his pet alien's arse!"

Alfred said nothing for a second, because even for him, that threat was creative. He only wished he remembered making it.

"I'll sue you for libel!" Alfred shouted.

"Do you even know what libel means, you stupid wanker? You can't sue me for libel!"

"I'll sue you into the next—fuck," and Alfred paused. For a bit.

"You can't do that," Arthur quips coldly. When Alfred didn't reply, he added, "What, is Satan on the other line or something?"

Arthur was right. Alfred wasn't entirely sure what libel even was. The word reminded him of catfood for some reason. Maybe because he'd came across the word in a Garfield comic once. But anyway, it sounded official and he vaguely knew it had something to do with offending other people, so he'd used it. Now, with Arthur's reaction, Alfred narrowed his eyes. "I'll sue you for threatening me."

"Excuse me? YOU threatened me—"

"Also," Alfred yelled, his voice getting louder and louder with each word, "I'll sue you for ruining my business. I'll sue you for putting undue stress on my family. I'll sue you for making Francis ruin his only pair of nice shoes because he can't afford good things! Those shoes mattered to him, even if they were ugly! I'll sue you into the next century and don't think I won't. So FIX THIS. NOW. I don't care HOW you do it. Make all these stupid customers GO AWAY.

"You wouldn't win any of those lawsuits. You wouldn't have a chance. I actually have people to testify on my behalf."

"Doesn't matter. The scandal would be enough. And trust me, Artie—I can call you Artie, right?—Francis is FRENCH. If anyone can spread word of a scandal, it's him. You don't want to be associated with burdening a sweet family, right? With ruining a business, do you?"

The next words come through like ice—cold, hard, only the surface of the response peering out from the dark sea beneath. "Fine. Alfie—I can call you that, yes?—I will make your little cafe so unpopular that starving Sudanese children wouldn't eat there."

"Do your worst." And Alfred slammed the receiver down, furious but somehow satisfied. Yes. He showed him.

Arthur Fucking Kirkland came through. (And Alfred would have laughed at his own sexual pun, at the circumstances been a little different.)

Because two days later, aside from creaking floorboards (yes, floorboards, because those were rustic and cool), little dust particles and abject horror, Nineteen-Eighty FOOD was completely, totally empty.

Alfred's heart settled only fractionally when Romulus, Helena and Hatshepsut entered, because of course those three would never abandon him.

But apart from that…

"Francis," Alfred said quietly, pulling the older man into a corner. "Francis, I messed up."

Francis looked from Alfred to the starkly empty cafe, his face darkening like the rumble of an earthquake. "I knew this was your fault."

A/N: Sorry this took so long. My work ethic is all over the place right now. I have no excuse D:

But we hope you liked it! Please leave a review, because it makes us very happy (like, that's the only reason you should leave a review. I'd like to say we'd give you a free Shakesbeer but we probably won't, because we've finished those. Just, it's nice to see a sweet comment, you know? That's it. Be nice to us. Spread love. Heal the world. Yay.)

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