AN: AU idea that I've been kicking around in my head for the past few days. Basically, I really just wanted to write rock star!Alfred and nurse!Matthew. I mean, can you blame me for that? The rating for this will eventually bump up. Oh yeah, Esteban=Cuba (I needed to give him some kind of name, right?).

Even before Alfred had become a household name, Matthew had resigned himself to his shadow. As pretty as the Canadian indeed was (at least, his papa told him he was pretty), he just didn't have an identity of his own, nothing distinguishing about him.

Nice boys never take up much of the limelight.

Still, sometimes he wondered what it would be like, if he'd been the one to become famous. Had he taken up guitar (instead of that one semester of violin in middle school), could he have become the cover boy for glam-punk alterna-pop-rock (as close a genre as any to describe the music Alfred produced)? Would he have screaming fans and people spontaneously throwing their panties at him as he walked from the performance to his limousine? And how would Alfred feel about that, overshadowed by his baby brother?

What good did it do speculating? Matthew wasn't a rock star; Alfred was. But then, he always had been, in a sense. He was a supernova.

What did that make Matt? Just one of the multiple particles drawn into his gravitational pull, really. Even a thousand miles away, here he was, reading the article in People, describing his brother as a "leather-studded sex machine" and "pure animalistic lust" and "oh, right, his music's pretty decent, too".

Matthew would never be described as a leather-studded anything. In fact, at this moment, he was still clad in his scrubs, the name tag swinging from his neck announcing his Registered Nurse status.

"Oh wow, gosh," Some teenage girl stood beside him, the same magazine in her hands, her eyes traveling over the blonde nurse. "Gosh!" She squealed, fingers digging into the laminated pages.

Matthew smiled, tilting his head slightly. "Can I help you?"

"You look just like Alfred Jones," Her giggling seemed to whistle from her braces, pastel-painted nails clutching at her lips. "I mean, you could be twins!"

His smile faltered, as he set the magazine down. "No. Not twins," He murmured, controlling the urge to say something snotty. She was just a kid. And even if she wasn't, how was she to know? At least she hadn't made the assumption so many other people made, assuming that he WAS his brother.

And he did look like Alfred. The same wide eyes (Matthew's leaning more towards violet than the clear blue of his brother's), the same easily-flushed cheekbones, the same upturned lips and button nose. The hair was slightly different, but only in style, really—Mattie's more wavy, and with that single flyaway hair curling upwards.

Same height, probably the same weight. Hell, probably the same shoe size.

Not that someone like Matthew could ever fill out the shoes of Alfred Jones. White sneakers squeaked against the sidewalk as he left the convenience store, hands shoved into his pockets. Snow clustered into his hair, the cool wind fogging his glasses. With a sigh, he stopped, wiping the lenses as best he could. Oh yeah. They had the same prescription for glasses, too. Somehow this only disheartened Matthew all the further—would he ever have an identity outside of his brother?

"Hey! Matt!"

"Eh…?" He recognized the accent and was able to place the identity before he returned his glasses to his face, his vision returning with stark clarity. "H-hi, Esteban…"

"What are you doing?" The Cuban walked closer to him, his black dreadlocks pulled into a ponytail, though at this moment his head was capped, his dark skin tinged red from wind chill. He clung to his coat. "You're gonna freeze out here, mijo."

Mijo meant son, right? Or was it just a generic endearment? Either case, Matthew blushed. "Um…n-no, I'm fine. I like it when it's like this," It was nice, though, to have someone come up to him anyway, to be concerned about him.

His stomach flipped as he looked down, kicking his foot against the pavement. Before remembering it was bad for the rubber in his shoes and stopping. "What're you doing? I thought you were working a double tonight, eh?"

"Nah," He grinned. "They said I was getting too many hours. Besides, all those nurses are constantly nagging me about food orders." Matthew didn't know how to react when the larger man's hand found its way into his hair, ruffling it affectionately. "'Cept for you, of course. But then, you're not like everyone else there."

"Yeah," Matt smiled. "I'm the only male."

"No, you're the only one who doesn't have a stick up his ass. Oh, and you're cuter than they are, too."


"Hmm?" Esteban reached out, placing a finger against Matthew's chin, tilting it up slightly. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," He said in a single breath, backing away from the kitchen worker. "I…I really…I have to go. Papa'll be waiting," Dad. He should call him Dad in public. He was a grown man. Grown men didn't call their fathers "papa". Cringing, he backed away. "I'll…see you tomorrow, eh? B-bye!"

It took him a moment to realize the other man was following him.

"No, you…you shouldn't go alone. In the cold and dark like this."

"I always walk home, though," Matthew's eyes narrowed slightly, not distrusting, though he was admittedly trying to figure out his motives.

"Yeah, but…look, I got my car. It's just parked over there, see?" He motioned towards his beater, the doors practically falling off with rust. The headlights reminded on, though, cutting through the snowy calm.

"I really can just walk," The blonde nibbled on his lip, eyes no longer narrowed, widened to the point of infancy, a child trying to absorb the entire world. Somehow, though, he found his feet trailing after his coworker, his hand fitting into the palm of the other's. Fingers rough as opposed to the tenderness of the Canadian's skin.

"But I insist," Esteban opened the door for him, his voice part scratch, part whine, completely genuine and, somehow, gentle. He made certain the nurse entered before shutting the door, getting into his own side and beginning to drive. "Oh," He laughed. "Just realized I don't know where you live."

"It's just another block," Matthew squirmed slightly, playing with the seat belt, looking out at the city lights, analyzing the dust on the dash board. Anything to keep his eyes off the driver. "I…thank you,"

"Sure, no problem," Brown eyes peeked at Matt curiously. "You're always so quiet."

The statement only prompted him to draw deeper into the seat, shrinking at the observation. "I…uh…I…"

"It's not a bad thing or anything—you mind if I smoke?" He waited for Matt to nod before lighting a cigarette, cracking the window open to let the smoke billow out with the snow, the grey against white strangely beautiful. "Being shy. It's kind of cute, you know?"

"I—that's my house," Matt had to turn completely away then, as if this would disguise how hard he was blushing right now. The car slowed before the "humble" home (more like mansion, really—by this point, Esteban couldn't speak either, his mouth hanging open). "I'll s-see you tomorrow." Matthew jumped out of the car, waving behind him once again, while hoping the heat to his face could be explained away as a reaction to the cold.

He heard the car drive off as he scurried up the walkway. His feet threatened to fall out from underneath him, a thin veiling of ice collecting on the pavement. As much as he loved winter, Matthew really was too accident prone to enjoy the ice which came with it. And with his mind already flustered from the brief contact with the (admittedly attractive) Cuban kitchen worker, it was no wonder he didn't notice the door open before him, seemingly of its own accord.

"O-oh," His eyes rose from the ground, hand reaching out to grab the doorknob before fumbling at empty space. "Sorry I'm late, Papa. We had an admission today, so…"

Once again, his face reddened, his left foot stepping back now, lips parted in shock.

"Lookit you, Mattie," His eyes were even bluer than Matt had remembered, lips a more vibrant red, clothes tight to the point of indecency.

Leather-studded sex really didn't do his brother justice.

Alfred smirked, one hand on his hip. "You're all grown up, aren't you?"

He gurgled something unintelligible in response, stepping back once again as Alfred—his big time rock star brother, who really should be here, what the hell is he doing here—reached out, fingers nimble, slightly calloused from guitar strings.

Matthew didn't lose consciousness because he was in shock. Seeing his brother didn't make him spontaneously faint, like some kind of girl.

But cracking his skull on the sidewalk, because in his borderline panic he'd stepped on a patch of ice? Yes, that certainly HAD caused him to black out.