First meetings were never so sweet. Or something like that. See the end of the chapter for more character notes and who's who on name headcanons. Thanks for reading!

It took a couple minutes of shuffling the bar customers around so Leon and Toyls could start sweeping up the shattered glass on the ground. Roma had already started his rounds of apologizing to customers ("Tiramisu, on us. No, no, please, I insist!") and Alistair and his group had corralled themselves into a corner that Roma had cheerfully (but with an underlying threat) directed them to so they could talk about "charges."

Which just left the brunet, Rod, whose shirt was still sopping wet from the spilled beer. Seeing that Roma was busy smooth talking guests, Gilbert figured taking care of the musician fell under his duties as assistant manager. "Don't forget to change out the ice, I'll be back in a minute," he muttered to Leon before sighing and exiting the bar.

He approached the other, rubbing at the back of his neck with some embarrassment. "C'mon, let's get you dried off," he said to the man, who still looked to be in shock over the whole thing. He tossed him a bar rag, which wasn't per se dry, but he assumed was better than nothing before herding him over to the bathrooms at the back of the restaurant. Gilbert pushed open the door to the men's room and began pulling paper towels from the dispenser.

"Hey, uh, sorry about this, Rod," he said, handing him a stack of towels.

The man, who had seemed rather shellshocked and been mute up until that point, looked up quickly and indignantly. "It's Roderich," he said.

Gilbert blinked. "What?"

The man's lips pursed slightly. "My name is Roderich, not Rod. Only idiots like Alistair would give me a nickname as stupid as 'Rod,'" he muttered, taking the pile of napkins and blotting at the front of his shirt.

"Oh," Gilbert said lamely. He scratched at the back of his head, not quite knowing how to respond. "Uh, I'm Gilbert," he finally offered, to which Rod–Roderich seemed to roll his eyes.

"You said your name at the very beginning of service."

Gilbert's hand moved to tugging at his hair slightly. This was going great. "Oh yeah," he said. "Right." He cleared his throat and tried to let his eyes wander to anywhere but Roderich. Various Italian movie posters decorated the walls in the bathroom and the cheesy Italian music they had playing in the background of the restaurant echoed oddly in the space.

"I don't know what the use in this is," Roderich sighed, then, setting the used wads of paper towels on the counter. "I'll need to wash this out so that it doesn't stain and then it'll just be damp again."

Some of Gilbert's management training began to kick into place. "We have insurance for situations like this," he said. "We'll dry clean it for you. And I have spare clothes in the office you can borrow."

The other man frowned slightly. "You don't have to do that. It wasn't your fault, what happened."

Gilbert shook his head stubbornly. "Don't worry about it, it's just the right thing to do. Here, wait here and I'll be back in a minute."

Before the other could protest, he stepped out of the bathroom and walked to the office in long strides. Being in the restaurant industry, he made a habit of always keeping an extra set or two of clothes around just in case something happened. And Roderich wasn't too different of a physique; a couple of inches shorter, sure, but it was nothing rolled sleeves and pants cuffs couldn't fix. On his way back to the bathrooms, he took a peek into the dining room to make sure everything else was taken care of. It looked like most things had returned to as it was before and guests had resumed minding their own business. He nodded to himself before giving a light knock and pushing open the restroom door.

Roderich must have cleaned off his glasses in the meantime because he was in the middle of drying them with some paper towels when Gilbert entered. Without his glasses, the other's face looked leaner, and as Gilbert walked closer he could see just how long Roderich's dark eyelashes were.

Gilbert blinked and held out the clothes in his hands with a light cough. "Here," he said.

"You really didn't have to do that…" Roderich reiterated, but he was regarding Gilbert in a pensive way, like he was contemplating more than what had been said. Gilbert quickly averted his eyes to the sinks and after a moment Roderich took the offered clothes. His hand accidentally brushed Gilbert's and Gilbert felt the back of his neck tingle.

"I, uh, I'll wait outside," he said quickly, taking a step back. He spun on his heel and marched back out the swinging bathroom door and immediately let out the breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding. For a moment he thought of simply returning to the bar, where he was no doubt needed by that point, but then the thought occurred to him that he should stand post outside the bathroom in case anyone accidentally walked in on Roderich changing. Hm, yeah, that'd be a tough one to explain.

Thankfully, Roma chose that moment to pass by him, the old school Italian straightening his tie as he walked. "Whew, well how about that for a Tuesday night? Good thing you were here after all," he said, clapping Gilbert on the back. "You get that other gentleman cleaned up yet?"

Gilbert nodded. "I lent him some clothes to change into and offered to have his wet clothes dry cleaned. Our insurance should cover it."

Roma nodded approvingly. "Atta boy," he said. "Just as I would've done. Make sure you get his contact information and see if he wants something to eat. You can tell him his pal Alistair is paying," he laughed at his own joke and walked away back towards the kitchen.

A few minutes later, Roderich emerged from the bathroom, wearing Gilbert's clothes and holding his own in a damp, untidy pile. Just as Gilbert had thought, the clothes fit well enough to do in a pinch with a few cuffs rolled over.

"You look like you could be the assistant to the assistant manager," he joked, taking the wet clothes from the other.

Roderich cleared his throat self-consciously. "Thank you for letting me borrow them," he replied, adjusting his glasses once both hands were free again. "I…apologize if I was a bit short with you before. It wasn't your fault," he added, biting at his lip.

Gilbert waved it off. "Hey man, I get it. And it's the least we could do. Let me just get some contact info down and I'll let you know as soon as we have these cleaned. Meantime if you take a seat at the bar I'll get you something to eat and drink–on the house."

The brunet looked hesitant. "I really should be going…."

Gilbert's brows furrowed. "You sure? My boss insisted," he tried.

Roderich held out his wrist to check his watch and shook his head. "This was already later than I had planned to be out with coworkers, but thank you for the generosity. Here, um, shall I write down my contact information on a piece of paper? I can wash them tonight and return them tomorrow after work."

Gilbert tried to ignore the wisp of disappointment that ran through his head at the other's rejection. "Oh, uh, sure. Here," he said and set Roderich's clothes down to search for a scrap of paper and a pen. He handed both to the musician and scratched at the back of his head. "It, uh, might be a few days but we'll let you know as soon as they're ready."

The other gave him a small smile as he bent to write out his phone number and name in neat, cursive script. "It is no problem," he assured. He handed both back and Gilbert glanced down at the name printed on the paper. Roderich Edelstein.

Roderich then held out his hand and Gilbert had a moment of noticing just how long and slender his fingers were. Musician's hands.

"Thank you again, Gilbert," he said.

Gilbert shook it and made sure to meet the other's dark blue eyes. "Any time," he returned, and grinned.

. . .

The remainder of dinner service carried on without much fuss. Since most of the guests had seen what had happened, nobody was terribly plussed about the bar being down for part of service, and Leon and Toyls had done a commendable job on cleaning it up. (Probably mostly Toyls; Gilbert knew that being a barback was nothing more than a summer job for Leon.) In fact, the rest of the shift was busy enough that Gilbert had all but forgotten about taking Roderich's clothes to dry cleaning until they were shutting things down for the night.

Roma had already left hours before as he usually did on weekdays. When Gilbert had first started taking on duties as the assistant manager, the older Italian had hung around to keep an eye on things, but over time he'd been letting Gilbert take on more and more, and in fact, had even started travelling a bit in recent months. Outside of nights where they had special events or were expecting a crowd, Roma rarely stayed all the way until closing.

And Gilbert enjoyed the freedom and trust that it brought. Sure he liked bragging to his friends about being a loose cannon, but at his core, a Beilschmidt was most at home with order and responsibility. And, as much as he thrived on the hustle and bustle of the busy restaurant, there was something equally desirable about having the front doors locked and dining room lights off so he could close out the receipts under the solitary light of his lamp.

The kitchen staff and dishwashers were still working in the back, their scratchy speaker playing Latin beats while the ambient sounds of mopping scrubbing and dish washing filled all the spaces in between. Every once in a while, Gilbert could hear the head chef Alejandro's off-key singing.

For the first time that day since he'd woken up in his own drool on Antonio's couch, Gilbert could relax. And had finally found a backup stash of storebrand asprin in the basement bathrooms. And he had a glass of wine next to him. (Roma strongly believed in running things "the European way.")

As he was just finishing up reconciling the day's batch, there was a light knock on the half open door and Alejandro's face, shiny with sweat and steam from cleaning, popped around the frame. "We're almost done. I'm gonna send the rest of kitchen home, that okay?" he asked.

Gilbert set down his pen and leaned back in his chair, taking the moment to stretch out his tired back. "Yeah, man, no worries," he replied, "I'm just about finished myself. Pretty good for a Tuesday, huh?"

The other man gave a short whistle and grinned in return. "Sure thing, boss. Though I thought Anna was going to kill Roma for giving free tiramisu to every table. We're almost cleaned out both upstairs and downstairs."

Gilbert made a mental note for tomorrow to make sure restocking tiramisu was on cold station's list. Thankfully it was one of their easier desserts to make en masse, and always a crowd pleaser. It wouldn't be a huge surprise to the morning staff; the start of the week was always their time to catch up on prep from the weekend. He'd also have to tell the bartender to restock on whatever bar glasses they lost in the kerfuffle…except that he was currently the bartender, so he made another mental note to add that to his own to do list for the morning.

"Oh hey, boss?" Alejandro's voice broke him out of his thoughts.

"That Russian kid downstairs was asking about the clothes on the table over here. Wondering if he was supposed to throw them in laundry?"

"I think he's Lithuanian," Gilbert corrected mindlessly. "And no, I'll get them, they're a customer's I gotta take to dry cleaning, thanks for reminding me."

"Whatever," Alejandro grunted. "There was a note with a phone number on top of it, too. You picking up the ladies again?" he waggled his dark eyebrows.

For a moment Gilbert considered correcting him that it was actually a man's name on the paper but a) there was no reason to make his coworker believe otherwise for now and b) that wasn't what the slip of paper was for, anyway. It was just contact information to get a customer their belongings back.

So instead, Gilbert waved him off modestly (or, as modestly as a Gilbert Beilschmidt could; he'd done numbers throughout school–not to brag). "Nah, you know I don't mix customers and dating, Alej. Bad business practice," he winked.

Alejandro chuckled in return and gave the doorframe another knock. "Whatever you say, boss," he said over his shoulder as he receded.

Gilbert twitched his nose and swirled the glass lazily before tossing back the rest of the wine. He finished up his numbers for the night and stuffed everything back into the lockbox before switching off the lights to the office. It was just past midnight, which wasn't too bad, all things considered. On his way out he grabbed the pile of still-damp clothes with Roderich's number on them, locked up and nodded to Toyls in the parking lot, and finally slid into his car with a long sigh. Somehow the morning already felt like days ago. Drinking with Tony felt like years ago.

He eyed the sad bundle of beer-infused clothing and then the scrap of paper with the brunet's careful handwriting on it. There was a 24 hour laundromat by his apartment, he'd drop them off there, get some well-deserved shut eye, and then wake up to do it all over again tomorrow.

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

Not the most conventional way to get someone's phone number, but, y'know, whatever works, Gil. Also if you ever get red wine spilt on your most favorite and expensive piece of clothing, the insurance thing is true. So y'know, don't live in fear.

- Chapter Notes -
-Alejandro (my stand-in for a Mexico OC in Hetalia)
-Lol I hate referring to Roderich as Rod.
-Not too much else to say; the majority of the first chapter was written years ago closer to when Ristorante Rosso was first written, so the bridge to the newer stuff is still a bit odd in my mind.