Full Summary: (AU setting) Meet Alfred F. Jones, a twenty-six-year-old cokehead socialite that's still living off of Daddy's trust fund. This man knows how to party, can speak seven languages, and is one amazing criminal prosecutor - when he doesn't have a hang-over from that equally amazing party in Bangkok last weekend. He's the kind of guy whose people have people. He's also the kind of guy that needs a reality check via a swift kick to the balls. And there are a few people that would love to give it to him.

And then there's Matthew. Poor, pathetic, pitiable Matthew Williams. Twenty-one, living in a one-room apartment he can barely afford, in the worst end of town nonetheless, and struggling with two and a half jobs to try and make ends meet. He's barely succeeding; hot water is a gift from his landlord four times a week, for half an hour at a time, and he doesn't remember the last time he watched television other than the news or CBC. Needless to say, he's depressed. Very depressed. Hell, the kid doesn't even have the time to fit suicide into his schedule (not to say he hasn't tried, though, cause he has. 82 times, actually).

What he needs, in short, is a miracle. Not some arrogant, coked-up lawyer worming his way into an already stressful life that has already ran smack into a brick wall, going at 120km/h. What Alfred needs, as already stated, is a swift kick to the scrotum to make him see that, "Oh, hey, Yankee! You're not the only one that needs oxygen this side of the South Pole!" And he doesn't realize that the one to give him this reality check will be a young man, living an obscure life well below the poverty line. Alfred is full of himself, Matthew doesn't have a shred of self-esteem to his name these days. Things can only go uphill from here, right? Things will get better, right?

Not a chance; Murphy's Law exists for a reason, after all.

Warnings: Language. Language. Language. Language. And more language. Oh, also drugs, alcoholism, occasional violence, more drugs (including prescription drug abuse), 10,000 different ways to commit suicide, and a little bit of sex. Excessive amounts of nosebleed-inducing fluff every now and again, too. Did I mention there's going to be language?

Hey there, my lovelies! Just a little side-project while I'm working on Civil Unrest; I've had this idea in mind for a month or two now, but I started work on the other one first - my child, kolkolkol - and this plot took the backseat, really. But I haven't been able to get rid of the idea, and well, I think I'll explode if I don't get this down and out for reading anytime soon. Now, this story is not priority. It will be finished, but it might take a while until I get Civil Unrest finished. Updates will be kind of random and sporadic, but it will be finished. And now, on with the show, eh?


In which we meet Matthew, a young man that just really needs a hug.

There were not very many things that he was certain of anymore these days. Nothing was definite anymore, and he did not know which way to turn when seeking a firm reason. Whether that be his reason for living - or, as his only relative liked to say, in that stupidly charming voice of his: his raison d'être - or it be his reason for at least making the life-changing pilgrimage of getting out of the damn bed first thing in the morning.

He didn't know shit these days, that was what it was coming out to be.

Life sucked, and that was the one thing the young man was completely certain of. The only thing he cared to be certain of.

Deep blue eyes, rimmed red with sheer exhaustion, slowly opened and he grumbled, immediately pulling his thick quilt up over his head of messy, curly blonde hair, wanting only to bury himself further into the stiff mattress he slept on (most of the time). It was too damn cold to be functioning at this hour, he surmised darkly. Curling in further upon himself, eyes fluttering shut, he gave a soft snuffing sound through his nose, felt his body begin to relax pleasantly and, right as he found that perfectly comfortable spot on the mattress-

The alarm clock started ringing.

Flinging the blankets down over his head, a prolonged groan escaped thin, worry-bitten lips as he glowered at the clock that was shifting ever-so-slightly on the wooden surface of his bedside table. That ringing was ear-piercing, especially when it was only seven in the morning and he had slept for no more than three hours, if he was lucky.

It should be known that he is not a lucky man.

Matthew Williams, age twenty-one - and going on twenty-two in seven months, nineteen days, four hours, fifty-one minutes and sixteen seconds - did not know the definition of the word luck. It had never been applied to him in his entire life, either. Except for when he got to play the lead in a preschool play, but that's a different kind of luck.

There's luck, there's dumb luck, and then there's survival.

He didn't fit into any of those previously mentioned categories, anyways.

Reaching out, squirming against the heavy blankets that pooled at his thin hips, he slammed his hand down on the ringing clock, silencing it rather effectively. Indigo eyes fluttered shut and he heaved a sigh. Sunday. The proverbial day of rest. And he had, as of nine am in the glorious goddamn morning, fourteen hours of work lying ahead of him. Even the mere thought of it made him want to cry, amputate his feet and see if he could apply for worker's compensation.

"So, Sir, what happened here?" the government official would ask him, absolutely horrified at the bloody stumps in the place of what were once size eight feet.

"Well, you see, Sir, it's like this: I got in a fight with a shopping cart at the grocery store, and well, I lost pretty badly. Do you think you might be able to help me out?" Matthew would inquire in that soft, whispery, barely-there voice of his.

The government official would think about it for a moment or two, frown thoughtfully, then stamp a big fat REJECTED on the sheet before turning him towards the door with a smile, not even bothering to help him hobble all the way to elevator (which would be, conveniently, out of service).

And then he would have to spend the rest of his days living in a gutter and doing heroin with the hobos that could be doctors but simply chose to say, 'Fuck society, I live for anarchy!'


Matthew scowled at his bitter thoughts, bringing himself up slowly into a hunched sitting position, rubbing his face with shaking hands. His room was as cold as hell, colder even. Picking the blanket up off the bed, he wrapped it around his shoulders as he slid from the mattress, various joints in his body making loud, sharp popping noises of protest as joints and cartilage cracked and slid back into their proper place. God, did he ever hate the process of first waking up in the morning: the grogginess that overtook him, the dizziness of going upright for the first time in a few hours - even if he had barely slept in the first place, it always affected him (low blood pressure or something shitty and ridiculous like that) - and then the coldness that he was slowly getting accustomed to.

Oh, and being practically blind until he managed to find his glasses and slip them on, but that was the only thing that was so easy to remedy.

Finding said pair of ocular lenses, he placed them upon the bridge of a delicate nose before pushing them up with the pad of his thumb, running a hand through his hair to get the tangles out of the gentle curls that cascaded downwards to frame around a pale, narrow face. Once it was heart-shaped, his cheeks soft with a slight round shape to them, but now it was gaunt, and he appeared sickly with exhaustion, with illness, shadows around brilliant indigo eyes that screamed he needed to have a mild coma for himself, and to hurry up and just do it to get it over with. Comas were nice. Very nice. Nice, nice, nice. But he wasn't sick, he mentally reasoned with the lamp on his bedside. Just tired; he didn't consider needing Valium for major anxiety problems a sickness. It just made him … want to sleep. For a long time.

Padding silently out of his bedroom and into the living room, he yawned, paused, and tightened the blanket around his body, not wanting it to slip down; it was just too cold yet, and it was far too early in the year to consider turning the heat on - then again, there probably wasn't any oil left in the tank outside, not that he could afford to replace it. So he would make due with the bitter cold of his apartment, because he had his blanket, and as long he had his blanket, he would be just fine. Walking around in a ratty pair of boxers would suck, and would make him feel awkward, even if he was the only person to have ever set foot inside his apartment, beside the occasional repair man, since he had started to rent the place.

A sudden chugging sound, squealing pipes in the background, rang out through the previously dead-silent apartment. Glancing at the clock on the wall, he blinked once, twice, and then made a dash for the kitchen as if hell was nipping at his heels.

He had hot water for the next half an hour, and he needed to take advantage of it while he could - which meant filling up the sink with scalding hot water so he could do the dishes, and then while those dishes were soaking, doing his best to get a full shower before the water either ran out, the pipes clogged or the water itself was turned off on him. Needless to say, he had to move fast if he wanted to get anything done before he went to work for the day … and the evening.

Yawning as he shuffled over to the sink, letting the blanket fall to the floor with a whimper as ice-cold air hit his pale, bare skin, he started quickly piling dishes from the day before and the day before that into the sink, stacking them as neatly as he possibly could. Mind now, there wasn't very much there in terms of what needed to be washed - two plates, three glasses and a mug, two pans and one pot - but still, just because he had become the definition of a welfare case before he was even legal age in America, it didn't mean he was going to allow himself to rot away in a dirty home, not like some of the individuals he knew in what was more or less a slum area in the American state he lived in.

Water coming out of the pipes was, as it started to heat up, dark in colour from the rust in the pipes. A grimace crossed Matthew's young face, but he said nothing - speaking to yourself was ridiculous, anyways - as he let the water pour from the tap, watching it turn clear, watching steam slowly begin to rise from it. He poured a dollop of soap in, plugged the drain and let it fill up, bringing the water all the way up to the brim before shutting it off, suds spilling down over the side of the counter as he did so, nearly slipping on the puddle forming on the floor and landing face-first into the water-filled sink. Catching himself on the edge, he bit back a startled, and what would be decidedly girly, shriek.

Five minutes later, he was in the shower, huddling under a rain if scalding hot water, blessedly hot water, scrubbing furiously at his hair and trying to wash his body all at the same time so he could have a few minutes to just stand there under the water, letting the strained muscles in his body relax and turn to the proverbial sacks of useless goop they usually were when he slept. Sometimes. If he slept in his bed, they probably weren't. When he slept on the sofa or the floor (given the fact that it left him with a fucked neck for a day or two), he usually got a better sleep - and he didn't wake up with a bad back, which was the main thing

Ten minutes left of water, and Matthew's legs more or less gave out from beneath him, and he simply slumped down in the shell of the bathtub, enamel having been long-since stripped from the white porcelain tub, rust pooling down around the drain and faucet, mould curling around the bottom of the tub. He sighed contentedly, eyes fluttering shut as he inhaled the steam that came from it and, despite the uncomfortable position, his body was growing relaxed. So relaxed, in fact, that he could feel his eyelids growing heavier and heavier, getting closer and closer to falling back to sleep. A small part of his brain, the one that was ruined by Valium and life in general, wondered if sleeping in the tub would be a better spot than his bed, floor and sofa combined. Maybe it would; anything was better than a mattress that was five-years-old with springs sticking out of it and promoted a bad night's sleep. Maybe Sears or Wal-Mart could use that for a slogan one of these days, he could get royalties for it and buy himself his own, two-room apartment, get himself a pet dog, and a motorcycle. And a bathtub that wasn't falling apart, a 'fridge that didn't cut out, and a mattress he could actually sleep on and not wake up, feeling like an arthritic, ninety-year-old man that had it in every single joint of his body.

When the water started to fade away, the ebbing pulse turning into a pathetic trickle of water, Matthew sighed and hoisted himself up, pushing back his soaked hair, blinking the sleep that had reformed in his eyes back out. Legs trembled as he moved to sit down on the toilet before he gave a long yawn as his stomach growled viciously, demanding to be fed before it had to resort to eating itself - something that was bound to get ugly.

Hauling the blanket over his naked, still-wet body, Matthew padded from the bathroom back to the living room where he glanced at the clock on the wall. Seven-thirty am. He still had half an hour before he needed to get the bus to work in order to be there for nine, for the start of his shift at the local grocery store where he worked the occasional cash shift, but for the most part where he worked as a stock boy, putting new groceries on the shelves for eight hours a day. Then, from there, he would change into a pair of jeans and a sweater, to go to work for six until twelve that night at a local restaurant as a dish washer that didn't even make minimum wage.

But he got free food, so he had to keep the job.

Then there was that other half-job, where he went and worked the night shift at a bakery once a week, cleaning the building from top to bottom in a twelve hour shift, every Friday night after he got off work from the diner. Saturdays were the only day he would take off in the run of the week, the only time he got more than three hours sleep - because he could get seven or eight if he tried hard enough.

Like, really goddamn hard.

That usually meant taking an extra Valium, but if that was what it took, then so be it.

He could feel tears welling up in his eyes as he scrubbed the dishes, blanket knotted at his slim, bony hips so he wasn't totally exposed. A soft, watery sigh escaped him, and he swiped at his eyes, curses quickly falling from his lips as dish detergent stung his eyes. "Oh, fucking fuck for the love of God," Matthew yelped, squinting and lunging for a hand towel - nearly crashing into the cupboard doors as he did so. Roughly wiping his face, the soap from his eyes, the young Canadian living in America sighed, sitting cross-legged on the floor. His eyes were burning now, just lovely. He'd go into work, looking like he had been up all night - which wasn't that far from the truth in all actuality - and had been either watching movies like The Notebook, or had been smoking joint after joint after mother loving joint.

When he thought about it, lips dipping downwards, he kind of wished that's what it was.

Getting dish soap in your eyes was for pussies.

Standing, leaving the warm water standing as a testament, as if to say, "Hey, fuckface, there actually IS hot water in this house! HAH!", all despite the fact that, when he would return at one am after a shift from hell at the diner (thank heaven he was allowed to listen to his mp3 player while he was working, based on the fact that he simply did dishes and ate the leftovers he was given) the water in the sink would be tepid and cold from the dishes he had cleaned earlier.

Hands dried and quilt back up over his shoulders and clinging tightly to his pin thin frame, he plodded back to his bedroom to don his uniform for the day, and to stuff a change of clothes in his backpack for when he got off of work. Black jeans, a light green t-shirt and his name tag that read nothing more than: "MATTIE" in stupid, ugly-ass block letters that he hated and wanted to burn like cheap lumber in a methane-filled basement.

Then, expression going blank yet a pensive look in his bloodshot (fucking soap!) indigo eyes, he thought, 'Hmmm, methane. Sounds like it could be worth a try.'

He mulled it over for a brief moment as he hauled his pants on, considered it as he tucked his shirt and brushed his wavy hair out with his fingers, and then decided against it as he shouldered his black fleece jacket, sneezing as he did so.

Methane might take too long, and it would probably be a little too hard to come across.

Well, the neighbours kids were little shit-filled brats, so maybe it wouldn't be that hard, really…

He shook his head tiredly, the room tilting slightly as he did so and then quickly glanced at his watch, and realized, with a startled curse, that if he dawdled any longer, he was going to miss the bus. Something like that meant he wouldn't be able to get to work until a good four hours into his assigned shift, and he could not afford to lose out on a day of work, even if he made no more than minimum wage. Every penny counted, despite having no idea what it was he was saving up for - only knowing the fact that it seemed like, every time he turned around, he was having to dip into his 'rainy day' fund in order to pay bills or go out and get something to eat when the hunger pains or sheer boredom got to be a little too much for him to handle.

Bouncing through his rather spartanly furnished apartment, slightly-damp hair bopping along with his every step, Matthew hopped over the sofa, slung his backpack across his shoulders and kicked on a broken down pair of sneakers that should have been retired when he was nineteen, not still in circulation when he was twenty-one.

Before leaving, he took one quick glance-about the apartment. Everything was in its place - high school graduation photo still hung on the wall, some of his paintings - paintings he longed to have put in a gallery, but just never had the time to even try - a few more pictures of his family. An old sofa set, well a mixed-and-matched sofa set he had bought at two separate garage sales, were placed in a comfortable fashion, a small television perched on a small table, and that was more or less it for his living room. A sigh escaped him. What he wouldn't give to be able to-

Ah, fuck it.

He turned on his heel, slammed the door shut so hard he heard the windows rattle in their frames, and quickly flipped all four locks into place before trotting down over the three flights of stairs attached to the fire escape that it usually took for him to get down from the top floor of the apartment building he lived in to ground level. He jumped the last six and landed on the concrete with a light thud, his barely-there weight making virtually no noise on impact. What he didn't like, though, was being able to count almost every rib. Well, it was either he paid his bills, or he had food to eat. He couldn't exactly pick the two of them and have both of them at the same time. Buying groceries had set him back nearly a month on his light bill, and he still hadn't even come close to catching up on it…

'Oh, the benefits of malnourishment,' Matthew thought dryly as he scooted across the street, dodging being nailed by a yellow taxi that came, inconveniently enough, tearing down the road the moment he set foot on the blacktop. 'I'd make an excellent thief if I ever wanted to go down that road of delinquency.'

Because popping extra Valium pills because it was fun didn't count for juvenile delinquency in his books. Only because he didn't have his priorities set straight, according to some of his co-workers.

Matthew Williams just liked to think that he was a little more scatter-brained than most.

Deftly stepping around puddles, avoiding the water that was running down from the overhang of a store, the young man slipped mutely into a bus shelter, glanced at his watch, and heaved a heavy, long sigh of relief. Indigo eyes relaxed around the edges, and a hardened mouth turned upwards in the smallest of smiles. He got there, and with five minutes to spare. Shifting the backpack on his shoulders, he sat down on the bench, crossed his legs, and brought his bag to his front, wrapping skinny arms around it as tightly as he possibly could - his life was more or less inside that bag: his wallet and bankcard, his bus pass, change of clothing, and a few of his books, including the university text book he had on accounting, the one his cousin had given him when he thought he would be going to a college in order to get a degree.

Funny how life turned itself around and kicked him in the teeth.

In no time the bus was there (almost driving past him, not having noticed him all bundled up at the bus stop, only slowing down when the driver saw that there was a young man sprinting after the bus and screeching for it to stop), and the young man flopped down in the back of the bus, panting heavily, drenched once more and shivering as he hauled his knees up to his chest. Oh, he could already see what this day was going to turn out to be like. He buried his nose into the crook between his two knees, biting on his lower lip and flickering his eyes about the practically empty city transport.

If anything, it was going to be a long day.

One that made him want to cry because it was just so damn long and brutal.

And he really had no idea, at the moment of realization on the bus, that rainy-day epiphany that made him want to come up with suicide option 91, how long of a day it really was going to be for him. Cleaning up some kid's puke down isle three, the women's washroom after something … gross … happened in there. Those were all incidents that were very capable of ruining someone's day. Especially when that goddamn lawyer from Manhattan showed up, standing in the center of the spice isle with that usual 'I'm a dumbass, help me, please!' look on his face that made sweet-tempered (for the most part) Matthew spit and snarl on the inside with the utmost rage.

Of course, he was the only employee in the isle at the time, and it wasn't like he could just turn around and walk away when the tall blonde smiled that dopey smile at him and waved him over with a drawling, southern 'hey!' to catch his attention.

While what Matthew really wanted to do was go down isle seven, the kitchen ware isle, and get himself one of those lovely cast iron frying pans to whack him senseless, that little intelligent part of him told him that was a bad idea and if he wanted to keep his job, he might as well go over and help this poor, defenceless, hopeless, stupid, arrogant, bastardizing American lawyer that was probably one of the most regular customers they had in the entire establishment.

He said it was something to do with the fact that they had one of the best sections of organically grown and mass-produced organic cereals, cookies, ketchup and noodles.

Matthew figured it was because he was a pretentious ignoramus that wanted to support a good cause, despite the food cost what it would take him two hours or more to make, when there were far better causes around that needed supporting. Not some mass-producing, money-leeching 'organic' food company that claimed to be working towards a better future…

Not that he was bitter about it.

Not at all.

Forcing a smile to his lips, he looked just above the lawyer's eyes, not wanting to actually look him in the eye (really now, that was just awkward to do), Matthew sighed, "May I help you, Sir?"

"Ah, thanks for asking, kid!" the lawyer exclaimed, delighted, wearing a face-splitting grin. The Canadian kind of wanted to die a little on the inside, and not to mention his stomach was just growling viciously at him for having skipped breakfast and dinner the day before. "Y'see, I'm tryin' to find these steak spices. Real organic and good for you. So, I was wondering, do you have them?"

Giving him a once over and, with a wry smile, Matthew turned his indigo eyes to the rack of various spices and flavourings. "I'm sorry sir, but if there's none here on the shelves, than we're more than likely out of stock," he said, voice soft and just above a whisper, the way it usually was, "if you want, I can page the head of the grocery department to see if he can order it in for you?"

The lawyer tapped his foot a few times. "Well, I need it for tonight. No, no, tomorrow. Anyways, don't you guys have stock, like, out back that you can check for things?" the man asked, golden brow arched expectantly, "So can't you call someone to find out for me?"

"Oh, you mean that magical land of overstock beyond those big swinging doors where you can find basically whatever the hell you want because it's logical to find everything there because it's out back? Yeah, because we totally have everything, even the things we don't carry ever, back there, cause that's just what we do. It's magical, right?" Matthew rhetoricized sarcastically, the words just bubbling and spilling out of him before he even had a chance to register the fact that he was speaking out loud to this customer, this so-called important customer that could have his ass fired faster than God knew what else, not saying everything within the safe(r) confines of his head? He bit down hard on his lip, to the point that he tasted blood, as his face went white while the man, his exact height, started and stared at him with wide, astonished eyes.

Then he started to laugh, grinning that same, boyish grin, blue eyes dancing with delight. "Yeah, that place!" he chuckled, appearing absolutely thrilled, "Do you guys have any out there? Can someone go out and check there for me?"

Matthew blinked, expression going flat.

The guy had believed him.

Oh sweet mother of Jesus, the man had actually believed what he had said.

The urge to throttle him was suddenly rising, very dangerously and very, very quickly.

"No, we don't. Have a nice day," Matthew snapped, his patience fraying at the edges, turning sharply on his heel as he did his best not to stray to isle seven for that cast iron frying pan he so desperately wanted to slug that idiot that probably made a hundred grand a year with. He didn't turn around if he exited the isle, hands clenched tightly at his sides as he made his way to go to the 'magical warehouse of wonder and endless groceries, perishables included'. You know, the place where underage employees gathered around to smoke by the trash compactor and shoot up by the cardboard disposal. Very few men out there, in the magical warehouse, actually did their job, or at least did it properly.

Had Matthew turned around, he would have seen the lawyer watching him go, hands tucked into his pocket as he plucked a regular steak spice up off the rack - the one he had actually been looking for in the first place - with a soft smile on his face, an amused and somewhat admiring look upon his face as the younger, petit blonde man stalked away.

This was brought back full force again, this 'holy shit why is the day so long?' feeling, once ten pm hit, Matthew decided that it was a very long day, and he just wanted to throw himself under the path of an oncoming Soviet war tank filled with overfed American warmongers - suicide option number 93 - than have to deal with dishes from a party of twenty-three truckers.

Men were pigs, and that was his final answer, good-fucking-bye. The plates on the counter were stacked up to his shoulders, they were an utter mess, and because the kitchen's dishwasher was out of service (it had been for the past three years now, actually, and the owner was just too damn cheap to actually go about replacing it, the bastard), he had to wash every single plate, fork, knife, spoon, cup, pot, pan, obsessively, three times as directed by his employer, to make sure they were properly cleaned, and all with his bare hands because the rubber gloves they had had somehow gone missing.

Honestly, dish-washing was something that didn't bother the quiet Canadian boy; it was relaxing, he had his music, and it was something that wasn't very taxing. Six hours of standing at a sink washing dishes over and over until his shoulders ached from the steady, repetitive motions. But he liked it. The only thing he didn't like was getting paid only five dollars to do it, a whole $2.25 less than what the actual minimum wage was for the state of New York.

But he could live with that much, though; money was better than nothing, and every little bit counted.

Humming to himself, swaying his thin hips in time to the music blasting from the headphones attached to his mp3 player, Matthew tapped his feet and bobbed his head as he scrubbed one of the platters the waitresses used. The man nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand was settled down upon his shoulder, a strangled yelp leaving his chapped lips as a wet hand came to cling at the front of his sweater.

Katyusha stood there, eyes soft and smiling around the edges. "Matvey," the Ukrainian immigrant murmured softly, shifting her weight awkwardly, obviously feeling apologetic over startling the younger man so badly, "Would you be able to run out and get a plate that I forgot to get from table seventeen? I'm a little behind on the other orders an-"

"Say no more, Kat," Matthew said with a small smile and blush of his own, drying off his hands and pulling the headset off of his ears and letting it hand around his neck. "I'll go out and get it for you." The dish-washing grocery store clerk quickly turned the taps off as he flung the hand cloth over his shoulder, navigating his way through the large back-area of the diner, stepping around the two Russian men bickering at the stove and deep fryer. They were gesturing rather wildly with their spoons, so it couldn't have been that bad of an argument… hopefully.

Walking out through the doors, Matthew glanced around, noticed for the first time that evening that the place was finally close to dying off from the late evening rush hour, and headed over to table seventeen, a slight bounce in his step despite the ache in his lower back, in his thighs, shins and ankles. "Sorry 'bout that, Sir," he said quietly as he approached the table, leaning over and plucking the ceramic plates up off of the white cloth-covered surface. "I'll get these dishes out of your way for you, eh?"

"Oh, you're that kid from the grocery store!"

Matthew's body went rigid at the sound of the voice speaking to him, the same one belonging to the very same idiot he had pseudo-helped that morning, and he turned deep indigo eyes on the speaker.

It was the lawyer, alright. The man was dressed a little more causally than earlier, having ditched the Armani suit in favour for a pair of black denim pants, Italian loafers and a simple gray dress shirt. He wore a bright, friendly smile, blue eyes sparkling and white teeth flashing against lightly tanned skin. He looked rather charming, the young man hated to admit. But, then again, pricks were always nice on the outside.

Resisting the urge to take the man's beer and dump it all over his clothing, he gave a stiff smile and nodded. "Yes," he said crisply, still speaking softly. "I think I remember you from this morning. The gentleman looking for the steak spice?"

"Yeah, that was me, a'ight!" He seemed proud to admit this, and Matthew couldn't even imagine why he possibly was. Must be some lawyer things. Then, he extended his hand, "I'm Alfred Jones, and it's a pleasure to meet you."

"I could care less," Matthew Williams said in a cold voice, eyes narrowing as he pivoted on his heel, sauntering back over in the direction of the kitchen, to go back to the place from whence he came. A hand, however, latched onto the back of his sweater, tugging him backwards, causing him to almost drop the two plates and fall backwards onto the lawyer named Alfred Jones.

"Well, the funny thing is, I could probably care more, so I'd like to have a name to call you by, instead of kid. Cause calling you 'Kid' is just rude, ammirite?" he asked with a playful grin, peering at the younger man over the frames of his glasses.

Squirming and pushing his way out of the lawyer's lap (which was where he had landed, unfortunately), Matthew staggered to his feet, giving him a scathing look. "Matthew," he spat before turning once more, this time walking towards the kitchen with a little more purpose than the first time around.

This guy was a creep.

'Alfred' leaned back in his chair, watching the young man, 'Matthew' head back towards the kitchen, a soft smile on his face, one similar to the expression he wore earlier on in the day. It was always nice to have a name to go along with a pretty face like that kid's.

Names were always a nice way to start.

And as Matthew returned to the kitchen, fighting back the urge to throw himself in the deep fryer and turn it on the highest setting (94), he slammed the plates down in the sink, praying for the night to be over, so he could go home and get back into bed and just sleep. This day just needed to be over with, and as soon as possible. Even though he knew that tomorrow would more than likely be the exact same as the day before, and the day before that…

Oh God, life was shit.

And he had to do this for the rest of his life?

So not fair.

At all.

Hurrhurrhurr, this is going to be a fun story to write, I think. There aren't going to be too many characters from APH included in this, but you'll definitely know who they are when they get involved! Hopefully this story isn't too stupid for you guys. xD Please leave a review to tell me what you think, and thanks for reading!