Ionic Bonds, Lithium Salts - Part IV
Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! Chapter's extra long for you guys!
Thank you to my beta for putting up with such a long chapter :)
There were many, many reasons why Matthew opposed the plan.
Chief among them was the fact that he had been recruited to help.
"Et puis?" Francis asked, voice low. "After that, Gil?"
"After that," Gilbert said, voice for once also muted as he reached for another glass of beer, "we run like hell."
"Sounds like a plan," Antonio grinned as he stood up. "Let's do it."
"Um," Matthew said.
"Hm?" Gilbert asked, turning towards him. "Need us to go over the plan again?"
"No -"
"Then what?"
Well. There were quite a lot of 'what's involved. Such as, for example, what do you think you're doing and what in the world am I being dragged into this for. He didn't want any part of this, after all; he was Matthew Williams, quiet honor student Matthew Williams who sat in a corner and never talked or did anything like this, anything illegal or wrong or dangerous-
Or, for that matter, anything exciting.
And perhaps it was the alcohol or perhaps it was the strangeness, the culture shock of college, or perhaps it was just Gilbert, the influence and fault of his boundless energy. But at that moment, something in Matthew revolted, said no no no no no to safety and caution and the million other things that had defined his life so far.
"Nothing," Matthew said, "nothing. I was just... just wondering when we'd start."
Gilbert grinned, downed the rest of his drink, and put the empty glass back on the counter.
"Right now."
***
It had been a slow night.
Oh, of course, there had been the normal occurrences: the incipient drunken fights, the underage college students trying to sneak it, hooking and breaking and feeling up under dim lights. Ordinary human things of ordinary human beings.
Underneath the flashing lights, Leo Trago sighed.
He had never wanted this. Had never thought he would end up like this, thirty and married with 2.5 children and DJing at a club for rich white kids -
He had been a philosopher, a critic, a freethinker, fordeityssake. Majoring in Nietzsche in college (a degree of his own innovation, part of the create-your-own-major program NYU had offered), he had always thought he was meant for something greater. Something better. With his thoughts so deep, he thought he might have at least become a prophet, a Messiah come bearing the seeds of order -
And here he was. Playing trashy pop music for a bunch of overdressed drunks.
Whatever the pay, it was definitely a step down from Burger King.
Leo Trago sighed again. Not that it mattered, anyway. With the scum of the human race getting high on vodka and LSD and got-knows-what-else down there, there was no one to care about him, no one to listen to the pondering of a philosophy major trying to eke out a living -
"Hola, Señor!"
Thirty, Leo decided, gasping as a pair of concerned green eyes peered at it, was far too young to have a heart attack.
The brats of this place, however, seemed quite content on making him an exception.
"Are you alright, Señor? You look quite pale - do you need any help? O dios mio, are you having a heart attack? Should I call an ambulance -"
"No," Leo said, with some effort managing to compose his features and without any effort managing to glare at the boy who had crept up on him and who was currently far too deep into his personal space for comfort, "no, I'm perfectly fine -"
"Oh, gracias a Dios!" the boy exclaimed, clasping his hands together in front of his face, "I was really worried there, for a moment, you know, that I'd killed you."
Leo stared at him. Stared at wide smile, bright eyes, beaming, wide, innocent face-
Yes, drunk. Definitely drunk. Yet despite that all, he didn't seem -
"What," Leo asked slowly, cautiously, "do you want?"
"Oh, how rude of me!" the boy exclaimed. "I have completely forgotten to introduce myself! Well! My name is Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, y me encanta conocerte. And as for what I have come for, I have come to invite you for a drink!"
Leo blinked.
"Wh-What?"
"Oh, indeed, Señor!" Antonio said, that sunny, bright grin still on his face, "you sit here all night and you work so hard for us, without not even a siesta or even anyone to keep you company - and so I think to myself, Antonio, wouldn't it be nice to invite the kind DJ for a drink? Since he works so hard for us all the night long."
Huh. That was true; it was damn hard work DJing from nine at night to five in the morning. And, honestly, despite his propensity to induce heart-attacks and a face that looked five years too young for the Evening Star, this kid didn't seem like the bad sort. Maybe he ought -
(but the job -)
Ah, what the hell. The kids groping and grinding on the dance floor could manage for a few moments without him - and, after nearly a full shift at this place, he needed a drink or two.
And as Antonio Fernandez Carriedo lead Leo Trajo towards the bar, he paused and turned back one short moment, winking.
And that was it. And that was all.
"Tres bien," Francis said, grinning. "Pret, Gilbert?"
A smile, like knives in the dark.
"Ja."
***
"So, and then I told him, and then he just kind of looked at me like that - "
Eric Anderson was having a good day.
Here he was: twenty-five, good-looking, the recipient of a new promotion and a new raise, having a good time, having a good drink, and talking with dozens of bea-uuu-tiful women.
There was the slight fact, of course, that none of the beautiful women had so far said a word back to him, but Eric was too far drunk to notice little details like that. No, the details he noticed were the other ones, the more interesting ones - like the way the tall blonde girl he was currently hitting on was wearing a dress cut down just like that, so that if he leaned over, he could almost -
"Hey," Eric greeted, grinning as he put down his drink. "So whaditya say your name was again?"
The blonde girl glanced at him, then slowly picked up her drink and walked away.
"I'm Eric!" he called after her, smirking as his eyes slipped down toward her (very short) skirt. "Eric Anderson! Look me up!"
God, Eric thought, grinning as he returned to his drink, he was a real charmer. All the women in this club had to be panting after him by now. Half of them were probably already looking him up on Facebook, typing "Eric Anderson" into smart phone search engines. Poor schmucks. They'd be competing with a whole bevy of other women. He really pitied them. Sometimes.
With another grin, he reached for his drink, only to find that his glass was empty.
Son of a bitch. That was a pain. But Eric was feeling magnanimous today, so he decided that he could forgive the universe for the transgression.
"'Nother drink here," he said, leaning over and smiling sloppily at the bartender. "M're whiskey this time."
The bartender turned and gave him a Look with capital L, the type of Look mothers or school teachers gave errant children.
"Your twelfth one, isn't it?"
"Dunno." Probably. He'd lost count after seven.
"Ah. Well, I'm not sure I should give you another. Okay? Seeing as we have a reputation for not having patrons being carted out in ambulances."
The bartender smiled blandly and turned away.
Eric stared.
The fuck? This was a bar, wasn't it? What the hell did the guy think he was-
Well. Fine. If this jackass of a bartender wasn't going to give him his drink (his drink that he'd pay for with his goddamn money, because where the hell did the bastard think they were, communist China?), then he might as well leave. Dance a little, maybe. Shower his presence on some of the unfortunate girls he hadn't met yet.
Yeah. That sounded like a good idea. Pretty girls, plenty of them probably willing to call him afterwards or maybe do more...
Bartender troubles all forgotten now, Eric stood up, just a little bit unsteadily, and began heading for the dance floor-
Just as the everything went completely dark.
***
He'd known, of course. Known from the first words what was going to happen, known from the first flash of Gilbert's grin what he was planning, known from the first moment that this was going to be a bad, bad idea.
Still. When the lights went out and the music abruptly cut off, leaving the too-loud laughter and shrill giggles of drunk people to come to the fore as the soundtrack, Matthew couldn't help but wonder, just one more time, what the hell he had gotten himself into.
***
It took a while - perfectly natural, considering the average blood alcohol level in the room - but the silence came, eventually, the confusion and the sudden inability to see slowly permeating formulating itself into one, universal question:
What the hell?
It was Eric Anderson, however, who was the first to verbalize these thoughts.
"The fuck?" he shouted into the silence. "The hell's going on?"
No answer. But that was when the whispers started, the slow slow slow murmurs, life slowly revitalizing itself into one general incoherent, inchoate ? of confusion.
Amidst the slowly mounting confusion, Leo Trago softly snored, head on the bar counter.
"Gracias a Dios," Antonio murmured, as he reached to finished the DJ's drink. It had all been very interesting, of course, but Antonio wasn't quite sure he was ready to listen through another seven shots of Spanish anisette about the influence of Nietzschean perspectivism on postmodern nihilism.
Now, though... Now, all he had to do was wait.
He only hoped that they didn't screw it up.
***
"Merde, Gilbert, I thought you knew how to use these things -"
"What do I look like, a fucking mechanic? I'm not Luddy-"
"Tu me dis, then, that you - avant le debut, avant tout - had no idea how to do this?"
"Well, yeah, but I hadn't figured things would be so complicated-"
"Gilbert, mon ami, do pardon my French, but c'est quoi ce bordel?"
"Hey! Shut up for a second, will you? ...I think I've nearly got it! ...Maybe it's this one?"
It wasn't.
But it did turn the lights back on - blinding, white spotlights focused directly on Gilbert and Francis.
***
For the briefest of moments, silence. For the briefest of moments, shock.
Francis' expression was an enigma: something foreign, half-way between shock and confusion and oh shit, I am going to be killed now.
It didn't last for long.
Because in the next second, Gilbert Beilschmidt was grabbing the microphone and shouting at the crowd:
"Who here wants to have a real party?"
And a split-second of silence later, the crowd broke into cheers.
***
They'd been having a perfectly good time before, of course. There had been music and drinks and lots of R-rated dancing. Everything, in short, a club should have. But now there was a crazy albino boy and he had a microphone and control of the computer and things were just going to get that much more much more interesting.
***
"RAUFEN WIR UNS, ATZEN LASST ES KRACHEN -"
One thing Matthew would never know: how, exactly, Gilbert had managed to sneak in a pack of forty glow sticks. Whether or not he wanted to know, he wasn't quite sure, but he bet it was probably much better than knowing where, exactly, Francis had learned to dance quite like…that.
The crowd seemed to quite enjoy it, though. With the spotlights on the stage finally working and now flashing green and blue while Gilbert and Francis danced some sort of break-dance/reggae/swing hybrid-duet-thing and the entire crowd somehow managing to filter into the 120 decibel music with their screams, Matthew was sure someone was going to have a seizure before the end of the night.
Probably him.
There was quite a lot of dress code violating. Even more so than before, now that Antonio had successfully gotten all the security guards drunk. Matthew had tried to avoid the most egregious cases, but with everyone now basically an egregious case, it had turned out to be a rather futile attempt.
So he settle for sitting at the bar and ordering another bock. Double.
"UND ALLE ATZEN SING -"
Another thing: where, exactly, Gilbert had found a song that actually included the "dingalingaling" in its lyrics? Matthew hadn't know that those were actual, legitimate words, much less the type you used in songs.
Well. Not the songs he listened to, in any case. Although, with each increase in his blood alcohol content, Gilbert's music seemed to get somehow easier to bear.
"DISCO POGO, DINGALINGALING -"
Marginally. Marginally was easier to bear.
Matthew then decided that he would never make a good drunk. Even on his third beer and with the edges of the world all fuzzy, he seemed to lack that fundamental ability to forget about other people enough to dance with his clothes off.
Common sense, he supposed. Too much of a good thing. Though, to be honest, he wasn't quite sure he would have wanted to be one of the people dancing in their underwear, anyway.
Grimacing at the mental images, Matthew reached for his beer -
Only for the lights to, once again, go dark.
Matthew sipped his drink, alcohol-addled brain registering but not caring about the technical difficulties.
And then the lights came back on, and this time, they were aimed straight at Matthew. And then, this time, there was no amount of alcohol that could have prepared Matthew for what happened next.
***
By and large, Gilbert Beilschmidt was known at NYU as "an arrogant, insensitive, and rude jerk of a sophomore"; by all accounts (including those of his two best friends, the asses), he was.
That didn't mean, though, that he was a complete jackass. Well. At least not all the time. Or at least not to everyone. And despite his legendary ineptitude with feelings, it was hardly as though Gilbert was completely clueless when it came to human emotions - and, besides, you'd have to be Luddy to miss the look on Matthew's face.
Gilbert might have been insensitive, yes, and he could definitely be an rude and (alright, just a tad) arrogant and a total jerk, but that didn't mean he was planning to be any of these things towards Matthew. Matthew, who reminded him of his kid brother except shorter and less ridiculously buff and more fluffy-animal-cute than Luddy, coupled with the fact that he was Gilbert's chance to do it right, not fuck it up the way he had always had with -
Anyway. The thing was, while everyone else was busy dancing and shoving tongues down strangers' throats and getting drunk and generally enjoying themselves, Matthew wasn't. Well, maybe he was a little drunk, but since he wasn't doing any of the other three, he definitely wasn't drunk enough.
Instead, Matthew's glasses were askew and face red from getting drunk for probably the first time looked, well, not quite as though he were having the best time of his life. In fact, he looked rather… bored.
A situation Gilbert meant to soon amend, because if there was one thing that was true, it was that no one was ever bored when Gilbert Beilschmidt was around.
So there it was. Lights camera action and boom.
Showtime.
Perhaps it was just the lighting, but as eighty pairs of eyes fixed on him, Matthew looked just the slightest bit pale.
Well, Gilbert could amend that, too.
Grinning, he flipped a switch on the dashboard (really, he didn't know why Francis was so clueless about the thing; it was all pretty simple when you got down to it), and the lights above their head turned on, too.
"Hey, everyone!" Gilbert yelled, and was met with a chorus of heys and hoots. "Are we having fun?"
He waited, gave them a couple of minutes to shout their appreciation back. He was, after all, just that awesome.
When the sound had died down to a low roar, though, Gilbert reached for the microphone again.
"Awesome! You're an great bunch - got that?"
Cheers and catcalls.
"Ya know who else is pretty awesome, though? That guy over there! Everyone say hi to my awesome new roomie, Mattie Williams!"
As the crowd greeted him, Matthew's face went from ghost white to tomato red in what was probably an unhealthily short amount of time. Which, Gilbert supposed, was a good thing - it meant the alcohol was finally getting to the kid, didn't it? And Gilbert had always known that good things always came after alcohol.
"Alright, awesome, guys! Now, Mattie's new to the city, and I'm pretty sure this is his first night out on any town, so whaddya say we make it one he doesn't forget anything soon, hmm?"
Resonating cheers.
Matthew put his (now firetruck red) head down on the bar. Huh. Did that mean he was having fun? Gilbert decided he must be; being flushed, after all, meant blood to the head, excitement, and excitement meant fun, right? Right.
Awesome.
"So I was proposing," Gilbert said, when the cheering had died down a little, "that we kick this party up a few notches, huh? Sound good to you guys?"
The sweet, sweet sounds of the wildest cheers yet.
"Awesome," Gilbert said, grinning as he walked across the stage. "Then Mattie, come on up!"
***
Of all the things that had happened today, this was probably the worst.
Matthew decided (decided as Francis used that creepy popping-out-of-nowhere technique of his to ambush Matthew and begin dragging him to the middle of the room) that once he got back to campus, he was filing for a room change. Because, as little as he knew about college, he was sure this wasn't how it was supposed to go - or at least, even if it was, not the way he wanted it to go. Yes, Matthew thought, still trying to tug away his arm from Francis's (surprisingly strong) grip, that was what he was going to do, right after they got back -
"Aaaand, ladies and gentlemen, Maaaaatthew Williams!"
He took that back. He wasn't waiting until Gilbert and Francis and Antonio passed out and he could leave; he was leaving right now, just as soon as he got his arm out of Francis's grip-
Abruptly, Francis let go and Matthew stumbled backward, almost falling from the sudden lack of resistance.
He didn't, though. Mostly because Gilbert caught him at the last moment.
"You okay?" Gilbert shouted over the music, one hand still around Matthew's wrist.
Not really. Not here, in the middle of the stage, with the world turning like that and everyone blurring and (oh, God) watching, too-
"Mattie?"
"I'm fine."
"What?"
"I said I'm fine!"
"You've got to speak up!" Gilbert shouted. "I can't hear you! Here!" he said, grabbing the microphone and thrusting it towards Matthew just as he began to speak, so that his words reverberated around the room -
"I - SAID - I'M - FINE!"
"Oh," Gilbert said, letting go (far too quickly) of Matthew's wrist. "Awesome!" he said, not seeming to notice either the staring crowd nor the way the world was all topsy-turvy as he thumped Matthew on the back. Oh, God, that didn't help his balance at all-
Neither, really, did the next words out of Gilbert's mouth.
"Ready for a dance party, then?"
"What?"
"Awesome!" Gilbert yelled back, and, grinning, turned the music up. And began dancing.
Oh God.
"Hey," Gilbert asked several minutes later, looking up from his head-banging-disco-pogoing-whatever to see Matthew standing deer-in-the-headlights stock-still, "why aren't you dancing?"
"I - um - can't dance."
"What?"
Mentally, Matthew sighed, then shouted back, as loudly as he could:
"I can't dance!"
"What?"
"I," pointing to himself, "can't," shaking his head, "dance!" pointing to the dance floor.
"You're can't walk?"
Shake of head.
"You're to drunk to walk?"
Another shake.
"There's a girl in the crowd you like, but you can't talk to her? Hey, it's okay, all I'd have to do is make an announcement, and - hell, why didn't you tell me earlier? It'd be easy as -"
"No!"
"-and if you've got any problems, go to Antonio or me, not Francis - hm? What's up?"
One hand on Gilbert's shoulder, Matthew slowly shook his head.
"You don't want me to tell her? Ah, but c'mon, Mattie, how's that going to do you any good? This could be your only chance - here, just point her out to me, and I'll -"
Matthew spotted something over Gilbert's shoulder, and a light went in his head.
Ah-ha.
Taking his hand off Gilbert's shoulder, Matthew reached for the notebook and paper that laid next to the record player. Ignoring the pages full of mathematical equations and psychology, he ripped out a blank page, and wrote, in big, block letters:
"THERE IS NO GIRL. THAT WASN'T WHAT I WAS TRYING TO SAY."
"Oh." A pause, confusion. Then, "…you can't dance?"
Nod. Vigorous nod, his face still red from the former misunderstanding. Maybe now Gilbert would understand, and they could just go back to their dorm, call it a night-
"But everyone can dance!"
Well. That particular illusion shattered rather quickly.
"It's easy! All you gotta do is move to the music! It's fun! C'mon," and suddenly Gilbert's hands were on his wrist, pulling his arms into the air, "just wave, or whatever - it doesn't matter, it's not like anyone else's doing anything different."
"But-"
"Like this," Gilbert said, guiding Matthew's hands up and down, Matthew's protestations eaten by the sound of DINGALINGALING-ing. "And then just move up or down, twist or something - just whatever, it's not particle physics here - don't take that class, ever - see? Like that," Gilbert's hands still slowly guiding his, up, down, a steady rhythm, and despite everything, Matthew found himself moving to the beat, found himself almost - almost enjoying himself. Gilbert was right, this wasn't hard, this was easy - hey, this was almost fun -
"Great!" Gilbert crowed. Matthew noticed with a start that Gilbert had let him go and was dancing himself now, glow sticks a blur of motion as he moved. Grinning despite himself, Matthew began to join in, synchronizing his movements to match Gilbert's -
When the music cut off, and the lights flashed on, off: once, twice.
The music came back on a split second later, of course, but the signal had been given. Gilbert's signal, the one he had perfected when Antonio had mentioned the two sets of light switches and the one that Matthew, as lookout, had been supposed to give.
Someone else had given it, now, but it didn't matter who. Not now. Not with security coming.
"Oh shit," Gilbert muttered and grabbing Matthew's hand, jumped off the stage. "Let's scram."
***
Somehow, they made it back to the dorms all in one piece. This was despite the fact that Gilbert drove, three glasses of beer having made walking in a straight line an impossibility for Matthew, and the fact that Francis was in the car, ominously shirtless. (There was a story behind that, but Matthew really didn't want to know it.)
Finally, at around three o'clock in the morning, they arrived at their dorms.
"Ay, que divertido!" Antonio laughed, still miraculously standing despite a blood alcohol level of probably five times the legal limit. "They won't forget that for a while."
"Non," Francis agreed, and then hiccupped. "Not - with - my beauty there." He hiccupped again, but Antonio caught him, and Francis stayed there, half-sleepy and fully-drunk in Antonio's arms.
"Now, Gilbert, don't stay up too late- tienes clases mañana, after all."
"Ja, mutti," Gilbert muttered, turning to Matthew and rolling his eyes.
"Gilbert, I'm serious. Even if you don't need it, Matthew needs his sleep."
"Ah, c'mon Toni!" Gilbert whined, "You don't really think I'd do that to Mattie, d'ya?"
"Oui."
"Bastard."
"No fighting, now."
"He started it."
"Very mature, Gilbert."
"Hey, you're the upperclassman here-"
"I think," Antonio said, "that we ought to leave now, Francis, sí? We wouldn't want to intrude on Matthew's sleep, after all."
"Ah, oui," Francis said, suddenly brightening at the mention of Matthew's name. "I do suppose we must leave, then. Au revoir, Mattieu! Dors bien, mon cher."
"Et toi," Matthew said, a little taken aback by the lack of double entendres in the farewell. Francis waved as he and Antonio left and Matthew waved back.
"Typical Francis," Gilbert muttered, rolling his eyes once again. Then, brightening, "let's watch a movie."
And that was how - instead of starting his English composition, reading his biology textbook, or finding derivatives - Matthew ended up watching The Hangover II, which he decided was much better drunk.
Translations:
et puis = and then
me encanta conocerte - I'm glad to know you (past tense of conocer = met, so I guess it could also be meet you?)
gracias a Dios = thanks to God
pret = ready
merde = shit
avant le debut, avant tout = before the beginning, before everything
c'est quoi ce bordel = what the hell (roughly)
que divertido = how fun!
tienes clases mañana = you have classes tomorrow
ja, mutti = yes, mother
dors bien = sleep well
For those not in on the Disco Pogo joke, it's kind of the unofficial anthem of 2011's Christmas Event. Look up "Disco Pogo Hetalia" on YouTube for the full glory :)
As a quick poll, should I continue doing posting this story here/on the Hetalia comm? It's going to be pretty long, so I'm not quite sure if I should move it to just FF.net...
Thank you to my beta for putting up with such a long chapter :)
There were many, many reasons why Matthew opposed the plan.
Chief among them was the fact that he had been recruited to help.
"Et puis?" Francis asked, voice low. "After that, Gil?"
"After that," Gilbert said, voice for once also muted as he reached for another glass of beer, "we run like hell."
"Sounds like a plan," Antonio grinned as he stood up. "Let's do it."
"Um," Matthew said.
"Hm?" Gilbert asked, turning towards him. "Need us to go over the plan again?"
"No -"
"Then what?"
Well. There were quite a lot of 'what's involved. Such as, for example, what do you think you're doing and what in the world am I being dragged into this for. He didn't want any part of this, after all; he was Matthew Williams, quiet honor student Matthew Williams who sat in a corner and never talked or did anything like this, anything illegal or wrong or dangerous-
Or, for that matter, anything exciting.
And perhaps it was the alcohol or perhaps it was the strangeness, the culture shock of college, or perhaps it was just Gilbert, the influence and fault of his boundless energy. But at that moment, something in Matthew revolted, said no no no no no to safety and caution and the million other things that had defined his life so far.
"Nothing," Matthew said, "nothing. I was just... just wondering when we'd start."
Gilbert grinned, downed the rest of his drink, and put the empty glass back on the counter.
"Right now."
***
It had been a slow night.
Oh, of course, there had been the normal occurrences: the incipient drunken fights, the underage college students trying to sneak it, hooking and breaking and feeling up under dim lights. Ordinary human things of ordinary human beings.
Underneath the flashing lights, Leo Trago sighed.
He had never wanted this. Had never thought he would end up like this, thirty and married with 2.5 children and DJing at a club for rich white kids -
He had been a philosopher, a critic, a freethinker, fordeityssake. Majoring in Nietzsche in college (a degree of his own innovation, part of the create-your-own-major program NYU had offered), he had always thought he was meant for something greater. Something better. With his thoughts so deep, he thought he might have at least become a prophet, a Messiah come bearing the seeds of order -
And here he was. Playing trashy pop music for a bunch of overdressed drunks.
Whatever the pay, it was definitely a step down from Burger King.
Leo Trago sighed again. Not that it mattered, anyway. With the scum of the human race getting high on vodka and LSD and got-knows-what-else down there, there was no one to care about him, no one to listen to the pondering of a philosophy major trying to eke out a living -
"Hola, Señor!"
Thirty, Leo decided, gasping as a pair of concerned green eyes peered at it, was far too young to have a heart attack.
The brats of this place, however, seemed quite content on making him an exception.
"Are you alright, Señor? You look quite pale - do you need any help? O dios mio, are you having a heart attack? Should I call an ambulance -"
"No," Leo said, with some effort managing to compose his features and without any effort managing to glare at the boy who had crept up on him and who was currently far too deep into his personal space for comfort, "no, I'm perfectly fine -"
"Oh, gracias a Dios!" the boy exclaimed, clasping his hands together in front of his face, "I was really worried there, for a moment, you know, that I'd killed you."
Leo stared at him. Stared at wide smile, bright eyes, beaming, wide, innocent face-
Yes, drunk. Definitely drunk. Yet despite that all, he didn't seem -
"What," Leo asked slowly, cautiously, "do you want?"
"Oh, how rude of me!" the boy exclaimed. "I have completely forgotten to introduce myself! Well! My name is Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, y me encanta conocerte. And as for what I have come for, I have come to invite you for a drink!"
Leo blinked.
"Wh-What?"
"Oh, indeed, Señor!" Antonio said, that sunny, bright grin still on his face, "you sit here all night and you work so hard for us, without not even a siesta or even anyone to keep you company - and so I think to myself, Antonio, wouldn't it be nice to invite the kind DJ for a drink? Since he works so hard for us all the night long."
Huh. That was true; it was damn hard work DJing from nine at night to five in the morning. And, honestly, despite his propensity to induce heart-attacks and a face that looked five years too young for the Evening Star, this kid didn't seem like the bad sort. Maybe he ought -
(but the job -)
Ah, what the hell. The kids groping and grinding on the dance floor could manage for a few moments without him - and, after nearly a full shift at this place, he needed a drink or two.
And as Antonio Fernandez Carriedo lead Leo Trajo towards the bar, he paused and turned back one short moment, winking.
And that was it. And that was all.
"Tres bien," Francis said, grinning. "Pret, Gilbert?"
A smile, like knives in the dark.
"Ja."
***
"So, and then I told him, and then he just kind of looked at me like that - "
Eric Anderson was having a good day.
Here he was: twenty-five, good-looking, the recipient of a new promotion and a new raise, having a good time, having a good drink, and talking with dozens of bea-uuu-tiful women.
There was the slight fact, of course, that none of the beautiful women had so far said a word back to him, but Eric was too far drunk to notice little details like that. No, the details he noticed were the other ones, the more interesting ones - like the way the tall blonde girl he was currently hitting on was wearing a dress cut down just like that, so that if he leaned over, he could almost -
"Hey," Eric greeted, grinning as he put down his drink. "So whaditya say your name was again?"
The blonde girl glanced at him, then slowly picked up her drink and walked away.
"I'm Eric!" he called after her, smirking as his eyes slipped down toward her (very short) skirt. "Eric Anderson! Look me up!"
God, Eric thought, grinning as he returned to his drink, he was a real charmer. All the women in this club had to be panting after him by now. Half of them were probably already looking him up on Facebook, typing "Eric Anderson" into smart phone search engines. Poor schmucks. They'd be competing with a whole bevy of other women. He really pitied them. Sometimes.
With another grin, he reached for his drink, only to find that his glass was empty.
Son of a bitch. That was a pain. But Eric was feeling magnanimous today, so he decided that he could forgive the universe for the transgression.
"'Nother drink here," he said, leaning over and smiling sloppily at the bartender. "M're whiskey this time."
The bartender turned and gave him a Look with capital L, the type of Look mothers or school teachers gave errant children.
"Your twelfth one, isn't it?"
"Dunno." Probably. He'd lost count after seven.
"Ah. Well, I'm not sure I should give you another. Okay? Seeing as we have a reputation for not having patrons being carted out in ambulances."
The bartender smiled blandly and turned away.
Eric stared.
The fuck? This was a bar, wasn't it? What the hell did the guy think he was-
Well. Fine. If this jackass of a bartender wasn't going to give him his drink (his drink that he'd pay for with his goddamn money, because where the hell did the bastard think they were, communist China?), then he might as well leave. Dance a little, maybe. Shower his presence on some of the unfortunate girls he hadn't met yet.
Yeah. That sounded like a good idea. Pretty girls, plenty of them probably willing to call him afterwards or maybe do more...
Bartender troubles all forgotten now, Eric stood up, just a little bit unsteadily, and began heading for the dance floor-
Just as the everything went completely dark.
***
He'd known, of course. Known from the first words what was going to happen, known from the first flash of Gilbert's grin what he was planning, known from the first moment that this was going to be a bad, bad idea.
Still. When the lights went out and the music abruptly cut off, leaving the too-loud laughter and shrill giggles of drunk people to come to the fore as the soundtrack, Matthew couldn't help but wonder, just one more time, what the hell he had gotten himself into.
***
It took a while - perfectly natural, considering the average blood alcohol level in the room - but the silence came, eventually, the confusion and the sudden inability to see slowly permeating formulating itself into one, universal question:
What the hell?
It was Eric Anderson, however, who was the first to verbalize these thoughts.
"The fuck?" he shouted into the silence. "The hell's going on?"
No answer. But that was when the whispers started, the slow slow slow murmurs, life slowly revitalizing itself into one general incoherent, inchoate ? of confusion.
Amidst the slowly mounting confusion, Leo Trago softly snored, head on the bar counter.
"Gracias a Dios," Antonio murmured, as he reached to finished the DJ's drink. It had all been very interesting, of course, but Antonio wasn't quite sure he was ready to listen through another seven shots of Spanish anisette about the influence of Nietzschean perspectivism on postmodern nihilism.
Now, though... Now, all he had to do was wait.
He only hoped that they didn't screw it up.
***
"Merde, Gilbert, I thought you knew how to use these things -"
"What do I look like, a fucking mechanic? I'm not Luddy-"
"Tu me dis, then, that you - avant le debut, avant tout - had no idea how to do this?"
"Well, yeah, but I hadn't figured things would be so complicated-"
"Gilbert, mon ami, do pardon my French, but c'est quoi ce bordel?"
"Hey! Shut up for a second, will you? ...I think I've nearly got it! ...Maybe it's this one?"
It wasn't.
But it did turn the lights back on - blinding, white spotlights focused directly on Gilbert and Francis.
***
For the briefest of moments, silence. For the briefest of moments, shock.
Francis' expression was an enigma: something foreign, half-way between shock and confusion and oh shit, I am going to be killed now.
It didn't last for long.
Because in the next second, Gilbert Beilschmidt was grabbing the microphone and shouting at the crowd:
"Who here wants to have a real party?"
And a split-second of silence later, the crowd broke into cheers.
***
They'd been having a perfectly good time before, of course. There had been music and drinks and lots of R-rated dancing. Everything, in short, a club should have. But now there was a crazy albino boy and he had a microphone and control of the computer and things were just going to get that much more much more interesting.
***
"RAUFEN WIR UNS, ATZEN LASST ES KRACHEN -"
One thing Matthew would never know: how, exactly, Gilbert had managed to sneak in a pack of forty glow sticks. Whether or not he wanted to know, he wasn't quite sure, but he bet it was probably much better than knowing where, exactly, Francis had learned to dance quite like…that.
The crowd seemed to quite enjoy it, though. With the spotlights on the stage finally working and now flashing green and blue while Gilbert and Francis danced some sort of break-dance/reggae/swing hybrid-duet-thing and the entire crowd somehow managing to filter into the 120 decibel music with their screams, Matthew was sure someone was going to have a seizure before the end of the night.
Probably him.
There was quite a lot of dress code violating. Even more so than before, now that Antonio had successfully gotten all the security guards drunk. Matthew had tried to avoid the most egregious cases, but with everyone now basically an egregious case, it had turned out to be a rather futile attempt.
So he settle for sitting at the bar and ordering another bock. Double.
"UND ALLE ATZEN SING -"
Another thing: where, exactly, Gilbert had found a song that actually included the "dingalingaling" in its lyrics? Matthew hadn't know that those were actual, legitimate words, much less the type you used in songs.
Well. Not the songs he listened to, in any case. Although, with each increase in his blood alcohol content, Gilbert's music seemed to get somehow easier to bear.
"DISCO POGO, DINGALINGALING -"
Marginally. Marginally was easier to bear.
Matthew then decided that he would never make a good drunk. Even on his third beer and with the edges of the world all fuzzy, he seemed to lack that fundamental ability to forget about other people enough to dance with his clothes off.
Common sense, he supposed. Too much of a good thing. Though, to be honest, he wasn't quite sure he would have wanted to be one of the people dancing in their underwear, anyway.
Grimacing at the mental images, Matthew reached for his beer -
Only for the lights to, once again, go dark.
Matthew sipped his drink, alcohol-addled brain registering but not caring about the technical difficulties.
And then the lights came back on, and this time, they were aimed straight at Matthew. And then, this time, there was no amount of alcohol that could have prepared Matthew for what happened next.
***
By and large, Gilbert Beilschmidt was known at NYU as "an arrogant, insensitive, and rude jerk of a sophomore"; by all accounts (including those of his two best friends, the asses), he was.
That didn't mean, though, that he was a complete jackass. Well. At least not all the time. Or at least not to everyone. And despite his legendary ineptitude with feelings, it was hardly as though Gilbert was completely clueless when it came to human emotions - and, besides, you'd have to be Luddy to miss the look on Matthew's face.
Gilbert might have been insensitive, yes, and he could definitely be an rude and (alright, just a tad) arrogant and a total jerk, but that didn't mean he was planning to be any of these things towards Matthew. Matthew, who reminded him of his kid brother except shorter and less ridiculously buff and more fluffy-animal-cute than Luddy, coupled with the fact that he was Gilbert's chance to do it right, not fuck it up the way he had always had with -
Anyway. The thing was, while everyone else was busy dancing and shoving tongues down strangers' throats and getting drunk and generally enjoying themselves, Matthew wasn't. Well, maybe he was a little drunk, but since he wasn't doing any of the other three, he definitely wasn't drunk enough.
Instead, Matthew's glasses were askew and face red from getting drunk for probably the first time looked, well, not quite as though he were having the best time of his life. In fact, he looked rather… bored.
A situation Gilbert meant to soon amend, because if there was one thing that was true, it was that no one was ever bored when Gilbert Beilschmidt was around.
So there it was. Lights camera action and boom.
Showtime.
Perhaps it was just the lighting, but as eighty pairs of eyes fixed on him, Matthew looked just the slightest bit pale.
Well, Gilbert could amend that, too.
Grinning, he flipped a switch on the dashboard (really, he didn't know why Francis was so clueless about the thing; it was all pretty simple when you got down to it), and the lights above their head turned on, too.
"Hey, everyone!" Gilbert yelled, and was met with a chorus of heys and hoots. "Are we having fun?"
He waited, gave them a couple of minutes to shout their appreciation back. He was, after all, just that awesome.
When the sound had died down to a low roar, though, Gilbert reached for the microphone again.
"Awesome! You're an great bunch - got that?"
Cheers and catcalls.
"Ya know who else is pretty awesome, though? That guy over there! Everyone say hi to my awesome new roomie, Mattie Williams!"
As the crowd greeted him, Matthew's face went from ghost white to tomato red in what was probably an unhealthily short amount of time. Which, Gilbert supposed, was a good thing - it meant the alcohol was finally getting to the kid, didn't it? And Gilbert had always known that good things always came after alcohol.
"Alright, awesome, guys! Now, Mattie's new to the city, and I'm pretty sure this is his first night out on any town, so whaddya say we make it one he doesn't forget anything soon, hmm?"
Resonating cheers.
Matthew put his (now firetruck red) head down on the bar. Huh. Did that mean he was having fun? Gilbert decided he must be; being flushed, after all, meant blood to the head, excitement, and excitement meant fun, right? Right.
Awesome.
"So I was proposing," Gilbert said, when the cheering had died down a little, "that we kick this party up a few notches, huh? Sound good to you guys?"
The sweet, sweet sounds of the wildest cheers yet.
"Awesome," Gilbert said, grinning as he walked across the stage. "Then Mattie, come on up!"
***
Of all the things that had happened today, this was probably the worst.
Matthew decided (decided as Francis used that creepy popping-out-of-nowhere technique of his to ambush Matthew and begin dragging him to the middle of the room) that once he got back to campus, he was filing for a room change. Because, as little as he knew about college, he was sure this wasn't how it was supposed to go - or at least, even if it was, not the way he wanted it to go. Yes, Matthew thought, still trying to tug away his arm from Francis's (surprisingly strong) grip, that was what he was going to do, right after they got back -
"Aaaand, ladies and gentlemen, Maaaaatthew Williams!"
He took that back. He wasn't waiting until Gilbert and Francis and Antonio passed out and he could leave; he was leaving right now, just as soon as he got his arm out of Francis's grip-
Abruptly, Francis let go and Matthew stumbled backward, almost falling from the sudden lack of resistance.
He didn't, though. Mostly because Gilbert caught him at the last moment.
"You okay?" Gilbert shouted over the music, one hand still around Matthew's wrist.
Not really. Not here, in the middle of the stage, with the world turning like that and everyone blurring and (oh, God) watching, too-
"Mattie?"
"I'm fine."
"What?"
"I said I'm fine!"
"You've got to speak up!" Gilbert shouted. "I can't hear you! Here!" he said, grabbing the microphone and thrusting it towards Matthew just as he began to speak, so that his words reverberated around the room -
"I - SAID - I'M - FINE!"
"Oh," Gilbert said, letting go (far too quickly) of Matthew's wrist. "Awesome!" he said, not seeming to notice either the staring crowd nor the way the world was all topsy-turvy as he thumped Matthew on the back. Oh, God, that didn't help his balance at all-
Neither, really, did the next words out of Gilbert's mouth.
"Ready for a dance party, then?"
"What?"
"Awesome!" Gilbert yelled back, and, grinning, turned the music up. And began dancing.
Oh God.
"Hey," Gilbert asked several minutes later, looking up from his head-banging-disco-pogoing-whatever to see Matthew standing deer-in-the-headlights stock-still, "why aren't you dancing?"
"I - um - can't dance."
"What?"
Mentally, Matthew sighed, then shouted back, as loudly as he could:
"I can't dance!"
"What?"
"I," pointing to himself, "can't," shaking his head, "dance!" pointing to the dance floor.
"You're can't walk?"
Shake of head.
"You're to drunk to walk?"
Another shake.
"There's a girl in the crowd you like, but you can't talk to her? Hey, it's okay, all I'd have to do is make an announcement, and - hell, why didn't you tell me earlier? It'd be easy as -"
"No!"
"-and if you've got any problems, go to Antonio or me, not Francis - hm? What's up?"
One hand on Gilbert's shoulder, Matthew slowly shook his head.
"You don't want me to tell her? Ah, but c'mon, Mattie, how's that going to do you any good? This could be your only chance - here, just point her out to me, and I'll -"
Matthew spotted something over Gilbert's shoulder, and a light went in his head.
Ah-ha.
Taking his hand off Gilbert's shoulder, Matthew reached for the notebook and paper that laid next to the record player. Ignoring the pages full of mathematical equations and psychology, he ripped out a blank page, and wrote, in big, block letters:
"THERE IS NO GIRL. THAT WASN'T WHAT I WAS TRYING TO SAY."
"Oh." A pause, confusion. Then, "…you can't dance?"
Nod. Vigorous nod, his face still red from the former misunderstanding. Maybe now Gilbert would understand, and they could just go back to their dorm, call it a night-
"But everyone can dance!"
Well. That particular illusion shattered rather quickly.
"It's easy! All you gotta do is move to the music! It's fun! C'mon," and suddenly Gilbert's hands were on his wrist, pulling his arms into the air, "just wave, or whatever - it doesn't matter, it's not like anyone else's doing anything different."
"But-"
"Like this," Gilbert said, guiding Matthew's hands up and down, Matthew's protestations eaten by the sound of DINGALINGALING-ing. "And then just move up or down, twist or something - just whatever, it's not particle physics here - don't take that class, ever - see? Like that," Gilbert's hands still slowly guiding his, up, down, a steady rhythm, and despite everything, Matthew found himself moving to the beat, found himself almost - almost enjoying himself. Gilbert was right, this wasn't hard, this was easy - hey, this was almost fun -
"Great!" Gilbert crowed. Matthew noticed with a start that Gilbert had let him go and was dancing himself now, glow sticks a blur of motion as he moved. Grinning despite himself, Matthew began to join in, synchronizing his movements to match Gilbert's -
When the music cut off, and the lights flashed on, off: once, twice.
The music came back on a split second later, of course, but the signal had been given. Gilbert's signal, the one he had perfected when Antonio had mentioned the two sets of light switches and the one that Matthew, as lookout, had been supposed to give.
Someone else had given it, now, but it didn't matter who. Not now. Not with security coming.
"Oh shit," Gilbert muttered and grabbing Matthew's hand, jumped off the stage. "Let's scram."
***
Somehow, they made it back to the dorms all in one piece. This was despite the fact that Gilbert drove, three glasses of beer having made walking in a straight line an impossibility for Matthew, and the fact that Francis was in the car, ominously shirtless. (There was a story behind that, but Matthew really didn't want to know it.)
Finally, at around three o'clock in the morning, they arrived at their dorms.
"Ay, que divertido!" Antonio laughed, still miraculously standing despite a blood alcohol level of probably five times the legal limit. "They won't forget that for a while."
"Non," Francis agreed, and then hiccupped. "Not - with - my beauty there." He hiccupped again, but Antonio caught him, and Francis stayed there, half-sleepy and fully-drunk in Antonio's arms.
"Now, Gilbert, don't stay up too late- tienes clases mañana, after all."
"Ja, mutti," Gilbert muttered, turning to Matthew and rolling his eyes.
"Gilbert, I'm serious. Even if you don't need it, Matthew needs his sleep."
"Ah, c'mon Toni!" Gilbert whined, "You don't really think I'd do that to Mattie, d'ya?"
"Oui."
"Bastard."
"No fighting, now."
"He started it."
"Very mature, Gilbert."
"Hey, you're the upperclassman here-"
"I think," Antonio said, "that we ought to leave now, Francis, sí? We wouldn't want to intrude on Matthew's sleep, after all."
"Ah, oui," Francis said, suddenly brightening at the mention of Matthew's name. "I do suppose we must leave, then. Au revoir, Mattieu! Dors bien, mon cher."
"Et toi," Matthew said, a little taken aback by the lack of double entendres in the farewell. Francis waved as he and Antonio left and Matthew waved back.
"Typical Francis," Gilbert muttered, rolling his eyes once again. Then, brightening, "let's watch a movie."
And that was how - instead of starting his English composition, reading his biology textbook, or finding derivatives - Matthew ended up watching The Hangover II, which he decided was much better drunk.
Translations:
et puis = and then
me encanta conocerte - I'm glad to know you (past tense of conocer = met, so I guess it could also be meet you?)
gracias a Dios = thanks to God
pret = ready
merde = shit
avant le debut, avant tout = before the beginning, before everything
c'est quoi ce bordel = what the hell (roughly)
que divertido = how fun!
tienes clases mañana = you have classes tomorrow
ja, mutti = yes, mother
dors bien = sleep well
For those not in on the Disco Pogo joke, it's kind of the unofficial anthem of 2011's Christmas Event. Look up "Disco Pogo Hetalia" on YouTube for the full glory :)
As a quick poll, should I continue doing posting this story here/on the Hetalia comm? It's going to be pretty long, so I'm not quite sure if I should move it to just FF.net...