The attendant, Tracy Lee, watched them uncertainly.

Both men, it seemed they were a couple. Normally, she'd put them down as father and son, or brothers, but their appearances were quite different, and while the age gap between them was apparent, there was something about the way they were standing, just inside each other's personal space, as if they were utterly used to it.

Or perhaps it was the fact they were picking out curtains.

The older of the two was dressed in strict military regalia, and while she didn't really want to believe it, he looked strangely like the most recent Fuhrer, the one who had taken over after that military coup some years back. There were differences, of course; there were wrinkles under this man's eyes that weren't in the photos, and gray in his hair, but of course, people would adjust photos slightly to make him look at his best, wouldn't they? And his regalia... though Tracy didn't know how to recognize ranks, it was certainly more impressive than most she'd seen, with more medals. And he was about the right age, in his early forties, but-

But why would the Fuhrer be here, she wondered, let alone buying curtains with...

Well, it was another young man. Strong, lean, if not tall, he was in his late twenties or early thirties. He had long blond hair that fell down his back to his waist in a braid, but somehow avoided looking feminine - perhaps it was the harsh angle of his jaw, or the frown etched on his forehead that gave the effect. He lounged against one wall with a casual danger, and his tight black shirt showed well-toned muscles, though something seemed off with one arm - less muscular? Less curved? She didn't want to stare enough to tell. Though, my, looking at his pants wasn't much better and didn't help her confusion - they were tight, tight, TIGHT leather, nearly painted on. She put one hand on a display to fight sudden dizziness. My, she thought. Why were all the good ones taken or gay?

"Blue," Not-Fuhrer said.

That seemed to get Leather Pants' attention; he stood upright and scowled ferociously. "No, damn you. Red."

"I must refuse. Blue."

Leather Pants waved one hand in a half-threat. "And I said no. Everything of yours is blue, you shit. Your clothing's blue. Your carpet's blue. Your insignia is blue. Your entire office is done in shades of blue. I'm sick of blue! I want some excitement!"

"In the bedroom?" Not-Fuhrer said, mildly.

They stared at each other, scowl versus blandness.

"I hate you," Leather Pants said, eventually.

Not-Fuhrer smirked. "Blue it is."

Leather Pants said something blisteringly rude. "Even if we don't get red, we're not getting blue. If I can't have what I want, neither can you."

Not-Fuhrer turned his gaze to the ceiling with a long-suffering expression.

Remembering her job, Tracy steeled her courage and stepped up. "Ah, sirs... If you're looking for curtains, we have a special on for Trillium Lace Bay Window Curtains."

They looked at the gauzy, floating monstrosity the store had been trying to get rid of, then both looked back at her with twin expressions of barely contained horror.

"...or," she said, lamely, "there's always the compromise of simple white curtains." She gestured.

The two of them looked.

"White," Not-Fuhrer said, thoughtful.

"White," Leather Pants said, grudgingly.

She rang up their purchase and thanked them for their patronage, waving as they left. She could hear them arguing as they went.

"About that carpet-"

"Green."

"No. I hate green."

"Your dislike is duly noted, Fullmetal."

Weird, she thought, and headed back to the service desk. Very weird.