this kind of slanty writing for twin speak later on

I sound very unprofessional. This is Beta written with SocklessxinxSeattle.

Matthew stomped up the carpeted steps of his father's house, his hands balled into fists, his face of barely concealed annoyance. They were going to be late for their orientation for college unless his lazy ass twin hurried up. The door to Alfred's bedroom was closed, but Matthew paid no head, pushing the wood out of his way. His eyes scanned the mess of boxes and strewn belongings that held many memories over the years, and he saw his twin wasn't in the room.

Turning to head down the hall, he noticed the light on in the bathroom, the door mostly closed, a large gap revealing the fact that his brother was at the sink…in just his boxers.

Alfred was staring at the mirror, his hands on either side of his lean, tan face. "Ah, I'm so beautiful, it's a curse. How can you live with yourself, Alfred Jones, you sexy man beast, you…"

Mattie let the door hit the wall with a thunk, clearing his throat harshly, causing Alfred to start and spin around, his face beet red. Matthew glared at his twin, whose hair was still in need of a brush, then at his obvious state of undress. "Five goddamn minutes. Then I'm driving off with your stupid, goddamn truck, and not goddamn coming back."

That was how they started their first day of their college careers.

Alfred hurriedly locked the doors to their father's mansion, a big box house he'd only bought because of their stepmother/his trophy wife, who the twins called "Trophy Bitch", and the two of them were currently on a cruise. The twins' real mother lived 25 miles away and over the Canadian border in Quebec. Both twins could speak fluent French, although Alfred's was very accented, and Matthew had stayed up in Montreal for about a year and a half after the divorce before the parents were back on speaking terms.

He hopped up into the driver's seat quickly of his big Dodge pickup truck, not wanting Matthew to drive his baby, especially for the long road trip. Matthew sat in the passenger seat next to him, pushing back bags of stuff into the king cab of the truck, their packing, haphazard in Alfred's case, filled up the bed of the truck and the back seats, leaving only places for the two to sit. Even though, supposedly, they were sharing a dorm room, seeing as Alfred had called in to request it last week, they still had mountains of crap, their father threatening to throw out whatever was left in their rooms so he could knock down the wall between the bedrooms, and build an in-home movie theater in their place. That had gone over just as well as Trophy Bitch's terrible cooking. But their father had final say.

George Jones was a charmer. He impressed businessmen with one well-placed joke, wooed women with one smile. But at home, he was a bastard on steroids. He had been furious at finding out that one of his sons was gay, speeding up the decline of his marriage (although cheating on his wife didn't help), and constantly had made remarks and lashed out at his slightly younger son, ignoring him for his twin. Alfred had become the center of his attention, being sent to football camps all summer, playing on the school team as quarterback in the fall, before baseball in the spring. Alfred's build and masculinity had been played up, his strength, his stubbornness. Matthew had constantly been told that he should be more like his brother. That was why, when they got their licenses, Alfred had gotten a big, blue and red striped pickup truck, and Matthew a red Prius.

So, at the time of the divorce, their mother took Matthew home to the French Canadian side of the family, changing his last name to "Williams", her maiden name, and restricted all contact Matthew had with his father. George, on the other hand, cracked down on Alfred, now the only one in the house besides the occasional mistress, smothering him with strict rules and attitudes, during a time when Alfred had become confused on his sexuality, realizing he didn't care what a person's gender was when it came to a relationship. His father had been furious, and after a brief visitation in which he greeted his mother with a black eye and a split lip, Alfred too went to live with the Canadian side.

George, now publically embarrassed and seen as intolerant, calmed down, married Momma Trophy, and had "accepted" his boys. Now, both eighteen, the twins had been rotating years and holidays between the two parents, and while one was obviously more immersed in French culture than the other, the twins became as close as they ever had been.

Alfred munched on a fast food breakfast sandwich as he drove down the interstate. With a yawn, he reached over, and after adjusting the radio to a rap station, and knocked Matthew's feet off the dashboard.

"Hoser, what was that for?" Mattie said in their mixed language twin speak, and kicked his socked feet back up from where they'd been knocked from, wiggling his toes and slouching lower in his sweatshirt, grumpily mumbling about pancakes.

"No feet on my dashboard, Mattie." The brothers exchanged a glare, before Matthew chuckled.

"I can put them wherever I want." Matthew stretched his legs in defiance.

"I don't do this to you in the Prius. That thing is a damned lunchbox, anyway."

"Hey, we both know this truck symbolizes the manhood papa thought you had."

"Hey, I've had plenty of girlfriends. And the first person I slept with was Sara, two years ago, in Montreal, and she was 100% woman! We can't say the same for you, Mr. I was a fag from seventh grade!"

Matthew sent an exasperated look towards his brother. "So what if the first person I slept with wasn't a woman? The last person you did certainly wasn't one."

The hands holding onto the steering wheel became white at the knuckles, the driver working very hard to just look straight ahead. "We've already had the Jeff discussion. I had a fake ID, got drunk, had sex with him, and then, in the morning, I left. He was very nice after I assured him that I was, in fact, 18. I don't see why we must talk about him anymore."

The Canadian just laughed, and settled down for a nap, falling asleep to rap music and Alfred's bilingual swearing at other drivers.

He snapped awake at the sudden breaking, then gearshift, Alfred's hand on the radio dial, slamming it off, before opening the door. Sitting up and looking around him, Matthew realized that they had arrived on campus, all the way down in Pennsylvania, the buildings all around him large, some with large windows and new age appearances, others old brick. In the rearview mirror he could see large old houses with Greek letters. Fraternities, most likely.

He sat up, yawning, and stumbled out after his twin, who was stretching, before putting a hand on the back of his neck and craning his head up to the sun.

"Let's go to admin office, see where our dorm is so we can move in today. I wanna explore campus tomorrow, not unpack." Alfred grabbed a set of papers and walked onward across the grass of the campus, not stopping to hear his brother's answer, or make sure he was following. Matthew sighed, and jogged after him.

"What do you mean we're not in the same dorm? I called to request that we be in the same dorm, the same dorm room!"

The woman didn't even flinch at the young man before her, her old, beady eyes staring back coldly from her horn-rimmed glasses. "As I said before, first year students cannot request their room partners, and are put with roommates of like interests. Mr. Williams has been put with a fellow literature student for various reasons by the administrations office. Likewise for Mr. Jones for science and engineering."

"But the girl on the phone, she told me it would be taken care of!"

"Our intern, Karen, has been known to be very flighty of mind, and probably misunderstood whatever it was you said. She also is very prone to flirting, and will answer with whatever the caller wants to hear…" There was a suspicious edge to the old woman's voice, and Alfred's face took on a mild pinkish hue.

"C'mon Mattie, let's figure this out on our own…" He grabbed his twin's hand and pulled back down the hall. "Stupid ditzy girl, getting me sidetracked with that cute little laugh…"

"So you did flirt with her."

"Shut. Up."

They drove around the campus to the section where their dorms were located, Matthew's at the bottom of the hill, Alfred's at the top, causing him to groan.

"Now I have to haul the fridge all the way up the hill…"

"Al, who says you are getting the fridge?"

"Hey, I bought it!"

"With our shared, prepaid credit card that dad covers."

"Go and buy your own, then!"

"You still have the card!"

Once they had separated their belongings, they started to heave Alfred's stuff up the hill because he'd won a game of rock, paper, and scissors. Matthew had a feeling he wasn't going to get help with his stuff.

They found the room, which was on the third floor of the multi-floor dorm, and found the door wide open, the roommate who was to share it already…settled.

"Is that a gun on the bed?" Matthew looked around the room, seeing one half covered in wrappers, papers, bed covers, clothes, and what looked to be a black pistol on a pillow next to some German porn magazines.

"No, Mattie, it couldn't be! They don't allow guns on campus. The only way someone could have snuck one in was if they brought individual gun pieces in, then rebuilt it by hand. And who would do such a stupid thing?"

"You guys speak English? And what are you fuckers doing in my room?" The twins spun around, spying a man in the doorway.

He was pale, with a shock of white hair and red eyes. He had a smirk on his face, and he eyed the boxes they were carrying, reading the labels reading "XBOX 360 and PS3" and "PLAYBOY".

"Ooh, my new roomy!" The man walked over to Mattie, slinging an arm over the man's shoulder. "So, roomy, wanna have some of ol' Gil here?" He stuck a thumb to his chest, his face smug.

Mattie pushed him away, his face murderous. "One, I am not your roommate, my twin is, and two, I will never want any part of 'ol' Gil'. Thirdly, Alfred, you can haul the rest of your shit up here, I'm going to go set up mine."

"But Mattie…the fridge…"

"Someone's a real pussy…"

"You get your fridge up here by yourself. And, 'ol' Gil', I wouldn't say it was a pleasure to meet you. Because it wasn't." Matthew set the box of playboys down on the empty cot, and turned and left, his fists clenched.

"Ugh, now I have to haul everything up the hill…way to make Mattie the aggressive side of passive-aggressive. There's no way he'll help me now that you've called him a pussy. Hates the name, all the football team (besides myself) called him that in senior year while he was dating that one Dutch guy. That was a good year, although the basement always smelled like weed…" Alfred set down his box. "I'm Al, by the way. Alfred F. Jones, freshman, science major." He stuck out his hand.

The albino smirked, and stuck out his own hand. "Gilbert Fucking Awesome Beilschmidt. So, are there really playboys in that box?"

"Yeah, dude. But only if you help me with the goddamned fridge."


"And what's with the gun?"

"Oh, gun engineering and prototyping."

"I didn't know they had a class here like that."

"They don't."

Matthew stormed up the stairs of his dorm, lugging a box of maple syrup. "Stupid Alfred's roommate, stupid hoser…"

The door to his room was locked as it should have been, unlike Alfred's, and he pulled his key out from his lanyard, and unlocked it, finding his roommate had also been there, but the room being in pristine condition, and if he wasn't mistaken, cleaned before hand. Oh lord, the man was gay as well. In fact, he was sitting on the bed reading Charles Dickens, his huge eyebrows turned down in concentration. Matthew said nothing and stood in the doorway, waiting to be noticed, not wanting to intrude.

The man finally looked up. "Oh, Hello there, chap. You must be…er…Matthew…Williams, yes? Do you need any help?"

Well, wasn't this nice. It seems they had paired up the students by interests and personality.

Fun Fact: In South Korea they believe in "Fan Death" that if you leave an electric fan on all night in a closed room, the person will die in there. In that case, I would be dead many times over.