#grapeposting

For all his life he was raised with the idea of François as the enemy, and now François is sobbing at Microsoft Excel because he’s been trying to resize a fancy lil chart into the cells for forty-five minutes.

“Why,” Ludwig asks.

François paws haplessly at the mouse (catlike, too, with wide, wet eyes).

“In a better time I would have drawn this,” he gripes. “I would have had it on typewriter and I would have had myself a good pen—”

Ludwig is uncomfortable. And confused. “That is the interns’ schedule. It doesn’t need a pie chart.”

“It does, mais non, you do not understand!” —Ludwig watches a stray movement cause the chart to vanish. François is too worked up to notice— “If you were to give an intern a mere table they would be lost immediately. You are cruel to them, Ludwig. They shall have grey hairs by the next year.”

Ludwig makes the executive decision to ignore his wailing.

It isn’t even 4pm. If François toys with Microsoft Excel for the next two hours he could even have him out of the secretaries’ hair (and pants) during the workday for once. So he sighs, checks his watch to be sure, and starts off toward his desk again when something else catches his eye.

François, with his arms drawn up like a marionette’s, fingers poised on the keyboard like he’s been practicing. Alt and then F4 jabbed with all the grace of a gawky crane. The cells flicker to a chat headered with what he specifically recognises as his brother’s contact.

He doesn’t know how Gilbert managed to take that picture from that angle. Beneath his desk. Nor how he managed to get his trousers back on so quickly. Nor did he want to know he was not wearing any underwear. Were those garters?