Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

At the moment of collision, somewhere behind the blinding pain and the shock, Matthew felt a wave of calm. Yup, this has happened before, he thought, right before everything went to hell. He'd been bodychecked, that he understood. It wasn't the first time, it wouldn't be the last. Hockey was aggressive. He knew that going in. Matthew was a good player, smart, daring, and aggressive when he had to be. He’d been playing this sport virtually all his life. These things happened. He wasn't surprised. 

So, as their bodies slammed into each other, Matthew thought, Yup, this has happened before. And then his head smashed into the ice so hard his vision went black. Something snapped, and a pain so loud swallowed him that he could not breathe. It was as if a semi-truck had collided with his leg. He screamed, and his own voice practically deafened him. 

And then he died.

Matthew had checked his phone right before throwing it into his locker. The coach didn’t like it when the players had their phones on them before matches—he said it distracted them. Matthew didn’t text much anyway, he just had it to keep up with the family group chat. But he opened Instagram and saw a DM from an account he vaguely recognised, but had never interacted with. This was the person’s first message:

hello mattie :^) remember the awesome me? 

All Matthew had sent was a quick, uh…sorry no, who’s this? before the coach yelled at him to put his phone away. 

For some reason, over the screaming, that was what his mind hovered on. Who was the mysterious texter? Why should Matthew remember them? He’d never find his answers if he died. Was this what it meant to have unfinished business? Would he take this question into the afterlife? 

And did that mean the last thing he ‘said’ on earth was, “Uh…sorry no, who’s this?” God, that was a terrible note to leave on. He had to say something profound. His last words had to, at least, be meaningful. What was a generic, meaningful thing that he could say with his dying breath? 

Love, right? Something about love? Love was always meaningful. People liked hearing that they were loved. But could he just say that to a random person? No, what if he told some complete stranger—whoever was currently screaming over his head—that he loved them? That would be super creepy, and he didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. 

He had to be specific, then. Who did he love? He didn’t have a romantic partner, and he liked his friends just fine but he couldn’t honestly say he loved them. He didn’t want his last words to be a lie. The only people he loved were his family: Dad, Papa, and Alfred. So he opened his mouth—it took a lot of effort--and mumbled, “Tell…family…I love...them.” 

“Oh no, you bloody don’t,” someone hollered over him. Someone with a pronounced English accent. Dad! “Matthew, you hear me? You’re not saying any of that nonsense, just shut up and breathe. In and out, that’s a good boy. You’re going to be fine. You’re going to be fine. Matthew? For god’s sake, Matthew! BREATHE!”

God, what a headache…Dad was always so bossy. Matthew was doing his best to breathe, honest. But he was getting so tired. And the shouting had become so much worse. Nee-naa-nee-naa--what kind of person shouted like that? 

He heard other voices he couldn’t recognise. Vague phrases. “Blood loss” and “crashing”. Breathe, breathe, breathe, Dad kept yelling, and he sounded like he was crying. Matthew had never seen his father cry. Papa cried all the time, but Dad was made of stone. He didn’t even cry when Bambi’s mother died in Bambi.  Matthew tried to open his eyes, to witness it, but they were so, so heavy…and he was exhausted.

When he awoke next, his head was hurting like there was an ice pick in his skull. He opened his eyes and let out an agonised groan. Someone was shaking his shoulder. He tried to cover his face, but that sent a stabbing pain up his arm, and a soft palm held his hand down, whispering, “ Calme toi, mon chou, calme toi …”

“Matthew?” some unrecognisable woman said. “Matthew, I’m going to ask you some questions and I’d like for you to answer them.”

Matthew could barely think from the pain. 

“Right then,” said the woman, “What is your full name?”

“Matthew Bonnefoy-Kirkland,” Matthew said, or tried to. Even in his state, he could tell his words were a garbled mess. 

“How old are you?”

“Twenty.” 

“Where do you live?” 

“At university…”

“Is that all right?” The English accent again. Dad. “He was living on campus, even though we’re just an hour away. What kind of answer should he be—”

“It’s fine.”

“So tired,” Matthew groaned. He sank into sleep again.

This kept happening. They’d wake him up, ask him questions, and each time, he’d beg to be allowed to sleep. So much of it was such a haze. He kept thinking about that damned text message: hello mattie :^) remember the awesome me? and Yup, this has happened before, and someone yelling at him, Breathe, Breathe, Breathe. 

When Matthew awoke, properly this time, he was winded by the glare of light bulbs. They tore into his eyes like blades, and he threw an arm over his face to defend himself. The stabbing pain made him cry out. Someone hurriedly dimmed the lights, and Matthew squinted at his arm. An IV line. 

He could just about make out the fuzzy silhouettes of three faces peering at him. All of them looked horrible—bad hair, wide eyes, identical expressions of panic and relief. Awareness returned to Matthew in a jolt. He was in a hospital. Something…something bad had happened at his last game. 

“Mattie…?” Alfred was the first to speak. 

“I’m okay,” he mumbled automatically. Papa muttered the word merde under his breath and collapsed into a chair. Dad poured him a glass of water.

“Here,” he said, holding it up for Matthew. “Don’t talk, just drink.” 

So Matthew obeyed. He couldn’t believe how thirsty he was. No matter how quickly he drank, he needed more. Dad took the glass away. “You’ll be sick,” he said. “Just take it easy, son.”

“What,” Matthew swallowed his thirst, “what happened?”

Again, the three of them stared in horror. “You don’t remember?” Papa cried, leaping to his feet. “Arthur, go get the doctor—”

“No, no wait.” Matthew squeezed his eyes shut. “Something…something at the match. I know something bad happened at the match. I’m just asking what happened.” This was not his first concussion. It wasn’t even his third. In fact, the concussion was the one thing about this scenario that wasn’t scaring him. Yup, this has happened before. 

“You got bodychecked,” Dad said quietly. “But then…It all happened so quickly.” He covered his eyes with his hands. “Your head slammed to the ice so loudly I thought I heard a crack. Then I realised what actually happened—you fell badly, you snapped a bone—and then someone else tripped on you. And their blade went into your calf and…” he let out a shuddering breath. “Oh my god, Matthew, there was so much blood. Your bone was sticking out.” 

Alfred shuddered, but said nothing. Matthew gaped between his dads and his brother. “Wait…what do you mean my bone was—” he suddenly noticed his leg, which was heavily bandaged and suspended in air. “What the fuck,” he gasped, and something in his chest exploded with panic. “What—no—”

“Shh,” Papa said, sitting by his side and pulling him into a hug. “You’ll be fine. Doctors said you’ll be back on your feet soon enough.”

“Okay.” Matthew let out a loud sigh. “Oh my god.” 

“The worst is behind us,” Dad said, patting his head, albeit very, very gently. “Just rest. Everything will be okay.”

Matthew couldn’t bring himself to speak much for the next couple of days. He was on a lot of heavy pain medication anyway, so he spent most of his time asleep. The concussion-induced migraine finally subsided on day three. It was the first time since the ordeal that his parents agreed to go home. They were both sleepless and jittery. Whatever had happened to Matthew, he'd really scared them. Luckily, they only lived an hour away. Matthew had deliberately moved to a university close to home, so that he could come visit on the weekends. This way, his parents could also watch his matches. 

Alfred sat alone with Matthew, staring at him like a scared doe. Uncharacteristically, he hadn’t said a word in days either, instead just stared at Matthew with those big blue eyes, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Now that they were alone, Alfred finally swallowed whatever apprehension he had, and said, “So…how you feeling?”

“I’m fine.” 

“Does it hurt?”

“Not right now, with all the meds I’m on.” Matthew gripped the sheets. “Though…like, when it happened…I honestly thought I’d died.” 

Alfred ran a hand over his face, mussing up his hair. “I don’t know if you remember this, what with you getting brained on the ice, but we weren’t all there. Only Dad had gone to see your game, Pops and I were at his restaurant.”

Matthew did remember something like that, but it was very vague. Did Papa have some pressing engagement…? 

“One of the restaurants was short-staffed so he’d stepped in as head chef, remember?” Alfred prodded gently. “And I had my shifts. Anyway, yeah, so Dad called Pops in absolute hysterics. I could hear him over the phone. Like, neither of us could make out what actually happened. Pops thought you’d been in a car crash.” His eyes ran over Matthew’s form and landed on his leg. “I mean, you might as well have been, right?” 

“Hockey injuries are normal, Alfred,” Matthew said, because he could tell his brother was anxious. Alfred would never, ever admit to it, but his silence was an obvious tell. “It’s not my first injury, it won’t be my last.”

Alfred let out a falsetto laugh. “Dude, don’t say that.”

“I just mean,” Matthew shrugged, “It’s a violent game. And I’ve been banged up before.”

“Yeah, but you actually like, almost died. Dad didn’t tell you this but I overheard him talking to the doctor. Apparently, the ice skate sliced an artery. Or a vein, whatever, who can tell them apart? The one that runs through the leg…?”

“The femoral artery,” Matthew said in a small voice. 

“Right, whatever.” Alfred swallowed. “Which is why you were bleeding to death on the ice. That’s aside from the bone sticking out.”

“Oh,” Matthew said at last, his eyes falling to his broken leg. It was incredibly heavy but he couldn’t really feel it. He couldn’t even wiggle his toes under the plaster. His throat was hollow. In a way, it was almost comforting to know that he’d been close to death—that he’d been aware of something so significant happening to his body. That it wasn’t him just having a panic attack. All that horror had been real, and justified. It was strangely affirming.“Well, I didn’t die, so just relax.” 

Alfred sank into an uneasy silence beside him. Matthew was used to being the quiet one, and this shift in dynamic was freaking him out a little bit. Matthew nudged his brother with an elbow. “Hey, come on. How’s work been?” 

“Yeah, yeah…fine,” Alfred muttered. He was playing with his phone, turning it over and over in his hand without actually switching it on. Probably because he was worried about the light bothering Matthew. 

“I remember you saying you met someone cool there. Kiku someone?”

At the mention of his name, Alfred’s eyes finally lit up. “Oh, yeah, Kiks. I love that guy, he’s the best. He’s super quiet, like you, but he’s amazing at video games, and he’s got a massive collection. He’s really into manga and stuff—that’s actually where I met him, at the comic book store!”

“Oh, I thought you met him at work.”

“No, no, Mattie, jeez, you never read your texts properly. He said he needed a job so I helped him get one at the store where I work.” 

“He sounds really nice,” Matthew said earnestly, smiling. People loved spending time with Alfred. But Matthew thought he was a lot lonelier than he looked. There was a difference between being friendly and being friends with someone. Never was that more apparent than when Matthew saw Alfred with groups of people he’d never call in an emergency. So it was good, seeing Alfred even slightly enthusiastic about Kiku. 

“Oh, speaking of texts.” Alfred jumped to his feet and pulled out something from his backpack. Matthew’s phone! “The university sent this over, as well as a bunch of other stuff from your locker. I thought you’d want this back.” 

“Not that anyone texts me…” Matthew mumbled. The battery had died, anyway. He let Alfred put it to charge, and it seemed finally, the two fell into the usual conversational dynamic. Alfred went on and on about some anime Kiku had got him to watch. Matthew hummed and laughed whenever the monologue warranted it. He already felt a lot better about the situation he was in.

Aside from the blood loss, the concussion recovery, and the totalled leg, Matthew was feeling fine. He was no stranger to crazy injuries, he almost felt embarrassed to have caused this much of a fuss. His parents were both extremely busy people. They literally did not have the time to stress so much about him. Dad worked at an investment firm, doing something financial that nobody could understand. Papa owned three restaurants in the city, two of which had Michelin stars. They were a fairly comfortable family, but that meant his parents were always pushing themselves to the limit working. Matthew felt so guilty that they’d spent virtually all week at his sickbed. 

Alfred had even less of a say in his schedule. He worked as a cashier at the local grocery store. He’d started working there straight out of high school. At first, their parents were proud of the decision. Hard work, they said, was the best quality a person could have. But that approval had since soured, because Alfred had failed to get into any colleges, and didn’t seem to have any intention of furthering his education. 

Matthew didn’t ever bring it up. Alfred got real touchy when pressed about his future, and Matthew himself felt kind of bad about their disparity. Matthew had gone from strength to strength in school and especially in sports, landing up as one of the ten best amateur hockey players in the state. He’d been scouted before he even graduated high school, and was on track to go pro. It was all he had ever wanted. 

So he had to ask the question nobody else seemed eager to answer. 

“So, doctor, when do you think I can go back on the ice?”

The doctor froze. She glanced between Dad and Papa. She stared at Matthew. 

He knew it wouldn’t be soon, but nobody was asking the obvious. He’d questioned his parents about it, and they’d shrugged him off with vague answers that led nowhere. Every time Matthew brought it up, Alfred pulled out his phone and looked extremely preoccupied. 

The doctor pursed her lips. “Right,” she said, as though steeling herself. “Matthew, I’m sorry, but you’ll never play hockey again.” 

He blinked. The words didn’t seem to process. They were just a jumble of sounds, really. Like the memories of the collision, playing on loop. Breathe, Breathe, Breathe. Matthew was aware of the cold, rough cotton of his bedsheets. His tight, sweaty fingers curling around the duvet. His leg, heavy like a planet, and suspended motionless. You’ll never play hockey again. 

“What…do you mean?” he managed, and he was astonished he was able to sound human. He was so sure that if he opened his mouth, all that would emerge was an animalistic roar. 

She shot him a sympathetic smile. “Look, Matthew, if you keep playing, it’s likely that your leg will break again, and worse. You already have pins in your leg—you had an open fracture. It was pretty severe. I don’t want you to end up with permanent mobility issues. I don’t want you to have to undergo painful surgery.” 

“Isn’t that my decision?” Matthew cut in. His voice sounded hard even to his ears.

“Matthew,” Papa said in a tone of warning, but Matthew, for perhaps the first time ever, ignored him. 

“I don’t mind painful surgery and rehab. I’ve got to play. If I finish this season I’ll go pro.”

“Mattie—” Alfred tried.

“You can’t be doing this to me!” He shrieked. Something in his chest had exploded, sending waves of panic up and down his limbs. “This is my career, this is my whole life—You're being absurd—it’s my decision if I end up with permanent mobility issues.”

“Matthew, really now!” Dad said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “The doctor knows what she’s talking about—”

“No,” Matthew’s eyes were stinging at the corners. “No, she doesn’t. She doesn’t know me. I can recover, I’ll be fine. This has all happened before! It’s just a hockey injury, this kind of thing happens all the time—”

“Yes, exactly,” the doctor snapped, shaking her head. “It’s not just your leg, Matthew, it’s your head.”

“My head?” he retorted.

“This is your fourth serious concussion. No doctor is going to let you play after that. The risk is too great. According to your chart, you’re already prone to migraines—”

“—They’re quite rare!”

“No,” she said, more firmly. “I’m sorry, Matthew. My word is final.” 

Matthew was not going to sulk. Papa and Dad always told him, sulking solved nothing. You have a problem, you deal with it. Except, Matthew was stuck in his hospital bed and there was nothing else he could do but sit there and try not to cry. Papa was almost waiting for him to. He was hovering close to Matthew, stroking his arm, speaking to him in soothing tones like he was a child awoken from a nightmare. Dad, stoic and awkward as he was, patted Matthew’s head and then stepped out for some work calls. Alfred did that annoying thing of staring into his phone to avoid confrontation. 

That evening, when they sat around him at dinner, Matthew took a deep breath and said, “Sorry for my outburst earlier today. I’m feeling better now.” 

“Oh, love,” Dad said, squeezing his hand. “We’re so, so sorry. You didn’t deserve this.”

“Yes, but it’s going to work out,” Papa went on, stroking Matthew’s arm. “You’re young, and life is full of twists and turns. I know it feels like the end of the world, but I promise you, my darling Matthew, it’s not.”

Matthew turned some cold hospital spaghetti around his plastic fork. It made a sloppy noise that made Papa cringe in disgust. 

“Were it not for the no-outside-food rule,” he said, “I’d get you something decent to eat.”

“It’s all right,” Matthew murmured, putting the spaghetti in his mouth and swallowing it without chewing too much. It was overcooked and bland, anyway, he didn’t have to worry about choking. 

“Look,” said Dad, “They’ll discharge you soon. Come home, take a few days to rest, and then we can all work out your next steps, okay? Fortunately, you’re still enrolled in college credits, so you can finish your education and you’ll be ready to get a job.” 

“Your father’s right!” Papa said. “You’ll be okay!” 

Matthew hummed, noncommittal. He ate what he could of the dinner, then sank into the pillows. “I think I’m just going to sleep. My head hurts a little.” His head was fine. He just couldn’t bear to talk about this anymore. Yet, Matthew had this terrifying, self-destructive urge to rip off the bandage. He watched as his family dimmed the lights and filed out of the room, and once he was alone, he picked up his phone from the desk.

Most of his texts were from his teammates, sending him various Get Well Soon messages that he ignored. He opened his email instead, and wrote a short, three-line summary of the events. 

Following my injury at last week’s match, my doctors have forbidden me from playing hockey ever again. Sorry about that. Please let me know how we can proceed. 

He sent it to his coach and tagged a bunch of official university email addresses—to the sports departments and medical, mostly, and hit send before he had a chance to think it through twice. There, done. Now everyone who needed to know, knew. And Matthew could dissolve into the dark, cold loneliness of this room and throttle his dreams with his own two hands. 

It’s gilbert!! Lol. you don’t remember? We were friends in grade school :^) 

Matthew stared at the message. Gilbert Beilschmidt, of course he remembered him. Gilbert was loud, obnoxious, arrogant, and he always made Matthew laugh. His family moved away just before high school. Why was he texting Matthew now? 

He’d only opened his phone that morning to check his email. The university had already responded, requesting Matthew’s medical records even as they expressed sympathies and professed a commitment to look after him. Then Matthew sent generic thank-you messages to his teammates, and opened Instagram just for something to do. That was when he finally remembered the message from all those nights ago. 

Oh right, hey Gilbert! Sorry, it’s been a crazy few days. How are you?

Gilbert wrote back immediately. Yay! Hey mattie! I’m all rite man. I wanted to drop in and say hi cuz I’ve been at this university for FOUR YEARS and I had no idea you were a student here too? Wtf 

Matthew blinked. Wait, really? What programme are you in? 

Engineering baby! You? 

He hated talking about school. The thought of classwork made Matthew feel physically ill. I’ve taken a couple of business credits but I’m actually there for hockey, he said. He knew where this conversation would inevitably go, and he just wanted to get it over with. 

You were always insanely good at hockey, even back then! It was always fun to see quiet mattie become a raging bull on the ice lol. Were you at the match last week? I wasnt but i heard some kid got bodied so bad he nearly died 

Matthew set his phone down on his lap and pressed his hands into his eyes. He had to do this. Just had to get it over with. People would find out eventually, they might as well find out from him. Yeah, that was me, he texted back. And waited.

He saw the typing bubble start, and stop. Start, and stop. For five minutes, Matthew watched Gilbert hesitate over his response. Until finally, he just sent:

oh fuck

And it was such a refreshingly honest reply, Matthew actually laughed. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine! I think it must have looked a lot worse than it actually was. I’m already on the mend, they’re letting me go home tomorrow.

-You’ve been in hospital for a WEEK?
-Jeez, dude
-You’re fuckin hardcore, man 

Matthew smiled. Thanks, I think? 

-The longest I’ve been in hospital was half a day when i ate bad sushi lol 
-not nearly as cool as a hockey injury 

Well, Matthew typed back, if you want sexy injuries, hockey’s definitely the sport for you 

-You know what mattie, i think i’m good for sexy injuries, but thanks for the suggestion lol
-Well i’m sure you wanna rest so i’ll let you go! But keep in touch ja mattie? We used to have fun in the old days. We should go get some beers sometime! 

Matthew’s stomach filled with warmth. The only people he was friends with were his hockey buddies. It was nice, actually, to speak to someone outside the sport who wanted to spend time with him. I’m underage still (20) but my birthday’s in a couple months! We could go after that

Such a good boy, lol, Gilbert replied. But ja let’s do it!! Ok bye, take care! 

Their home was fairly large and richly designed. Papa had chosen the colours and furniture himself, insisting Dad had no idea what looked good. (To which, of course, Dad’s usual reply was, “At least I think you look good, Frog, consider yourself lucky.”) Matthew and Alfred’s rooms were on the first floor, but because Matthew was on crutches, they’d set up the downstairs spare bedroom for him. Dad had brought the TV into the room, as well as snacks and water, and Matthew’s computer. Papa had even fished out Kumajiro, his stuffy from when he was five.

“You used to snuggle with that whenever you were sick,” Papa said. “I thought it would make you feel better.”

“Thanks,” Matthew said, smiling faintly as he set Kuma down between the pillows. “Thanks, guys, this is great.” 

Dad set down bottles of prescriptions on the nightstand—all except for the opioids, which he flushed down the toilet. He left the door ajar so Matthew could see where they were going. “Sorry, Matthew, love, but let’s not risk anything. It’s been a very difficult few days for you, and I don’t want you to mess around with drugs.”

“Not that I was going to,” Matthew muttered. 

“What happens if he feels pain?” Papa said. 

“There’s plenty of ibuprofen in the house.” 

“I’m fine, I’m not in pain.” 

Slowly but surely, his family filed out. Dad was already late for a meeting with some big client. Alfred’s shift started in ten minutes. And Papa, who lingered the longest, also had to check in on his restaurants. “Now, Matthew,” he said while leaving, “you know the rules. Get out of bed only if absolutely necessary—so only for the bathroom or if there’s a fire—”

“—Yup.”

“Your lunch is in that hotbox there,” Papa went on gesturing to an insulated box beside the nightstand. “You know what medicines to take? Do not miss a dose of your antibiotics, okay? You must be very careful with those.”

“Yup, Papa, I know.”

“And call if you need anything, anything at all. ” He let out a long, exhausted breath. “I’m sorry, Matthew, I wouldn’t leave at all but there are some important reviewers coming today and they explicitly said they’d like to talk to me.”

“Papa, it’s fine.” Matthew smiled. “I’m just going to stay in bed, watch TV, and maybe nap a bit. You don’t need to worry at all.”

“Keep your phone close,” he said at last. “I will text you throughout the day and if you don’t answer, I will call an ambulance.”

Matthew laughed, then he realised Papa was serious. “Oh, yeah, sure, I’ll be in constant communication.”

“Good boy.” He kissed Matthew on the top of his head. “I love you very much, mon chou. Take care.” The conflict on his face pulled on Matthew’s heart as he saw his Papa leave. His footsteps got further and further away, and then he heard the front door open and shut. 

The first half of the day went fairly well. Matthew, as promised, kept checking his phone. He ignored messages from his teammates--he didn’t want to deal with that part of his life right now--and instead spent the hours watching Netflix and talking about True Crime documentaries with Gilbert over Instagram. He ate his lunch, and even managed to hobble to the restroom on crutches, and then sent texts on the family group chat:

-eaten lunch ✓
-watched 5 episodes of stranger things ✓
-Health stat so far: alive 

Dad answered before the others. Matthew, this isn’t funny. 

LOL no it’s kinda funny, Alfred chimed in. And if anyone is allowed to make a “health stat: alive” joke it’s mattie 

-Alfred, shouldn’t you be working? Dad retorted, and Matthew could practically hear the disapproval in his voice.

-Shouldnt YOU be working???? 

-Don’t talk back to me, young man. 

-Did you like your lunch Matthew? Papa asked. 

-Oh yeah, it was yum, thanks
-Anyway I’m gonna nap now
-Love you guys 
-Bye
-PS: Papa if I dont answer the phone it’s because I’m zzz. Don’t call an ambulance

I’ll try, Papa replied. Then he sent a :) 

Matthew fell asleep as soon as his eyes shut. His dreams were confusing: full of screaming and nee-naa-nee-naa and Breathe Breathe Breathe and Blood loss and crashing and You’re fuckin hardcore, man and Yup, this has happened before. Matthew jolted awake and for a horrible second, it was like he was on the ice again, howling in pain, convinced he was dying. His heart was racing inside his ribs. His stomach was somersaulting, like he was about to puke. Matthew took a long, deep, shuddering breath. And another. And another. Finally, he reached for the bottle and took a few small sips of water. 

Pain. That’s what had awoken him. That’s what was making him feel so ill. Matthew stared down at his plastered leg, forcing his brain to focus on the wide-open maw of pain radiating across his body. Matthew reached around for the ibuprofen on the nightstand, and took two without pausing to think if it was safe to do that. 

He tried to sleep again, but the pain wasn’t going anywhere. He couldn’t even toss and turn in bed, so he just lay flat and bit down on his tongue to stop himself from crying. Finally he reached for his phone and dialled Alfred.

“Sup dude?” Alfred asked, picking up on the first ring. 

“Alfred,” Matthew murmured, “there’s a pharmacy in your grocery store, right?”

“Yeah, why?” 

“Can you pick up more of those opioids? I think it was codeine or something? I think Dad managed to get the hospital to email the prescription so it's on the Cloud.”

Alfred was silent for several seconds. “Mattie…It was Oxy. And Pops filled that prescription yesterday.”

“Yeah, I know, and Dad flushed them down the toilet. Please, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need them.”

“Right.” Alfred let out a long breath. “No, what I mean is, no pharmacy is going to fill an opioid prescription twice in two days. Also, I don't know if pharmacies are super keen on filling emailed prescriptions? I know some people who had some trouble with that. Besides, like, I kinda agree with Dad, it’s best to stay away from that shit.” 

“I’m not disagreeing with you, Alfred, I’m just—don’t tell Dad or Pops but,” Matthew gritted his teeth. “I’m in a fuck ton of pain and nothing’s working. I just want to try something.”

“The ibuprofen isn’t—?”

“No, it’s not. I can’t even sleep.”

“Have you tried melatonin? There’s some in Pop’s bathroom cabinet.”

“Oh.” Matthew squeezed his eyes shut. “Right, good idea. I’ll go get it.”

“No, no, no—that’s not—wait. Just wait.” Alfred let out a shaky breath. “I’m not letting you climb up a flight of stairs while you’re in pain and on crutches. Stay put, I’ll come right over and get them for you.” 

“Oh, Alfred.” A wave of gratefulness washed over him. “You don’t have to. Don’t you have work?”

“I was on my break anyway. Stay put, Mattie, I’ll be right there.” 

Alfred was back home in less than ten minutes. Sweaty and gasping, Matthew could see that he’d run the whole way back. His face broke into relief when he saw Matthew still in bed. He held a finger up. “Great, stay there,” he rasped, before storming up the stairs and rushing back down in one minute flat. He was holding a couple of strips of Papa’s low-dose melatonin. Alfred stood over Matthew as he put a strip in his mouth. “If you’re in a lot of pain, maybe you should call Dad or Pops,” he said, his blue eyes big and worried. “I mean, just take it easy, dude.”

“I’m okay,” Matthew murmured, lowering his head to the pillows. “Sorry I freaked you out.”

“You didn’t freak me out.”

“It looks like you ran here.”

“Kiku’s been encouraging me to do ten thousand steps a day, you know,” Alfred laughed. “I’m just trying to be fit.” 

“Right.” Matthew shut his eyes. “Thanks, Alfred.”

Though Alfred didn’t say anything, he could feel his brother’s presence in the room. “You…you sure you’re okay? I can stay for a while.”

“No, you can’t. They’ll want you back soon enough, and I don’t want you to get yelled at over me.” 

“Right…” 

Matthew’s eyes flew open. “Don’t tell Dad or Papa about this. They’ll freak out. And everything’s under control.”

Alfred’s gaze was searching and thoughtful. He pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows, almost sceptically. “All right,” he said after several quiet seconds. “Well, call me if you need anything else.” 

The pain was an ugly noise Matthew kept trying and failing to tune out. He’d been at home nearly a week now, sending emails back and forth between his university, and watching a whole lot of Netflix, because his only recourse was distraction. He’d been texting Gilbert non-stop. It was nice to have a friend who didn’t remind him constantly of his favourite sport. Papa, who discovered about the melatonin immediately, now kept a few strips handy for Matthew, under strict instructions that he wasn’t allowed to take more than two at a time. They were all treating him like he was about to start snorting coke. It would have been really funny if it wasn’t so frustrating. Matthew hated being handled with kid gloves. 

Dad read the irritation on his face one night when he went to check if Matthew had taken his evening dose of antibiotics. “I’m not six, I know when to take my medicines,” he muttered bitterly, plugging his ears with his headphones again to continue the movie he’d been watching. Matthew sighed, however, when Dad approached him, hands on his hips. He paused the movie and took off the headphones. “What?” 

“You feeling a little cranky?” Dad asked. He had this half-smile on his face. 

“Of course I’m cranky. I’m bored.” Matthew tossed the laptop aside. Over the past week, he’d watched some twenty-five movies and dozens of episodes of TV. He’d read a couple of Alfred’s Sandman comic books that Alfred kept in pride of place on his shelf. He’d texted Gilbert incessantly, and unbeknownst to his parents, he’d been communicating with the university about his hockey future every single day. More than anything, though, he got a regular stream of updates from his teammates—hilarious things that happened at practice, potential strategies for the next game, hockey memes and it was unbearable. Matthew wanted to throw his phone away, and would have, were it not his only source of communication with the outside world. 

“Maybe you’d like to go out?” Dad sat at the edge of his bed and put a careful hand on the plaster. He waited for Matthew to tell him to stop, and when no protest came, he went on, “It’s been a difficult couple of weeks. If you’d like, we can all go out to dinner tomorrow night. At one of Papa’s restaurants. Only if you’re feeling up to it, though. No pressure.” 

At this point, Matthew would take staring at a brick wall over being inside this room. “Yeah, that sounds good. Let’s do it.” 

“All right. I’ll go tell Papa.” 

Matthew hadn’t thought this through. Even though it was his father’s place, and designed to be accessibility-friendly, walking around with crutches in a Michelin-star French restaurant was an awkward experience. The fanciest people in the world were dining there, wearing lavish designer clothes and jewellery. Matthew could barely get his formal trousers over his plaster. He’d done his best to spruce up his hair and tie his tie, but he still felt unkempt next to his parents. Even Alfred looked dapper in the suit he hated wearing. 

Eating at Papa’s restaurants could be really fun, or really uncomfortable, depending on the day. They always got special treatment, which sometimes resulted in divine desserts that tasted like bites of heaven. It also meant his staff were falling all over themselves to do a good job, and Matthew felt deeply guilty about anyone fussing so much over him. He was just as happy eating poutine at a diner. He didn’t really need the fanfare. Alfred, however, lapped it up. Luxury looked good on him. He loved sampling the different exotic foods that came through the kitchen. 

Matthew was grateful that they were, at least, outside. Once he was sitting down, and his foot was under the table, and the crutches were off in a corner, Matthew could pretend like everything was normal. He laughed at Alfred’s antics, and at his parents’ playful bickering. When Dad talked about his high-profile clients, both he and Alfred made gagging noises. 

Matthew’s phone dinged in his pocket. Probably Gilbert! He’d been texting Gilbert all day. 

He opened Instagram and sure enough, Gilbert had sent, haha a michelin star restaurant?? Are you secretly loaded? 

Well, Matthew typed back, one of my dads kind of owns—

“Matthew,” Papa said. “You know the rule! No phones at dinner.”

“I just want to send one message!”

“No,” Dad said. “Put it away. Whatever gossip there is, you can talk about it later.” 

Matthew sighed and obeyed, slipping his phone back into his jacket pocket. He waited about ten minutes, to throw off suspicion, then reached for his crutches. “Need to use the restroom.”

“I’ll come with you, you may need help.” Papa was already rising from his chair. 

“No, no, I’ve been managing just fine on my own!” Matthew laughed, embarrassed. “Come on, guys, I’m not a baby.” He ignored his parents’ looks of vague concern and suspicion, and hightailed—as fast as he could on crutches—towards the grand restrooms. 

It was one of those restrooms with warmed towels and a long bench. For now, it was also fairly empty. Matthew sank down to the bench and pulled his phone out. 

-Sorry, my parents told me off for texting during dinner lol
-I was saying my dad owns these restaurants 

-Yikes, Gilbert wrote back. So you ARE actually loaded 

-Uh…yeah, I mean, my parents are, I guess
-They’re both like, real go-getters. Like super ambitious 
-And neither of them came from wealth, so whatever they made, they made on their own. Which is super cool in a way

-Yeah, for sure, Gilbert said. And you’re a hockey prodigy. Talent runs in the family, huh! 

-Lol. Matthew smiled. I’ve just been lucky, i guess. I’m not a prodigy or anything. 

Just then his email dinged. Matthew opened it automatically. He knew who it’d be from. 

He read the email twice. His eyes were becoming blurry. Words and phrases rolled around his head. I’m sorry to say—You’re still enrolled in your class credits—You helped make the team into a powerhouse. 

His gaze snagged on the last sentence. 

Hope you have a swift and painless recovery. 

Cheers, 

“Cheers,” Matthew exhaled. His hands had gone suddenly cold. “What kind of sign-off is ‘cheers’?” And then his eyes were stinging again. How could this be happening? He was one of their best players, the coach said so himself! What the hell had just happened?

Matthew set his phone down and pushed his head between his knees. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. He had to calm down, he had to stop crying, he couldn’t make a scene in a restaurant that served forty-dollar hors d'oeuvres. 

So, he’d never play hockey again. He knew that. He knew this was probably going to happen. Why would they keep him on the team if he couldn’t play? This was nothing he didn’t already expect. Sure, he’d spent the last fortnight actively avoiding thinking about the future. Aside from the emails, he’d not spoken to anyone about what he planned to do next. He wasn’t even sure his teammates knew the extent of his injury. He certainly hadn’t told them. 

Matthew opened the email chain again and read through the discussion. He could see now how wildly desperate he’d been. He’d sent things like, I’d love to continue playing if I can, please let me know if there’s any way to be involved and I’ve spent almost fifteen years of my life training to be a hockey player, I’d really appreciate some support at this trying time, and Please, coach, I’m requesting your help because I don’t know what else to do. 

How could he send such pathetic pleas to an official university email address? Matthew’s hand gripped around his phone, hard, and before he could think things through, he’d thrown it against a wall. 

And then he just sat there. 

He didn’t even know how long he’d been hiding out until Alfred came bursting through the door, saying, “Mattie, what the heck, Dad thinks you died on the toilet like Elvis—Mattie?” his voice dropped. “Dude, you okay?”

“I dropped my phone,” Matthew mumbled. 

“Oh.” Alfred spotted it in a corner and fetched it for him. “Luckily the screen isn’t cracked or anything.” He handed it to Matthew. “Seriously, you okay?”

“Yeah!” Matthew forced a smile. He would not ruin things. He would not ruin this night. “I just needed a breather.” Matthew allowed Alfred to help him up, and the two made the trek back to the table. 

“Matthew!” Papa cried. “I thought something bad had happened.”

“Probably all this fatty French food getting to him,” Dad teased, though even he looked relieved. Matthew noticed a chocolate cake on the table, with the words in icing, Cheers to the future, Matthew! It felt like a joke. 

“Just something to cheer you up,” Papa said, smiling. “Everything will be okay soon. The future is bright.” 

Matthew opened his mouth. He was going to say, thank you Dad and Papa, for this lovely night out. Thank you for being so loving and supportive. Thank you for this delicious cake. Thank you, thank you, thank you! 

Instead, he said, “They kicked me off the hockey team.” 

Chapter Text

“They kicked me off the hockey team.”

Alfred stared at Matthew. His face was pale and splotchy, but dry-eyed anyway. His tone was cool, flat, calm. He set his cell phone down by his water glass. Dad’s jaw hung slack. Papa covered his mouth. 

“What.” Dad rose. He banged his wine glass down. The contents sploshed over the impeccable table runners. 

“I mean, I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Matthew in that same even tone. “If the doctors say I can’t play anymore, then the team wouldn’t keep me on like some kind of charity case, right?” 

“Wait, did they just tell you? Did you call them?” Papa was staring at him. “Did you get an email?”

“Yes, show us the email!” 

Alfred kept his mouth shut as it all transpired. Matthew passed his phone, and the pair of them read through the email thread and expressed various cries of dismay and disgust. “This is just ridiculous,” Dad said, sinking down to his seat. “How can they just drop a player like that? We’ll go speak to them tomorrow.” 

“I really don’t want to do that.”

“No, Matthew, don’t be absurd. Don’t take this lying down. They’re treating you badly, and you have to fight back.”

Matthew, Alfred knew, was notoriously hard to read at the best of times. Most people thought he was shy and therefore insecure. Alfred knew better. They were twins, Alfred knew Matthew better than anyone. Matthew wasn’t cutthroat, like Dad or Papa. He didn’t have killer instinct—unless he was on the ice. But that didn’t mean he took things lying down. The fact that he’d got as far as he had in a sport so brutal was proof enough to Alfred that Matthew fought like a rabid dog when he needed to. So if he was saying the fight was lost, it was lost. There was no point beating a dead horse. 

“If Mattie wants to let it go, I think he should have the chance to do that,” Alfred supplied. Matthew shot him a grateful look. 

“Trust you to say that,” Dad sighed, shaking his head. 

“What does that mean?” Alfred snapped. 

“Unlike Matthew, you don’t even try.” 

“I’ve earned a steady paycheck for four years. What the hell were you doing at my age?”

“No, no, non, non, non—” Papa slammed his hands down on the table. “We are not having this argument again. Not right now, not tonight. Let us all finish our dinner as best we can.” 

They didn’t pursue the fight, but what did it matter? Dinner was ruined, anyway. Matthew completely shut down. He didn’t speak for the rest of the night, he barely even raised his head. Alfred couldn’t even get him to look him in the eye. The cake, which sat between them like a chocolate mockery, went virtually untouched. Papa had it boxed to take home. Alfred went straight to his room as Papa helped Matthew to bed. He slammed the door shut and locked it behind him for good measure. 

Alfred’s room was messy and colourful. It was covered in comic books and memorabilia, and framed photos from Comic-Con of him in cosplay. His favourite part of the room was his desk, which opened up from the top to reveal a hidden compartment where he kept his art supplies. He had a set of gorgeous fine liners that he had imported from Germany. He had colour pencils and felt tips. And he had pages and pages of rough drawings. In his free time, and unknown to the rest of his family, Alfred enjoyed drawing comics. 

The only person who knew was Kiku, because it was the first thing they’d bonded over. He’d found Kiku in the comic book store, looking at manga in original Japanese, and when Kiku’s bag snapped, and his stuff fell out, Alfred offered to help him. That was when he’d seen Kiku’s own illustrations, really cool manga art that Alfred wished he could read. It was all in Japanese, but Alfred complimented it anyway, and they got to talking. 

He whipped out his phone and texted, I told you this dinner was going to suck ass and i was right 

Kiku was always up late. He responded immediately. ???? 

-God Mattie got kicked off the hockey team and he told Dad and Pops, and ofc they flipped out. And then Dad got on my case too and it’s like, can we have one fucking dinner without Dad sitting on my ass
-Like seriously
-He won’t say it but I know I’m a giant disappointment. I wish he’d just say it so we dont have to tiptoe around it 

He doesn’t think that, Kiku typed back. What did he even say?

Alfred’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, but he just threw himself in bed and typed, nevermind it’s bumming me out. 

Alfred… Kiku sent, and then (づ ᴗ _ᴗ)づ♡

Dude where the hell do you get those kaomojis from man. Alfred nearly laughed. Kiku was always discovering strange apps and content. For such a quiet, straight-laced sort of guy, he knew a lot of niche stuff. Basically I just think Dad wishes I was more like mattie. But now mattie’s whole ass future is fucked so i’m not sure where to go from here. It’s just…yah, confusing i guess. 

I’m sorry about Matthew. 

Alfred smiled, a little sadly. To the outside world, they had a lot of disparities: Matthew was the prodigy, and Alfred was the screw-up. But his brother never made him feel that way, and was always so supportive of Alfred’s decisions. So Alfred didn’t hold any resentments. Yeah, he responded. I’m sorry too. 

-Will he be okay?

Sure, Alfred typed back. The thing about mattie is, the guy can take a beating. People think he’s so uwu softboi nonsense but the dude’s insane. Like i dont think you can be good at hockey if you’re a pushover tbh. So i’m not actually worried…it’ll be fine.
-Anyway forget it
-Whats up? 

Just doodling, Kiku sent back. Put on your video, we can draw together. 

Alfred leapt up and propped his phone against the adjacent wall. He took out his drawing materials and writing board, and set it all up on his lap. Then he hit the video call button. Kiku answered on the second ring. He yawned and waved. He had a steaming mug of tea in his frame. He lifted his art book and turned it to Alfred. “Doodling my own Pokemon species,” he said. 

“Nice! What are their names?”

“No idea yet, but they’re all Water Types. What are you going to work on?”

Alfred smiled, glancing down at his paper. He didn’t know how to express just how grateful he was for Kiku’s friendship. There was no one else he could just draw with, no one he could show his shitty doodles to, no one who would bother to take such an avid interest in his complete lack of skill. But Kiku genuinely cared. It was not just a friendship based on shared interests—it was very much also a working artists’ relationship. And it felt special, and private, and so very precious. “I have this idea for a superhero comic,” Alfred said. “I know superheroes are kinda overdone, but, yeah.”

“The world’s burning. We all need heroes.”

“Right?” Alfred lifted the page, showing Kiku some basic figure drawing. “So the idea is that he’s from a long line of superheroes—like his parents, his grandparents, they’re all these big-time superheroes. But he himself, has like NO powers. But when this evil guy shows up…I’m still fleshing out the details, don’t judge—”

“No judgement.”

“Thanks. So when this evil guy shows up, our man has to step up to the plate and save the world. But he has no powers and the only thing he can rely on is his wit and charm and hilarious good fortune.” 

Kiku let out a short chuckle. “I like that. It’s very original.” 

“Thanks!” Alfred beamed. “Yeah, I mean, overpowered supes are great, but like, you always know they’ll win in the end.” 

“I agree.” 

They worked in relative silence for a couple of hours, until Alfred glanced up at his phone and saw Kiku asleep over his sketchpad. “Aw, dude,” Alfred laughed. “Dude, wake up, you’ll drool on your doodles.” When Kiku didn’t stir, Alfred’s smile just widened. “All right, Kiks. Sleep well.” 

He hung up. 

The next morning was predictably tense. For once, Alfred was not the source of the arguments. When he descended the stairs for breakfast, he saw Pops whipping up a pile of Matthew’s favourite: pancakes, while shouting escalated in the downstairs bedroom. Alfred shot Pops a questioning look. In response, he just shook his head and rolled his eyes. 

“I told you, I don’t want to go!” 

“And I told you, I’m not letting you just give up!” Dad yelled back. He always sounded more English when he was angry. 

“What do you want me to do, hold them at gunpoint?”

“I want you to fight for your place on that team!”

“What the hell,” Alfred muttered in an undertone. He grabbed a plate of pancakes for himself and drizzled them with butter and maple syrup. Pops took a plate for himself and took the chair opposite him. 

“I do sort of agree with your Dad,” he told Alfred. “I think Mattie is deliberately throwing the towel in. Just because someone says you can’t do something, doesn’t mean you just stop trying.”

Alfred wrinkled his nose. “But I don’t get this—he’s not even supposed to be playing hockey. Didn’t the doctor basically say he’d lose the ability to walk and fall into a coma? Four concussions or something?”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Pops explained. “Besides, there’s a lot that Matthew can do, no? He can consult on strategy, or help the others with their training?”

Alfred didn’t know what to address first. He was by no means a jock, but even he knew that they’d never let an injured, non-pro student athlete consult on gameplay. That was besides the fact that it was downright cruel to assume Matthew would want to be involved with the game, now that he couldn’t play himself. It was ridiculous to make him go through this charade when he could barely stand. What was the point of this argument, if not to prove the supremacy of some stupid ‘bust your ass, never give up’ mentality? 

“I think this is nuts,” Alfred muttered, shoving a large piece of pancake in his mouth. “Let the guy rest. I think he’s more than earned the right.”

“No one is denying that, Alfie,” Pops said gently. “But think of what it would do to his psyche, to just be dropped from the team like a deadweight and to just lay down and take the ill-treatment?”

Alfred chewed through his pancake before saying, “By that logic, think of what it would do to his psyche to have to fight for a spot on a team when he literally can’t play anymore. What’s the point?”

Pops just let out a long-suffering sigh. “Alfred, I didn’t want to get into an argument over dinner, but I do agree with your father. I know you care for Mattie, but your position reveals your lackadaisical mindset.”

What the hell was that even supposed to mean? As Alfred stared, Pops continued: 

“Do you intend to work at that grocery store all your life? I don’t have a problem with retail work, I just need you to really look inwards and ask yourself if you have any ambition.”

God, not this again. He hadn’t even finished his breakfast. “Maybe,” Alfred sneered, “my ambition is to become manager.” 

“Is it?” Pops demanded, eyeing him closely. “It’s fine if it is. But do you even have that? Or is this just something to do while you’re busy not getting an education.”

“Oh my God, Pops—”

“An education is important, Alfred! And you’re very fortunate that we can afford to send you to the best universities.”

“Why would the best universities even want me,” he muttered under his breath, stabbing a piece of pancake with his fork. 

“You’re a smart, hard-working—”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m getting late.” 

He was just starting his shift when Matthew texted him. GOD IM SO MAD AT DAD HE DOESNT HAVE THE RIGHT 

-Lol, you can say that again dude. What happened now 

-He *MADE* me get dressed and now he’s driving me to university to yell at my coach + a dozen other admin people.
-Now he’s telling me off for texting you
-“I know you’re bitching about me matthew, put your phone down” 

Tell him i said his eyebrows look like sentient creatures mating on his forehead, Alfred typed back, viciously. 

Lmao, Matthew said, then, gtg wish me luck 

-good luck dude 

“Alfred?” 

Alfred pocketed his phone and beamed at Kiku. “Hey, morning! You fell asleep on me last night.” 

“That sounds…funny.” Kiku actually blushed and glanced around, as though expecting onlookers. The store had only just opened, there were no customers yet. Alfred, pushing a cart of canned tomatoes, stopped to shelve them. Kiku wordlessly began to help. 

“You can sleep on me any day of the week,” Alfred joked. Kiku rolled his eyes, hiding a smile by glancing away. 

“You want to play video games at my place tonight? My family’s going out and I have the basement to myself.”

“Oh definitely, dude. Can we play Hades?” 

“You always want to play Hades,” Kiku complained, though his tone was light and playful. 

“It’s my favourite!” 

“I know,” Kiku said in a soft voice. “If you want, we can also draw together.”

“I always want to do that, Kiks.” 

Alfred was in an amazing mood for the rest of the day, which was only slightly dampened by the stream of texts from Matthew. He opened his phone during break and could virtually hear his brother turning more and more panicky. 

-Dad yelled at the coach. Coach yelled back
-God…now dad is listing all the games I helped win…so fucking mortifying
-Now they’re shouting about the guy who bodied me!!! Saying he should face consequences D:
-I don’t want anyone to “face consequences” i just wanna finish season 3 of stranger things
-I’ve never actually been able to enjoy these shows I was always at practice now at least i can watch them, you know?
-OH MY GOD NOW THEY’RE GOING TO THE DEAN? T_T
-Can you even just march into the dean’s office wtf
-This is the worst day of my life
-Like yea i nearly died and all that but this is worse than that 
-Death isnt as embarrassing
-Maybe i can fake a migraine and dad will have to take me home?
-NOW THE DEAN AND DAD ARE GETTING INTO IT 
-Alfred T_T why is this happening
-Brb gonna go kill myself 
-Ok we’re leaving 
-Oh my god 
-I’m so tired
-Dad is in a FOUL mood watch out 

“Oh, lordy,” Alfred muttered under his breath. He was halfway through a microwaved burrito, his hands were too sticky to type. Kiku looked over his shoulder and let out a long sigh. 

“Maybe you should stay home today. No need to make your dad angrier.”

“Hell no, dude. He doesn’t scare me, and I am going to play Hades tonight, so help me god.” 

Before going to Kiku’s, Alfred made the mistake of stopping over at home. He wanted to change. A child had thrown up in the frozen foods aisle and Alfred had to clean that up, and even though his clothes were fine, he was feeling icky and gross. When he got home, Dad was on the phone talking to someone about a client. He waved at Alfred, but didn’t otherwise stop him. Alfred poked his head into Matthew’s room downstairs. Matthew had his headphones in. He didn’t notice Alfred, and Alfred decided it was better to just let him be. Today must have been seriously traumatic for him, and Matthew just needed some time to decompress. Pops wasn’t back from the restaurant yet. Alfred could probably get out before anyone thought to question him about it.

He had a quick shower and threw on a fresh pair of jeans and a t-shirt. He grabbed his favourite bomber jacket and stuffed his messenger bag with a sketchpad and some pencils. Dad was off the phone by the time Alfred had stepped down. 

“Ah, Alfred,” he smiled. “Where are you off to?”

“Just, uh,” Alfred forced a grin. “Off to Kiku’s.” 

Alfred waited for the explosion. 

“Oh, fun.” Dad smiled. “What are you guys going to do?”

Huh. Alfred relaxed a little. “Oh, you know, just play some video games.” 

It was the wrong thing to say. If there was one thing everyone knew about Dad, it was that he hated video games. Specifically, he hated Alfred playing them. He let out a long-suffering sigh and shook his head. “Alfred…when are you going to take things seriously?” 

Alfred wasn’t in the mood for a fight. Wiping puke off the floor hadn’t done wonders for his mood either, and the best thing to do in this situation was de-escalate. Alfred just grabbed the strap of his bag and turned to leave. 

“Don’t walk away, young man, I’m talking to you.”

“It’s nothing I haven’t heard before,” Alfred muttered. 

“Alfred!” Dad snapped. “What is your plan for the future? Do you want to be working at that grocery store when you’re my age? Have you given one iota of thought into what you’re going to study? What you’re going to do? You’re used to a very comfortable life, thanks to your father and I. But we won’t live forever.” 

“First of all,” Alfred turned. “There’s nothing wrong with working at the store. It’s fucked up that you think I’m above it. I like that job. Yeah, it pays like shit, but at least it’s an income. I know for a fact that when you were twenty, you were in some loser punk rock band that played in creepy old bars. I know you waited tables too. So don’t act so high and mighty.”

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that!” He grabbed Alfred’s shoulder as Alfred turned to leave again. “I am concerned about you. As your father, I have the right to express my opinions on your life choices!” 

“No,” Alfred snarled. “You don’t. Are you going to shout ‘my house, my rules’ next, like some 1950s abuser?”

“Alfred!” 

“I’m so fucking sick of this!” Alfred shouted, yanking himself free. “Just because your life sucks doesn’t mean you have to shit all over mine!”

“Alfred, I care about you. That’s why I—” He broke off. “You know what, you are so astonishingly ungrateful. Your father and I have killed ourselves working so you can have the best possible life, and all you do is waste your time playing video games. At least Matthew worked his butt off—”

“MATTHEW,” Alfred roared, “NEARLY GOT HIMSELF KILLED TRYING TO PLEASE THE PAIR OF YOU. AND FOR SOME REASON, THAT’S STILL NOT ENOUGH.” 

A silence followed his outburst. It was like Alfred had pulled a snake out of his mouth. Dad just gaped at him, and he at Dad. From the corner of his eyes, he saw a figure standing by the door of the downstairs bedroom. Mattie, grabbing the door frame, his plastered leg hovering over the floor as he limped—without crutches. He regarded the both of them with his quiet, violet-blue eyes. “I heard you two shouting,” he said at last. 

“...Mattie…” Alfred didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know if he’d been defending his brother or just using his accident to make a point in an argument. 

Dad whipped around. “Matthew!” he said, his voice taut. “You shouldn’t be out of bed without your crutches. Let me walk you back…”

“I’m fine,” Matthew said, and his voice was hard. He shot the pair of them a bitter, resentful look. “Please just keep your voices down, I’m trying to rest.” He slammed the door shut in their faces. In the second’s peace that followed, Alfred turned and darted out of the house. 

Dont get me involved in your arguments with dad 

Alfred had been staring at the message on and off for the better part of an hour. He and Kiku had given up on video games a while ago, and were now just trying to draw. Alfred didn’t know what to say to Matthew. He knew he needed to apologise, but also, he was right. He was right, wasn’t he? Matthew would never have put himself in that position, if his parents didn’t walk around like him being this amazing athlete was the greatest gift to humankind. They kept his trophies in the living room, for God’s sake. It was embarrassing. And it was obvious what they valued the most. Excellence and success were currency in their house, Matthew was rich. Or he had been, until two weeks ago. The dynamic of their family had been tilted on its axis. Alfred hadn’t been sugarcoating things when he’d told Kiku about that. Everything had changed, for good. Matthew was now the kid who used to be a prodigy. And Alfred just knew there’d be consequences to that. He just didn’t know what form they’d take.

“Alfred?” Kiku asked.

Alfred shook his head. “I can’t decide if I want to be successful like Mattie or not.”

“What?”

“Well, I…honestly can’t imagine what Matthew’s going through. Because I’m such a goddamn screw-up, and you can’t lose something you never had. But Matthew was about to go pro and now he needs help having a shower. It’s crazy, you know?”

Kiku regarded him with one of his classic quiet, incisive stares. “Did something happen at home?”

“Yeah…” He hesitated. “I think I pissed him off.” 

Alfred looked down at his texts and finally replied, sorry dude. shouldnt have done that. 

For the record, Matthew typed back, I didn’t ‘nearly get myself killed’ for their approval. This is my passion. I give my all into every game, for ME. 

-I know, Matt, i’m really sorry

-Yeah, yeah, whatever
-Have fun at Kikus
-bye 

Alfred let out a breath. “I think he’s still mad at me. But hopefully he’ll get over it.” 

He nearly decided to stay over at Kiku’s. Going home would just result in more drama. But he also felt incredibly guilty for what he’d said about Matthew, and he knew he’d just torture himself overthinking if he didn’t at least see Matthew at dinner. 

As he unlocked the front door, he heard his parents talking in soft, urgent tones. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but the concern in their voices made Alfred tense. Had something happened to Mattie again? Nobody had been entirely calm since the incident, and as much as Matthew hated being coddled, everyone was terrified of him getting worse. Alfred burst into the kitchen, expecting to see at least one of them (Pops, for sure) in tears, but if anything, they were both dry-eyed and snappy. 

“Alfred,” Dad said. His tone was calm and easy. Like the fight from earlier hadn’t happened. Pops threw his hands in the air and stalked off to the cabinets, opening them and slamming them shut like he did when he was mad. Alfred watched as he put on the kettle for tea, and Dad beckoned him over to sit. “Your father and I were talking,” he started. 

“Don’t bring me into this, Arthur,” Pops said. 

“You said you agreed, Francis.”

“I agree that Alfred could use some help getting focused on his future. I didn’t agree with what you’re proposing.”

Oh, God. Alfred’s heart just sank. “What?” he demanded. “What now?”

“Don’t panic.” Dad patted his shoulder. “It’s nothing bad. I would just like you to join my firm as an intern. There are a couple of entry-level openings and I can get you through the front door. It’s a huge privilege to be working there. It’s a six-month internship, and you’ll learn a lot about investments and important soft skills. It’ll help you figure out what you want to do in your life.”

“I don’t want to do that.” 

“How do you know?” Dad retorted. “You’ve only ever worked in the store. You might even become interested in finance.”

“Not going to happen.”

“It’s just six months, Alfred.” 

“That’s half a year.” 

“If Alfred doesn’t want to do it,” Pops cut in, putting down two cups of tea before them, “I don’t think we should force him.” 

“We’ve coddled Alfred all his life,” Dad snapped. “That’s part of the problem.”

“Oh, I’ve been coddled, have I?” 

“Stop fighting, for heaven’s sake!” Pops pulled up a chair and glared at the pair of them. “Listen to me very, very carefully. Both of you. I know you two disagree on everything under the sun, but I will not let this house turn into one of catty infighting. Do you understand? Can we reach a compromise instead? Alfred,” he turned to him, “what if the internship was shorter? How about three months?” 

Alfred said nothing. You’d never speak to Matthew like this, he wanted to say, but he kept that to himself. Matthew had his own problems to deal with right now, and it wasn’t his fault their parents were so insane. 

“I’m fine with that,” Dad said. “Alfred? Could we make that work?” 

“You’re basically forcing me to do this.”

“No one is forcing you!” 

“We just feel that a young, talented man such as yourself should explore your options. Is that so bad?” 

Alfred was so exhausted. He was so tired of having this fight over and over again. Eventually they would learn that he was never going to make something of himself. Alfred did not have Matthew’s smarts. He didn’t have Matthew’s talent. And as much as he wanted to accomplish things in his life, Alfred didn’t need the world telling him what he already knew: that he was a failure. 

But he couldn’t see a way out of this conversation. So he just pressed his hands to his eyes until phosphenes invaded his vision. “Fine. Fine, all right? I’ll do your stinking three-month internship.” 

Chapter Text

Sunrise filtered through the gaps in the blinds, like strings of grated cheese. Matthew yawned and stretched, and hissed a string of curses as he antagonised his bad leg. This was his third attempt at waking up, or perhaps, his third attempt at staying asleep, because Matthew was out of practice at sleeping in. He was not accustomed to the luxury of ignoring the alarm clock. And he had one, even these days, set for 5 am, when he usually went for his runs. Ordinarily he’d jump out of bed, have a quick snack, and get started on his well-trodden routines of cardio and conditioning. A jog, a morning at the gym, then hockey practice, then classes. 

So, 8.45 am. It had been years since he’d woken up this late. He had to keep reminding himself to go back to sleep. First when his eyes opened at the usual time, and it was still dark out, and there was nowhere to go. Then at six thirty, when he could hear his family moving around in the kitchen, starting on their teas and coffees. He drifted off as Dad peeked into his room, saying, “Francis, he’s asleep.” He was vaguely aware of Alfred hovering over his head, saying, “Mattie, I know you’re asleep but wish me luck, I start that stupid internship today.” Matthew just pulled his blanket closer and snuggled deeper into the pillows, stuffing his head into Kumajiro’s furry stomach. Sleep, sleep, sleep, he sang to himself. 

Breathe, Breathe, Breathe! Nee-naa-nee-naa, Yup, this has happened before. 

Now, staring at the sunlight, Matthew allowed the siren song of trauma to run in his head, a stuck record. He’d really been trying to wake up around noon, like Alfred did on the weekends. He wanted to experience what it was like to open his eyes and find out half the day was gone. He wanted to be that carefree. 

Well, there was always tomorrow. Matthew proceeded to do the morning constitutional: hobble over on his crutches to the restroom. He was always afraid he was going to lose his balance. He still didn’t feel confident walking like this. His doctor had offered to get him a wheelchair instead, but Matthew had put his good foot down at that. His parents were already treating him like he was about to turn to ash. He didn’t want to imagine the pitying stares he’d get if he was made to use a wheelchair. He didn’t think he could deal with it. Maybe it was wrong to think this way, but Matthew was kind of prideful. People always thought he was weak when he wasn’t, and previously hockey had been his one outlet to prove himself. He loved it when people said, You were always so quiet, I had no idea how strong you can be on the ice. 

And of course, he really enjoyed the trophies. He loved that they sat in glass cabinets in the living room. He never kept the trophies in his room—he wouldn’t have minded—but his parents preferred to have them displayed front and centre, as soon as anyone walked through the door. He loved when he saw the pride in their eyes. It scared him, knowing that it was all gone. That he could never get it back. 

But underneath that fear, also, was a kind of relief. Matthew could now sleep in, and it wouldn’t matter.

When Matthew had settled back into bed, Papa entered the room. “Ah, Mattie, good morning,” he said. He was carrying the hotbox in which he stored Matthew’s lunches. “You slept late today!” 

“Hey Papa, yeah,” he chuckled. “I guess I did.” 

“How is your pain?”

It was always there. But he’d just become better at ignoring it. Without the pain medication, there wasn’t any actual relief. Some nights he’d spent laying awake wondering if he ought to source some weed—it would be less dangerous than Oxycodone and at the very least, it would take the pain away. Thus far he’d not touched any recreational drugs. They did regular drug tests at college, especially before matches, and he wasn’t going to take any risks with his career. But well, now, it didn’t matter. 

“I guess it’s there,” Matthew said in a small voice. “But it's fine.” 

“Ah, Matthew.” Papa’s eyes turned sad. He ruffled his blonde curls. “I’m sorry, mon chou.”

“Actually, I can barely think,” Matthew muttered, sinking into the pillows. “It’s like having a bear trap in your leg at all times and pretending like nothing’s wrong.” 

“A bear trap, really?”

“I really wish Dad hadn’t thrown out those opioids. This isn’t fair. It’s like you don’t trust me.”

A panicked expression flitted across Papa’s face. “Matthew, it has nothing to do with trust. It’s dangerous.”

“Everyone is prescribed opioids after surgery,” Matthew muttered, pulling a pillow over his head. 

“Yes, and you’ll see that there is an opioid crisis.” He stood, hands on his hips. “I’m not talking about this anymore, Matthew. And I will assume you’re being unreasonable because you’re hurting. Do try and control your attitude.” 

Matthew groaned.

“And by the way,” he went on, “you’ve been home for weeks. Sleeping in and wasting the day is not something I’d encourage you to do.” 

Matthew lifted the pillow. He saw his Papa’s blue eyes, usually so soft and kind, hardened to cold gemstones. “What, exactly, would you encourage me to do, then?” 

“You’re still enrolled in classes, aren’t you? Why don’t you study?” 

The thought of schoolwork always made Matthew’s stomach turn. It had become something of a trigger for him. His heart raced, his hands got cold, and his head buzzed. Matthew kept that all inside. He never, ever mentioned that to his parents. In high school, he used to be a straight-A student, but the demands of high school athletics were easier. It was damn near impossible to train as a college athlete and still maintain a good GPA. He had given up on it. Perhaps he'd been so wrapped up in his own mythology of athletic greatness that it never occurred to him that he wouldn't make a career out of hockey. 

“Fine.” Matthew swallowed down a spike of anxiety. “I’ll study.” 

His father’s expression cooled. He patted Matthew’s head again. “Good idea. Look, I’m sorry you are in pain, but I promise you, it will pass.” 

“Yup.” 

Papa regarded him for a long minute, as though trying to read Matthew’s mind. Finally he sighed, and shook his head. “All right, I’m leaving for work now. As always, call if you need anything.” 

Matthew waited until he was alone at home. Then he whipped out his phone. 

-Gilbert, he texted, do you know where i could get some weed 

-uh , what 

-weed, Matthew responded, hitting his thumbs against the phone screen with savage energy. marijuana. ganja. pot. reefer. grass. dope.

-I know what weed is, thanks, Gilbert replied. Dude, mattie, why? Aren’t you like an athlete? Dont they test your blood or whatever? 

-Yea, but i’m not an athlete anymore. He hesitated, then typed, i’m just a loser in a lot of pain. It felt good. It felt good to type out that sentence. It felt so good to state the obvious. He hit send. 

-Matthew, Gilbert typed back. Idk what’s going on, but you are so NOT a loser. 

-Whatever, gil. I wasnt kidding i’m in so much pain constantly
-And i mostly just ignore it
-But i’m pissed and i dont want to anymore 
-And weed is safer than Oxy 

-Ok, well, idk what to say to that, Gilbert replied after a minute.
-Have you ever even been high before 

-uh, said Matthew. No 

Matthew avoided parties specifically to avoid the chance of being convinced to try alcohol or weed. He had been so terrified of being caught out in a surprise drug test or getting in trouble for underage drinking. Being on the hockey team was all that mattered to him. Now, in a strange way, he was unmoored and unfettered. It didn’t matter what he did, and by god, he was going to get some pain relief. Half his strength, half his soul, was being sucked away by the constant, blaring fire of agony in his leg. How long could he be expected to ignore it? 

-Uh-huh, ok, so if youre really sure about this, i’ll score some and we can do it together.
-But um…
-You’re ok, rite mattie?

-Of course! Matthew said. I’m not gonna make it a habit. I’m just in so much pain, gilbert.
-And + also, they kicked me off the hockey team anyway
-So it really does not matter
-It's just a little bit of pot 

Right. Gilbert was typing for a while. The three dots started and stopped, and Matthew waited, wondering what it was he really wanted to say. Ok, mattie, we can do this. But i have my eye on you. 

-??? you afraid I’m going to go all lindsay lohan on you or something? 

-Or something, Gilbert said. 

Matthew sizzled with irritation, but swallowed it down. Gilbert had agreed to help him. And Matthew just had to prove that he had things under control. Which he did. He always knew what he was doing. 

Hating himself a little, and regretting it even as he logged in, Matthew accessed his student portal and toggled over to some recent test scores. His highest grade all year had been a C. His heart sank as he saw that some new grades had come in. D, D-, F. In the ‘Professor’s notes’ section, he only saw one, terrifying command. Matthew, let’s schedule a meeting. 

He had half a mind to ignore it and just turn on Netflix. But Matthew just wasn’t built that way. Even if he tried, it would grow larger and larger in his head until his grades would be all he could think about. He opened up his email and typed a hasty email to his professor. His hands were clammy. He felt strangely cold. 

He only got half an hour’s respite before she responded. 

Hi Matthew,

If you’re free, we can talk over Zoom. I do believe your grades need to be addressed urgently. Does 1pm work? I’ll send you a meeting link. 

Sure, it works, thanks, he replied. He wanted to be sick. How had it come to this? Matthew used to be such a good student. He used to be able to manage homework and hockey so easily. In high school, Matthew would stay up till past midnight to finish assignments, waking up at 5 am as usual to balance his workouts too. The schedule worked. Why hadn’t it worked in college? 

And how could Matthew have been so stupid? He’d been pushed into a corner, given the choice between focusing on class, or focusing on hockey, and he’d chosen hockey. And for a while it didn’t matter, because he was going to go pro anyway. The university gave him all kinds of awards. They had his face plastered on their athletics website as a top achiever. They waved off his poor test scores because he was so valuable to them on the ice. 

But now, he’d lost that. 

Now, they owed him nothing. 

And he was failing. 

Papa and Dad had always insisted that if he wanted to focus on hockey, he had to be as good in the classroom as he was on the ice. Because it was a dangerous sport and anything could happen. That it was essential to have a good education to back himself up. It was something Matthew wholeheartedly agreed with. How had he screwed up so badly? It was unbelievable. 

When he jumped onto the Zoom call, Matthew was already feeling ill. He could almost hear it again, nee-naa-nee-naa Breathe Breathe Breathe, like a sickening chorus. Those sounds had muddled together in his brain so completely by now that he wondered if he’d always think about that night, wondered if it was always going to be lurking in the shadows of his mind, just one bad day away. 

“Matthew,” his teacher said. She offered him a polite smile. She was an older woman, her hair greying and curly. She had a steaming mug with This Might Be Wine printed in pink lettering. Behind her, a coat rack, a set of golf clubs, a bookshelf. Matthew spied a roughed-up copy of The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho. “How are you feeling now?” she asked. “I heard you had a terrible accident at the last game.” 

“I’m much better now, thank you,” Matthew said. He was relieved that she ignored the fact that he was propped up on several pillows, visible through the Zoom camera. 

“You’re still resting at home, yes?” she asked, taking a sip from the mug. In the background, he could hear the sound of the TV--the gravelly baritone of Uncle Iroh. Someone, probably his professor’s kid, was watching Avatar: The Last Airbender. His speakers let slip the sound of a distant doorbell. A child’s voice yelled out, saying something about an Amazon parcel. The scenario was so mundane: a typical work-from-home morning. Matthew was fighting for his future, and his professor’s kid was collecting an Amazon parcel. 

“Yes. I’m still on crutches, so…” Matthew trailed off. He already felt stupid for admitting that detail. “But it’s okay now,” and then the lie, “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“That’s good. That’s good.” She smiled warmly. “I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say that I hope you have a speedy recovery.”

“Thank you. I hope you’re doing well also.”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” 

He hated teacher meetings. There were always such awkward silences. His professor cleared her throat. In the background, he recognised the sounds of Fire and Earthbending.“Well, Matthew, the reason I wanted to talk was that I’m getting extremely concerned with your academic performance. You didn’t do as well as I’d hoped in the midterm. Your assignments for class have been delayed. You haven’t even submitted the last one, despite three extensions.”

Matthew swallowed. “I know, I’m so sorry. It’s been extremely difficult to manage practice and classwork.”

“I understand,” and her eyes actually crinkled in sympathy. “But Matthew, this performance is just not acceptable. It’s not just your grades, but it’s also your poor attendance. I don’t think you realise…you’re facing down the barrel of expulsion.” 

Nee-naa-nee-naa the song of the ambulance. Breathe breathe breathe. And blood loss and crashing and the best last words to leave on. Matthew had to fight down the urge to cover his head. Shut up, he wanted to scream. Just shut the hell up. I can’t think anymore. Was this what it was like to have PTSD? Was he even allowed to make that assumption? Matthew didn’t know anything about labels or mental health diagnoses. It was like he was falling off the aeroplane he was supposed to know how to fly. Matthew had crafted the perfect trajectory, for the best future, and it was shattered and he was plummeting. 

“Expulsion?” he squeaked. 

“I’m really sorry, Matthew. I know you’ve had a tough time lately. But I’ve been speaking to your academic advisor--I think you two need to chat, by the way. You’ve missed a lot of deadlines, not just for my class, but for some others.”

“The assignment I missed was because I was recovering from surgery.”

“I understand that,” she said. “But that was your third deadline extension. Any professor would be justified in marking you down for that alone. The fact of the matter is, your academic track record thus far just isn’t inspiring confidence.” Her dark eyes were unblinking. “I don’t want to fail you, Matthew, and I certainly don’t want you expelled. You’re a good kid. But you’re going to have to meet me in the middle here.” 

Tears. Tears, really? Matthew’s head dropped to his palms as he took rapid, panicky breaths. It was as his Dad always said. What good would crying do? Would crying make everything better? No. Then think of solutions. He bit his cheek hard enough to taste blood, and gingerly raised his head. “Okay. What if I can submit that last assignment? I know I missed the deadline by a lot—"

“Almost a month now?” 

Matthew swallowed. “If I could just…one last chance, please. I can’t be expelled right now. I just can’t.” 

She sighed and pushed her glasses back up on her nose. “All right, fine. I’ll give you one last extension. Deadline is six PM the day after tomorrow, because I am on leave after that for a week.”

The knot in his heart loosened. His throat, becoming tighter, now allowed for a single relieved breath.  “Really? Oh my god, thank you. Thank you, you won’t regret this.”

“I hope not,” she replied softly. “All right, Matthew, take care.” 

Matthew had been so stupid to ignore his schoolwork these past weeks. He could say that it had been too difficult, too traumatic, too stressful, or that he was in too much pain, and the very thought of deadlines made him want to vomit—but those were just excuses. He’d just been lazy. He couldn’t even remember what the assignment was. 

He scrolled through several weeks' worth of emails until he found it. A five-thousand-word essay. In two days. And he hadn’t even started. 

Matthew opened his documents app before he lost his nerve. He just had to get it done. No, not only that--he had to ace this. He had to prove to his professor that he wasn’t just an adequate student, he was a brilliant student, someone with potential and savvy, someone with a unique perspective, someone who deserved this one last chance. 

Chapter Text

He’d had some dull times at the store. And some horrible times, too. Alfred had once been on the receiving end of a twenty-minute diatribe by a woman who couldn’t handle the fact that her coupon had expired. A bunch of stupid teenagers had once messed around in the sauces aisle and ended up breaking a whole shelf of bottled basil pesto. He’d seen two men physically fight over the last pack of XXXTra Large Barbecue Chips on Black Friday (50% off, who could argue with that?) Alfred had once even had to call 911 when someone gave birth in the fresh veggies section. He had to clean that up. And he’d take that any day over the new job. 

Because while the grocery store could be very intense at times, there was nothing worse than rubbing shoulders with arrogant twenty-something finance dudebros whose favourite celebrity was Jordan Peterson. When Alfred introduced himself, they started calling him Freddie—which was already an offence deserving of his worst glare—and then they didn’t laugh when Alfred entered his number on their phones under the name Mercury.

“You know…like Freddie Mercury?”

“Oh,” said the guy named Kyle. 

“Yeah…”

“Sorry, I don’t really listen to gay bands.”

“Gay bands?” 

“It’s called Queen, right? Hey, your dad’s gay, isn’t he?”

On only his second day, Alfred knocked on Dad’s office door and entered with his hands in his pockets. He didn’t like his Dad at work. He was a tough boss, which was expected, but he was also constantly stressed out and snappy. He was always talking about numbers and markets and accounts, like any of that made any sense. He talked about money like it was a living thing, with feelings, and he was constantly on the phone, charming clients. It was hard to believe he and Pops had anything in common at all--at least Alfred could see the romance in Michelin-star cuisine. This job was charmless. No, it was ugly. Lacking soul. 

“Ah, Alfred,” Dad said, gesturing for him to sit. His office was shiny and glinted in the sunshine. A huge glass window overlooked the swankiest parts of the city. His desk was made of polished rosewood and frosted glass. A couple of investment awards sat on the shelf behind him. Clinical white flowers sat in a potted plant at the far corner of the room. Finance magazines were organised by date and name in a tidy spread. There was nothing here. Nothing of the man who cussed when he had too much beer while watching England lose at football. Nothing of the man who could recite Shakespeare from memory. Nothing of the man who couldn’t cook to save his life, but who, inexplicably, made Shepherd's pie from a recipe that smelled and tasted like home. This office belonged to a stranger. And yet, Dad leaned forward and said, “How’s it going, son? Did you learn anything interesting?”

“Yeah, that everyone here is vaguely homophobic.” 

He felt a pang in his heart when Dad's expression softened in sympathetic understanding. Alfred was here only for three months. And nobody knew his sexuality. His father had been here all his life. And he was openly gay, to boot. It must have been unbearable. Perhaps this was something they could bond over.

“Honestly, Alfred, I’ve learnt mostly to ignore it. And when you get to my level, when you make people rich, folks are happy to go along.”

“I’d like it if people respected me for who I was.”

Dad just sipped his espresso and said nothing. Once, over too many beers and a Christmas chill, Dad had divulged a very special story. Back when they first started dating, Arthur Kirkland only drank the worst instant coffee. He couldn’t afford any better, he didn’t know anything about coffee. He just needed something to get him through the day, something to keep him focused, and he didn’t care how it tasted--in fact, he used to drink it black, no sugar, because that was cheapest. The first time he was meeting with a big client, they agreed to meet at a small, up-and-coming French restaurant over a coffee.

Arthur, knowing nothing about coffee, went early. He was new in the industry, desperate to impress, and much poorer than he looked. He stared at the coffee menu for a long time, confused and slightly nervous, until an extremely handsome Frenchman—the owner—walked over and asked if he needed help. They spent the next half an hour discussing coffee, and the owner, one Francis Bonnefoy, offered to send him an espresso on the house. 

Espresso became their first language of love, and even now, it was the only way Dad ever drank his coffee. These sorts of stories humanised him in Alfred’s eyes. It almost made him think they could be friends. 

“How can you stand it?” Alfred pressed. “When you came out the world was even less accepting.” 

Dad just sipped his espresso. He glanced out the window, then back to him again. “I just wanted to rise through the ranks,” he said. “Which is not easy to do when you’re openly gay and never invited to the cocaine-filled strip-club parties.”

“Wait, what?”

“Oh, yeah. Certain facets of the financial industry are…well, let’s say, dominated by vice. It’s genuinely where a lot of networking takes place.” He smiled, like they were sharing an inside joke. “But I just focused on doing my best work. It’s something they couldn’t ignore. So I learnt to tune out the other stuff.” 

“But—”

“I had student loans to pay, Alfred. And my mother was very sick, so I had to help pay for her medical expenses too. I couldn’t afford to be soft about it. But I promise you, aside from the hazing—which, by the way, is no longer tolerated, not here, at least, I’ve made sure of that—it really is a fascinating industry. You can scoff all you want about money. I know a lot of kids your age do. But to get anywhere in life, you need to know how money works.” 

Alfred rolled his eyes. “I’m not even sure I believe in the concept of money.”

Dad chortled. “Of course not. Your fancy sneakers and hair products just grow on trees.” 

Right, that was true. Alfred did like to buy things. Like his art supplies, which didn’t come cheap. 

“Suppose you want to start a business someday,” Dad said, leaning across his desk. He rested his chin over his interlinked palms, and his green eyes seemed to cut Alfred’s stature by half. “You’d need to understand how to get a loan, how to pay it off. You’d need to understand the various investment decisions that come with owning a business. I’m not even talking about owning a big business, I’m talking about a small operation. Even freelancers are, technically, small business owners. It helps, Alfred, to understand how money works. So even if you don’t care about this job, think about how it could teach you to do another job better.” He paused. “Even your other father understands this, you know. He’s an artist at heart, but he’s also a cutthroat businessman when he has to be. Look where he is now.” 

“I’m not suited for this.”

“Just give it a try. ” 

Alfred left the office feeling confused and uneasy. He vaguely agreed with his Dad. But in a real sense, that meant dealing with assholes like Kyle as they made creepy jokes about female celebrities and squeezed a single stress ball while rolling around on wheely chairs. He also had to look at reports he couldn’t understand, and research companies he couldn’t care less about. 

He texted Matthew around lunchtime to check in. Matthew just replied, cant talk, i have an assignment due 

“Typical Mattie,” he muttered under his breath. “Always Mr. Perfect.” 

He brightened at a text from Kiku. He said nothing, just shared a link, which Alfred only opened when he was at lunch. He’d gone early, snagging a seat alone before Kyle showed up. Not like Kiku was going to share something weird—knowing him, the link would be about anime or manga leaks, and Alfred had no desire to explain his interest to these dudebros. 

The webpage was colourful and cool, with fun typography. Alfred always liked those types of sites. 

Beyond the Drawbvious - A Contest for Comic Artists

Have an idea for an awesome comic book?
Always wanted to publish your own graphic novel? 

Bored of the bigwigs? 

Here’s your chance! 

We’re looking for comics that are ORIGINAL, GENRE-BENDING, and STUNNINGLY-ILLUSTRATED! 

Think your work qualifies?
Send us up to 20 pages! 

Winners get a cash prize + an exclusive contract with a major national publisher!

Apply TODAY! 

Alfred just blinked. 

-Kiku wtf

-You should participate, Kiku responded. With that superhero-without-powers idea you had. 

-Dude, I do NOT have the art skills to pull this off
-This looks like a big contest
-I’m not gonna win!!
-Also like, i’m not a good artist
-YOU should participate

-I’m participating in a manga-specific Japanese contest around the same time, Kiku replied. I want to focus on that. What’s your excuse?

Alfred stared. Kiku was not usually so…what was the word? Snarky? 

-dude, it’s not an excuse
-I just think it’s disrespectful to actual artists if someone like me participates 

-What, Kiku replied, does that even mean, Alfred 

-Like i’m not a proper artist??
-I’m still learning ya know 

“Alfred!” It was the intern coordinator, standing at the far end of the cafeteria. “Are you done with lunch? You’re needed!”

Ugh. 

-Gtg work

-(◞‸◟；), Kiku sent, before Alfred put his phone away. Alfred didn’t know what that kaomoji was supposed to mean, but he wasn’t going to ask. The conversation had already scared him enough. 

Alfred came home from work alone. Interns got to leave earlier, unless something urgent cropped up. Dad was still in his office, poring over his screen. Pops was home, though, making a quick one-pot dinner. He beamed at Alfred when he approached, and beckoned him over for a kiss. Pops was always real affectionate like that, which was not something Alfred took for granted. He knew people who had fathers that barely spoke to them. He fought with his parents, often, sure, but he was also under no illusions; they were happy in this house. 

“How was your second day at work?” he asked, gesturing for Alfred to sit. 

Alfred shrugged. “I can’t believe you were ever attracted to Dad.”

Pops let out a cackling laugh. “Not to his business-side, no. Though there he has a certain je ne sais quoi when he’s in positions of leadership. When he takes charge, you know.”

“Ew.”

Pops through him a smile over his shoulder. “You have your mind in the gutter, young Alfie,” he said. “But I would say I was attracted to him because he looked like such a lost lamb when he first walked into my restaurant. It was kind of refreshing. He made no effort to conceal his discomfort and lack of knowledge. And listened quite attentively when I did what I do best—talk about French food!” 

Alfred shook his head. He allowed himself to lean against the back of the chair, slouching so that his spine was barely supporting him. “This internship is seriously boring.” 

“Well then, what would you like to do?”

Oh, he was far too tired to have this conversation. Not after a whole day of working alongside Kyle. Alfred immediately straightened and stood. “I would like to have a shower. See ya.” 

“Attends,” Pops gestured to him. Alfred paused. “Could you check on Mattie? He’s been holed up in his room for hours and he’s very irritable. Won’t tell me what’s wrong.” 

“Why would he tell me?”

“He might.” 

Alfred felt it was almost stupid to ask. What was wrong with Mattie? Everything, at least right now. The guy could barely walk and twenty years of his life had been turned to dust. He was allowed to be a little moody. Nevertheless, Alfred knocked on the door, and when he heard no response, he turned the knob. Matthew had his headphones on. His eyes were glued to his computer, and his fingers were flying across the keyboard, typing up a storm. He didn’t look up, even when Alfred waved at him. 

Alfred pressed his fingers into the back of his neck, massaging a stiff spot. He approached the bed and yanked Matthew’s headphones off. 

“ALFRED!” Matthew roared, and shoved his hand away. “Can you not?”

“Dude, calm down, okay?” he snapped. He thought he’d been in full support of Matthew being a bit of a jerk but Alfred was already annoyed with him. “I was waving in your face and you ignored me. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” Matthew turned back to the screen and simply continued typing. It looked like he was working on an essay. He’d only managed about a thousand words. As Alfred watched, Matthew typed a new sentence, made four different typos, and had to hit backspace on the whole thing. His hands were actually shaking. 

“Dude, Mattie, what’s going on?”

“Just an assignment.”

“You kind of look like you’re…I don’t know, panicking?”

“It’s just an assignment,” Matthew hissed, his expression wild and viperlike. Alfred rolled his eyes. 

“Don’t talk to me like that, Matt. I’ve had a long day too.” 

“Yeah, boo fucking hoo, a long day at your prestigious internship that you walked into because your boss is your dad. Some of us have actual problems.”

Alfred’s vision turned red. “You know what. Fuck off.” He slipped his hands into his pockets “I don’t need your attitude right now.”

“And I don’t need your whining.”

“Asshole,” Alfred snapped, slamming the door behind him as he left the room. Pops was staring at him with wide eyes. He’d heard the whole thing, probably. They rarely fought, so any raised voices between them always made their parents curious. 

“Mattie’s just being a dick,” Alfred muttered, walking up the stairs. “Let me know when he gets his head out of his ass.” 

-You vanished 

-Yea, sorry, Alfred responded. The hot shower had cooled him down. Smelling of lemon shampoo, his skin still pink from the steam, he flopped down on the bed and pulled the duvet over his chest. He wanted to draw, but he was so tired, and now that he’d had his bath, he couldn’t even bear the thought of eating dinner. He certainly didn’t have the energy to work on his comic. Besides, 

-this competition thing spooked me a bit. 

Alfred…He could almost hear Kiku sigh over text. You can’t be afraid of failure or you’ll never get anywhere 

Right. Yeah, he’d heard that a lot. He lived in a family of superheroes. And it was so easy for them to say he should try, and be fearless in the face of failures. They’d never failed before, so what did they even know? 

-I really do think that comic is great
-And I think you’re very funny
-I think people would enjoy reading it
-Plus you’re a great artist
-I know you think you’re not, but you spend so much time practising
-And it shows! 

You’re just saying that because you’re my friend, Alfred replied. He felt almost bitter towards Kiku. He didn’t need pity from people better than him. Alfred knew exactly what he was worth, and it did not add up to a lot. He didn’t need to be patronised. 

-Look, don’t write it off.
-Think about it, at least 

All right, I’ll think about it. Just because Alfred wanted to stop talking about this now. His day had felt endless, and something inexplicable was weighing on his heart. It had been many years since he’d felt so low, so worn out. He had this stupid childish need to be comforted, but he didn’t know why. Nothing had happened to warrant this feeling. He wasn’t the one with the messed up leg and the ravaged future. He wasn’t the one suffering. What right did he have to feel so awful? 

Alfred turned on his side and put his phone down. Either he could stay up all night, feeling sorry for himself, or he could go to sleep. So he shut his eyes. 

Hunger woke Alfred before his alarm could. It was barely six am. He crawled out of bed and cleaned up, then went to the kitchen to forage. There was a light leaking under Mattie’s door. In the old days, Mattie was the first to wake. He was such a jock. He’d go for his morning run, rain or snow. But there was no need for Mattie to be up so early now. Alfred got started on coffee—two cups, plus some toast, and took them over to Matthew’s room. 

Matthew was still hacking away at his keyboard. He had his headphones off, so he was aware of Alfred coming in. He blinked up at him, at the coffee and the toast. A peace offering. 

“You done being a dick?” Alfred said in greeting. 

Matthew swallowed and nodded. Alfred passed the cup over, and Matthew took it with a mumbled thanks. Alfred settled on the edge of the bed and balanced the plate of toast on the mattress. He took a slice and ripped off a large bite. 

“Sorry,” Matthew murmured. 

“How’s the assignment going?” 

Worryingly, Matthew pressed the hot cup of coffee against his temple. He only ever did that when he was trying to ease an oncoming migraine. He didn't get those when they were younger, but he’d since had so many hard concussions that they had become a regular facet of life. Mostly, Matthew could just sleep them off, and they eased in a couple of hours. Still, Alfred sometimes resented the sport Matthew loved so much. It wasn’t right, for a person to have to take such a beating. Alfred pretended not to be bothered by it, but it disturbed him to see his twin brother deal with so much abuse. If it were done by bullies, Alfred hoped he could fight them off. But this was Matthew’s passion, the sport he’d dedicated his life to. So what could Alfred even say? 

“The assignment’s shit,” Matthew said, closing his eyes as he pressed the cup deeper into his temple. It was always a balancing act. Once Alfred saw him accidentally pour hot water down his face. “I’ve been up all night working on it,” he went on, “I got to about three thousand words before I deleted the whole thing and started over.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because it was shit,” Matthew reiterated. “I know I can do better.” 

“Are you getting a migraine?” Alfred asked, as Matthew pulled the cup away from his temple, leaving a pink impression on his skin. 

“Aren’t I always?” he said with a wry smile. 

Alfred set the toast slice back down on the plate, wiped his buttery palm on his PJs, and slowly lowered the laptop screen. “You should sleep, then. No point working yourself sick. You can always do it tomorrow.” 

Matthew flipped the laptop open again. “Deadline’s today. Besides, I don’t want to sleep in again. Papa has already discouraged me from doing that.”

“When do you ever sleep in, Mattie?”

Matthew’s expression was oddly guilty. “It’s been known to happen.” 

“What, the day before?” Alfred almost laughed. “Is that the first time you’ve overslept in…how many years? Don’t listen to Dad and Pops, they can be so crazy about this stuff. They’re very Type A.” 

Matthew’s chuckle was a soft thing. “They are.” But his eyes just swivelled back to his laptop. “I do need to finish this, though.” 

“Sure, okay.” Alfred stood with the plate of toast. He was nearly at the door when he heard Matthew call his name. He turned, and Matthew was back to pressing the cup against his temple. 

“I wanted to say I’m sorry you’re having a hard time at that internship. I know you didn’t want to do it.” 

“Oh.” Alfred was strangely touched. He smiled, then shrugged. “It’s also true that I walked into a job thousands of others pray to get, right? I shouldn’t complain.” He hesitated, then. If ever there was a moment to confide in Matthew, it would be now—to say, by the way, Mattie, did you know I like drawing? Now, when they were the only two awake in the house, freshly calmed after the previous night’s fight, after joking about their parents being Type A, after nursing some real camaraderie. But Alfred’s eyes fell over Matthew’s plaster. And he wasn’t sure his love for his comics could ever measure up to the courage and passion it took to get that badly injured and live to tell the tale. He couldn’t even convince himself to take part in a contest, after all. So Alfred swallowed his confession, clamped it hard down inside his stomach, and said, “I gotta get ready for work now. Good luck with the essay.” 

When Alfred blinked, he could see statistics. He barely knew how to read statistics. They were peeling back his brain, one layer at a time, the way Pop’s stainless steel julienne peeler decimated a cucumber. Alfred tried to remind himself that this would all make sense someday. That this was just a three-month stint. And that one day—hopefully soon—Kyle would drop dead and Alfred would never have to hear another “that’s what she said” joke again. All right, Alfred conceded to himself, it’s not the internship that’s the problem. It’s the fact that I don’t know what comes next.

Could he go back to the grocery store after this? Would his parents allow that? They wouldn’t be happy, surely, but they’d likely not stop him. Was that what Alfred wanted to do? Or was it just something he thought he could? In an ideal world, Alfred honestly had no problem doing the same job for the rest of his life. It wasn’t that he liked it, or was especially passionate about retail. But the pressure to be talented at something, talented enough to make a career out of it—scared him. Or he could just throw in the towel now and join the cynical ranks of white-collar workers like Dad, who made bank and shouted on the phone about things like debt-to-equity-ratio. 

And I’d probably need to go to school for that. And any university experience would just result in Alfred getting straight Fs until they kicked him out. It had been a minor miracle he graduated high school in the first place. 

He wished he could get out of his head! He’d been in a blue haze since last night, and now he couldn’t even focus on this asset research assignment he’d been given. 

The unlikeliest person saved him. 

Dad.

“Alfred?” Dad said, coming over to his desk. “Want to grab lunch?”

The other interns glanced his way. Now, the classy thing to do would be to say, Thanks Dad, but I think I’ll eat with my friends in the cafeteria. But if Alfred had to go one more second listening to Kyle talk about reverse racism, he was going to beat him to death with a plastic tray. 

“Yes,” Alfred said immediately, and shot out of his seat. The others were probably giving him dirty looks, but what did that matter? He fell into step beside Dad, and they walked across the shiny floors towards the glimmering glass elevator. He had to admit, this location was stunning. It was the swankiest part of town. Their office was on the fortieth floor! 

“Papa is meeting us for lunch,” Dad said as the elevator doors opened. 

“Oh really? How come?” Alfred’s uncertainty slipped into his voice. This felt like an ambush…What would they do next? Lecture him about his life of failure and laziness?

“He happened to be in the area. He’s having a meeting with some magazine editors. They want to do a feature on his restaurants.” The elevator rolled down, flying through the spine of the skyscraper. Alfred’s stomach plummeted with the descent. 

“Oh, wow.” 

“Yes. I wish Matthew could be here too, then it would be a nice family meal. Even if it’s just a quick Wednesday work lunch.” He glanced at Alfred. “Could you drop him a message? He’s been strangely quiet on the phone today.” 

Oh God, Mattie. He probably had a killer migraine, poor guy. Alfred whipped out his phone and dropped a hasty, sup dude. He wasn’t expecting a reply. Sure enough, as the minutes passed, Alfred’s text went unanswered. They were walking down the busy blocks towards an upscale Korean restaurant. The customers there were all in business formals. Pops already had a table. He waved them over.

“How are my two financial men?” Pops asked, smiling in this endearing, jokey way that even lightened Alfred’s melancholia.

“Absolutely screwed over the quarterly reports, I’m afraid,” Dad said. “It’s going to be a long and stressful night…” 

“Oh, not you too.” Pops scoured the menu. “The chef here does an absolutely divine bulgogi.” 

“Wait, what do you mean ‘not you too’?” 

Pops glanced up. “We have some VIPs coming tonight at the downtown restaurant. Party of twenty-five, if you can believe it. They have a late reservation, too, so I just know it’s going to be a stressful evening.” 

“So you’ll be home late?”

“Yes, Arthur! What are you having to eat?”

“The tofu, I think.” Dad shut the menu. “Does that mean Matthew’ll be home alone until…bloody hell, until whatever time we get home?” 

Alfred said nothing. Kept his mouth in his water glass. 

Pops looked thunderstruck. “Arthur! Don’t say that! I haven’t made him any dinner! I thought you’d be home and you could fry some burgers or something.” He whipped out his phone, presumably to text Matthew. “Of course, he can order some takeout, but then, how will he manage with the door and the food and the crutches? Oh my god, Arthur, what if something bad happens? What if he falls down? I don’t think my heart can take it. Not after seeing him post-surgery in that godawful hospital bed! I think I’d die of stress if he even stubs his toe now.”

“Francis…” Dad said, exasperated. A waiter was approaching them. “Francis, can you hold off on the dramatics for a minute so we can give our order? Alfred, what are you eating?” 

Once the orders were out of the way, Dad whipped his head back to Pops, who kept texting up a storm on the group chat. Alfred hadn’t looked at his phone, but he was getting the alerts anyway. Pops was getting more and more hysterical with each unanswered message. 

“Arthur, something is wrong. Matthew isn’t answering. We must go back. Arthur—”

“Francis, Francis, please.” He leaned forward and put a hand on Pop’s wrist, slowly directing him to set the phone down. “I’m sure Matthew is just fine. He’s probably resting, the poor lad. And Alfred, surely you can go home early today? Say, around six-ish? You and your brother can order whatever greasy fast food you like for dinner, eh? That should be fun.” 

“I would hate to leave you hanging on such an important work day, Dad,” Alfred said, voice brimming with false sincerity. “But anything for family.” 

On the way back, Alfred pulled out his phone and texted Matthew on their private chat. 

-Mattie, dude, it’s just you and me for dinner
-Any prefs? 

During his 4pm coffee break, Alfred took a break from imagining himself throttling Kyle, and texted, Matthew, at least tell me if you’re reading this cuz it’s getting a little concerning

At six in the morning, Matthew had been pressing a coffee cup into his temple. Now he’d gone radio silent. Alfred stared at the chat, scrolling up to old conversations and stupid jokes. Maybe it was a twin thing, or perhaps just instinct, but Alfred was sure something had gone horrendously wrong.

“Texting your girlfriend?” Kyle sneered, trying to grab his phone. Alfred slapped his hands away. “What’s her name, Freddie? Show us a picture!”

It was embarrassing how quickly Alfred thought of Kiku. He would sort of love the chance to show off Kiku as his brilliant and attractive boyfriend. But Kyle could stuff it. 

“Texting my brother, actually,” Alfred muttered. 

“Yeah, right,” Kyle laughed. “Is he the one who got beat up during figure skating practice?”

Alfred blinked. 

“Yeah, I heard about that. Apparently your dad was freaking out. I can’t blame him, though, I mean, a guy doing that sort of pussy shit—”

I am going to slam you against a wall. I am going to knee you in the crotch. I am going to beat you with the business end of Matthew’s ice skates. Alfred bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to break skin, hard enough to taste blood. But he was not that kind of guy. Alfred was not a vigilante. He was not Superman. He wasn’t going to play hero. 

Because Matthew wouldn’t rise to such a stupid jab, Matthew’s masculinity wasn’t fragile enough to need defending, and protecting Matthew, right now, had nothing to do with Kyle. 

“Take a step back,” Alfred said darkly, and even he could hear the threat in his voice. He relished the way Kyle’s gaze flickered. How his smirk blinkered like a lightbulb in a cabin. Instinctively, he backed off, and Alfred pushed past him, straight to Dad’s office.

He didn’t knock. 

Dad glanced up from the computer. “Alfred?” He frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“I need to go,” he said. “I need to check on Mattie. I think...Dad, something is wrong. He hasn’t answered a single text all day, and I have a really bad feeling.” 

Without another word, Dad opened the desk drawer and tossed him the car keys. “Alfred, if you think it’s needed, don’t hesitate, just call 911.”

“Yep.” Alfred turned on his heels. He only paused long enough to grab his bag and then marched out of the office.

Alfred had the sense not to speed on the highway—their parents didn’t need both sons with mortal injuries—and took the back lanes to avoid traffic. He reached home at quarter to five. 

The second he got through the front door, he could hear it. The sound of someone retching. The house was pitch dark.

“Oh, god, Matthew,” Alfred groaned under his breath, throwing the keys on the table. He switched on the kitchen light, dropped his bag in a random corner and burst into Matthew’s room. The state of it nearly made him stop in his tracks. 

Matthew had somehow clogged every leak of light entering the room. He’d duct-taped his duvet over the blinds, to block out the daylight that snuck in through the shuttered slats. A pillow had been stripped off its cover, Matthew’s laptop stuffed inside it. Kumajiro was face down on the bed, his back half ripped open. The toy’s stuffing was falling out of its seams. Alfred saw the hard edge of Matthew’s phone shoved inside the toy, in a desperate attempt to block out the lights and sounds. (How had he even done that? Did he use a fork?) 

“Mattie?” Alfred whispered, walking blind. The light from the kitchen was the only thing guiding his path. He could smell the vomit. He could hear Matthew in agony. The bathroom door was thrown wide open, and Matthew’s crutches were lying flat on their side on the tiled floor. 

For one heart-stopping second, Alfred was sure Matthew had fallen over. Then his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, and he saw Matthew sitting at the edge of the bathtub, his plaster foot resting on the floor. Matthew was hugging a bucket on his lap. 

“Mattie...”

“Alfred.” Matthew’s voice was raw but also somehow congested, like he’d been sobbing. “Everything’s ruined.”

Alfred took another cautious step into the bathroom. It was essential that he kept his voice low. Matthew’s migraines were never this bad, not ever, but the fourth concussion had clearly made things a hundred times worse. 

“There’s a weight on my chest,” Matthew gasped. “It feels like I can’t breathe! I’m in so much pain I can’t breathe!” 

“Okay, okay, okay.” Alfred patted his back. “Can I walk you to the bed?” 

It was terrifying. Either the migraine had fucked up his sense of balance, or Matthew was so dehydrated he was feeling faint, but he couldn’t stand straight. Alfred had to half-carry, half-drag Matthew out of the bathroom. Matthew was openly sobbing in a way Alfred had never, ever seen before, not on him, not on anyone. Somehow, he managed to get him into bed. “Matt,” he whispered, talking out his cell, “Matt, you’re going to be fine, I’m gonna call 911.”

“No!” Matthew howled, and Alfred jumped. 

“Matthew—”

Clammy fingers gripped Alfred’s wrist so hard he nearly dropped his phone. “Alfred,” he wept, “Alfred, please, if there’s one thing you could do for me, it’s to not make a big deal of this. Please, please, please—I’ll owe you for the rest of my life, I’ll do anything you want, ever. DON’T call an ambulance.” 

“Matthew!” Alfred wrenched himself free. He wanted to say—well, something, anything—but he’d been rendered speechless. “You—this—I can’t—”

“You HAVE to,” Matthew sobbed. He pressed his hands into his eyes. “Please, please, please, I’ll do anything. I can’t go to the hospital right now, the deadline is in an hour and I need to write the conclusion—” 

“This is about your fucking assignment?” Alfred exploded. “Are you kidding me?”

Matthew let out a guttural cry and Alfred killed his voice immediately. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “didn’t mean to raise my voice. But Mattie, holy shit, it’s just an assignment, it doesn’t matter. You’re in pain—"

“I’ll be okay—”

“Oh my god.” Alfred just gaped at him. “Matthew, you can’t be serious. Look, I love you dude, but I’m not a doctor.”

“I don’t need medical help, Alfred!” Matthew, through some force of magic, probably, managed to push himself into a sitting position. “I can’t look at the screen. I’ve puked every time I’ve even tried. I need you to type for me. I’ll dictate.” 

“You’re insane. It’s just a grade!”

“It’s NOT!” Matthew hollered. “Please, please, please, I’ll do anything you ever want, anything, please.”

Alfred was going to go to hell for this. “Okay, okay, okay!” He shushed Matthew and pushed him down flat against the pillows, careful to support his head so the impact didn’t jerk his migraine. 

Superman wouldn’t do this shit, right? Growing up, Alfred had loved his comic heroes so much, but they were so decisive and strong, and they wanted to save people. They didn’t make deals like this. Right? Fuck. Alfred didn’t know what to do. Could he obey his instincts? Or was he supposed to just give into Matthew's demands? 

“Matt, listen to me,” Alfred said. He was picking at the bite at the inside of his cheek, teasing blood onto his tongue. “I’m going to get you some electrolytes. How long have you been puking? You’re dehydrated and it’s dangerous. You’re going to drink it all down, and only then, will I consider typing for you.”

He didn’t hear an argument, which was concerning. Had Mattie fainted? Alfred ran to the kitchen and dug around in the fridge until he found a bottle of Gatorade. He had no idea how old it was, but it didn’t matter. He poured it into one of his big Coca-Cola glasses and brought it back to Matthew’s room. 

Mattie had, once again, managed to sit upright. His eyes were screwed shut, but his fingers curled around the glass as Alfred handed it to him, and with a little help from Alfred, he managed to lift the glass to his mouth and drink. Matthew managed about a quarter of the Gatorade before he turned his head away, and Alfred, fearing he may throw up if pushed to drink more, set it down on the nightstand. He fished out the laptop from the pillowcase and turned it on. Even with the brightness at the lowest setting, blue light splashed on Alfred’s face. Beside him, even with his eyes shut, Matthew let out a muffled sob. “Sit somewhere else, Alfred,” he whimpered. “I can’t breathe from the pain.” 

“That’s some 911 shit, Mattie,” Alfred murmured, but stood and found a free patch on the floor, well out of his line of sight. He knew Matthew’s password, so he toggled over to the essay. It was a disastrous mess of typos and repetitions, but Alfred didn’t say a word. Matthew would just go ballistic and insist on redoing the whole thing. “Okay, I’m ready. Dictate.” 

Matthew’s voice was barely audible. “In…conclusion…”

Alfred typed. 

“...the data indicates…”

Even the clack of the keys was making Matthew’s voice hitch. 

“That the…uh…fuck…I forgot what I was going to...oh. That A/B testing—”

And then Alfred’s phone rang.

It went off like a gong, blasting out of his pocket, into the deadly silent space of Matthew’s migraine burrow, and Matthew let out a gasping scream. He shoved a pillow over his head and burst into a sitting position again. Alfred dove, rapid and terrified, to answer the phone, to shut it off, to do something—

Matthew leaned over the bed and was violently sick. 

“Oh my god, Matt—” he hit the answer button when he saw the caller ID and shut the laptop with a snap. He tore out of the bedroom and to the kitchen where he could at least speak normally. “Dad?” he gasped. “Dad, oh my god.”

“Alfred, I was hoping you’d call me!” He sounded so scared. “What the hell is going on there? How is Matthew?”

Even from here, Alfred could hear Matthew vomiting. 

“Matthew’s…he’s not good. He’s not good, Dad. I’m calling 911.”

Chapter Text

It was hard to encapsulate what the next several hours were like. Matthew couldn’t tell if he was conscious or caught in a nightmare. Nee-naa-nee-naa went the ambulance, and it drowned out the sound of every living thing. They shot him up with Ketorolac and an IV to rehydrate him. Matthew either fell asleep or passed out, but when he woke next, the pain had stopped. 

His brain still felt bruised, like it had been beaten flat with a meat tenderiser. He couldn’t think past the head haze, and the lights still scalded him. But his parents were there, and Alfred, whose face was splotchy like he’d spent the last hour crying, and eventually—it was just before dawn, Matthew learnt—he was allowed to go home.

Nobody said anything. That was the eeriest part. Matthew heard no lecture from Dad, no dramatics from Papa, no comment, no joke, no jibe from Alfred. But he was allowed back into the bedroom, which had been cleaned and smelled strongly of disinfectant. He was put into bed. The lights were switched off. And Matthew saw Alfred walk off with his laptop. 

When Matthew awoke next, it was mid-afternoon. He could hear sounds from the kitchen. Matthew lay there, shaken, and considered going back to sleep. His leg hurt, as usual. It hurt a lot. But his head and neck were pain-free and tender. He’d never had a migraine so devastating before. Usually they were just bad headaches, that at worst put him out for a day. He’d never thrown up because of a migraine before, never had to be rushed to a hospital, never had to be injected with an NSAID. 

Alfred poked his head in through the door. He was in tracks and a t-shirt he’d found at Comic Con last year. In his hands he had a mixing bowl. A chocolate chip was stuck to his cheek. “Hey, Matt, good morning.”

Matthew sat up. “Hi, Alfred.” 

“You feeling better?”

Matthew swallowed and nodded. The gesture sent a warning shot of pain through his temple. He immediately stopped. “I really need to wash my mouth, though, yuck.”

Alfred’s eyes darted to the restroom. “Need my help walking?”

“No, I think I’m good.” He reached for his crutches. 

Matthew took his time. He brushed his teeth thrice. He had a hot, slow bath with the hand shower, directing the steaming water at his head. It parted away the worst of the brain fog, though he could tell he’d be feeling hazy for at least the rest of the day. When he finally emerged in the kitchen, he was glad to be smelling of shampoo and seafoam soap and toothpaste, and not stale vomit. 

Alfred was shoving a tray of cookies in the oven. 

“What are you doing?” Matthew asked, settling down on a chair.

Alfred glanced over his shoulder and wiped his hands on his tracks. He put on some coffee. “I can make you scrambled eggs for breakfast, if you’re feeling up to a meal,” he said by way of response.

“Uh, sure, thank you. What are you making all those cookies for?”

“Oh.” Alfred’s laugh was high-pitched. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and turned his back on Matthew. He knelt in front of the oven and stared through the glass, as though watching an engrossing movie. “I’m stress-baking, I think. Like Pops does.”

Matthew’s heart sank. “Alfred, I’m really sorry—”

“—I found this recipe book in the cabinets so I’m trying it out. How hard could it be, really, to follow a recipe? And Pops said I could text him if I have any questions, so I probably won’t burn the house down?”

“Alfred.” Matthew sucked on his lower lip. “I’m really sorry about yesterday.”

“No need to be sorry, Mattie, you were sick.”

“For making you write my conclusion.” Matthew covered his eyes. “I can’t believe I couldn’t send it out in time.” 

He only hoped his professor would understand. What could he do? He’d sell his soul and everything in him to go back in time, to be a better student, to possibly avoid getting bodied in the first place. 

“You were sick, Matthew,” Alfred said, his voice cool. “Really, really sick. It was terrifying. And all you cared about was your stupid essay. Let it go, it doesn’t matter. You’re going to kill yourself overdoing it at this rate.” 

“I don’t overdo it,” Matthew mumbled. Alfred said nothing for several minutes. He set down a coffee cup in front of Matthew and turned away. 

“No, you got bodied on the ice because you were taking it easy.” 

“It’s a sport!” Matthew snapped, already annoyed and too tired to fight. “It’s my favourite sport!” He stared down at the black ink of caffeine in the mug. “Maybe not anymore.” 

“You could stand to be a bit more like me, you know,” Alfred muttered. He leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. “It wouldn’t kill you to relax a little bit. In fact, it might just save your life.” 

“I guess it doesn’t matter anymore, anyway,” Matthew said in an undertone. He’d been kicked off the hockey team, and now, he was likely going to get expelled. Nothing at all mattered. He’d had the noose of accomplishment on his neck his entire life, and now it had come undone. He was free.

“What do you mean?” Alfred squinted. “What do you mean it doesn’t matter anymore?”

Matthew didn’t answer. He pivoted, instead. “What are you doing home in the middle of the day?”

“Dad suggested it. Someone had to watch over you, we couldn’t have a repeat of yesterday.” 

Shame flooded Matthew’s face. He covered his eyes with his hands. “I’m so sorry it came to this. I’m so sorry.”

“Mattie,” Alfred sighed. “It’s okay, dude. You’re saving me from a day of listening to assholes like Kyle.”

“Who’s Kyle?’

“Oh my god, Kyle.” The kitchen was starting to smell of freshly baked cookies. Alfred poured himself a coffee and pulled up a chair. “Where do I even begin?” 

Hi Matthew,

We need to talk about your future at this university.

Could you come in, sometime this week? 

Thanks. 

Matthew told nobody. He didn’t know why. His parents would certainly find out when Matthew failed to graduate with the rest of his cohort. They’d know, when the plaster came off and Matthew didn’t resume classes. They’d be furious. They’d be so disappointed. They’d never forgive him. Matthew was such a waste of fucking space—how could he tell them something like that? Where was he supposed to find that kind of courage? How could he confess and watch the love leave their eyes? He was supposed to be on top of this. This was his education, his future, his responsibility. How could he have let them down so badly?

So, Matthew told nobody. He waited for a few days, until his parents finally felt safe at the thought of leaving him home alone again. Alfred had to go to work anyway, and while Matthew had feared his parents would be overprotective—especially Papa—he had managed to convince them to back off a bit. (“I thought I could handle it, but this migraine was much worse than I expected. If it ever happens again, I’ll tell you guys first thing. I’m so sorry, I love you so much, I promise I’ll take better care of myself.”) 

Matthew took an Uber to the university. The sheer normalcy on campus was disorienting. He’d been out of commission for weeks, and his life had been nothing but pain and ennui ever since, but the world was moving on regardless. It really didn’t matter, did it? It didn’t matter that Matthew had been injured on the ice. It didn’t matter that he was going to get expelled. In the grand scheme of things, none of this crap that he cared so much about, mattered. 

Hello Matthew, check in with us, please, or we’ll all panic. How are you feeling? 

It was Dad. He sighed as he typed, I’m not home. 

-What?!

-Are you trying to give me a heart attack mon chou!!! 

-Dude mattie what lol???

-Um, yeah, a friend of mine had a birthday and i was feeling kinda lonely and bored so i took an uber. Matthew stared at the message a little longer, then added, i’ll be back home soon though! I’ll probs catch a ride with the others. It’s good to see them all :) Oh, i’ve reached now! Love you! Bye! 

He didn’t feel too bad about the white lie. He just didn’t want them to come home to check on him or something and find him missing. 

“Mattie?”

He turned to the voice. Silver-haired, crimson-eyed, with a t-shirt clinging to his biceps, Gilbert strode over. He was grinning like a fox, a backpack hanging off his shoulder in a display of casual college ease. “Dude, Mattie!” he cried, “You’re up! Why didn’t you tell me you were here? Can I hug you?”

“Hey, Gilbert,” Matthew said softly. “I’d love to hug you but I’m a little scared I’ll keel over.” 

“Ah.” Gilbert glanced down at the crutches. His grin melted to an understanding smile. “No worries! Where are you going? Are you back at classes? We should eat! Are you free today?” He leaned closer. “By the way,” he whispered, “I have the stuff. If you want to do that later.”

“Oh, really?” Matthew swallowed a bubble of apprehension. He was habitually conditioned to say no to weed. He had always been curious to try it, but he’d also always been bound by the rules of the sport. But now it doesn’t matter. And the pain in his foot was so constant, so tiring. And he’d asked Gilbert, right? So why not just do it? There were no consequences anymore. None whatsoever. “Yeah,” he grinned. “Okay, yeah, let’s do that. I have to finish off some business here, but afterwards?”

“Sure. I’m done with classes, just text me! I’ll come fetch you in my car so we don’t have to walk.” 

“Oh, thanks, yeah perfect.” 

It was a long meeting. Or it felt longer because Matthew was so disgusted by their attitude. His professors were all there, along with his academic advisor and the head of the department. They were talking about his poor grades, his unfinished assignments, his negligent attendance record. “It was because I was constantly at hockey practice,” Matthew said, though he knew it was futile. He had to make a case at least. “Because I was trying to do my best to win games for this university. And I’m not saying my academic record wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t an expulsion-worthy offence until after I got kicked out of the hockey team.” 

“This is a university, at the end of the day. You’re here to study.” 

“Yes, it’s all well and good to play sports, Lord knows it’s good to be fit…”

“But academics come first.” 

“And it’s just not good enough to spend all your time at university having fun.”

“Having fun?” Matthew repeated. “I’m sorry, what part of nearly bleeding to death sounds fun to you? You think I’ve been having fun these last few weeks? Do you have any idea the pain I’ve been in?” 

“Well, then you should have tried harder to avoid getting bodychecked. Right?” The department head raised his eyebrow. 

“Oh, so it’s my fault I got hurt.” 

“I’m saying that clearly, all those so-called practices didn’t amount to anything when push came to shove. Literally.” He had the audacity to look sympathetic. “I’m sorry Matthew, but with this kind of academic performance, I can’t let you graduate. It wouldn’t be fair to the other students.” 

Matthew just stood. He gripped his crutches harder than he needed to, and he eyed them all with his dirtiest glare. “You guys…none of you guys…would last five minutes in a student-athletes’s shoes. None of you. So I’m not going to sit around and listen to you condescend to me anymore. You want to expel me? Fine. Do it.” 

And it was so freeing, so blissfully freeing, to leave that office and its noose behind. 

Matthew was on his own now. He stood in the sun and watched students pass him by. They had tests, assignments, standards, consequences, pressures, demands—

—and he could breathe. None of it mattered. None of it mattered anymore. 

“You’re not doing this right.” 

Gilbert’s dorm room was surprisingly tidy. Matthew didn’t know what else he expected, really, but they were sprawled out on his bed with a large bag of potato chips, as Matthew tried very hard to inhale from the bud. There was more to this than he’d previously expected. He’d never smoked a cigarette before, so he didn’t know what to do. He inhaled deeply from the roach, but the second he took a puff, it left his lips in a plume of thick smoke. Gilbert, stuffing crisps into his mouth, just kept laughing. 

He wasn’t getting high with Matthew. As promised, he was “keeping an eye” on him. “I’m not going to let you smoke the whole thing,” he’d said when they started. “You’re so new to this, I’m sure you’ll just fall asleep. So I’ll roll you the J and you start with a little bit and when I tell you to stop, you stop, ja?” he’d said, and Matthew had no problem going along with that. It was nice not to be in control, for once. Someone else could deal with the responsible parts of being alive. 

Now, however, Matthew had taken four puffs and inhaled virtually none of it. He giggled, anyway. It was embarrassing, but also hilarious. How could he not do what every stoner in the world could? “Am I supposed to feel light? Am I supposed to hallucinate?” he laughed. 

“Are you? Are you feeling light? Are you hallucinating?”

“I’m feeling pretty normal. Though…” he stared at his plaster. “Though, you know, I think that’s hurting a little less.” 

“Okay, good. You want to stop now?” 

“What? No, why? Let’s keep going until the pain stops.”

Gilbert regarded him closely, that grin fading a bit. “You know, Matt, I’m all for experimentation. I mean, I’m no stoner, but it helps me unwind sometimes, but I feel like…ugh…I don’t know if I have the right to say this, but it feels like you’re not doing this with good intentions.”

“What do you mean?” Matthew tried another puff. He coughed into his elbow and snickered at his own incompetence. 

“I mean, there’s something a little self-destructive in this whole thing, so if you don’t mind, I think you should take a break for now.” He reached out and pried the joint out of Matthew’s hands. He snuffed it out in the ashtray. Matthew stared at the blunt, half-burnt, half-wasted. He knew he wasn’t really high, because if he were, he wouldn’t be so irritated. 

“Can I take that home, you think?” he asked Gilbert quietly.

“No, you can’t.” 

“I’ll pay you for it.”

Gilbert narrowed his eyes. 

“I mean, I’m sure I owe you anyway, right? How much was it?”

“Matthew,” he smiled, “relax, okay? Have some potato chips and we can watch a movie. What do you want to watch?” 

God, not movies again. Matthew was sick of movies. His life consisted of nothing but movies and failure. “Okay.” He sat up and rubbed his face. “Well, I think I’ll go, then.” 

“Dude, Mattie,” Gilbert let out a nervous laugh. “Just relax. If you don’t want to watch a movie, we could talk. What’s been up?”

“What’s been up,” Matthew parrotted. He grabbed a handful of chips. He stuffed them in his mouth, internally recoiling at the taste of stale industrial cooking oil and salt. He chewed them into little shards, and it felt like he was eating glass. He swallowed. “Well, I got kicked off the hockey team and expelled from university, so mostly just that.” 

“Wait, what?”

“Yes,” Matthew replied evenly, almost feeling pleasure at the shock on Gilbert’s face. This was how it was going to feel when he told his parents. This astonishment, this disappointment. It felt like picking at an itch. It hurt less this way, to do it to himself. “I was kicked out, because I’m just a fucking idiot who can’t pass a class. I’m a fucking idiot who got bodied and nearly dropped dead. I’m just a fucking idiot and I don’t care anymore. So please, Gilbert, can I have that blunt? I really, really don’t need any more pain.” 

Gilbert just got up and took the blunt away. “This is exactly what I thought was going on. I’m not going to let you spin out like this. So why don’t I order us some burgers, and we can eat and chill and watch some TV, and talk about your shit if you want to—”

“I’m not doing any of that.” Matthew grabbed his crutches. “Look, thanks Gilbert. I really appreciate it. And let me know how much it cost, I’ll pay you back. But I’m sick of TV and I’m not talking about my feelings,” he added with a sneer and an eye-roll. “I’m just going to go home.” He whipped his phone out and opened Uber. “Thanks though, Gil. Really, thank you.” 

“Matt—”

“Oh, cool, my Uber’s only two minutes away.” 

“You could not have booked it that fast.” 

“Bye, Gil!” 

The fresh air was bracing and hit him in the face. Matthew immediately knew he wasn’t nearly as high as he’d hoped. Not only was his mind clear, but the pain in his leg wasn’t as numbed as he thought it was. It had awoken again, screaming at his nerves, and Matthew gritted his teeth and dealt with it, as usual. He feared Gilbert would come running down to stop him, but he didn’t. Technically, he had no reason to. Matthew wasn’t doing anything crazy. He was just going home. He didn’t even have that stupid doob on him, so Gil had no reason to freak out. Everything was fine. Everything was always fine because Matthew was in control. 

The Uber came and he got in. For about fifteen minutes, Matthew stewed in silence and thought about the uproar there’d be at home, when his parents found out about the expulsion. He thought about the trophies in the living room, and how they were just monuments of garbage. Matthew ached to wrap his fingers around them, to break them against a wall, to throw the pieces in the trash. They were meaningless. Nothing mattered. 

Then the car sped over a bump. Matthew’s plaster jolted against the floor and the pain shot right up into his ribs, knocking the breath from his lungs. A stream of expletives, and Matthew had curled in on himself, blinking back tears. 

“You okay, sir?” the driver asked.

“Pull over. Pull over now.” 

The car stopped at the side of the highway and Matthew forced out three deep breaths. The pain was a hundred times worse, the dizzying monstrosity. This wasn’t fair. This wasn’t right. What had he done to deserve this? 

No, he wouldn’t accept it anymore. He wouldn’t accept it! 

“Is there a pharmacy nearby?” he rasped.

“Yes, there’s a strip mall just off the highway. It’s a bit seedy, but I know there’s a pharmacy there.” 

“Okay, please take me there.” Matthew pulled out his phone, opened his email. He just had to find his prescription.

The strip mall was really quite an odd place. There was a pharmacy and a grocery store, but many of the shops were shuttered. A dingy old bar with flickering neon lights made him turn his head away, lest it trigger a migraine. Inside the pharmacy, a couple of shady characters were looking through a shelf of condoms. They glanced his way, sizing him up, and Matthew just ignored them. He walked straight ahead. 

Matthew showed his prescription to the pharmacist. “Can I get the…um, the Oxycodone there?” 

She narrowed her eyes. Her gaze went all over him, but then she glanced at the prescription and looked up something on her computer. “So, this prescription was already filled. I can’t help you, sir.” 

“Look,” Matthew’s patience was running thin. “I’m not a drug addict. I fractured my leg in a hockey match, okay? My dad threw out the original prescription, and I’m in a lot of pain, so please just help me out here.” 

She sighed. “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t.”

“Do I look like an addict to you?”

“Look, kid,” she snapped, “you’re reeking of marijuana. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” 

If it was astonishment, despair, or fury, Matthew didn’t know. He turned away and left, the cocktail of volatile emotions burning in his throat. How did it come to this? How had any of this happened? 

“Hey, kid.”

Matthew jumped. It was the shady guys from the store. They’d followed him out. Matthew was waving down his Uber driver, not daring to look at them. “Leave me alone.”

“You said you wanted Oxys?”

He paused. Half-turned. This was such a bad idea. “I’m not buying Oxycodone off some randoms in a dilapidated strip mall, but thanks.” 

One of them laughed, sticking up his hands. “Relax, buddy. We just thought you wanted a little pain relief. Hockey injury, you said? What position did you play?”

Matthew knew better than to engage. He knew better than to—“Forward.” 

“Ah. I had a brother who played a Forward.” He smiled at Matthew, almost warmly. “Concussions fucked him up, of course. And some busted bones. He told me that Oxy really helped him. Now I have a friend in there,” he gestured with his head to the seedy bar, “who can help you out.”

“I don’t have cash.”

“ATM’s right there, kid.” And there it was, an ATM outside the bar. 

The Uber pulled up on the sidewalk, and Matthew knew he should have jumped in. Knew it. He was playing such a dangerous game, a game he was not cut out for. God. Fuck. Matthew stared at him. “I just need a little. Just until my leg heals.” 

“Tell you what, kid,” he said, “I could probably give you a little for free right now.” 

The pills. The cash. The lights. The booze. Matthew knew he was falling. He knew what he was doing was dangerous and wrong and bad. He knew he was tempting fate with the decisions he was making. But it didn’t matter anymore. He’d been so good, for what? What had his compliance accomplished? People younger than him had done worse things. People younger than him had lived a little more. So if this was a spiral, perhaps he could ride its tailwinds. Perhaps he could see where he was now allowed to go. 

“Are you Matthew?”

“...Who?”

“Are you Matthew?”

“Yeah…yeah, I think so…”

“Mierda.”

Matthew awoke. Somehow, waking up feeling like hell was becoming a theme. He blinked and sat up on an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar apartment, with unfamiliar voices filtering from the next room. He sat up, or tried to—the whole room spun like a boat in choppy waters. His crutches were propped against the wall but when he tried reaching for them, his arms were heavy and uncoordinated. He felt half-submerged in a dream. 

The door burst open and Gilbert entered. Matthew saw his handsome face break into relief—and then, immediately, fury. “Are you FUCKING stupid ?” he roared, and two pairs of footsteps raced after him. Matthew couldn’t recognise the men who entered. One was taller, with curly brown hair and green eyes. He was holding a spatula and wearing an apron. The other man, shorter and skinnier, with an intense stare and a wayward curl in his hair, gently eased past Gilbert and approached Matthew. 

“How do you feel?” he demanded, and his voice was soft but commandeering. 

“I…” Matthew squinted. “Um, not great. I don’t know. Real fuzzy.”

“Yeah, of course you’re fucking fuzzy,” Gilbert hollered. He was pacing. Arms in the air like he was wrestling a ghost. “Do you know how dangerous Oxy from the street is? It can be impure! Have you fucking heard of fentanyl, you absolute prick? And you took some random fucking pills with alcohol, are you insane or stupid or suicidal, which is it?”

“Ay, Gilbert,” said the man in the apron. 

“Don’t ‘Ay, Gilbert’, me, Antonio, man. You know if he died, we’d be fucking liable here. You would. Because you found him.” Gilbert whipped back to Matthew. “And you were on crutches, too, so fucking anything could have happened and you couldn’t have run away. Seriously, Matthew, that’s the most irresponsible nonsense I’ve ever heard of—”

“Gilbert.” The smaller guy stood, turning to him. “Either calm down, or fuck off.” 

“Don’t tell me to fuck off, Lovino—”

“Gil, come on.” The man named Antonio put a hand on his arm and led him out. “Let Lovi take care of him, yeah? Come on, I’ll make you some tea…” Antonio shut the door and Lovino rolled his eyes. 

“Matthew,” he said, “first of all, lie the fuck back down.”

And there was something in his voice that just made Matthew obey. 

“I’m Lovino,” he said. “I’m a med student. My boyfriend Antonio works as a bartender at that place you were at, that strip mall? Do you…do you remember what happened?”

That was the thing—Matthew didn’t. He’d been concussed four times but he’d never lost time in quite this way. He felt lethargic and vaguely nauseated, but there was a blank space in his head that explained why. The last thing he remembered was going to the strip mall to buy Oxycodone. 

Oxycodone.

Wait, what the hell had happened? 

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “I think I took some pills from some guy.” 

“Yeah.” Lovino’s expression turned hard with disapproval. “Antonio watched the sale. I hate that he works there, because the customers are so shady, but it’s close to our apartment and Toni needs the money, so…well, anyway, he saw you take the pills, swallow some, and then one of those guys offered you a beer. And you drank it. Do you understand what you did, there? You mixed street Oxy with alcohol. Gilbert is right—you’re fucking lucky you didn’t die of a fentanyl overdose.”

“I seem to be cheating death a lot lately,” Matthew murmured. 

“Uh-huh.” Lovino stood. “Anyway, Toni thought he recognised you because Gilbert, his best friend, showed him a picture of you.”

“Wait…what?” Matthew squinted. “Why?” 

“Why did he show Toni a picture of you? Well, I think he has a crush on you, but that’s by the by. Anyway, so Antonio got you to our apartment,” he gestured around the room. 

“Did I OD?” 

Lovino actually laughed. It was a hollow, exhausted kind of laugh, and it made Matthew feel sicker. “No, you didn’t,” he said. “But only because you’ve got someone in your corner up there,” and he pointed to the ceiling. Matthew wasn’t sure he believed in god, but he was grateful to have been afforded two miracles already. “Also, your family has been calling like crazy—”

“Oh fuck, my family—” Matthew’s stomach nearly fell to his ankles. “What did you tell them?”

“I was all for telling them the God’s honest truth,” Lovino muttered. “They were talking about some cock-and-bull you spun about going to a friend’s birthday. Gilbert told them you were tired and that you had decided to stay over, and that you were already asleep. But I take it they’ve been worried sick.” Lovino went to the dresser and picked up his phone, which he tossed to Matthew. Matthew tried to catch it, but his limbs wouldn’t listen. “Yeah,” said Lovino, as the phone flopped uselessly onto the pillow, “it’ll take a while for the effects to wear off.”

“I need to get home! How long was I out?”

“All night.” 

Matthew picked up his phone. It took several minutes to unlock it and open his chats with his uncooperative fingers. The group chat was filled with a stream of increasingly hysterical messages from his parents. Alfred had sent a stream of texts demanding to know where he was. The last one simply read, mattie, they’re freaking the fuck out and i’m having to calm them down. please call 

“I’m going to get you something to eat if you can stomach it,” Lovino said, leaving the room. Matthew didn’t respond—he just called Alfred.

His brother answered on the first ring. 

“Matthew, what the fuck.”

“I’m sorry,” Matthew said automatically. 

“You sound…weird, you okay?” 

He swallowed. Was he slurring or something? He couldn’t tell. “I’m fine. Sorry, I…yeah, I’m fine.”

“I spoke to Gilbert? Gilbert from grade school? I didn’t even know you guys were still friends. He’d said you were just sleeping. Did you get drunk or something?” Alfred’s voice was odd, somewhere between concern and amusement. “Don’t let Dad and Pops find out, there’s still a couple of weeks to go before we’re twenty-one.”

“I didn’t get drunk,” Matthew lied. “I don’t know, I guess I was more tired than I realised.” 

“When are you getting home? Because Pops was so stressed about you last night that he woke up at two am and baked sixty-four croissants.” 

“What? How? Our oven isn’t that big.” 

“I don’t know, man, but when you wake up and find every free inch of space in the kitchen covered by an army of croissants, you know something’s going on. Not to mention, Dad—he was all snarly and shouty and nitpicky, like he gets when he’s anxious, and—” Alfred let out a frustrated sigh. “Can you just come home? I’m tired of keeping the peace.” 

“Gosh, Alfred.” He screwed his eyes shut. “I’m so sorry. I’ll be home soon, I’m leaving now.” 

Gilbert drove him back. And it was the most awkward drive of his life. Matthew offered to take an Uber again, but was shot down immediately by a fuming Gil. “I’m going to make sure you get home in one piece,” he growled. “You’re not pulling the same stunt twice.” 

In the car Matthew kept his head pressed against the window, awake but groggy. Lovino had made him eat some plain toast. His boyfriend Antonio kept to a corner of the kitchen, watching him with huge eyes and an expression that betrayed uncertainty. Gilbert was eerily quiet now.

“I’m sorry,” Matthew said. “I shouldn’t have done that. Any of that. It was fucked up. I shouldn’t have put you and your friends in that position. There’s no excuse.”

“You need help,” Gilbert said shortly. 

“I swear, I don’t have an addiction or anything. It was just…” Matthew grimaced at himself. “A one-time, non-repeating bad mistake.”

“No, I don’t mean recovery help, I mean fucking therapy, you idiot.” Gilbert glanced over at him, then glared back at the road. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, I don’t know how you’re wired anymore, but getting injured and expelled would mess with anyone’s head, and you need to deal with it instead of buying pills off some creeper in the middle of nowhere.” 

“I did that because I was in pain,” Matthew murmured. 

“Right. And therapy—”

“No, like, literal pain.” Matthew glanced down at his plaster. He couldn’t feel the hurt anymore. It was distant and dull, like a cavity that hadn’t burrowed deep yet. It was so much quieter than the fog horn agony he felt near constantly. “My Dad threw out my original prescription of Oxy, and I’ve been in so much pain ever since. They just expect me to ignore it. And I know it was done out of concern, but,” Matthew’s voice wavered. He wiped away a stray tear. “I don’t know. I guess I feel like…the day I fell on the ice…like, I’m still falling.” 

Gilbert said nothing for minutes. “Look, Matthew,” he said at last, “It’s not my place to give you advice. But I will say that I’ve seen friends get hooked, seen them die. And you’re fooling around with something you don’t understand. So if you’re feeling this way, maybe, instead of taking matters into your own hands, you should talk to your parents.”

Matthew chuckled. “Yeah, I can’t…” he swallowed. “I can’t do that.”

“Why? From what you told me, they seem nice.” 

“They’re lovely,” he said, because they were, truly. “But they’re not going to understand any of this.” 

“Come on, your dad’s in finance. I guarantee you, that guy has seen a cocaine rager or two in his time.” 

“What? I don’t think—” Matthew shook his head. “I’m not even getting into that. No, I mean, they won’t understand what I’m going through because they’ve spent their whole lives just…coping. Dealing with things. They’ve survived by being tougher than the rest. Smarter. More hard-working. When I was in hospital, and I found out I’d never play hockey again, they basically said it wasn’t the end of the world because I could still complete my education and get a job.” 

“...Yikes.” 

“They didn’t mean to be dismissive, I think they were being comforting, actually.”

“Double yikes,” Gilbert muttered. 

“They’re the best at what they do,” Matthew went on. “They don’t accept anything less from other people. So they will not understand how I’m struggling to…to just handle myself, anymore.” He blinked back more stupid tears. “I used to be really good at that, you know? Handling myself? I don’t—I don’t know why I can’t do that anymore. It feels like something inside me, something I could depend on, some kind of strength or resolve, is gone. Why else can’t I deal with the pain?” He blinked up at Gilbert. “I’ve been hurt before. Badly hurt. I’ve had bruised ribs and concussions and broken arms. I’ve been so tired I could barely stand, yet I’ve managed to win my games. So why isn’t it working anymore? Why can’t I just—why can’t I just soldier on?” Matthew could see his house coming into view. His heart sank. He tried desperately to dry his eyes. “Thanks,” he said as the car pulled over.

“What for?”

“For not ratting me out. For driving me home. For listening. For offering the weed and then taking it away, too.”

Gilbert snorted at the last one. “I’ll get high with you any time you’re not going to combust on me.” 

“After yesterday, I don’t even want to take the rum in a rum chocolate. Pure sobriety, that’s the way forward for me.” 

“I can respect that,” Gilbert smiled. “Good luck at home.” 

“Thanks,” Matthew said again, grimly, as he opened the car door. “I’m going to need it.” 

Chapter Text

Alfred watched from the window as Matthew stepped out of a blue car and hobbled towards the front door. The house smelled of croissants, which Alfred had been putting into boxes for the last two hours. The plan was to give as many away to neighbours and friends, and donate the rest to a charity. Papa had really gone overboard this time. 

When he was younger, and Pops was teaching them to boil eggs, Alfred had struggled with patience and focus. When he was alone in the kitchen, he’d tried to boil an egg in the microwave instead. He’d put it in a cup of water and hit the 2-minute mark. One minute in, the egg eggsploded. Alfred had cried out in a panic and Pops had come running to check on him—and then laughed his head off. When they opened the microwave door, egg water and shell had fallen everywhere, and the yolk was splattered across the walls of the machine like a sick coat of paint. Alfred was made to clean it all up. 

It was such a strange thing to think about now, but yesterday had been exactly like that fucking egg. A mess that Alfred had to clean. At least the egg had been his fault. This was all Matthew. He wasn't blameless...now thinking back, Alfred had escalated things pretty seriously, but that didn't change the fact that whatever happened yesterday, happened because Matthew went missing. And Alfred, muddling along through life as he did, could only be accused of handling things imperfectly. 

He opened the door. His brother looked very…odd. Alfred couldn’t place it. “Hi, Al,” Mattie said, as Alfred stepped aside to let him in. There was something very groggy in his movements. As he passed, Alfred caught the faintest smell of pot. Matthew? Pot? 

“Matt, wait,” Al said quietly. Matthew paused in the hallway and Alfred snatched the lavender room freshener they kept by the shoe cupboard. He sprayed some over Matthew’s head, ignoring the way Mattie coughed. 

“What was that for, Alfred? God, that went in my eyes.”

“You smell of weed, fool. Dad and Pops will skin you alive.” 

“Oh.” Matthew blinked. “Thanks.” 

“Is that what happened?” Alfred demanded in an undertone. “Did you get too high to come back?” 

“No,” Matthew said automatically. How could he look Alfred in the face and offer up such a naked lie? “No, I, um, it wasn’t me. Some of my friends were doing it, though.” 

“Whatever,” Alfred muttered darkly. He stomped forward, balling his fists. “I have to go box the rest of the croissants.” 

Dad was at the table reading the papers. Pops was drinking a strong chamomile in a diminutive silence. Alfred had made about six cups of the stuff for him since the night before. The aftermath of yesterday sat heavy between the three—now four—of them. “Mattie’s back,” Alfred muttered, and rolled his eyes as his parents jumped up. 

They crowded him. “Matthew!” Dad shouted. “Where have you been? How could you just up and leave like that, in your condition?” 

“Oui, and after being hospitalised for a migraine of all things!” Pops added. “And then you don’t answer your phone, not a single text—I wanted to go to the police!!” 

“I understand you may be bored, young man, but this is no way to treat your family. We were worried sick! You owe us an apology,” Dad snapped, crossing his arms. 

Alfred just watched Matthew from the corner of his eye. Standing at the table, he just continued his work. Fitting croissants into boxes. Piling the boxes on top of each other. Building himself a wall of boxes that he could hide behind. Matthew may have been off partying and getting high with his friends, but it was Alfred who dealt with the fallout of it and he was bitter and furious and hurt. They weren’t this kind of family—they didn’t do this to each other. Alfred almost felt betrayed. 

Yesterday

Hello Matthew, check in with us, please, or we’ll all panic. How are you feeling?

Alfred’s phone dinged in the middle of lunch and he sighed when he saw the message on the group chat. Since Matthew’s repeated sojourn to the hospital, everyone was more on edge than ever. It had been a horrendous few days. He was never the one suffering the physical pain, but this time he had a rink-side seat to Matthew’s self-destructive hyper-perfectionism. In the moment, Alfred had managed to cope. He’d called 911, he’d spoken to the paramedics, he’d even remembered to show them all of Matthew’s prescription medication. He’d gone in the ambulance with his brother, he’d communicated with the doctors, he’d been the perfect, in-control supporter Matthew needed. He only allowed himself the luxury of panic after his parents had shown up at the hospital. Once they were there, Alfred had locked himself in a bathroom cubicle and cried. He just had to rid himself of the terror. He never wanted to see anyone like that again—especially not Mattie. 

Alfred had not coped well in the hospital when Matthew first got hurt*. His brother had almost died. Alfred had nearly become an only child. The thought made him sick. So when Matthew landed up in the hospital a second time, Alfred couldn't stop imagining a universe in which they had to throw him a funeral. A universe in which Alfred had to read a eulogy. What would he even say? How was one supposed to begin thinking about this? 

In that bathroom cubicle, Alfred had sobbed his eyes out. 

It’s not happened, he told himself a hundred times. Matthew is alive, and he’ll be fine. But what if? What if, what if, what if? A thousand unseen variables could have tilted their family’s fate in a dramatically darker direction, and what would Alfred have done then? How was he supposed to survive without Matthew? They’d been together all their lives, they’d been together in the womb. 

Alfred had cried so hard he’d nearly given himself a headache. Pops had found him like that. “Oh, Alfred,” he’d coaxed, when Alfred finally emerged from the cubicle. He’d pulled Alfred into a protective hug, the sort he was so good at, the kind of hug that could chase away a nightmare even in the deepest storm, the kind of hug that could all but fix a broken bone. “Alfred, Alfred, Alfred,” he’d whispered, running his hand over Alfred’s hair. “ Mon lapin, you did well. You took care of your brother when he needed you. You did so well. He’s going to be okay. Don’t cry. Everything will be fine.” 

“Will it?” Alfred had wept. 

“Yes, of course! Matthew is very tough. And we all love each other. And that’s enough. Things may be hard right now, but we’ll be okay.” 

Alfred had managed to wash his face and blow his nose on some toilet roll. Pops kept a steadying hand on his back the whole time. “I would be a terrible only child,” he mumbled. “I’d go crazy. I’d drive everyone crazy too.”

Pop’s smile was faint and sad. “Good thing, then, that you are not an only child.” 

-I’m not home. 

-What?!

-Are you trying to give me a heart attack mon chou!!! 

Alfred’s mind jerked back to the present when he saw the new messages. Alfred’s phone shook in his hand. What? What was Matthew thinking? He swallowed a furious flame and tried, instead, to sound humorous. Dude mattie what lol??? 

-Um, yeah, a friend of mine had a birthday and i was feeling kinda lonely and bored so i took an uber. i’ll be back home soon though! I’ll probs catch a ride with the others. It’s good to see them all :) Oh, i’ve reached now! Love you! Bye! 

What in fuck’s name was he thinking? Was that safe? Had he recovered enough to be pulling a stunt like this? Alfred opened their private chat. mattie? dude?? have you lost your last brain cell?

And Matthew didn’t answer. 

The effects of his message, though, rippled across the day. As Alfred buried himself in research for a presentation he was making with Kyle, he could hear his Dad’s voice through the door of the office. He was snapping at his poor secretary. Minutes later, Alfred watched him march out of his room, phone to the ear, barking at someone from the London team about something called shorting? Kyle watched him pass, then glanced over at Alfred. “Your dad seems more pissed than usual.” 

“Because my brother’s acting like an idiot,” Alfred said, his voice dull. 

“What’s going on with your brother? You said he had to go to the hospital again?”

What strange bedfellows they’d become. Alfred couldn’t believe that he’d volunteered information about Matthew like this. It was just on his mind, constantly, driving him to distraction. “My brother’s going through some shit right now,” he said. “Let’s just leave it at that.” 

His cell buzzed again. Alfred jumped to open the text, hoping beyond hope that Matthew had replied. It was Kiku. 

Alfred, today’s the deadline for that art contest. You should apply. You’d be perfect for it. 

“That your girlfriend?” 

“Why do you care so much?” Alfred fired back. “You have a crush on me or something?” 

That shut him up. Kyle turned scarlet and whipped back to the laptop screen. “I’m straight,” he muttered in a dark undertone. “Chicks fucking love me…”

Alfred tuned him out. Kiku, dude, i dont have the skill for this 

-You always write yourself off and it upsets me.
-Because I see what’s good in you
-I see what you don’t
-I would never, ever lie to you
-And I think you should apply
-I think you’ve got what it takes 

For a horrible second Alfred thought he was going to start spouting tears again. Mercifully, he swallowed and kept his composure. i love you too, dude, he replied, fingers shaking. platonically ofc 

๑´ᴗ｀๑, Kiku sent. 

-What kaomoji is that??

-Shy face 

Alfred actually blushed. Kyle frowned at him. “Wait, are you really texting your girlfriend?” 

“Just my—friend,” Alfred finished awkwardly. Swivelling away on his wheely chair, Alfred stared at Kiku’s message, trying to think of any response that didn’t reveal how badly that stupid kaomoji made him melt. 

Kiku, perhaps knowing that he had Alfred’s attention, sent, Submit your art. I won’t tell you again. 

-What if I don’t??? 

-Then this will be my face, (｡•́︿•̀｡)
-You wouldn’t do this to me, would you?

Was Kiku…flirting with him or something? Alfred was not good at this. The only people who flirted with him were the occasional teenage girls at the grocery line, and he was pretty sure he did that so he’d give them discounts. Alfred had never had to respond in kind. This time, he actually wanted to. He’d spent an embarrassingly long time wondering how it would be to kiss Kiku. He was twenty, he should have had more experience approaching the people he liked. But as with all things, Alfred self-rejected a lot, so he almost never made the first move. The only person he’d ‘dated’ was Emma in high school, and while he thought she was pretty, she also came out as a lesbian that year, so he wasn't sure it counted. 

A shadow fell over Alfred’s eyes. Dad was looming over him, arms crossed. “Working hard, are you?” he said. Kyle, who had been switching between the PPT and Youtube prank videos, now hurriedly switched tabs to some work-related research. Alfred slipped his phone into his pocket. 

“Yeah, Mr. K,” Kyle said hastily. “We were doing some research for—”

“Kirkland,” Dad corrected. Alfred swallowed. His tone was so dark… 

“Mr. K-irkland,” Kyle stammered. “Sorry.” 

As much as Alfred hated Kyle, this was his Dad and he felt some responsibility here. “Yeah, we were just making the presentation,” he said confidently. “I was checking my phone to see if Matthew had texted. He hasn’t. Anyway, we’ll get back to it.” 

“I want to see that presentation in an hour,” he ordered, surveying them with hard eyes. “You will show it to me in my office.”

As he walked off, Kyle muttered a curse under his breath. He turned back to the screen and Alfred slid over. They barely had an introduction slide on. “How are we supposed to finish this in an hour?” Kyle whined. “It can’t be done. We should have bargained for more time.”

“You want him to cut off your head or something? I've made an outline in my notebook, let’s just wrap it up.” 

“When we present this to your dad, can you do all the talking?”

Alfred sighed. “Sure.” 

Even as Alfred infused his voice with confidence and enthusiasm, he could tell his Dad wasn’t buying it. The presentation was a rush job, even though they’d had days to prepare, and everything from the structure to the design was tacky. Their research was surface-level at best, and put together without much attention to typos. When Alfred was finally done talking, he watched his Dad quietly stir a little sugar into his coffee. He let out a long, thoughtful breath, and said, “I want you to make some changes, boys. And I want you to take notes.” 

Kyle scrambled to pull a tiny notebook out of his pocket. For several minutes, the only sound in the office was pens scratching against paper as Dad broke down each flaw in the presentation, poking holes in their hollow theories and poor research. He pointed them towards sources. He told them to read articles on investments. He wanted a whole segment on the 2008 recession. 

“Oh, and if you show me a presentation with typos again…” he said severely. 

“We won’t! So sorry!” Kyle snapped the laptop shut. “We’ll get right on this, yeah, Freddie? Come on, let’s go.” He tugged on Alfred’s elbow. 

“Actually, Alfred can stay. I need to speak to him alone.”

Kyle shot him a pitying look, but scampered out of the office. Alfred steeled his nerves. He only hoped they didn’t have to raise their voices. 

“Did Matthew respond?” Dad asked. 

“Oh.” Alfred pulled out his phone and checked. “Nope. Not on the group and not on our private chat.” 

“No, he didn’t respond to me either.” 

Alfred swallowed. “I mean, it’ll be fine. He’s an adult, he knows what he’s doing.”

“Of course.” Dad nodded. “Yes, he’s very dependable that way.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“Alfred,” he asked slowly, “how’s the internship going for you?”

He shrugged. There was no way to answer that question without getting yelled at, so he didn’t want to speak at all. 

“Seriously, tell me. I won’t be mad.”

“Sounds like a trap,” Alfred muttered, arms crossed. 

“Is our relationship so frayed that we can’t trust each other anymore?” Dad’s expression softened, and Alfred had to fight the pinprick of guilt. He didn’t think of himself as having a troubled relationship with his parents. He sometimes wished it was that easy. He didn’t owe an abusive parent anything. But Dad loved him deeply. Dad acted the way he did because he cared. The problem, Alfred knew, was that no matter how much your parents loved you, they still suffered the debilitating mental disorder known as humanity. Nobody received Michelin star training in being a good parent—most of the work was done with love and riddled with mistakes. And that was the mess Alfred found himself constantly navigating with his Dad. 

He pulled up a chair. “I don’t like the internship.” 

“I see.” Dad sipped his coffee again. “Do you think you could like it if you tried harder, with a more open mind?”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Alfred just gaped at him. And in that moment, something uncoiled in him—some quiet Matthew-related stress he'd been holding down. It took new shape, and burst out of his lips in a diatribe he knew he was going to regret.  “Why can’t you just accept me for what I am, Dad? Why do I always have to be some kind of ambitious finance bro or whatever for you to be proud of me? You know what, don’t answer that, I don’t give a shit. I’m already trying my best with this internship. I don’t like it, and I’m only seeing it through for your sake.”

“Such a great courtesy,” Dad snapped back. “I don’t need you to work here, Alfred. I’m the one doing you a favour.” 

“I didn’t even want this job!” Alfred said, and with a jolt he realised he’d shouted. He turned over his shoulder, wondering if his voice had carried out the office. 

“You don’t want any job, because you’re lazy and indolent at the best of times. If you had it your way, you’d stay home and do nothing.” 

Why did their fights always escalate so quickly? And why couldn’t Alfred stop himself? “Fine.” Stop, stop, stop. “Screw you, then. And screw this.” He pulled his access card off his neck and tossed it across Dad’s desk. “I bet you don’t want a lazy and indolent employee, so I fucking quit. I don’t need any of your favours.” 

“ALFRED!”

He stormed out of the office and shoved his laptop in his bag in one smooth move. 

“Alfred, don’t you dare—” Dad yelled, bursting out of the office. But Alfred was already halfway to the elevator. It opened just as Alfred approached. A colleague jumped out of the way, alarmed, as he marched in, his Dad following, face purple with fury. Alfred hit the Door Close button five times, and exhaled when they finally shut, barricading him from Arthur Kirkland. 

The next few hours, Alfred spent on the train. He switched his phone off and took random routes up and down the line. He wasn’t going to cry again, he just needed to cool off. What was he doing? This wasn’t what he wanted from life. He didn’t want to disappoint his parents, but more importantly, he was sick and tired of disappointing himself. Alfred wanted to be like Matthew. He wanted to do something that mattered. He did have ambition, though it was a fledgling thing and he was terrified of letting it grow. 

Why was he trying to please someone who didn’t expect anything from him anyway? The only person who believed in him was Kiku. And he trusted Kiku’s instincts. He would trust Kiku at the end of the world. Alfred stepped off the train and took a bus back to their neighbourhood. Then he walked the rest of the way, not home, but to Kiku’s place.

His mother answered the door. “Ah! Alfred, what a surprise.”

“Hello, Mrs. Honda. Is Kiku home?”

“Basement,” she said, smiling, and Alfred took the stairs down two at a time. 

Kiku was watching Naruto reruns. He jumped when Alfred appeared. “What are you doing here?”

“You were right and I was wrong.”

Kiku blinked at him. “Say that again, slowly. I need to commit it to memory.” 

Alfred sank to the couch. “You were right,” he said, “and I was wrong. Will you help me with this art contest application? I’ve never even made a portfolio before.” 

“Oh, Alfred!” And if Kiku was a different person, Alfred was sure he would have gone for a hug. He maintained polite distance, but he stared at Alfred with eyes practically shining in pride. “I would love to help you. But all your art is on paper, right? We’ll have to go to your place and make scans.”

Alfred jumped up again, but paused at the steps. “Kiks? You’re sure this won’t blow up in my face?”

“I’m a thousand per cent sure.” 

“All right, then.” That was enough for him. 

“I can’t do it.”

“You can.”

“Do it for me.”

Kiku let out a frustrated noise. “Alfred, come on. I’ll hold your hand if you want. But you should do it yourself.” They were sitting on his bed, back to the wall, legs folded under them, the laptop balanced over a couple of pillows. 

Between them, the red SUBMIT button loomed like a Cheshire cat grin. They’d spent the last two hours putting together a portfolio and an Artist Statement. The file was called Chronicles Of Some Guy, which was what Alfred had decided to name his comic. After his main character, of course, named Guy. It was the most generic name he could think of. 

Now all Alfred had to do was press the damn SUBMIT button and shut his laptop. This was the easy part. Yet the terror was like a tree, rooted inside his spine and growing outwards, making his limbs and fingertips tingle. Kiku’s soft palm slowly curled around his own, and Alfred jumped. 

“It will be okay,” he promised, squeezing his hand. “I promise you, everything is going to work out.” 

Alfred let out a high-pitched laugh. And Kiku guided his palm up towards the touchpad. Was Alfred a child? Did he need someone to hold his hand like this? Yes, yes, maybe he did. So he didn’t stop Kiku. The cursor hovered over SUBMIT. And together, they hit the button. Alfred sucked in a breath as the website made a whooshing sound. 

Thank you for submitting to our contest! We’ll announce the winners in 90 days. 

“What is that, like a three-month wait?” Alfred asked. 

Kiku smirked at him. “You’re already thinking of yourself as one of the winners, aren’t you?” 

Alfred felt his face grow hot. “No—no, don’t be silly.” But he couldn’t keep up with Kiku’s slow, knowing stare, so he glanced away, mumbling, “I’m just…suddenly, I’m really excited. I mean…what does it say about me if I win, y’know?” 

“I think artists should be a little arrogant,” Kiku confessed, his smirk growing. “Or perhaps confident is the better word. I think it’s important to believe in your work, to think you’re the best at what you do. Because the world’s going to beat you down anyway, so you have to be tough.” 

“Ah.” Alfred leaned against the wall. “I don’t know if that’ll ever be me.”

“It could.” And Kiku pressed his head against Alfred’s shoulder, where it fit so neatly. Alfred forgot what it was like to breathe. All he could feel was the soft weight of his best friend’s head against him, the slow, cautious breaths of two people rearranging the boundaries of their relationship. Their hands were still entwined. And if there was a moment Alfred could dare go in for a kiss, it would be now. 

“Kiku,” he started. “I wanted to tell you something.”

“Yes, Alfred? I’m listening.”

Alfred shut his eyes and took a steadying breath. “I really like—”

The door banged open. 

Alfred and Kiku violently jumped apart, and Pops blinked at Alfred with an eyebrow raised.

“KNOCK MUCH?” Alfred hollered, leaping from the bed, slapping his laptop shut. “What?” 

Pops was still glancing rapidly between the two of them, delicate traces of amusement hovering over his face. His gaze finally fixed on Alfred, and hardened. “I came home early because your Dad called me screaming about something that happened at work. What now, Alfred?” 

Kiku was already shoving his things into his bag. “I better go. See you later, Alfred.”

Alfred ran a hand through his hair. “Bye, dude.”

“Mr. Bonnefoy,” Kiku greeted politely as he left, and Alfred only saw him hurtling down the stairs at full speed, then the sound of the front door slamming shut. 

Pops crossed his arms and smiled, infuriatingly smug. “Is he your boyfriend?”

“No!” Alfred cried, shoving his hands in the pockets of the work trousers he hadn’t yet changed out of. “He’s just—he’s my best friend. Shut up. Go back to yelling at me.” Alfred stared resolutely at his comic book shelf, and Pops sighed. He approached Alfred and ruffled his hair. 

“Dad said you made a scene at work and quit. What happened?” 

“Dad is worried about Matthew,” Alfred stated flatly. “But he’s taking it out on everyone else, including me. He was snappy with his secretary, too. But I’m not going to take his crap lying down. I’m not. I’m sick of him. He talks to me like I’m the gum at the bottom of his shoe.” He whirled around, glaring at Pops. “The only way our relationship would ever improve is if I moved away, maybe to another city, or another state, or hell, another country. Do you remember how nice he was after I returned from that week-long trip in high school? He’s only nice to me when he misses me.” 

“Alfred, that’s not true.” Pops sat on his bed. “But I acknowledge that you feel this way. You and your Dad are two very strong personalities. And two very opposite personalities, as it happens. You’re going to clash. But that doesn’t mean you don’t love each other.”

“There you go, with the love crap again.” Alfred didn’t want to look at him. If he looked at Pops, he’d melt, he’d agree to anything he said, he’d somehow find his fury dissipating, and Alfred couldn’t tolerate that. Pops had a way of calming him down, but he needed this anger. He needed to hold on to it. He had the right to hold on to it. “Look, man, it doesn’t matter how much you love someone if you keep implying that they’re a lazy slacker—lazy and indolent, in fact. Trust Dad to use an SAT word.” 

“Said that, did he?”

“Oh-ho-ho, he didn’t tell you?” Alfred’s tone was disgustingly gleeful, even to himself. He revelled in the disappointment in Pop’s blue eyes, the sadness, and he didn’t envy the man. In moments like these it felt like Pops was the only one keeping the family together. And as much as Alfred wanted to ease the burden, to bite back his side of the pain, it was coming out of him in unstoppable floods. “Yeah, he called me lazy and indolent, because I had the audacity to dislike an internship I was coerced into.” 

“You were never coerced, Alfred.”

“No, not at gunpoint. But you both talked me into it, didn’t you?”

“If you’d declined, we wouldn’t have pushed it.” 

“That is a barefaced fucking lie,” Alfred hissed. Pops narrowed his eyes. 

“Don’t talk to me like that, Alfred. I’m trying to sort this out.” 

“I don’t want to do things your way!” Alfred shouted. “I don’t want to be an overachieving, hyper-perfectionist mess. Just look at Matthew! Have you seen the way he acts? You know why he got that migraine in the first place, Pops? Because he was up all night working on an assignment! When I checked on him that evening, he was half-conscious and screaming in pain and instead of letting me call 911, he fucking begged me to help him finish his fucking assignment. Do you see how messed up that is? No, you don’t. You two only see his trophies.”

“That is not fair—wait, is that true?” Pops suddenly stood. “Is that true, about the assignment?”

“Yes, it’s fucking true.” Alfred shouldn’t have ratted his brother out. He'd done it again, hadn’t he? Used Matthew’s health as a ‘Gotcha’ in an argument. Matthew was really going to kill him this time. 

What Alfred hadn’t intended was for Pops to whip out his phone and dial Matthew. “I want him home right now.”

“Don’t tell him I told you that.”

“Nonsense, Alfred. This is serious. I’m grateful you told me.” He frowned into his phone. “Why isn’t he answering? Is something wrong?”

Oh god, not again, Mattie. Alfred had kept his phone switched off earlier. He now turned it back on and waited for it to boot. When the screen finally loaded, Alfred saw a barrage of missed calls and furious texts from Dad, which he completely ignored, and opened Matthew’s private chat. Nothing. Not a single response. 

Mattie where are you? 

Pops hung up. “Can you try calling him? Do you know which friends he was hanging out with today?” 

“No, I guess it’s his hockey friends though? I have some numbers, let me text them.” 

Alfred sent out a bunch of texts demanding to know Matthew’s whereabouts, then tried to call him. Once. Twice. Three times. He wasn’t answering. 

“Something is wrong, isn’t it?” Pops murmured. “Something is wrong. I need to call your father.” 

“Don’t freak out—” Alfred tried, but even to him, the words were hollow. They’d all been so on tense about Matthew, for so long, that it didn’t take much anymore to throw them into a panic. Within the hour, Dad was also home, the fight from earlier forgotten as they sat around the table to call and text Matthew and all the friends they knew about. 

Nobody knew anything, nobody had even heard from him in weeks. Alfred couldn’t believe that. Matthew had been texting more frequently since the injury, who had he been talking to ? 

“Hello?”

Alfred jumped. He didn’t recognise the voice answering Matthew’s phone. 

“Hi,” he said hotly, and his parents lowered their phones to stare. “Who is this? I need to speak to Matthew. I’m his brother, Alfred.” 

“Alfred, hi. I’m Gilbert Beilschmidt. I don’t know if you remember, we were in grade school together? I’m a friend of your brother’s.” 

Of course Alfred remembered who Gilbert was. Was Mattie even friends with him now? Man, they really lived separate lives, huh. “Gilbert, yeah, hey. Where’s Matthew? Can you put him on the phone? My whole family’s been trying to contact him for ages and he’s not responding.”

“Uh…yeah. That…that might be a little hard right now.” 

Alfred’s heart sank. He felt it almost like a real, physical thing, the way his chest gave way and his stomach swooped. He stood, gesturing to his parents to stay put, and went to the bedroom where Matthew had been sleeping. He shut the door behind him. 

“Gilbert,” he said quietly, “what the fuck is going on? Is Matthew okay? He told us he was going to some friend’s birthday celebration. Was that you?”

“Birthday, huh? Uh, yeah, yeah, he’s fine. He’s just asleep. He’s fine, though. I’ll drop him home tomorrow, all right?”

“We want to pick him up. Text me your address.”

“No!” 

Alfred narrowed his eyes. 

“No, I mean,” Gilbert went on, “he is really tuckered out, I’d hate to wake him. I mean, he’s still recovering from that injury, right? So I guess he’s just more easily tired these days. We were playing some games, and eating a lot, and you know how a good meal can put you out.” He laughed, sounding nervous. “So, yeah, he just, uh, fell asleep. But I’ll drop him home as soon as he wakes up.” 

“Right.” Alfred hesitated. He didn’t believe a word of this. He wasn’t born yesterday. Alfred had been to more parties than Matthew, Alfred had tried things Matthew had never allowed himself to experiment with, Alfred knew a little bit more about the real world. He could spot a cover-up when he heard it. But for now, he decided to let it play out. “Okay. Thanks, Gilbert. See you tomorrow.”

Alfred hung up and stepped back out into the kitchen. “Matthew’s fine. He was fast asleep at a friend’s house.” 

“Did you speak to him?” Pops demanded.

“You should have put us on the phone!” said Dad.

“No, I told you, Mattie was asleep. But I spoke to his friend. He said he’d drop Mattie home tomorrow, so it’s all good.” Alfred forced a confident smile he did not truly feel. 

“I don’t like this,” Dad said, standing. He went to the wine cabinet. “I don’t want to overreact, but…”

“No, I get it.” Now he and Pops were both pouring glasses of wine. Dad tossed his back like a shot, and Pops’ eyes widened. “Arthur!” 

“Leave off it, Francis.” He looked so beaten. “I’m the one who saw him bleed out on the ice.” He shuddered, and uncharacteristically, nuzzled into Pop’s arm. “I’m still seeing that in my dreams. I haven’t been sleeping well at all.”

“I know, mon amour, I know.” Pops kissed his head. Alfred felt like he was invading their privacy. Dad wasn’t the sort to seek comfort like this, not to Alfred’s paltry knowledge, anyway. And as much as he knew his parents were still deeply in love, he’d scarcely see them this…soft. Usually they were evenly-matched sparring partners, showing affection through gentle teasing. Alfred had never seen his Dad so emotional. It was jarring. He wasn’t sure he liked it. It was like the sun had turned green.  

“Did you know what Alfred told me?” Pops said suddenly. 

Alfred sucked in air. “No, no—”

“That Matthew was obsessively working on an assignment even as Alfred was trying to call 911.”

“The day of the migraine?” Dad frowned and glanced between Pops and Alfred. “An assignment, seriously? While he was puking his guts out? Why would he do something so foolish?” 

Because he’ll sleep on a sword for your approval, Alfred almost said, but bit it back. Now was not the time to escalate the usual fight. Now that he knew Matthew was probably okay, Alfred felt some measure of level-headedness return. He would make the worst only-child...the worst. Handling these two on his own was no small feat. “Don’t be mad at Matthew,” Alfred said in a small voice. “It doesn’t matter if you’re mad at me, I don’t matter as much, but Matthew would be devastated if you were mad at him. So can you please just…like, let it go? He was ill and everyone’s allowed to be irrational when they’re ill, right?”

“What in the bloody hell are you talking about?” Dad pulled himself free from Pops, and Alfred’s heart sank, again. He didn't know what to say anymore, he just wanted things to calm down. He wished he knew how to make them calm down. What buttons to press to stop the whirring and overheating at home. What buttons to press to stop himself from always being on the verge of combustion. 

“Don’t yell at Matthew!” he snapped. “I don’t want him to think that—”

“No one’s yelling at Matthew, Alfred, for heaven’s sake. What are you talking about saying you don’t matter as much?” 

“Oh.” Alfred swallowed. “I didn’t—I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You think we play favourites, is it?”

“Arthur,” Pops said, pulling him back. “You grouchy old pirate, stop picking fights.”

“No, leave it.” Alfred turned away. “He just loves picking fights with me, it’s his only source of entertainment. Well, I’m not biting.”

“No, no, you’ll only fight with me when you can humiliate me in front of an office full of my employees.” 

“Stop it, you two!” Pops cried, coming between them. “Enough, already!” 

“NOBODY ASKED YOU TO HIRE ME!” Alfred bellowed. “I WAS FINE, WORKING AT THE STORE! THIS IS WHAT YOU GET WHEN YOU ASK FOR TOO MUCH!”

“Stop it!!” Pops looked near tears. “Just stop!” 

“Don’t talk to me,” Alfred spat at Dad. 

“Fine, I won’t!” Dad stormed up the stairs, slamming the bedroom door shut so loudly that the sound seemed the shake the walls. Pops sank to a chair, hyperventilating, and Alfred just stood there, breathing hard, half-wanting to throttle Matthew, half-wanting to hug him to the floor. It occurred to him then that he didn't know how to de-escalate situations. But his Pops was almost trembling with stress, and Alfred had to step up. Somebody had to keep this family together. 

“Pops,” said Alfred quietly, approaching to squeeze his shoulder. “It’ll be okay. Mattie'll be fine. Everything will be fine. Let me make you some tea.” 

The smell of croissants pervaded every room in the house as Alfred emerged at dawn. Pops had been stress-baking again. Every free space in the kitchen had been taken up by baking trays with croissants. Dad was awake, oh joy, sitting amongst the baked goods, drinking a single cup of Earl Grey. He looked sleepless too. Alfred acknowledged him with a short nod as he went to get his coffee. It was an awful silence. Nobody had been this miserable around so many French pastries ever before.

Alfred would have avoided him entirely and taken his coffee to his room, had Dad not waved him down. “We need to talk about our situation, Alfred,” he said gently. 

“You gonna yell at me again?”

“No.” Dad stared down at his tea. “No yelling, I promise.”

“Because you said that the last time…”

“I know. I’m sorry. I mean it this time.” He lifted his head as Alfred cautiously pulled up a chair beside him at the table. Alfred broke off a bit of croissant and dunked it in his coffee. It flaked, the crusty pieces floating over his drink like little paper boats. Dad took a long sip of tea and set the cup down in the saucer. “Do you really think we play favourites with you? That we love you less than Matthew?”

“I didn’t say anything about loving me less,” Alfred murmured. “But yeah, sure, you’re both quick to compare me to Matthew. You, especially, do it a lot. And it’s exhausting, man. It really is.” 

“I didn’t realise we did that.” Dad rubbed his temple. “It certainly was not intentional. I’m sorry, from the bottom of my heart. I love and appreciate you very much, Alfred. I’ve always thought you and I had a special connection.” 

“Really?” Alfred cracked a sardonic smile. “You’re quite mean to me most of the time.”

“Perhaps because you remind me of myself.” He shrugged. “Perhaps because that’s how my own father spoke to me.” 

“Pops said we had opposing personalities.”

“Perhaps. You’re an eternal optimist, and something of a romantic, like him. Matthew and I, however, are somewhat more pragmatic.” He broke off a piece of croissant, but didn’t eat. “When I was your age, Alfred, I was running wild. I had a huge problem with authority, I was a real punk. I needed to be parented, and my parents didn’t care what I was up to. I don’t want to be so negligent with you boys. And I had always thought that Matthew didn’t need to be parented quite so much.”

“Quite as much as me, you mean.”

Dad looked guilty. “Matthew always seemed so together, I suppose. So I thought you needed more help. Your grades…and you didn’t get into any colleges the first time you applied. I think it hit you quite hard. That kind of rejection would hurt anybody, especially a young person.” 

Alfred shrugged. On some level he knew he’d never get accepted. He’d barely scraped through high school, and he didn’t have any clear idea what he wanted out of his future. Colleges didn’t want deadbeats. Of course it had hurt, seeing Matthew flit off to a fancy university for hockey. Of course it had hurt, being left behind. But Alfred had made a nest in what was left for him. He was comfortable here, down on earth.

“Which is why,” Dad went on, “I was so eager to help you get a career of your own. I didn’t mean to force you to do something you’re not happy with.” 

“Can’t you just admit that some people don’t become great? Some people aren’t a big success?”

“No,” Dad said at last. “It’s extremely difficult for me to reconcile with that. Especially when it’s my own son. It’s when you say things like that…that’s when I get annoyed. It feels like you’re not trying. That you simply don’t believe in yourself, or that you don’t deserve to make something of yourself.” 

“Well, maybe I don’t.” Alfred took a big sip and let it burn his tongue. “Maybe I don’t believe in myself. Maybe I don’t deserve to make something of myself.”

“Oh, Alfred.” Dad looked heartbroken. “That’s just not true. ” 

“You’re not going to fix my inferiority complex over one cup of coffee, Dad,” Alfred declared. “But I appreciate the conversation.”

His Dad left his chair so he was standing right over Alfred, and pulling him into a hug. He peppered Alfred’s head with kisses, like he was a boy again. “Well, you deserve the very best, love,” he said. “And I’m sorry for how I’ve been acting.”

“Yeah, okay, okay.” Alfred pulled himself free. “Sorry I yelled at you in your place of work.”

“We’ve got to give the people something to gossip about,” he quipped, smiling. “Now, when I finally convinced him to go to bed, I promised your father I’d help put these bloody croissants into boxes. Do you want to lend me a hand?”

When Alfred let Matthew in the door that morning, a fragile peace had taken over the house. Alfred had been thinking over the events of the previous day--the mess he’d caused and cleaned, the secrets he’d spilled, the delicate reconciliation between him and Dad, all overshadowed by this looming absence of his pot-smelling, languid-limbed twin brother. If he could trace all the craziness back to one focal point, it would be Matthew’s sudden disappearance. And Alfred had dealt with it the best he could, and all things considered, he’d done well, but the irritation he felt now needed an outlet. The next fight he had would certainly be with Matthew. 

“Alfred told us you were working on your assignment while you were sick with your migraine!” Dad demanded. “That you made him help you even as he was trying to call 911.”

Matthew’s eyes swivelled over to Alfred and hardened. “He said that?” 

Yeah, they were going to have a fight. 

“It slipped out,” Alfred muttered. Boxing croissants. Sixty-four croissants. 

“And how did that come up?” Matthew pressed. “Not while you were fighting with Dad, surely?” 

“We were having a conversation, actually,” Pops interjected. 

“Two for two,” Matthew muttered. “Good job, Al.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Mattie?”

“That’s twice you’ve used my health in your arguments. I told you specifically not to do that.” 

“Yeah, well, you put me in an impossible situation.” 

“Don’t blame him, Matthew,” Dad said. “That was incredibly irresponsible of you. And Alfred’s right, you put him in an impossible situation. It’s just an assignment, it doesn’t matter.” 

“Nothing matters more than your health, mon chou .”

Matthew said nothing, but he rose from the table and grabbed his crutches. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he said. “You’re right, I'm sorry. Nothing matters. I want to have a shower.” 

As Matthew entered his room, Alfred followed him and slammed the door shut. “What the hell were you up to yesterday? And don’t fucking lie to me.” 

“I can’t believe you told them about the assignment thing. What, are you some kind of tattletale?”

“Is that why you’re being so evasive? I know you were smoking up, I could smell it. What, did you do drugs and pass out or something?” 

The startling, deer-in-headlights look Matthew shot at him made Alfred freeze. 

“Wait,” he said, “did you really pass out from drugs? What did you take?” 

“Nothing,” Matthew said. “Just weed.”

“Oh my god, ‘just weed’? You took some hard shit, didn’t you?” Alfred dropped his voice several octaves. “What did you take ?” 

“Alfred,” Matthew’s voice was strangely quite calm. “I’m going to have a shower, okay? Could you step out of my room?” 

Chapter Text

Matthew was sixteen the first time he got concussed. In hindsight, it was incredible that it had taken so long. He couldn’t remember much of it, except the sudden smack of pain and the feeling that his head had been powered off and on again, like an uncooperative computer. His parents and Alfred were both at that match, and Matthew had been whisked off to the nurse’s office, his family in tow. “Looks like a pretty straightforward concussion to me,” she’d said. “But you should get that checked at the ER anyway. I never like to mess around with head injuries.” 

Afterwards, lying on the sofa with an ice pack to his head, Matthew felt his dad peer over him. Dad was staring at him like he’d just survived a zombie attack. “Matthew,” he’d asked, “are you sure you want to pursue this as a career?” 

“When you were in the ER, I Googled ‘Worst Hockey Injuries’,” Papa supplied, most unhelpfully. “Some guy got his carotid artery slit by an ice skate!” 

“What?” Dad had bellowed. 

“Ow.” 

They both hushed themselves. 

“Yeah,” Matthew agreed, in a small voice. “Richard Zednick, Panthers versus Sabres. Lost five pints of blood, but didn’t die.” 

“No, not him,” said Papa. “There was someone else, who lost so much blood--”

“Oh, you mean Clint Malarchuk.” Matthew had blinked past the brain fog to access his mental trove of hockey trivia. “Blues versus Sabres. Lost 1.5 litres of blood. Still didn’t die though. He was back on the ice in ten days.”

“But that’s two severed carotid arteries?” Dad demanded. “ This is the game you want to make into a career ?” 

“There was another one who did actually die!” Papa went on. 

“Bill Masterson,” Matthew said immediately. “Such a tragedy.” 

“Matth-eeeyewww!” Papa cried, stretching the word into a nervous whine. “This game is unnecessarily dangerous.” 

“I’m good at it.” 

“Bloody hell, lad, I was good at the electric guitar! Doesn’t mean I needed to make a career out of it.” 

It wasn't the first time his parents tried to talk him out of ice hockey. But when they realised how serious Matthew was about it, and how unfazed he was by its casual violence, they silenced their apprehensions. In return, Matthew thanked them with victory after victory. Matthew didn’t like being aggressive to the other players, but he had no problem beating them down if he had to, because he knew they’d do it to him too if given the chance. In fact, there was a part of him that sort of enjoyed the power. It was not a trait he was proud of, but he liked being Matthew Bonnefoy-Kirkland, the quiet blitz that everyone wanted on the team. 

They’d forget about him now.

Matthew stared vacantly at the ceiling. He smelled of his cedarwood shampoo. Hopefully the last traces of weed were gone. His brain was still slow and foggy, like it had been during that first concussion a lifetime ago. So much of the day before was a mishmash of random details and bad decisions, punctuated by large swathes of blank space where memories should have been. He honestly couldn’t remember taking the Oxy. He couldn’t remember how many he took. He couldn’t remember drinking beer. He couldn’t imagine what possessed him to combine the two downers. And while the weed hadn’t taken the desired effect, certainly there must have been some in his system. It really was a miracle he made it out alive and more-or-less unscathed. 

Matthew picked up his phone and Googled fentanyl. Yesterday’s experience had scared him straight, but he wanted to know more about what he’d just danced with. He read about fake prescription pills being laced with deadly levels of fentanyl. His mind flit back to his pained foot again, which was now starting to awaken. Matthew was tired of being such a problem case. He’d had enough drama for the rest of his life. But Gilbert had a point. Unless he told his parents what was wrong, he might be tempted to do something foolish again, and he couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t do that to his family. Not after the kind of stress he’d inadvertently put them through. 

But if he told them what he’d been up to yesterday, they would absolutely freak out. They’d be furious with him, yeah, but they’d be scared shitless, too, and again, Matthew really couldn’t do that to them. He had to be a better son. Or as good a son as he could be, with the stench of failure on him. Was this what people meant when they talked about Icarus complexes? Matthew shut his eyes in bed and tried to feel the bed, the thick mattress, the duvet. But he just felt like he was falling.

When he awoke next it was because Alfred was standing over him. “Lunch,” he said flatly, his arms laden with a fold-out table stacked precariously with a bowl of coq-au-vin and bread. His voice was bitter as cold coffee grounds. “I was thinking you should just eat in the kitchen with the rest of us, seeing as you have the energy to fuck around with your friends without so much as a by-your-leave, but Pops was nice enough to set up the bed table.” He set it down roughly over Matthew’s knees as Matthew sat up and set his glasses on his nose.

“Al, are we fighting?” he asked quietly. 

“I don’t know, are we?” his brother retorted. “I mean, unless you think what you did was completely normal.”

“Oh?” Matthew narrowed his eyes. “And what, exactly, did I do?” Alfred had no proof, not of anything. “All I did was hang out with my friends. I’m not a prisoner. I’m allowed to meet my friends.”

Alfred’s voice dropped several octaves, ensuring they wouldn’t be heard by their parents. The bedroom door was shut, anyway. “You know damn fucking well what you did,” he said darkly. “And you know I know, because I could smell it on you. And I wouldn’t care except you decided to go radio silent when you know how stressed we’ve-- they’ve --been,” and he gestured with his thumb to the kitchen. “How difficult would it have been to keep us in the goddamn loop? The last time you went radio silent, we had to call the fucking ambulance. So don’t give me that bullshit.”

“Yeah, ‘that bullshit’,” Matthew countered, tired but ferociously mad. “Well said, Alfred. Seeing as that’s the only time you care about what I’m going through: when it’s a convenient point to make in your arguments with Dad and Papa. I’m not asking you to care, okay?” he snapped. “Just stop holding me up as an example of the worst-case scenario.”

“That is so not what I was doing! And also, yeah, I fucking care. I wouldn’t be this mad if I didn’t care.”

Matthew bit his tongue. His eyes burned, he just wanted to roll up in a ball and cry like he used to when he was four. Instead, he just glared up at Alfred balefully. 

“Also,” Alfred went on, “sorry, but this is the worst-case-scenario. Having your foot fucked up, getting rushed to hospital for migraines, virtually killing yourself over an assignment—yeah, that’s the worst-case scenario in perfectionism. I know you like to be the golden child, and who am I to stop you, I’m just your loser brother—”

“Oh, you’re not a loser, Alfred,” Matthew spat, “you’re free, you can do whatever the hell you want and you still won’t stop whining. Just shut up! You don’t understand the kind of pressure I’m under, every second of my life. You won’t stop bitching and moaning about your prestigious internship and your steady paycheck—well guess what, Alfred, you win. Your way of doing things trumps mine. So why don’t you go eat with the rest of the family? Why don’t y’all just forget about me and my useless injury and my—what did you call it? Perfectionism?—yeah, fine. I’m just the spare and I don’t matter anymore. So why don’t you just fucking leave me alone?” 

Alfred gaped at him. Mouth opening and shutting, hands balled at the sides. Self-pity was a double-edged sword, the way it cut Matthew, and Alfred’s rebuttal, in half. 

“Fine, Matthew,” Alfred said shortly. “Fine. I’ll leave you alone. In fact, I’m not going to ask anymore. You do whatever the hell you want to do. I just don’t care.” He left and slammed the door shut, and Matthew was too upset to eat. He didn’t know what a depressive spiral even meant until just now, until he was sitting up in bed, sobbing into his palms, unable to speak, to think, to move. He cried and cried until he couldn’t anymore. He just set the bed table down on the floor and pulled his duvet above his head. If only he could suffocate under the covers and die. 

The few times they fought, Dad and Papa would split up and play peacemaker together. It was hours later that Matthew heard the bedroom door knock. Who would he get this time? Dad, or Papa? 

He heard the crisp, commanding footsteps of his Dad enter the room. “Oh,” he said, noticing that Matthew hadn’t eaten. “Well, now, lad, that won’t do.” 

“I’m not hungry.” Matthew was dry-eyed and dull, staring at a cobweb on the ceiling. Dad pulled the table aside and sat on the bed beside Matthew. 

“Not hungry, eh? Does this have something to do with the blow-out argument you had with your brother?”

“No. I’m just not hungry.”

Dad hummed. “You know, Alfred didn’t eat either. You two are so alike. Of course, your Papa was very irritated. The coq-au-vin had turned out quite well today.”

Matthew felt Dad pat his arm. “Come now, son, let’s talk about it. What happened?” 

“Nothing.” Matthew tried turning on his side, but the plaster on his foot prevented any real mobility. He let out a frustrated groan and whipped the duvet over his head again. 

“The plaster’ll come off soon, won’t it?” Dad mused, idly raking his fingers over Matthew’s hair. “Just in time for your birthday.” 

“Then lots of physical therapy…” Matthew muttered through the darkness of the duvet. “That’ll probably hurt as well.”

“But it won’t hurt forever,” Dad promised. 

“It might. Some injuries are chronic.” 

“Matthew,” Dad said gently. “Are we talking about physical pain or emotional pain?” 

“It’s all the same, isn’t it?” Matthew sighed at last. 

For several minutes, Dad was quiet. Then he said, “Did you two have a fight because he told us about you working on that assignment while you were sick? You understand why he did that, right?” 

Matthew’s eyes burned. No, he was done with crying. He was done with it. 

“You were very sick, Matthew,” Dad went on. “And yes, of course we want you to do well in school, but one assignment hardly matters. I’m sure your professor will understand and give you an extension. You’ve been through a lot.”

It would have hurt less if his Dad stabbed him through the heart with a steak knife. So much forgiveness, yet it was not enough. How could Matthew ever tell him what had really happened? How could he ever fess up that he’d been expelled? They’d never understand. They still thought he was Perfect Matthew. He had never disappointed his parents before. Even now that he was off the hockey team, they could not imagine him doing anything worse than slightly delaying an assignment submission. 

“Dad,” Matthew murmured. “I’m going to sleep for a bit, okay?” 

“All right,” his Dad said with a heavy sigh. “But don’t fight with your brother. You only have each other.” 

Matthew hummed vaguely and shut his eyes. Soon enough the room was dark, and he was alone. 

Dad and Pops were at work, and Alfred was unemployed. He woke up late because he’d been up half the night drawing with Kiku. Applying for the contest had motivated him to work on his comic, and fighting with Matthew had given him a reason to escape into fiction. His main character, Guy, was such a self-insert and he didn’t care. A superhero without powers, tasked to save the world and his superpowered family. Kiku said he was drawing like a man possessed, page after page, the plot uncoiling in his hands. His wrist ached. Ink and graphite stained the grooves of his fingerprints. Maybe this was what he wanted to do with his life. Maybe this was what he could do. Alfred had been daydreaming in bed about people buying his comic book. About finding copies in the local comic book store. About being on a Comic Con panel (“So, Alfred, I’m curious to know what inspires you? Where do you get your ideas from?”).

Was that ambition, then? Was this how Matthew felt about hockey? He liked this feeling. It was like holding a bolt of lightning, and knowing where he wanted it to strike. 

Alfred got out of bed and went downstairs for his coffee. Mattie, of course, hadn’t emerged. Not that Alfred cared. He hadn’t spoken a word to his brother since the fight yesterday and he wasn’t going to speak a word now. That was what Matthew wanted, right? To be left alone? Alfred didn’t want to be around anyone who didn’t want him. He didn’t even make Matthew a cup of coffee. If he could go galavanting with his friends, he could come to the kitchen for coffee himself. Alfred took his cup back upstairs and texted Kiku. 

-wanna draw at a cafe today? ^_^ 

-Is that your attempt at a kaomoji? ¬‿¬

-yea yea yea lol
-come on it’ll be fun!! Just the two of us
-like a phone drawing session but in person with coffee 

Like a date, Alfred thought but didn’t say. 

-Unlike some people, I am employed (≖⌣≖)
-But how about this evening? 

-I’m unemployed by choice
-Not my choice tho 
-Actually, a little my choice…lol 
-Yay see you in the evening!

Alfred spent half the day trying to find the perfect outfit. He needed to look casual, like I’m-Just-Hanging-Out-With-My-Best-Friend-I-Threw-On-The-First-Top-I-Found. This meant he had to try on everything in his closet. Obviously he couldn’t wear his funeral suit, the one Pops made him buy when grandmère died. In fact he rolled that one in a little ball and shoved that in a plastic bag at the back of his closet, because the whole Matthew thing was still too raw for him to even think about funerals. He tried on all his Comic Con tops next, but they were way too casual. His trusty bomber jacket was probably a good idea, but he also liked the idea of a flannel. Man, but his best flannel no longer fit him. Matthew had good flannels. He had a really nice blue one that Alfred had always wanted. Fuck, but that meant having to borrow it… 

Well, Matthew didn’t have to know. 

Alfred went over to his brother’s upstairs bedroom, which hadn’t been occupied since the accident, and rifled around his closet. All Alfred could find were workout clothes and hoodies with hockey logos. Man, Mattie owned a lot of hockey crap. Alfred couldn't find the flannel, which meant it was probably downstairs, with the rest of Matthew’s clothes. Ughhhhh. All right, fine. That was the shirt he wanted to wear, and he had to look good tonight. 

The house downstairs was deadly quiet. Alfred hadn’t been down since lunch, which he’d also taken up to his room. “Matthew,” he said, infusing his voice with just enough unfriendliness to convey that they were still on bad terms. He opened the bedroom door and—Matthew was still asleep? 

Alfred stood there for one long, stupid moment, blinking at the darkened room. The blinds were still closed. Matthew was in bed, curled in a tight ball, the duvet up to his chin. His blonde waves were a nest on his pillow. Alfred approached tentatively, peering at Matthew’s face. He needed to see the tell-tale signs of breathing, the subtle widening of the nostrils with each breath. This near-death-accident thing had really made more of an impression on Alfred than he wanted to admit. All right, so Matthew was alive. Okay. Yeah. Of course he was. Why wouldn’t he be?

“Matthew,” Alfred said again, checking his watch. The nightstand showed no signs of wakefulness—no empty coffee cups, no dirty lunch plates, nothing. Had he not stirred since last night? It was half past three in the afternoon. “Mattie?” Alfred said more urgently, rushing over. He put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, he had to feel the warmth of Matthew’s skin, to confirm for a fact that Matthew wasn’t cold and gone. 

“What?” Matthew’s voice was groggy and fragile like a bird’s. 

Alfred’s laugh was tight and relieved. “Dude, it’s three in the afternoon, wake up.”

Matthew hummed in vague acknowledgement. 

“Are you feeling okay?” Alfred asked next. Matthew didn’t have a fever and he wasn’t wincing at lights and sounds the way he did when he got migraines. 

“Fine,” Matthew murmured. 

Alfred didn’t know what to do. And he had to remind himself that he was still furious with Matthew. 

“Where’s your blue flannel?” he demanded, forcing a hardness in his tone. 

Matthew’s sigh was so long and deep, it was like Alfred had asked him to list all the national capitals. “Closet,” he murmured, like that one word took every ounce of strength he had. Alfred walked around to the wardrobe and threw open the doors. The blue flannel was right on top, folded in a neat little square. 

“I’m wearing this today,” he told Matthew. “Don’t try and argue, it looks better on me than you anyway.” 

“Okay.”

Really? No retort? Alfred whipped around. “And I’m going out with Kiku,” he added, because surely that would elicit a question or a taunt. Alfred was expecting something along the lines of Ooooh, like a date? Is he your boyfriend now? But Matthew just shut his eyes. Alfred swallowed. “I…I’m going out with Kiku and I don’t know when I’ll be back, so if Dad or Pops texts you, just respond.” 

“Phone’s off,” Matthew muttered without opening his eyes. 

“Phone’s…wait, why?”

“Just cuz.” 

Alfred frowned. He went over to the nightstand and picked up Matthew’s phone to switch it on. It took several minutes for the screen to load. The battery was at seventy percent. No sooner had the phone booted than it buzzed in Alfred’s palm. Twenty messages came through, mostly from Matthew’s hockey teammates’ group chat, but also a couple from Gilbert. Alfred tossed it to the pillow where Matthew lay his head, saying, “Your phone’s on. Keep an eye on it.” He paused. “You’re still friends with Gilbert?”

“Has he texted?” Matthew asked tiredly. It was the longest sentence he’d spoken so far. 

“Uh, yeah. Want me to read the texts out?”

Matthew picked up his phone and switched it off again. Then he put it under his pillow and shut his eyes. “Bye, Al.”

So now Guy was trapped in the Eel’s Eye Socket Cave, fighting off an army of invading zombies. What would Guy do? Alfred peered at his pages, frowning in concentration. He plotted as he drew, “just like Miyazaki,” Kiku had said when Alfred first mentioned his process. Guy had no magic and nowhere to run—but he had to save the world, and more importantly, he had to save his younger brother, Mike, who as the name suggested, was super quiet until he had to use his sonic blasting powers to carve a hole in the side of Mount Everest. Mike, along with the rest of Guy’s family, and the rest of the world’s superheroes, had been kidnapped and swept away for various forms of torture and experimentation. Alfred was still a bit fuzzy on that part, but it would come to him. Anyway, back to Guy. 

Guy. Trapped in a cave. Zombies. No powers. Now what?

“You know why zombies are always interested in eating brains?” Alfred mused aloud. Kiku, whose nose was practically touching his sketchbook, glanced up. 

“No, why?”

“Because,” Alfred grinned, “they just want stimulating conversation! But everyone always runs away from them,” He whipped his sketchbook around so Kiku could see the figure drawings of Guy standing on a rock like a soapbox, giving the zombies a stand-up comedy routine. “Zombies,” Alfred said slowly, “are just intellectuals!” 

Kiku burst out laughing. It was rare to elicit that kind of laughter from him, all sunny and exuberant, without a shred of self-consciousness. Alfred thought he might just erupt from happiness. 

“So Guy’s just going to wow them with his witty remarks?”

“‘I once met a zombie who died of starvation,’” Alfred joked, deepening his voice to sound more like Guy’s. “‘He’d spent the day at the flat earther convention.” 

“Sounds like a slam poem, I love it.” 

And they both crackled with laughter, the obnoxious, unfettered, full-body kind that made other people glance over to their table and wish they were in on the joke. Alfred’s wrist smacked against the table, splashing his cappuccino over the rim of the cup. It made Kiku laugh harder, clutching his sides. “Stop it, Alfred,” he rasped, wiping a stray tear. 

“It’s not even that funny,” Alfred agreed, but they were both grinning like idiots, and this, this was exactly what it must have felt like when people were in love. Alfred felt like he’d swallowed a star, and it was radiating inside his stomach. Kiku’s pale cheeks were slightly pink as his breathing steadied. He was rifling around his bag. He glanced away, still smiling, and pulled out a pack of wet wipes. “Here,” he said, offering one to Alfred. “For the coffee.” 

“Ooh, thank you.” Their fingers brushed as he took it, and fuck, a wet wipe shouldn’t have been such an intimate thing. Alfred nibbled on his lower lip, dabbing the spots of spilled cappuccino on the table. Okay, Alfred was going to do it. They were going to walk home, and Alfred was going to kiss him. This was a date, and it was going well, and Alfred was going to kiss him. 

And then his cell phone rang. 

Dad. 

Alfred groaned audibly. Kiku’s eyes widened as Alfred sank flat into his chair. First Pops, now Dad. Were his parents intentionally trying to cock-block him? Nothing would surprise him anymore. “Sorry,” Alfred mouthed to Kiku, grabbing his cell and hitting answer. 

“Alfred?” Dad said, his voice oddly calm. “You home?”

“No, why?”

“All right…” he paused. “Do you know if Matthew’s home?”

Alfred’s heart instantly sped up. “Uh…well, he was when I left. He was napping, actually?” If that was what he could call Matthew’s weird behaviour. “Why? What happened?”

“Your father and I were trying to get in touch with him. Just to check in, you know. He’s unreachable.”

“Oh.” Alfred let out a short sigh of relief. “Yeah, he switched his phone off. I think he’s just taking it easy today. He didn’t seem to be interested in conversation.” 

“I see.” Another pause. “Could…could you go home and check on him?”

“What!” Alfred cried. Kiku raised an eyebrow at him. “No, Dad, come on. I’m not his babysitter, man.” 

“Please, Alfred,” and Dad sounded so tired and beaten, Alfred couldn’t even muster the heart to refuse. He must have been really, really worried if he wasn’t even trying to pick a fight. Alfred was reminded of Guy, actually. Just Some Guy in a family of superheroes, just Some Guy trying to do his best despite his limited abilities. Alfred glanced over at Kiku, and…he wanted to kiss him. But his family was struggling. His family needed him. And Alfred couldn’t do much in his life, but hell, he’d never abandon his family. 

“All right,” Alfred sighed. “Yeah, sure, I’ll go home right away.” 

“Thank you. I’m sorry, Alfred. I…” Dad trailed off again. “Things will be better soon.”

“Of course they will.” Alfred stuffed a whole star’s worth of radiance in his voice. “Everything’s going to be okay.” 

He hung up. 

Kiku watched in silence as Alfred shut his sketchbook and packed away his pencils. “Sorry, Kiks, man,” he muttered as he worked. “It’s family stuff.”

“Is everything all right with Matthew?”

Alfred paused long enough to look Kiku in the eye. “Things haven’t been all right with Matthew in ages. I think he’s spiralling out of fucking control. I think my parents are at a complete loss of what to do, I don’t think anyone even gets what’s going on with him, because he’d never tell us. Mattie’s not the type to open up that way. So I think, yeah, everyone’s tired and miserable, and desperately looking for solutions to a problem they don’t even really understand.” 

“That sounds hard. I’m so sorry. Let me know if I can help.”

On anybody else, Alfred would have found those words empty. Just polite tributes offered between strangers. But Kiku was looking at him with a heavy stare, his hands curled around his matcha latte like he was holding himself back from trying to hug Alfred. His voice was steady as always, but tinged with sombre emotion that ran deep. Alfred could recognise compassion when heard it. 

“Thanks, Kiku.” Alfred paused, sketchbook in one hand, pencils in the other. “We have to have a good birthday this year.”

Kiku was watching him, waiting. 

“We’re turning twenty-one, after all,” Alfred went on. “And I think Matthew could use the chance to blow off some steam. He’ll have his plaster off by then, anyway, so he’ll actually be able to go out.” 

“Are you thinking of bar hopping?”

“Initially, I was? But it’s not special enough, is it?” Alfred shrugged. “It’ll be nice to have a party. If you could help me think of that, I’d love it.” 

Kiku nodded. “It’ll be a wonderful party.” 

Alfred stopped at the grocery store before going home. Matthew was still in bed. Alfred sent a quick text to both Dad and Pops, assuring them that everything was fine, and then got to work. It was funny how the silliest art could throw up such obvious and serious truths. Alfred had no superpowers, he could not save the world. But he could make maple fudge, and he could probably coax Mattie into eating it. Like his comic book character, he needed to find creative ways to get around giant problems, and Alfred was starting to appreciate the fact that he could be a creative guy. 

He looked up an easy recipe. Matthew loved maple fudge, and when they were little, they used to make it together, with Pops supervising to ensure they didn’t burn their hands. The mixture didn’t take long to cook, and their kitchen was well stocked with every kind of pan and appliance Alfred would possibly need. They even had a candy thermometer. Alfred poured the fudgy sauce into a flat pan, covered it with clingwrap, and slipped it into the fridge for thirty minutes. He busied himself wiping down the kitchen counters and washing the dirty dishes. He put on a pot of tea—the chamomile Pops drank when he was stressed—and rifled around the kitchen cabinets until he found a box of Kraft Dinner, which to Pop’s great chagrin, Matthew absolutely loved. He might not eat anything substantial, but Alfred had a feeling he could convince Matthew to eat KD. 

In further torture to their Michelin-star French chef father, Matthew liked KD with barbecue sauce. Alfred was sure he couldn’t make the pasta exactly how his brother liked it (probably the devil himself couldn’t) but he could get pretty damn close. And he was determined to make Matthew eat something today. He was mad at Matthew, and tired, and scared, but the only way out was through and it had to be on Alfred’s shoulders. Alfred knew him best. Alfred was his twin. Alfred was the only one with a chance in hell of getting him to talk. 

The pasta was done. The fudge had cooled. Alfred cut it into cubes and spooned some into a bowl with vanilla ice cream. He put a hot cup of chamomile between the dishes on the tray and carried them over to Matthew’s burrow. He opened the door with his elbow. 

“All right, Matt, enough,” Alfred declared, putting the tray down on the bed. “Get up and eat something. I have your barbecue KD abomination, maple fudge with ice cream, and chamomile, and it’s all going to get cold—or warm, you know, depending—so you better eat it quick.”

“Go away, Alfred,” Matthew muttered, pulling his duvet over his head. 

“No. Get up.” And Alfred put his hands under Matthew’s armpits and forcefully lifted him in an upright position, ignoring his brother’s indignant cry. “You’re going to eat something,” Alfred ordered, “and you’re going to have a shower, and then we’re going to watch Disney movies like we used to when we were kids because I feel like watching Mulan.” 

Matthew’s glare was deadly, but it was also strangely hollow. Alfred couldn’t muster any sense of fear or trepidation at his brother’s bitter face. 

“You look like a disgruntled puppy,” Alfred said. “Just eat.” 

Matthew cast his eyes towards the tray. The ice cream was already starting to melt into a milky puddle. He picked up the bowl and stared down at it, like he was gazing into a vanilla crystal ball. He spooned a bit of the fudge. “Did you make that?” 

“Yes.” 

A quick flick of the eyes, and Matthew nodded once. Like the recognition of Alfred’s labour was enough to convince him. He put a whole square of fudge in his mouth. Alfred hovered over him for a minute, watching him chew. Matthew didn’t say anything, but then he swallowed and took another bite. In the tiniest voice, he said, “Thanks, it’s nice.” His eyes rested on Alfred. “Get some for yourself.”

“Okay, Mattie.” 

When Alfred returned with a bowl of ice cream and fudge, Matthew had already finished with his. He was now spooning the KD, staring vacantly at the stretchy strings of melted cheese. Alfred settled on the bed, legs out in front of him, hugging his bowl. “You wanna talk about it?” he asked. 

“Not really.” Matthew shoved a deliberately large portion of pasta in his mouth, presumably to avoid conversation. Alfred wouldn’t be so easily deterred. 

“What do you wanna do for our birthday?” 

“Die, probably,” Matthew muttered after swallowing. Alfred’s heart jumped. 

“Look, Matthew, can you not make jokes like that for a while?” 

“Sorry.” Matthew fell into a miserable silence. “Maybe just stay in, I dunno.” 

“I was thinking we could throw a party.”

“Sure, that too, I guess.” 

Alfred glanced over at him. “I can organise the whole thing, if you want. Just tell me your guest list.” 

Matthew shrugged. This was going to be harder than he’d anticipated…but Alfred had plenty of practice getting his silent brother to talk. 

“Should I invite Gilbert?” he mused, stuffing his mouth with fudge. Matthew quickly looked over, then away. Alfred, jaw occupied by the block of maple fudge, said nothing more, and the silence stretched on for several uncomfortable minutes. Finally, Matthew had to talk. 

“Yeah, okay.” 

Alfred ate another piece of fudge. Matthew exhaled his frustration. 

“Yeah, we’re friends, I guess,” he went on. He narrowed his eyes. “Alfred, man, don’t give me the silent treatment. What do you want to know?” 

Alfred ate yet another piece of fudge. 

“I think he likes me,” Matthew finally admitted. “I know you just want to hear something juicy like that. Yeah, I think he likes me. I don’t know how I feel. I just feel horrible about everything right now.” 

“Cool! I’ll invite him, then,” Alfred grinned. Matthew rolled his eyes, but there was almost something amused tugging at the corner of his lip. Was that, potentially, the first glimmers of a smile? “The important question is what do you want to drink? We’re going to be twenty-one, so it has to be something crazy. I was thinking: flaming shots.” 

“I don’t feel like drinking, actually.” 

Alfred watched him again, silent. Waiting. 

“I don’t…” Matthew trailed off. “I don’t trust myself around alcohol right now.” 

Oh, yikes, whatever that meant. Alfred knew better than to ask directly. Matthew would never tell him. He had to approach this from the sides, like flipping a pancake. “Would you be okay to have a party, then?” he asked in a small voice. 

“I guess, yeah. I just don’t want to drink.”

“Okay.” Alfred breathed out. “Then we can have Cokes or something. Whatever you want.” Alfred watched the bowl of KD. Matthew was halfway through. At least he was eating. Alfred had to keep the conversation going. Perhaps it was because he’d spent the last half an hour cooking, or perhaps because Pop’s influence had rubbed off on him after all, but he could only think in food analogies. This was like kneading dough. He had to keep working Matthew, because otherwise he knew Matthew would just shut down again. “I think I’ll definitely invite Kiku,” he said. “I mean, obviously. He’s my best friend.”

“You’re in love with him,” Matthew said, shocking Alfred into silence. He shot Alfred a long, cool, knowing stare. “Aren’t you?”

“Shut up, Mattie,” Alfred mumbled, turning away to hide what was certainly going to be an embarrassing blush. 

“Have you told him yet?” Matthew demanded. His tone was so dry and clinical for something so intimate. 

“No…” 

“Is he straight?” 

“No, I don’t think so. But then, Kiku doesn’t really tell me about that sort of thing. He could have a girlfriend for all I know. He gets kind of embarrassed when I ask.” 

Matthew raised an eyebrow. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Alfred muttered. “I know. I should just tell him. I keep getting cock-blocked.” 

“By whom?”

“Pops and Dad!” 

That finally made Matthew laugh. It was a quiet snort, a grin pulling at his cheeks as he shook his head. “Just tell them you’re trying to get busy. I’m sure they’ll understand.”

“Yeah, right,” Alfred said, and they both sank into cushioning laughter again. “Pops and Dad don’t understand much of anything,” Alfred said after a while. “They try, though, they really do.”

“Yeah…” Matthew trailed off, the last vestiges of good humour slipping off his face. He looked tired again. Alfred noticed he’d abandoned the KD halfway. He hadn’t touched the tea at all. 

Alfred gently nudged Matthew’s good leg with his own. “Which is why we gotta talk to each other. Right? ‘Cause we get it. Don’t we?”

“Maybe,” Matthew conceded. His voice was very small. He was turning away from Alfred, eyes resolutely at the window, his shoulders angled so he was physically shutting Alfred out. 

“Matt,” Alfred started softly. “Hey, Matt. What’s going on?” 

In that one second, Alfred thought he might just have broken through. He might just have convinced Matthew to open up. But then Matthew just shook his head, and Alfred’s heart sank. “I don’t feel like watching a movie right now, is that okay?”

“Okay, sure,” Alfred murmured. “But can you meet me halfway and finish eating?” 

Matthew didn’t look at him, but he took another spoonful of the disgusting, semi-cold pasta. Alfred counted that a small victory. He had to, after all. Some Guys like him had to make do with incremental wins. 

Chapter Text

Alfred accompanied Matthew for the plaster removal. Pops was driving them to hospital (Dad couldn’t get off work). Matthew was strangely quiet, but he’d been like that for days now. Listless. He ate, mostly because Alfred had been sitting with him at every meal, and his presence alone was enough motivation for Matthew to eat too, but even their parents had noticed Matthew’s unusually subdued demeanour. If he was in pain, Matthew had just stopped talking about it. He was, however, checking his phone today. Texting someone. Probably Gilbert. That was a good sign, at least. Matthew had kept his phone off for the last week, so perhaps this drive to the hospital was helping him return to civilisation. 

“How are you doing, Matthew?” the doctor asked during the consultation. 

“Yeah, fine.” 

“Are you in any pain?”

Matthew paused. “No, I’m okay now.” 

And then the plaster came off. Alfred had never seen a plaster removal before--it looked deadly, what with that little saw and everything. But this was not Matthew’s first fracture, so he just turned his eyes away and stared vacantly at the wall. But even he stared at the scar. Pops muttered something dark in French under his breath that Alfred wasn’t fluent enough to catch. 

The scar on Matthew's leg was bright pink and radiated like a lightning strike across his skin, ripping into it in five different directions. But there was another scar, a single deep slash from the ice skate. Matthew leaned forward and traced it with a tender finger. “Feels so odd to touch my skin again. What a mess.” 

“I promise, no one will even notice it,” Pops said quickly. 

“Yeah, and scars look cool as hell!” Alfred chimed in. 

Matthew shot them both a tepid smile. “Yeah, I guess. I’m just excited to walk.” He tenderly scratched his leg and sighed in relief. 

“It’s actually healed very well,” the doctor said. “And you’ve managed to keep an infection at bay, which is excellent, since that’s a major concern with open fractures. We’ll keep monitoring that, and get you started on a physical therapy routine. Do you think you’re up to walking?” 

They spent the next twenty minutes helping Matthew walk. He was incredibly wobbly, gripping the wall, flailing, as he worked out how much pressure his leg could take. The muscles in his calf had become weaker, and the plaster removal had made his leg feel “very light”, in his words. He also admitted that he felt very stiff and awkward. 

“But that will clear out as you do your physical therapy,” his doctor promised. “For now, don’t overexert yourself. Try and walk a little bit, but take breaks, okay?”

“Okay.” Alfred saw Matthew smile for real, perhaps for the first time in days. “I’m going to walk to the car.” 

“Hell yeah,” Alfred cheered. He hadn’t realised how much he’d needed this. Watching Matthew literally get back on his own feet had somehow corrected some terrible trauma in his head--the absolute rollercoaster that had been the last two months. The worst could have happened, but it didn’t. Matthew was alive, and he was walking, and things may never be normal like before, but they would stabilise eventually. They’d survive this. 

The plaster removal had also snipped off a weight on Matthew’s chest, because like magic, he was talking. 

“So, Alfred, what have you planned for our birthday?” he asked, completely unprompted. From the corner of his eyes, Alfred saw Pops smile. Alfred glanced back at Matthew, who was in the back seat, bending and flexing his knee. He was tenderly pressing his leg, mild grimaces flitting across his features, mostly exploring the limits of his recently-healed limb. 

“Well, just a house party. And believe it or not, I convinced Dad and Pops to get the hell out for the night.”

“Ah, yes,” Pops chimed in. “Alfred basically told us to get a room, isn’t that right?”

“Ew. I said stay in a hotel for one night because we want to have a proper party!” 

“Right,” Pops agreed. “So you told your parents to get a room.”

“Jesus, ew,” Matthew muttered, as Alfred covered his head with his hands. “Yeah, Papa, nobody needs that mental image. But good call, Alfred. Who have you invited?”

“Kiku,” Alfred said immediately, and from the rear view mirror, he saw Matthew roll his eyes. “Hey, I also invited Gilbert! And I invited your friends from hockey: Tino, Mathias, Emil, Sadik, Berwald and the rest. They’ve been dying to see you, apparently you hadn’t told them you got kicked off the team! The coach told them!” Alfred turned his head quizzically to Matthew, who was picking at the flaky skin on the heel of his newly-freed foot. Matthew nibbled his lower lip and straightened his glasses, which had tilted slightly. 

“Yeah, I didn’t tell them. I figured the coach would.” 

“Matthew, that’s not very nice,” Pops commented, though his tone was mild and worried. “I actually thought they would want to see you in hospital, but then they didn’t show…”

Matthew picked up his phone, evidently scrolling through some chats. “I don’t remember much of what I was telling people in hospital, I was too banged up and on too much morphine. But ah, okay, yeah.” Alfred could see his phone screen, with the chat window, reflected off his spectacles. “Yeah,” Matthew said again, and read out, “‘Thanks for your concern, guys! I’m doing okay, no need to visit me right now cuz I’m asleep most of the time anyway.’” He glanced up, staring at Alfred and the back of Pop’s head, his expression almost owlish. “I don’t remember sending that text, but well…” and he turned the phone to Alfred, to prove what he’d said was true. “I told them not to visit me. And I guess I’ve just been avoiding them. But I’m glad you invited them, it’s been ages and I owe them an explanation.”

“Yeah,” Alfred muttered, trying to quash the sudden onslaught of guilt. He returned the phone to Matthew. “Well, I had no idea you’d been icing them out, so I invited them. I could uninvite them but that would be awkward.”

Matthew flushed. “No, don’t do that, Alfred. I’ve been avoiding them because, well—” and he fell silent. But he didn’t really have to say it. Pops glanced at Alfred knowingly, and Alfred stared ahead at the highway whipping by. He kept trying to put himself in Matthew’s shoes, kept trying to understand if he was as passionate about art as Matthew was about hockey; kept trying to guess at what it would feel to be the family golden child, and to have everything you want and lose it in a flash. Now Alfred tried to imagine what loneliness it would be to realise all your friends are able to do something you medically can’t anymore. That you’re not part of the group, not in the same way. That you were going to be left behind. 

“True friends would love you even if you can’t play a sport,” Pops said gently. 

“Yeah,” Matthew murmured. “Well, I guess we’ll see. It’ll be good to say hi to them again anyway.” A melancholy expression flitted across his face, but Alfred watched him tamp it down with a smile. Matthew flexed his leg again, and gingerly rolled his ankle. “Ow,” he muttered, sounding curious and exasperated at once. 

“Take it easy, Matthew,” Pops warned. He turned the car down their street. “No need to go jumping about everywhere just because the plaster is off.” 

“I’ll be chill,” Matthew promised. “But I do want to go for a walk later today, okay?” 

“Let’s see,” Pops said ominously, though he was smiling. “Convince me by walking into the house without falling over.” 

Alfred was heartened to see the return of his indestructibly spirited brother. It was obvious Matthew was actually struggling to balance—he kept swaying as he took tiny steps in the driveway. When Alfred tried to help him, Matthew slapped his hand away. “Don’t fuss. It’s just stiff. The more I walk, the easier it will become,” he said confidently, right before he lost his balance and nearly face-planted into a bush. Pops caught him just in time, righting him with both hands as he muttered darkly. Alfred’s French was not as good as Matthew’s, but even he could pick up the grumbled complaints of ‘you shouldn’t push yourself’ and ‘overconfidence is a bad trait’. In an odd sort of way, Alfred thought it was kind of funny. Even Matthew snorted in self-effacing good humour. 

Inside, a short argument between him and Pops followed. Matthew was aching to go to his room on the first floor, which had been abandoned for two months. But Pops wanted him to stay in the room below, so he wouldn’t have to stumble over two flights of stairs. Alfred tuned out around then. He’d promised Kiku they could video call and draw, and he just wanted to retreat to his bedroom and lock the door behind him. One of these days, he was sure, his parents would realise he was hiding out with the door latched, and think he was doing something filthy. Alfred wasn’t sure what he’d tell them then. 

In the background he heard Matthew negotiate a compromise with Pops. “I’ll stay down, but I want to go for my walk! Just to the cafe down the street!” 

“But you’re struggling quite a bit. I should come with you!”

“No! Don’t!” Matthew paused. “I mean, I’m meeting a friend. So I won’t be alone.” 

Alfred, halfway up the stairs, now came tearing down, unable to wipe the fast-growing smirk off his face. “What friend, Mattie? What friend is that?” 

Pops glanced rapidly between them as Matthew’s face darkened and darkened, looking instantly like a peach left out too long in the sun. He was glaring at Alfred, and for the first time in forever, things felt normal. Like they could be normal brothers again, fighting about the same dumb shit, teasing each other, hurling insults and laughing them off. “Gilbert,” Matthew said in enraged embarrassment. 

“Who’s Gilbert?” Pops asked, pulling up a chair. He was such a sucker for drama. A true gossip hound.  

“No one,” Matthew said at the same time Alfred chirped, “Some guy who’s completely in love with him.” 

“ALFRED!”

“Ah,” said Pops, stroking the stubble on his slender chin. “So this is a date.” 

“It is not! ” But Matthew’s ears were practically vermillion. “Oh my god, Alfred, you’re such a loser, he’s just a friend and I’m just saying hi--”

“You two have been texting non-stop, huh?” Alfred went on, smirking. This felt so good, so fun. And even though he was torturing Mattie a little, he was pretty sure Mattie was enjoying the ribbing too. Two months without any casual banter had been cruel and unusual punishment. “Get this, Pops, they’re like best friends from grade school. This is like some long-lost-lovers nonsense.” 

“How cute, Mattie!” Pops exclaimed, covering his mouth with a hand to stifle a short giggle. “Well, if it’s a romantic date you want, I can drive you.” 

“I want a walk,” Matthew insisted. “Brisk exercise.”

“Yeah, exercise,” Alfred sneered, making air quotes, and he and Pops burst out laughing. 

Matthew glanced rapidly between the two of them, eyes wild, seeking retribution. “Are you two seriously giggling at a sex joke? Grow up. And also, Alfred, I’m not going to take this from the guy going moon-eyed over his best friend. Kiku-this, Kiku-that, don’t come after me, putain!”

“Matthew, language!” Pops cried, scandalised but also impressed. That was the thing with Pops, Alfred supposed. He wasn’t as straight-laced as Dad, so he had a lot more fun joking around with the two of them. “Don’t call your brother a whore.”

“Yeah, Mattie,” Alfred muttered. “Language!”

“Right, right,” Matthew smiled. “Sorry, Alfred." And he said something in French that Alfred couldn't catch. 

Pops let out a noise like a horrified Victorian. Whatever Mattie had said obviously crossed a line for him. “Where do you learn such language, go to your room!” 

“Wait, what does that mean?” Alfred demanded. “Mattie, say it in English so I can kick your ass.” 

“Never you mind.” Pops crossed his arms, eyes flying between Alfred and Matthew, the latter wearing a shit-eating smirk as he held the wall for balance. 

“I’m gonna Google translate that.”

“Don’t, Alfred.” 

“Do it, Alfred,” Matthew goaded, so of course, Alfred did. 

“Mattie, you asshole—” Alfred tore after him but Matthew, hopping on one foot, somehow, darted into the bedroom. Alfred grabbed him by the back of his shirt and wrestled him down to the bed. Alfred was still careful to avoid leaning over or pressing down on Matthew’s leg, but they ended up in a ridiculous slap-fight anyway, sending English and French curses flying. 

Pops yanked Alfred back by the scruff, but they were all breathless and laughing anyway. “Stop, stop, stop,” Pops ordered, even as Matthew took his chance to sit up and give Alfred a playful shove. “Boys, look,” he said, his voice stern but his eyes light, “It’s nice to see you two messing around after so long, but don’t let it get physical, yes? At least not yet. Matthew is far from recovered and I’m sure nobody wants to risk complications. And for the love of God, stop calling each other whores. Honestly, language!” 

“I said I was sorry,” Matthew said, his eyes so wide and innocent. “Alfred can’t be a whore, because whores get—”

Alfred flipped him the bird. “Pops didn’t say no sign language.” 

“Alfred!!” Pops was shaking his head, but his exasperation gave way to real joy as he ruffled Alfred’s hair, and then Matthew’s. Mattie, still on his back in bed, his torso resting on his elbows, smiled in a way Alfred had not seen since the accident—in a way Alfred feared he might never see again. So they could get through this, right? They could totally get through this. 

“All right,” Alfred said to no one in particular. “Cool.”

“Yes, cool,” Pops agreed. “So, wait, Matthew, what were you saying about Alfred being in love with his best friend?”

“I’m gonna go.” Alfred high-tailed up the stairs. 

“Probably gonna go jerk off to a picture of Kiku,” Matthew yelled behind him. 

“Shut UP. GOD.”  He heard Matthew’s cackle all the way up the stairs, and Alfred slammed his bedroom door shut and paused. Just. Paused. Breathed in. Out. Okay. All right. Cool. And before he could stop himself, he was half-curled, laughing his head off, and it was like two months of agony was being washed off his back. 

The entire last week, Matthew had been in a depressed haze. Alfred had to sit with him the first couple of days, to encourage him to eat, after which Matthew had decided to eat only as a courtesy, to stop his family from bothering him about it. All he wanted to do was lie in his bed, not showering, skipping meals, and not really sleeping much either, just thinking and overthinking about how he didn’t deserve to live. 

And he still felt extremely strange. He’d had that heaviness in his heart even as they drove to the hospital to get that plaster removed. And Matthew was sure that heaviness would still be there on the way back home. But bizarrely, it was becoming smaller. In the car he’d been too fascinated by his newly-recovered leg to feel depressed. And the playfight with Alfred, which had come out of nowhere, had washed off the haze entirely. How long had it been since they’d wrestled or called each other dumb names? How long had it been since Matthew had broken out the French profanity? Too long. He’d forgotten what it was like to have fun. 

And Gilbert had been texting him! As usual. Matthew had been ignoring the messages, too depressed to bother deciphering them. But he’d read them in the car. He reread them now. 

-Sorry i went awol. I was kinda…idk, whatever, sad i guess
-I’m feeling normal now! Hope you’re doing good

-MATTIE
-Ja i figured you wanted space no worries
-Im so glad you’re feeling better!
-Im good!! How are you??

Matthew hadn’t responded to that until he got the plaster off in hospital. Then he’d texted, just got my plaster off!!! 

-CONGRATS MATTIE
-Hey we gotta celebrate!!
-lets grab a coffee or something if youre feeling up to it 

And that was how they got here. Matthew had spent the remaining hours washing his newly plaster-free foot. He’d scrubbed off the gross flaky skin with pumice and Papa’s rose-scented soap and accompanying essential oils. The itching from the plaster was annoying enough, but he’d forgotten how disgusting it felt once the damn thing actually came off. 

Matthew kept staring at his new scars. He had other scars from hockey, but they were a lot smaller. These were frightening. Violent. He didn't know what to make of them. He kept trying to remember the accident. He couldn’t. The moment of impact had become too clouded, the memory polluted by the trauma sirensong that played in his head on repeat. 

Hello mattie :^)  remember the awesome me? Breathe Breathe Breathe Nee Naa Nee Naa blood loss crashing yup this has happened before

He couldn’t remember the moment of collision. But well, it had happened. And things had changed. And now he was here. 

When Matthew was finally ready to exit the bathroom, he forced down the nervousness he felt with each step. This was new too—having to think so intently about the weight and placement of his foot. Too much pressure sent a jolt of pain up his leg. He didn’t want to fall again. He gripped the wall, the basin, the door handle. But he had to walk, he really had to try, because more than anything else, he’d missed walking. He’d missed being able to do things for himself. Matthew was tired of being the problem. He didn’t know how to fix everything that had broken. But for now, he just had to push through. 

So he’d walk to the cafe at the end of the road and he’d meet his friend Gilbert. 

“Are you sure about this?” Papa asked him as he was leaving. “I really don’t mind dropping you in the car, Mattie. I won’t stay.” 

Matthew was clutching the wall as he limped to the door. 

“Or perhaps you can take your crutches. Just in case.”

“Papa, it’s under control.” 

“You are a very insistent child.” He sounded almost proud, though his eyes betrayed concern. “Mattie. Mattie, attends.” 

Matthew was almost at the front door. He sighed and paused. Papa came over, delicately patting Matthew’s head. 

“Nobody expects you to tough things out all the time,” Papa said to him. “You know that, right?” 

“Of course.” Matthew opened the door. “See ya!"

-I’m on my way!!
-I’m not standing you up!!
-I just gotta walk very very slowly lol 

-Shit mattie, you could have told me you werent feeling up to it!
-i have my car, where are you? I can come get you 

-no, i got this!
-i’m going to WALK, dammit 

-matthew, ok. Just dont fall or something. 
-I cant have you collapsing on me every time we hang out!
-that’s NOT an awesome way to spend time 

“Who’s collapsing?” Matthew demanded as he opened the cafe door. Gilbert had snagged a corner table by the window, but his back was to the door. He jumped, his phone clattering to the floor, as Matthew made his grand entrance. 

“Mattie!” 

And Matthew was enveloped in an unanticipated hug. And damn, Gilbert was really good at hugs. He was a full head shorter than Matthew, but his hug was firm and protective and so affectionate all at once. 

“Man, Mattie,” Gilbert said when he finally let go. “I’m so glad to see you on your feet. Let’s sit down. You want a coffee? I don’t know what’s good here.” 

“I’ll get it,” Matthew declared. He’d made it this far on his own. He could surely walk to the counter and buy a couple of coffees. He was already reaching for his wallet when Gilbert grabbed his wrist. 

“Sit down, man,” he said, and his voice had a hint of an order. 

“I already owe you.” 

Gilbert’s red-tint eyes crinkled at the edges. “Mattie, sit. What do you want, a latte?”

“...Caramel macchiato,” Matthew admitted, limping towards the chair. “Thanks, Gil.” 

Matthew played with the strap of his watch as he waited for Gilbert to return. His leg was aching a little, he hoped that would pass. He glanced out the window. Across the road was an odd and familiar sight: his home rink. The ice rink he grew up skating in, the first time he learnt to play this game. It had a Permanently Closed sign on the door. Matthew turned away. 

He felt a bit embarrassed, if he was being honest. The last time he and Gil spoke, Matthew had been a doped out mess. That was the first day they’d actually met after years. He owed it to Gilbert to be on his best behaviour. Matthew took a steadying breath. He’d start with the apology, then the thank-you, and then guide the conversation by asking interesting questions about Gilbert’s life. He’d focus the conversation on Gilbert, make Gilbert feel good. He couldn’t screw this up twice. 

“Order up!” Gilbert said, walking over with two cups in his hands. He set the caramel macchiato in front of Matthew, and a cappuccino down before himself. 

“Thanks, Gil. How much was it?”

Gilbert waved him off. “So, Mattie! How have you been?”

“Yeah, good.” Matthew smiled. “Hey, listen. I wanted to say once again that I’m really sorry about how I acted the last time we met. And I’m thankful that you took care of me, and also didn’t rat me out to my family, because that would have been bad. Yeah, I’m just really grateful.” 

“Matthew,” Gilbert hesitated. “Um. Yeah, look, don’t keep apologising and shit. I know you won’t do it again. It’s okay, you were having a bad day and you made a mistake. I’m just glad there were no lasting repercussions, you know? It all worked out in the end. So we can move on, I promise.” He smiled then. “So, what have you been up to?”

Fine then. Matthew was ready with the next step. Alfred accused him of being a perfectionist, but Matthew was just prepared. He was feeling good; positive. But he wasn’t going to be Gilbert’s drama queen friend. He was going to focus this conversation on Gilbert. He had to. 

“I’ve been okay. How about you? Do you have exams coming up? Engineering sounds like a pretty challenging major.” 

“My exams aren’t for another couple of weeks, thankfully! And yeah, it’s challenging as hell. I kind of regret it a bit, if I’m being honest. My dad’s an engineer, so I just sort of did what he told me. And I’m worried my brother’s doing the same thing. I have a little brother, I don’t know if you remember him?”

“Ludwig, yeah!” Matthew laughed. “He used to follow you everywhere in school. He was so serious.” 

“He’s still exactly like that.” Gilbert sipped his coffee and made a face. Matthew watched him tear a sugar sachet and stir it in. “It’ll be nice to unwind at your birthday party though! It’s next week, right? You must be excited! What do you want as a present?”

“Oh god, nothing.” Matthew glanced off, suddenly bashful. “You, of all people, do not need to get me a present.” 

“Nonsense. Come on, twenty-one’s the big one. I want to get you something awesome!” 

On every birthday, Matthew got at least some hockey-related memorabilia. Posters and bobbleheads, memoirs of famous coaches and players, t-shirts, and tools. Last year, his parents had got him a brand new, super expensive pair of skates. Matthew didn’t know what else he’d even want. Jarringly, he had no other interests. But boy was that a rabbit hole he wasn’t going to dive into right now. Not while he was drinking an over-sweet caramel macchiato and talking to his…friend.

“A coupon for In-N-Out Burger,” Matthew said on a whim, half-joking. 

“Mattie, it’s your twenty-first birthday, not the prize for a seniors’ bingo night at the community centre.” 

Matthew snorted. “I don’t know, Gil. I don’t want any presents. What do you usually get for your birthdays?” Pivot, pivot, pivot. If Matthew could just make Gilbert feel good, then he’d feel good. It was the only way to fix what had gone so badly wrong. After all, not only had Matthew been reckless and stupid, he’d also ghosted Gilbert for the last week. 

Gilbert scratched the back of his head. “Aw, man. I mean, my favourite gift was probably Gilbird. That’s my bird.” He whipped out his phone to show a picture. “Luddy got him for me ‘cuz I really wanted a pet!” He held up a photo of a fluffy little canary in a cage with a little mirror and a dangling toy. 

“He’s so cute!! I didn’t know you had a pet!” 

“I wanted to keep him in my dorm with me, but I couldn’t! No pets allowed. I think that’s crap.” 

“Al and I always wanted a dog,” Matthew said, a little wistfully. “We even convinced our English dad, when we were little, but our…uh, our French dad put his foot down.” He couldn’t prevent the tiny giggle at Papa’s expense. “He doesn’t like that dogs shed all over the furniture, you know. He loves our sofas.” 

Gilbert rolled his eyes, though he was smiling. “Dogs are more fun than couches, any day. Well…depends on what you do on them, I suppose,” he added impishly. Matthew hoped he wasn’t turning scarlet. Putting his phone away, Gilbert went on, “Aside from Gilbird, probably this leather jacket Antonio got me. Who knows where he got the money from for that,” he laughed, “that guy’s broke. But it looks amazing. I bet Lovino chose it, actually. Toni has no fashion sense of his own.” 

Oh, right, clothes. Clothes were an option…Matthew already had nice clothes though, right? He had that flannel Alfred had borrowed (and not returned). “Do you usually have big parties on your birthday?”

“The craziest,” Gilbert bragged. “The last time, Antonio and I got shit-faced and stole a sheep.”

“What?” 

“We returned it when we sobered up!” he laughed. “By then it had become attached to us and didn’t want to go back. Toni wanted to keep it, obviously, and Lovino said if they were keeping a sheep, he was going to make lamb chops.” He guffawed. “Lovino’s good for him. Someone has to moderate that guy. So yeah, we returned the sheep.”

“That’s...” Matthew stared at Gilbert in awe. “Man, I want to do fun stuff like that! I feel like all I’ve ever done is practice hockey and work out.”

“That’s why you’re so buff.”

Matthew immediately felt his face go hot. He wasn’t as muscled as some of the others on the team, but yeah, sure, he spent a lot of time in the gym and it had a way of showing. He mostly kept himself hidden under flannels and sweaters, but right now he was only wearing a plain white t-shirt. It was oversized, as was everything he owned, but Gilbert was staring at his biceps with an appreciative kind of smile. He remembered what Lovino had said then—I think he has a crush on you—and Matthew was even more shy and confused. 

Sure, Gilbert was attractive, very attractive, in fact. He was always wearing an impish smile, a glint in his eyes like he was about to share some scandalous secret. But Matthew was lanky and all limbs, and his hair never sat right and he was a mess. If Gilbert had a crush on him, it had probably shrivelled since the last time they met. Who in their right mind would want to deal with such a sack of problems? 

“I’m not buff,” Matthew mumbled, glancing off. Pivot, pivot, pivot! What was he going to say? Suddenly his head was blank and all he could do was laugh. “I—I mean, you look like you bench.” God, did he just say that? What was he, some Johnny Bravo parody? Gilbert’s grin became all too wide. 

“Oh yeah, sure, I go to the gym a couple of times a week,” he said with uncharacteristic modesty. Matthew didn’t know where to go from here. 

“How’s your coffee?”

“Oh? Yeah, it’s good.” Gilbert took a sip and glanced off. 

This wasn’t a date. This wasn’t a date because Matthew wasn’t prepared for it to be. Staring at Gilbert now, this beautiful boy who apparently liked him, Matthew realised he was too emotionally wrung out to give him anything worth having. His plaster was off, yeah, but that feeling of freefall, of sinking where he stood, was still very present. He was still the family problem child. He was still expelled. He was still a former hockey player. His well was empty. 

Was Gilbert another thing he’d have to lose? 

They talked about this and that, and Matthew schooled the conversation in Gilbert’s direction the whole time. He allowed Gilbert to drive him back home, only because it was just down the street, and Matthew’s leg was sending him warning signs--dull aches that signalled he was done walking for the day. 

“Can I walk you to the door?” Gilbert asked, ever the gentleman, and Matthew cracked a smile, like it was nothing. 

“I think I’m okay. I’ll just go home and lie down for a bit. Thank you, Gil.” 

“Stop thanking me, Mattie. I’ll buy you something awesome for your birthday!”

“You don’t have to. But thank you!” Matthew opened the car door. “Drive safe. See you next week!” 

“Stop thanking me, dammit!” Gilbert laughed. 

Matthew’s smile faded slightly as he drove off. He turned and limped to the front door, not bothering to hide his grimace at the leg. The pain was nothing compared to what it had been only weeks ago. But he was stiff and his calf muscles had weakened, so he had to remember to rest. He resolved to prop his leg up on some pillows and maybe watch some TV. There was nothing else to do. 

Before he could turn the key in the door, it flew open, and Papa was standing there, eyes glittering in anticipation. “Saw you from the window!” he said. “So tell me, how was your date?”

“Not a date.” He allowed Papa to support him by the arm and lead him back to the downstairs bedroom. 

“Go on, Matthew, tell me! Tell me all about this boy.”

Matthew blushed. “He’s just a friend. I mean, he’s cute, yeah, but I don’t know. I guess there’s just been a lot of drama lately. So I’m not…” he trailed off, but Papa was, in some ways, a mind-reader. He didn’t have to say more. 

“Ah.” Helping him into bed, Papa said, “Well, if you’re not sure you like him, you must not lead him on.”

“No, obviously not. But I do like him!” Matthew chewed his bottom lip and glanced up at his father. In moments like these he felt so young. A week away from twenty-one, and still just a child. “I like him, but I’m just so tired. I don’t know if--if I’m--enough,” he finished, feeling pathetic. “If there’s enough of me to give.” 

“If it comes up, you should tell him that.” Papa raised a brow. “In matters of the heart, honest communication is always the answer.” 

Not like Matthew was good at being honest, not lately, anyway. 

“You never know,” Papa went on. “He might even be willing to wait for you.” 

Chapter Text

Alfred had been to many parties, but had never thrown one before. He hadn't realised how much work went into it. Sure, sometimes their parents had friends over, and those were fancy, sit-down dinner parties with five courses (because of course, Pops would always go over the top when he didn’t need to)—this was different. They were getting catering from a Chinese place, and they were getting pizza, because neither Matthew nor Alfred could agree on a cuisine. The only thing they knew was that they didn’t want to eat French food (cue dramatic muttering from Pops). 

With only days to go for their birthday, and Matthew freshly back on his feet, there was suddenly a lot to do. Pops insisted that they had to deep-clean the whole house, or at the very least, deep-clean their rooms, lest their drunken guests find a line of dust in the fine porcelain or whatever. Dad took it a step further and said they had to clean out their closets , because might as well, right? 

Today, Alfred had been put in charge of the worst task, cleaning the fridge. In other people’s homes this was a nightmare because the fridge contained old, forgotten-about food that had to be chucked, but in theirs, it was a nightmare because Pops was militant about it. Everything had to be labelled with date of purchase, and good luck if you stored cooked and raw meat in the same freezer. Alfred made the mistake of stocking leftover pork above a bowl of marinating raw chicken, and Pops had a Gordon Ramsay meltdown. “We’ll all die of salmonella poisoning! Is that what you want?” he cried, throwing them both out. “Now you have to go to the store and buy more chicken for lunch!” 

“Remind me never to work in your restaurant.” 

“Mon lapin, I love you, but you could never be hired in one of my restaurants.” 

“Why would you want to be, anyway?” Dad quipped, nose in the Sunday edition. 

Alfred laughed. 

“Well, I am glad you two are getting along,” Pops sniffed. “At my expense. Here I am, trying to save my family from cross-contamination—Alfred, arrête ! D'accord, vas-y ,” he cried as Alfred, unable to find a place, shoved a large eggplant on the fridge floor. Pops pried it off his hands, cradling it like a baby. “Look at this, so beautiful, so pure, so fresh, and you are putting it on the ground where it will get dirty. Tu vas, clean your room! No, go get the chicken! Ne touche pas à mes aubergines!” 

“Trust me, I have NO interest in touching votre aubergines. ” 

Dad roared with laughter. Alfred grinned at him, because it was so fun to be joking around for once. He trampled up the stairs. “Mattie!” he called, “you will not believe what Pops was saying about auberg—what are you doing?” 

Matthew had only just moved back to his upstairs bedroom. As it had been collecting dust for the last two months, it desperately needed a cleanout, and as Matthew still couldn’t stand or walk too long, Alfred had spent a couple of hours yesterday helping him dust and vacuum. Currently Matthew had set up a large box on the floor, filled with t-shirts and posters and his helmet. His hockey stick was propped against the wall. He glanced up as he dumped his skates by their laces into the box. “Oh, hey Al. I’m just cleaning my room!” 

Alfred glanced at the walls. They were bare except for the white ghostly impressions where the posters had once been. The shelves had no bobbleheads, no engraved hockey puck, no Habs signed photos that he’d waited hours in line for. The room was stripped bare. Even his wardrobe looked half empty, the doors thrown open. Alfred realised with a start that this was because Matthew had purged every jersey, sweatshirt, hoodie, and sock with any kind of hockey iconography. Holy shit, Matthew had a lot of hockey stuff. 

Matthew seemed to read his mind, because he crossed his arms and shook his head. “I’m pretty sure this is every birthday and Christmas gift I’ve ever received.” 

“Wait, are you throwing this all away?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, or donating it. Unless you want any of this crap. Give me my flannel back, by the way. I don’t have any more clothes.” 

Alfred blinked. “Dude…are you sure you want to do this?” He went over and picked up the signed photograph. “You waited in the freezing snow to get this autographed.” 

“Good point,” Matthew said solemnly. “I could sell it.” He took it right back and dumped it in the box. “What were you saying about Papa?” 

“Oh, right.” Alfred was a little unsettled by Matthew’s weirdly casual manner. This was twenty years of his life he was all too eager to throw away. “Uh, yeah, no, Pops told me to get some chicken so I’m doing a grocery run. Want anything?” 

“Can you get a box of doughnuts? I dunno, I kinda want doughnuts.” 

“Cool.” Alfred lingered at the bedroom door. “That’s…that’s it, doughnuts?” 

“Yup. Thanks.” Matthew backed him, pulling out yet one more item of clothing from the closet—a scarf, this time, hand-knit by Grandmère, with the Canadiens logo.

“You’re not going to dump that, are you?” 

Matthew stared at it for several agonising seconds. Alfred inwardly sighed in relief when Matthew rolled it up and put it back in his closet. 

By the time Alfred was ready to leave for the store, Pops had conjured a whole list of items to get. Alfred took nearly half an hour to get home, arms laden with bags of chicken and vegetables, rice, and of course, Matthew’s doughnuts. He heaved them onto the kitchen counter, where not much had changed. Dad was still at the table, reading a book, and Pops was going over a new menu he wanted to try at the downtown restaurant. 

“Can I put the groceries in the fridge, or are you gonna flip out?” Alfred asked. 

“I just organised that fridge,” Pops said darkly, without looking up. “Leave it, I will do it. But you can chop some carrots for me. Evenly, please. No irregular pieces.”

“You’ll get what you get,” Alfred warned,  grabbing the carrots by their leaves. 

“Matthew, lad! Good heavens!” 

Things may have been better now, but Alfred’s heart jumped five levels and he whipped around. It was getting to a point where Alfred wasn’t sure he’d ever recover from the shock of nearly losing his brother. His eyes zeroed in on Matt—it wasn’t hard, he was struggling to hold onto the giant box, piled so high with his hockey memorabilia that it was surely blocking his view. He was climbing down the stairs, blind. 

Dad launched off his chair to help him with the box. He set it down at their feet. 

“Matt, I’m gonna kill you,” Alfred said, and as he spoke, he realised his voice was an octave higher than usual. 

“You shouldn’t be lifting heavy weights!” Pops added, motioning for Matthew to sit. “What part of ‘take it easy’ do you not understand, Matthew?”

“All of it,” Alfred retorted, quashing a dart of irritation. 

“Relax, relax.” Matthew smiled in a self-effacing manner. “I’m okay. I was just putting this stuff away for donation. Except for the posters, I think those can be thrown away.” 

“You’re getting rid of your skates?” Dad and Pops exchanged a long glance. “Matthew, we bought these for your birthday last year.”

Matthew did that ultra-irritating thing of shrugging when he had nothing to say. Alfred didn’t know how annoying he found it until then, just then, when Matthew stood there and pretended like he wasn’t aware of what he was doing. 

“Just because you can’t play hockey,” Pops said gently, “doesn’t mean you can’t skate at all. You enjoy ice skating, don’t you? It’s something you can even do for fun. It’s just hockey that was the problem…the violence of the game.” 

“Right.” Matthew swallowed hard. He didn't look anyone in the eye. “Well,” he said more determinedly, “I’m going to put this in the basement for now.” 

“Matthew, you shouldn’t be carrying—” 

But Matthew was already walking off with the box. Dad sighed. 

“You guys,” Alfred declared, “need to get him an absolutely top-tier birthday gift, I’m serious.” He grabbed the knife and chopping board. “Almost every single thing in that box was a present. It’s all hockey stuff. I saw his room earlier, it was barren without it.” 

When his parents didn’t respond, Alfred turned. They were in an eye-lock, silent conversation and tiny smirks. “Oh, don’t worry, Alfred,” Dad said, waving him off. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.” 

Matthew emerged from the basement, dusting his hands on his cargo shorts. “By the way, I’m gonna go to the mall in a bit.” 

“What, alone?” Pops demanded. 

“Uh, yeah.” Matthew paused. He studiously looked away from Alfred. “Well, I need to buy something.” 

“I thought we don’t do gifts!” That was the rule, after all. Alfred and Matthew never gave each other birthday presents. They just never had; they didn’t feel the need to. 

“Yeah, Al, not everything’s about you? I need to buy boxers.” 

“Oh.” Alfred deflated, turning back to the chopping board. 

“Whatever, you’re not going alone,” Dad said now, pushing his chair back to stand again. “What if your leg hurts? The mall’s enormous, how will you manage?

“What? I’ll be just fine! If it hurts, I’ll sit down.”

“Like there’ll be places to sit on a Sunday afternoon. Absolutely not, I’m coming with you. Let me change my clothes.” 

“But—”

“Don’t argue, Matthew,” Pops warned. 

Matthew groaned, but ambled over to the groceries and picked out his box of doughnuts. “Fine, I’ll just eat my feelings about it.” 

“Save me the Oreo one,” Alfred said. 

“‘Kay. What is this, maple and pecan?” Matthew picked a doughnut at random. “Oh my god, it is maple and pecan!”

“Yeah,” Alfred smirked. “Thought you’d like that.” 

“Thanks, Alfred.” Matthew paused, and it looked like he wanted to say more. But in the end, he put the rest of the doughnut in his mouth and held his silence. 

“So what are we really at the mall for?” 

“Alfred’s gift, obviously.” Matthew took Dad by the elbow to lead him in the direction of the comic books store. “I have to get him something this year. He’s been…great,” Matthew finished, suddenly a little self-conscious. He couldn’t believe what a wreck he had become, couldn’t believe how much he’d had to rely on Alfred. Matthew was too used to having his life together, it felt almost humiliating to have been the one falling apart. Well, no longer. He was fine now. He still had to tell his parents about the expulsion, and he'd have to do a lot of physical therapy (even now, walking was painful)...but he was totally fine. The last two months had been a mess, but he had it all together. Thanks to Alfred.

Dad fell in step beside him. “What are you getting him?”

“There’s a graphic novel he keeps borrowing from the library because it’s too expensive to buy. I wanted to buy him a copy.” 

“Aw, that’s very nice, Matthew.” 

He was aware of Dad watching him, a little too intently for comfort. “Are you sure you want to get rid of all your hockey stuff?”

Matthew bit down a wince. “Dad, can we not, like…go there? I’m actually in a good mood, for once.” 

His father sighed, but mercifully said nothing, and they made it through to the comic book store without any further discussion. Matthew was honestly sick and bored of his own thoughts and feelings and pain. It was starting to irritate him when people lingered on it. He wanted Alfred to be the focus, so he found the graphic novel—it cost nearly seventy dollars but it was worth it—got it gift-wrapped, and bought an additional thirty dollar gift coupon from the store. Matthew didn’t have this kind of money. Unlike Alfred, he’d never had time for a job. But it wasn’t like he shopped much anyway, so whatever he had, he didn’t mind spending on his brother. Alfred deserved it.

“Ow!” Matthew suddenly gasped as a twinge ran up his leg. They were paying, and perhaps he had overdone it today because suddenly he was gripping the cash counter and biting his lower lip. 

“All right.” Dad grabbed the book bag and hauled Matthew up by the shoulder. “Thank you so much,” he added, smiling politely at the cashier. 

“Yeah, thanks,” Matthew said, hoping he wasn’t grimacing too hard, as Dad led him out of the store and to the nearest free bench. 

“I knew this would happen.” Dad directed him to sit, and Matthew stretched out his leg. He’d changed out of his cargo shorts before leaving because, despite everything, the size of the scar embarrassed him. He gingerly pressed against his jeans, feeling for a swelling. 

“Oh, I’m so bored of this,” he groaned. “Come on. I used to be able to run five miles and now I can’t walk? It’s so frustrating.” 

Dad sat beside him, patting his shoulder. “It’ll pass, Matt. It’ll get better. It won’t always be like this. Though,” he smiled, “next time I tell you not to lift heavy boxes, perhaps listen to me.” 

Matthew glared at his leg, fists balled. “I hate being such a problem. I hate it. It’s so humiliating.”

“Matthew. Come on now, you’re not a problem! Don’t say that about yourself.” 

“As if you haven’t lost sleep and time and energy stressing over me over the last couple of months.” 

“Ninety-nine per cent of parenting is losing sleep and time and energy stressing about your kids.” Dad wasn’t looking at him. His eyes were far away, his face showing traces of a quiet laugh. “When you first learnt to walk, when you were a little baby, your Papa used to stress that you’d fall over and hurt yourself. When Alfred was learning to ride a bike, I used to jog behind him with a backpack full of first aid supplies.”

Matthew snorted. “Really? I don’t remember that.”

“Really.” Dad sighed, now sounding heavier. “When you decided you wanted to pursue hockey, your Papa and I had several, very serious debates about whether we ought to allow you to or not.”

“Really?” Matthew stared at him. “But I was so good at it!”

“Maybe so, and that’s great, Matt.” He squeezed his shoulder. “It’s great. And we were so proud of you. But we were terrified that something bad would happen—something exactly like this,” and he glanced down at Matthew’s leg. “Ultimately we decided we had no right to meddle in your dreams, but we worried even then, and we worried every day, so of course, we’ll still worry now. When you’re fifty years old and have a family of your own and we’re both old farts in nursing homes, we’ll still worry about you and Alfred. It’s just what parents do. That doesn’t make you a problem, okay? Don’t call yourself that ever again.” 

“You really like my trophies, though,” Matthew argued, his voice tiny. 

“Well, those are well-earned victories, love.” Dad shrugged. “So of course we displayed them. We wanted to show you that we cared about your dreams. But I’d be just as happy if you didn’t have any. Trophies are just things. You’re our son.” 

Tell him. 

Matthew’s throat burned and he was about to cry. 

Tell him about the expulsion.

The words were on his lips. 

“Dad, I—” 

“Hmm?” Dad was watching him with pride, and love, and acceptance. And Matthew’s courage faded. 

“Dad, I…” he swallowed. “I think I’m ready to walk now. We can go home.” 

“Ah, all right. But I’m carrying the bag. And you’re to rest when we get back.” 

Matthew was a coward. 

Alfred burst into Matthew’s room carrying a brown paper-wrapped parcel, startling Matthew out of the movie he was watching. “Mattie!” he barked, yanking Matthew’s headphones off. 

“Ow! Alfred, I heard you come in—what?” 

Alfred stood over him, gripping that parcel, grinning, his blue eyes almost maniacal. “I cannot BELIEVE you.” 

“Hah.” Matthew raised his eyebrows and smirked. “Happy birthday.”

“It must have cost you a ton of money!” 

Matthew hadn’t wanted to wait to give his gift to Alfred, so when Alfred was out of his room, he’d just left the present on his bed, no note, no explanation. But Matthew didn’t want to say what he was really feeling, which was grateful. He’d never live it down if he admitted something like that to his brother. But it didn’t matter; the graphic novel was a sign enough. 

Alfred threw the parcel at his head. It was soft and lumpy. “And this is for you. I was going to wait until our actual birthday, but I figured you have a Great Need. Open it! OPEN IT!” 

“Okay, okay! Jeez.” Matthew tore open the wrapping paper as Alfred sat on the bed, almost vibrating with excitement. Out fell a black t-shirt with a print of Steve Harrington from Stranger Things, wielding his signature baseball bat with nails. “Wha—” but before Matthew could finish his reaction, Alfred let out an ear-splitting cry of delight. 

“It’s a Stranger Things fandom t-shirt!!” he said. “Because you’ve FINALLY caught up with the rest of the world and watched the show! And I realised you have very few good clothes without hockey crap on it—which I kinda knew, anyway, but I really noticed today…and the day I borrowed your flannel, and I thought, this is perfect! You can wear it to the party! You have like the shittiest clothes, Matt, we have to go shopping.” 

“Oh!” Matthew laughed, pulling Alfred into a hug. It was such a classic, Alfred-type gift. Thoughtless on the surface, but in fact, extremely observant and loving. “It’s perfect, Al! I love it. Thank you! And yeah, Steve’s my favourite character.”

“He’s everyone’s favourite, I think. I’m sure it fits you, but try it on. TRY IT ON!” 

“All right!! Don’t yell.” Matthew pulled off his t-shirt and threw on the new one, jumping off the bed to look in the mirror. It actually looked amazing, or maybe Matthew felt amazing because there wasn’t a hockey logo in sight. Alfred was looking at him like he’d invented the wheel.

“Oh, it’s perfect, you are so wearing that for the party!” 

“Yes! I will!” Matthew turned back to Alfred and stood, just smiling stupidly. “So, what, are we gifting each other stuff now? Is that the new tradition?

“Dunno. But I think we just deserved gifts this year.” 

“Hard to argue with that.” Matthew changed back into his other tee, and folded the new one so it wouldn’t have any creases before the party. “Can’t believe we’ll be twenty-one in a couple of days.” 

Alfred hummed in agreement. “I think I’m going to drink a million tequila shots.” 

“Okay, then I think I’ll drive you to the ER to get your stomach pumped.” 

“Thanks, dude, I know you got my back.” Alfred’s grin faded slightly. “So…you’ll be having Coke? You sure?” 

“Yeah.” 

“You know, they’re probably going to make you drink.”

“Who?”

Alfred shrugged. “People. It’s a twenty-first birthday party, the whole point is to get shit-faced drunk. And if you tell them you don’t want to drink, they’ll demand to know why.” 

“Eh, that’s okay. I’ll deal with it.” Matthew sat back on his bed and turned the laptop so that he and Alfred could see the screen. “You wanna watch Mulan?”

“I always wanna watch Mulan!” 

Their parents gifted Alfred a PS5. He practically shot to the ceiling, howling in excitement, and very nearly tripped over the wrapping paper on the floor as he tore towards the TV to set it up. It was the morning of their birthday, the morning of their party, and Matthew was still in the process of waking up. So this was twenty-one. 

He felt…pretty normal, actually. It didn’t feel any different than being twenty. 

“We need to pick up your gift still,” Dad said. 

“It’s okay. I don’t really want anything.” Matthew couldn’t think of anything he’d really need, anyway. Last year, his parents had gifted him five hundred dollar, state-of-the-art hockey skates. It had been his best and favourite present. Now those skates sat in the basement, and Matthew didn’t really care about getting a good gift. There was nothing he could receive that would make him forget everything that had happened.

“Nonsense,” Papa said, ruffling his hair. “We think you’ll like it. But there was an issue with getting it delivered, so we’ll have to pick it up from the store tomorrow.”

The next few hours went by far too quickly. Alfred spent all morning gaming, despite Matthew telling him to nap because they were in for a long night. “Shut up and game with me,” Alfred sniped every time Matthew nagged him. Matthew finally gave in and played a round of a racing game in which Alfred beat him effortlessly. “You need practice at this, Matt. Oh my god, I can’t wait for Kiku to see this. Are you SEEING THIS?” 

“I’m glad you’re happy,” Matthew laughed. “I’m taking a nap.”

“Good night, gramps.”

Pops and Dad left shortly after lunch, because in organising this party, Alfred had basically thrown them out for a night. Matthew, under the safety of his duvet, checked his messages. Birthday wishes, the lot of them. 

-happy bday mattie!!!!! See you tonight we’re gonna get fuckeeeeeed <3 

-thanks, gil :) 
-see you tonight! 

That was the easy one. The other messages were from his hockey friends. And he hadn’t spoken to them in ages. He wasn’t proud of it, but he had iced them out. And he was certain they’d be resentful. Matthew couldn’t blame them, but also, Matthew couldn’t bring himself to feel bad about it. Hockey itself was starting to become a trigger for him. The other day when he’d cleaned out his room, he’d done it because the mere sight of all that memorabilia made him feel like hyperventilating. 

-Happy birthday Matthew! See you tonight. Hope you’re feeling better! 

That was Tino. 

-yo, matt, happy birthday! Hope your legs better man, practice isn’t the same without you

Sadik. 

-MATT!! You’re a hard guy to reach!!! Happy birthday and hope you’re feeling up to getting SHITFACED tonight bitch!! 

Mathias, of course. 

- Happy birthday. See you soon. Take care. 

Berwald, with whom he got on best. They were both the quiet type. 

- Nice job vanishing off the face of the earth while we were worried sick, jerkwad. Why didn’t you tell us you got kicked from the team? Asshoel
-Asshole* stupid autocorrect
-Happy birthday
-I’m coming to your party to beat the crap out of you
-Glad you’re alive btw 

…And Emil. 

By the time evening rolled around, Matthew was all kinds of terrified. Ah, why couldn’t he just relax? Ironically, the one thing that could help him unwind would be a bit of alcohol. But he was determined not to touch the stuff. Matthew had made some dumb life choices lately, but at least he knew he wasn’t mentally stable enough to fool around with substances. Not yet. Hopefully some day he’d feel less self-destructive about the whole thing. 

The food came first, in boxes that Matthew unpacked and poured into Papa’s fancy glass bowls. He was going to have fun tonight! He was twenty-one. He was hanging out with his friends. He’d cheated death twice. He was going to celebrate the fact that he was alive, goddammit. He used to be scared before his hockey matches too, but when he was on the ice, he was cool and in control. This was just like that. He was going to be cool and in control. 

Alfred’s playlist was mostly 2008 pop, because it was the best thing since sliced bread, and also it was his birthday and nobody else got a say—except Matthew, but Matthew wasn’t complaining. In fact, Matthew was kind of bobbing along to The Pussycat Dolls, drinking his Coke, surrounded by the buff dudes from hockey practice, like some kind of millionaire’s heir in a club. They’d convinced him to show them his scar, so he rolled up his jeans and the others let out various noises of awe and sympathy. Mattie was laughing; okay, good. 

And then there were Alfred’s friends, or rather the people he knew and tangentially liked: Emma, his “ex-girlfriend” from high school, his colleagues from the store, and Kiku, obviously, who was practically holding Alfred’s elbow, overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught of so many new people. 

His phone dinged in his pocket. He pulled it out, expecting a birthday wish. It was an email instead. “Oh fuck,” he muttered under his breath. It was an email from the art contest. Already? “No. Nope.” He shoved the phone back into his pocket. He didn’t need to check it right now. This was his birthday and he wasn’t going to ruin it with a rejection. 

There was a lot of alcohol going around, and Alfred, as promised, had made good headway into his goal of doing a million shots. He’d done three. Now he took a fourth. He’d never had tequila before. It sucked, but it only sucked for three-quarters of a second, and anyway, the more he drank the less he tasted it. 

“Alfred,” Kiku laughed as Alfred stumbled in the bright, romantic LED lights. “All right, Alfred, maybe some water?” 

“Wha—oh,” Alfred was leaning on Kiku a little. Kiku pulled him away from the others, into the downstairs bedroom. 

“Sit,” he said, making Alfred sit on the edge of the bed. “I’ll get you some water and a snack.”

“I’m not that drunk, I’ve only had four shots!” 

“The objective is to last all night, yes?” Kiku demanded, eyebrow raised, arms crossed, smirking. And if Alfred wasn’t four shots down, he probably wouldn’t have thought anything of it. Tipsy as he was, he almost thought Kiku was coming onto him. 

“...Ye…yeah,” he agreed, frowning at himself. He did want to sober up now, he didn’t want to misinterpret this. 

“Then you have to pace yourself.” Kiku left and returned with water and a bowl of onion rings. Alfred obediently hydrated, but did not eat. 

God, he was feeling a little more sober, but not so sober that he would lose his nerve. 

“Kiku, if you’re okay with it, I would really like to kiss you.”

Great communication, blunt and effective, to the point: a soft-skill he’d picked up at his internship. 

Kiku blinked. “Oh,” he said. “Is…is that the tequila talking?” 

“No, no, I’ve wanted to kiss you for the last several months.”

“Oh,” Kiku said again, and it was insane that they were talking about this as though debating taxes. “Well, all right, then.” 

Alfred stood, because Kiku was standing, and Kiku shoved him back. Back on the bed, back flat, and climbed over him, a knee between his legs. “Kiku—”

“No, Alfred, stay down.” There was a glint in his eye, and the next thing Alfred knew, their lips were caught, wet and aggressive and tasting of booze and salt, and Kiku’s hands were under his shirt, and Alfred was desperately groping at the bulge in Kiku’s jeans. Fucking tequila. Best drink on earth. 

The pressure to have fun was sort of eating at Matthew’s head. It was like the blow to the leg had snapped his ability to relax. It was his twenty-first birthday! Why was he so tense? Matthew ached to just get drunk, and he’d been denying alcohol all night, particularly from an increasingly smashed Mathias, who kept trying to get him to take a shot. Oh god, I’m becoming a pain in the ass, Matthew thought, as he burst out of the house for a breath of air. Their yard was smelling of freshly-bloomed roses. The night was pleasant, verging on balmy. Music spilled out from the open door. 

Five minutes, then I’ll go back in. Right, just a five-minute break. He was just an introvert, everyone knew that. His social battery ran out much faster than Alfred’s did. This had nothing to do with his injury or his mental state, this was just how he was built. He just needed to have fun!

“You doing okay?” 

Gilbert had stepped out into the dark, holding a bottle of beer by the neck. 

“Oh, hey Gil. Yeah, I just needed a breather.” 

They stood shoulder-to-shoulder against the wall, silent for a while. 

“Happy birthday, Matt,” Gil said. “I know you told me not to get you a present, but…” and Gilbert slipped a hand into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a box. “It’s a watch,” he said as Matthew took it. “My dad always says that a man who knows his mind should have a good watch.” He raised an arm and shrugged down his sleeve, to reveal a leather-strap watch of his own. “See, I got this from my parents when I turned twenty-one.” 

Matte black, with Roman numerals, it was a sexy, commanding timepiece, one that Matthew felt so odd holding. He’d never seen himself as the kind of guy who could pull off a cool watch like this, but he could tell it must have been expensive, and as he put it around his wrist, he saw his face reflected back in the shiny glass. “Gil, this is amazing. It must have cost you a fortune.”

Gilbert laughed. “I’m not made of money, Mattie. It’s mid-range.” 

“I love it. Thank you.” He held his arm up so Gilbert could admire it. “I mean—I mean, this is just—it’s really great.” Matthew was feeling very shy, very awkward. Gilbert was not staring at his wrist, but at his eyes, holding his gaze steady, and Matthew didn’t know where to look. 

“Matthew, this…this probably is not coming at a good time for you, but I’m going a little insane keeping it to myself. I sort of have feelings for you.” Gilbert glanced off, leaning against the wall, towards the empty residential street. “You don’t have to feel the same way, and I’m sure you’re dealing with a lot right now—”

“Gilbert.” Matthew swallowed. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I…I like you too. I mean, I…I think I do. But I feel like I owe you an honest answer and the truth is, my head’s too messed up right now to know how I feel about anything. I’m not even sure I’m enjoying this party, and it’s my party, you know?” He hated himself. “I think I just need time.”

“Yeah,” Gilbert said that word like a sigh. “I—I mean, I did sort of figure you might say that. I don’t want to pressure you or anything. So…well, I really appreciate your honesty.” His smile was small and fragile. “I can wait.” 

“Thank you.” Matthew bridged the gap and kissed him, very gently, at the corner of his mouth. His hand curled around Gilbert’s. “Do you want to come inside?” 

“I think I’ll stay out here for a bit.” 

“All right.” Matthew pulled away. “Sure.” 

Who would Matthew be if he hadn’t been hurt? If he hadn’t made all those bad decisions, if he hadn’t messed up his leg? Who would Matthew be if his future was still bright in front of him, plain like an afternoon sun, definite? Would he have accepted Gilbert’s feelings with his own? Would they be roughly kissing, undressing in a corner of shade? Would they have had tearful confessions of long-felt emotion? And would Matthew be so lonely at his own birthday? Or would he have joined in with his friends and their drinking games? 

When he fell on the ice, it was not just his future that shattered, it was his sense of self, his ideas of who he was meant to be. And this was perhaps what set him and Alfred apart—Matthew had always known the answers to those questions. He’d always had clarity. He’d seen the future he wanted and set everything in him on achieving that. He only ever thought in absolutes—that he had to be the first, the best, the most successful. He had never, ever given any room for doubt; which meant he’d shut the door firmly on possibility. He’d never asked himself, “What else?” He’d never let himself explore other paths. Alfred was not like that. Alfred had other interests. Alfred wasn’t confined to one way of doing things. 

So, what now? What next? What else was left for Matthew? 

“Matt! Hey, Matt!” Mathias slurred, waving him over. “I meant to tell youuuu, I totes forgot.” He whipped out his cell phone and shoved it under Matthew’s nose. It was the university athletics website, the Hockey section. The top achievers page. Mathias’ face was on the webpage banner. Captured mid-match, his blue eyes burning with concentration beneath his visor. 

The banner.

Matthew’s face used to be on that banner. 

“Oh, wow,” he murmured. “That—that’s—so cool.” 

“Right? It was such a shock! Completely unexpected. But you,” he pointed a finger into Matthew’s chest, “youuuu were the real one.”  

“Don’t be silly.” Matthew forced a smile. His eyes were blurring. Sober and crying on his twenty-first birthday. “You’re a great player, this is very well deserved.” 

Oh god, oh god, he had to get out. Matthew had to get out before he did something insane. Matthew had to get out before he snatched a bottle of tequila and downed it whole. He had to get the fuck out before he drove himself to that fucking strip mall and bought more Oxy. He had to get out. 

He made an excuse about wanting to go to the bathroom. He grabbed the car keys instead. And on his way out, he stopped at the basement. 

“Matt?” Gilbert saw him leave. He was still standing out there, drinking his beer, contemplating his rejection. “Where are you going?” 

Matthew whirled around. “I’m going to get more potato chips, we’re running low.” 

“Oh.” Gilbert watched him. “All right…”

Matthew didn’t wait around. He was sober so he could drive and he didn’t owe anyone an explanation. It was his party, and he could leave if he wanted to. So Matthew drove off.

Chapter Text

Alfred had never been blown before. Actually he’d never had any kind of sexual experience before, so now, lying on his back, basking in the afterglow, with Kiku peppering kisses along his jawline, Alfred just counted his blessings. Number one: Kiku actually did that. Number two: No, really, Kiku actually fucking did that. Number three: now he was going to get his turn. 

“Come on,” he said, and his voice was so raspy he could barely believe it. “I want to take care of you.” 

“Oh, it’s okay.” Kiku pecked his nose. “It’s your birthday.” Their lips met again, softer this time, more loving. “And well,” Kiku pulled away, too soon, always too soon, eternity would not be enough for Alfred, “you asked so nicely.” 

“Oh, clear communication,” Alfred laughed, “is what I learnt in my intern—AH!” Kiku abruptly grabbed him, tight, and then moved, brisk and punishing. Alfred let out a stream of whispered expletives. Kiku snorted. 

“You’re so easy to unravel,” he teased. “You should see yourself.”

Alfred came much quicker the second time, and Kiku laughed anew, as his other hand languidly traced Alfred’s hairline. “Is this your first time?” 

“Um—yeah,” Alfred gasped. “Jesus. Isn’t it yours?”

“No.”

“You’re more experienced than me in everything, huh?”

“That just means I can corrupt you, doesn’t it?” Kiku smirked, and man, Alfred had never known such a side of him existed. “Do you think you can come again?”

“Three times? Are you crazy?”

“I think you can, if you wanted to.” Kiku pecked his nose again, and it was almost disorienting how he could be so controlling and so gentle at once. “But you have to keep quiet this time, okay? You have guests over.”

“Mmm, yeah, guests,” Alfred repeated vaguely, as their kisses deepened. “Can we just make out for a bit?”

“Sure,” Kiku whispered, straddling him. “Anyway, I’ve wanted to mark your pretty skin for ages. ” 

Alfred’s breath hitched as Kiku nibbled along his collarbone. Shit, Alfred was already getting hard, this was just ridiculous--

“Hey, Alfr—Oh, sorry!” 

The door was wide open. Gilbert’s hand was on the knob, his red eyes wide, his pale skin turned crimson. And Alfred was there, wilting on the bed under Kiku, his trousers at his ankles. 

Gilbert slammed the door shut. 

Kiku leapt off Alfred, his confident demeanour returning to its usual reticence as he turned away and covered his face. “Oh god, well, that’s never happened before. Oh god, oh god, why didn’t we lock the door?” 

Alfred dressed in silence, shocked and dazed. And they sat on the edge of the bed, not looking at each other. 

“I’m so sorry,” Kiku said at last. 

“Wait, why? It was great.” 

Kiku glanced his way and then at his feet. “Did I mess up our friendship?” 

“What?” Alfred had to laugh. “I think you made it a hundred times better, actually. Next time we can go all the way, yeah?” 

Kiku raised his eyebrow. “Such a sweet summer child,” he muttered, and Alfred nudged him, hard. 

“No, seriously, you know I’ve been in love with you for ages, right?” Alfred gripped his arm. “You know that, right? I need you to know that.” 

Even in the semi-darkened room, Alfred could see the blush spread across Kiku’s cheeks. “I…well…yes, I love you too. I’m not good at expressing something like that.” 

“So you’re my boyfriend, right?” Alfred goaded, pulling him close by the waist. “I’m gonna tell people that you’re my hot artist boyfriend, is that okay?” 

“Only if I can say the same about you.” Kiku kissed him again. “We should really step out. People will think we’re still fucking.” 

“Is that really the worst thing in the world though?”

“Yes, it’s embarrassing.” Kiku stood and pulled Alfred up by the hand. “Come on.” 

“What?”

Alfred had managed to calm down a bit by taking another shot and eating onion rings. Gilbert was outside, standing in the dark front yard, texting someone. Two empty bottles of beer were at his feet. He glanced up at Alfred and smirked. “Sorry for barging in.” 

“Can we never talk about that again?” Alfred shuddered. “What do you want? Why were you looking for me?” 

“I was wondering if you’ve seen Matthew.” Gilbert picked something off the ground—a third bottle of beer, half-full—and took a swig. “I saw him leave a while ago, he was carrying this big bag. He said he was getting potato chips, but there were five bags in the kitchen when I went there last. He’s not answering his—”

“—Texts,” Alfred finished for him, nearly punching himself in the eye as he covered his forehead. “Yeah, he’s been doing that a lot lately.” Alfred glanced around, but the car was gone. “He’s driving? Please tell me he was sober.”

“Yeah, oh yeah, he didn’t have a sip to drink. I wouldn’t have let him go if I thought otherwise.” Gilbert glanced at Alfred. “Look…I’m not sure if Matthew told you…fuck, man, I can’t tell you.” He shook his head, rubbing a hand roughly across his face in mounting distress. “Fuck, fuck. I just think you need to find him. I think he’s going to do something crazy.”

“What did he do?” Alfred asked. His voice was soft, but commanding nonetheless. Matthew was his brother, and he already knew the half-truths. “What was it? I know he took something that day. He’s been acting extremely reckless…self-destructive, almost, ever since this injury.” 

Gilbert didn’t answer directly. Keeping Mattie’s secrets like that? Alfred hated him for not telling the truth, but he also sort of respected it. “I think,” Gilbert said carefully, “you need to find him.” 

“Okay. Yeah.” Alfred whipped out his phone and sent a couple of texts to Matthew, just to check it off the list. He knew Mattie wouldn’t answer. “You said he was carrying a bag? What bag?” For one insane moment, Alfred thought, Was Mattie running away? No, that was too much, even for him. “Was it like a suitcase?” 

“What? No. No, it looked like…” Gilbert glanced around, and his eyes landed on Alfred’s boots. “You know what, it actually looked like a triangular bag. Like something you’d use for carrying shoes. Or skates.” 

“Skates?” Alfred whipped around, rushing back inside, down the stairs, to the basement, Gilbert in tow. Matthew’s box of hockey discards. The skates were missing. 

“What? What is it?” Gilbert demanded. 

Alfred stilled. “I know where he is.” 

Matthew could go very fast on the ice but he’d not done this in a while, and his leg was still healing. So he kept his pace steady, less like he was trying to win a race and more like he was strolling down the promenade. He stayed at the edges of the rink, along the length of its rectangular borders, over and over, over and over. He just had to clear his head. He just had to do something. 

“Matt, you dumbass.” 

He skidded to a halt. Alfred was standing at the edge of the rink, arms crossed, looking exasperated. 

“Alfred! What are you doing here?” An hour away from home, at the university ice hockey arena. On the night of their birthday party. “I hope you didn’t drive, Alfred, you’ve been drinking.”

“No, moron, I took an Uber. Unlike you, I’m very responsible.” 

Matthew narrowed his eyes. “I haven’t had a thing to drink except Coke. I’m allowed to drive. How did you even know I was here?”

“You took your skates! This hockey rink is the closest to our house since the one in town went bankrupt! Nuh-doy. Come on, Matt! What are we doing here?” 

Matthew sighed, zooming over to him. He exited the ice and sat at the nearest bench, busying himself by undoing his laces. Alfred walked over and sat beside him. They stared at the ice, unspeaking. Matthew could feel his own heartbeat race, the heat of exertion radiating off his forehead. It felt good, actually, to be on the ice again. It cheered him up a bit. 

“They took my face off the website banner,” Matthew admitted. “Replaced it with Mathias. And it’s super well-deserved, I mean, he’s an incredible player. But…yeah, pissed me off, I guess. So I just had to get out. I was ready to do something stupid if I didn’t get out.”

“Something stupid like what, exactly?” Alfred’s tone was impatient and final. It was obvious to both of them that the game of secrets and lies was up. Matthew didn’t even bother. 

“Something stupid like…” he trailed off. He was feeling oddly light. Talkative. “Something stupid like driving around until I found someone who’d sell me Oxycodone.” He didn’t have to look to know that Alfred was staring at him. 

“...Oxy…Oxycodone? Seriously?” His voice was but a tremble. “Mattie, do you have a drug problem?” 

“No!” He turned to Alfred, because Alfred had to understand, he had to make Alfred understand. He gripped his brother’s shoulders. “I don’t, okay? I did it the one time. But I went absolutely overboard. I mixed it with weed and alcohol and that’s why I passed out, that’s why I went AWOL, that’s why when I finally got home that day, I was acting so fucking weird. I did it one time, that’s it, but I scared myself very badly. I think I realised that…that it would be very easy for me to make it a habit. I don’t want to develop an addiction, but—”

“Addictions aren’t something you decide to develop, dumbass. They sort of happen.”

“Right.” Matthew swallowed, turning back to the rink. 

“So,” Alfred went on, his voice patient. Matthew knew that Alfred was trying to keep him from falling silent, and he was grateful. If he stopped talking now, he wasn’t sure when he’d be able to open up next. It was hard for him to spill his heart like this; it didn’t come naturally. “You mixed Oxy with other downers? Matt…come on, that’s dangerous.”

“Yeah, I know. Gilbert’s friends found me and Gilbert has already lectured me about it. Why do you think I didn’t want to drink tonight? I was terrified of what I might do. I really feel like I have no control anymore, and that’s scary for me. I’ve always known myself, I’ve always had control over my life. Now I don’t, and…” he trailed off, and picked up, “I just had to get out. And you know, I do love ice skating. I mean, I don’t have the same endurance as before, my leg’s already starting to hurt, but it’s the first time I’ve felt calm all day. But god, when Mathias showed me that banner, I felt like such a failure.” He let that hang in the air. “I’m sorry I ruined your birthday too, though. I didn’t think you’d notice I was gone, and I thought I’d be back soon anyway.” 

“Oh, trust me,” Alfred laughed, “nothing you could do would have ruined today for me. I’ve already had the best birthday of my life.”

Matthew raised his eyebrow at Alfred’s rapidly darkening cheeks. “Did you…hook up with someone?”

“With Kiku!” 

“...Wow.” Matthew snorted. “Congrats, I guess? Is he your boyfriend now?”

“Hell yeah.” 

“Wow.” Matthew nudged him. “Then really: congratulations. I’m happy for you.” 

“Thanks.” Alfred’s grin could not be wiped away. He sat there, beaming, and the silence stretched on for a while. “But hey,” he said, “don’t call yourself a failure just because you got hurt, man. If you’re a failure, what does that make me?”

“It’s not just because I got hurt.” Matthew bit down on his tongue. That shameful, disgusting secret. The one that was eating him whole. “I got expelled.”

“What?” Alfred turned fully to face him, blue eyes wide in a shell-shocked stare. “They expelled you for getting injured? What the fuck? That sounds illegal.” 

“No, no, they expelled me for my grades.” Matthew squeezed his eyes shut and hung his head. “Okay, the whole truth? That day, I went to university to meet my professors. They expelled me. I was in a lot of pain—physically and otherwise—and that’s how I ended up taking the Oxy, all right?”

“Oh, shit, Matthew.” Alfred turned away. “And I said such nasty things to you, too. I’m so sorry. That really sucks, man. No wonder you’ve been so depressed.” 

“Don’t feel bad. I didn’t tell anyone. Except Gilbert. That’s on me. I know I need to tell Dad and Papa, but…” A bolt of fear. “God, they’ll kill me. I’m such a loser.” 

“One brother unemployed, the other expelled. What a shitty track record. If anyone’s the loser, it’s them.” 

Matthew snorted. “That’s one way of looking at it, I guess.” 

Another silence. 

“Look, if it makes you feel any better, we’re both losers.” 

“I don’t see how? At the very least, you got lucky tonight.” 

Alfred barked out a laugh. “Well, you could get lucky too if you went to Gilbert, it’s pretty obvious the guy’s obsessed with you. But no, that’s not what I mean.” He took out his phone, gripping it hard by the case. “I submitted a portfolio to an art contest a few weeks ago.” 

“Wait…what? Alfred, you draw?” 

Before his eyes, Alfred opened up his phone gallery and tapped on a picture. Matthew did not suppress his gasp. It was…it was incredible, actually. Alfred’s art style was so stylish and carefree, with clean lines and handsome characters. “It’s a comic,” Alfred said, “about a guy named Guy, born without powers in a family of superheroes. His family—and the rest of the globe’s supes—are kidnapped by this mad scientist who opens a portal to an evil dimension to subjugate the world’s citizens. The only one who can stop him? Guy. All he has is wit and charm and a can-do attitude, but he does his best. It’s called the Chronicles of Some Guy.” 

Matthew laughed. “Oh, that’s very clever. Can I read it? I had no idea you could draw. Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“I was embarrassed!” Alfred cried, pulling his phone away. “Look, wait, I’ll show you my application submission.” 

“When did you start drawing? I really had no idea!”

“A few years ago,” Alfred mumbled, his ears turning pink. “I always liked doodling, and I watch a lot of those Youtube live drawing videos when I’m bored. I don’t know, I…” he glanced at Matthew and then turned away, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I always thought my art could never measure up to your hockey, so I didn’t want to show anyone. I didn’t want Pops and Dad to make comparisons.” 

“Oh.” Matthew didn’t know what to say to that, really. “Well, if they do, they’re idiots. You’re a great artist! And I wish I knew sooner! I would have bought you art supplies for your birthday.” 

“There’s always next year,” Alfred said, grinning softly. He turned his phone back to Matthew, a PDF open with scans of Alfred’s comics. “That’s the first chapter.”

“Okay. Let me read.”

For several minutes, neither spoke. The only sounds were of Matthew’s laughter as the powerless hero Guy went through increasingly elaborate trials—aliens, zombies, a Black Friday checkout queue—and overcame them with surprising solutions. “This is so funny, Alfred!” Matthew cried at one point. “I mean, it’s so creative! And you draw the characters so well! I love their outfits especially. Guy’s makeshift superhero costume with the bedsheet and the boxer shorts?” And Matthew cracked up again. “I love this! You should show this to Dad and Papa, they’d love it too.” 

“You think?” Alfred smiled, but it faded quickly. “I don’t know. I got an email from the contest already. They said they’ll announce the winners in ninety days, but it’s only been a couple of weeks, so this email has to be a rejection.” His voice wavered. Alfred took off his glasses and wiped away tears. “God, Mattie, what if it’s a rejection? Then I’m everything I always thought I was. A failure and a loser who’s not good at anything. ” 

“Whoa, whoa—Al, wait, no.” Matthew pulled Alfred into a hug. “Al, no, you’ve got this all wrong.” Alfred’s head rested heavy on Matthew’s shoulders, and fuck, he was sobbing. “Alfred. Alfred, listen to me,” Matthew said, slowly, so every word was clearly enunciated. “I have never tried to offer you advice because I never thought it was my business to, but I’m going to give you advice now. Because if there’s one thing I know about, it’s competition.” He pulled Alfred back by the shoulders, so he could look him in the eye. Alfred wiped his face with the back of his hand, impatient, but the tears came anyway. His fingers were trembling. “Alfred,” said Matthew, “competitions don’t define your ability. Take hockey, for example. You can be the best player on the ice, and the next thing you know you’re laid up in hospital and it's all over. It has nothing to do with skill. Things happen that aren’t in your control. That doesn’t mean you don’t compete.” Matthew’s eyes skid over the ice rink. “That doesn’t mean you fear injury, or failure, or judgement. In fact, you embrace it, because the only thing a contest truly is, is an opportunity to try your best. And nobody can take that away from you. Not the audience, not a reader, not a scoreboard, not a judge, nobody. You gave your 100% to this contest, right? I know you did, because it’s obvious you care. Then it doesn’t matter whether you win or you lose, because you’ve pushed yourself to become the best version of yourself, you’ve put your heart and soul into something, and you’ve practised, and you’ve taken a chance. That is literally all that matters.” 

Alfred was sitting there with his head in his hands, trembling from head to foot, his cell phone resting on the bench between them. “I’m just so scared of losing, though, Mattie. I’ve been a loser all my life, I couldn’t bear it if I lost at this too.” 

“Stop saying you’re a loser, Alfred.” Matthew sighed, because if only it were that easy to wash away a negative thought. Matthew ought to know better, these were things he was struggling with himself. “Tell me something, if you open that email, and it’s a rejection, are you going to stop drawing?”

Alfred raised his head. He looked at the rink, and oddly, then, he looked at Matthew’s skates, lying flat on the floor by his feet. “I don’t think I could. I think…I think I’d really want to draw. I think it would always call me back. Like you and the ice, I guess.” 

“Yeah.” Matthew paused. “That’s what I mean. You care about this, right? It’s the single most important thing. It’s untouchable. I’m not saying you shouldn’t feel hurt. Rejections hurt, and that’s okay. Trust me, if there’s one thing I’ve learnt the hard way, it’s that trying to avoid feeling the pain can lead you down a very dark path if you let it. But you’re not going to stop because some idiot who can’t understand your vision doesn’t like what you’re doing, right? If people don’t get your art, that’s on them. You can’t control it. And you shouldn’t live your life fearing their opinions.” 

“Kiku says artists should be arrogant. Or well, he used the word ‘confident’.”

“Confidence is a hard-won prize,” Matthew agreed grimly. 

“Hah, says the guy who’s never been afraid of getting fucked up in a match.”

Now that, that was funny. Matthew laughed, openly and without malice. “Gosh, Alfred, you have no idea. I’ve been terrified. And not just about getting hurt. I used to have nightmares about slipping on the ice and falling on my butt and everyone making fun of me. Or shooting an own goal and my team being mad at me. And I afraid of losing. It was my greatest fear, playing so badly that I’m the reason my team loses.”

“You’ve always been an exceptional player.” 

“No,” Matthew countered, somewhat self-conscious. “I've had bad games too. But the more I competed, the less afraid I became. Does that make sense? It’s like a muscle, you have to work it.”

“You’re such a fucking jock, Mattie,” Alfred said at last, but he was smiling at least, so Matthew smiled too. 

“You wanna open that email together?” 

Alfred sighed. He picked up his phone and opened the email app. “Okay, here goes…” Taking a deep breath, he tapped on the email. “‘Dear Alfred, thanks for your interest in our contest. We loved your submission ’—oh my god—”

“Read, read!”

“‘We loved your submission, but ’—” Alfred faltered, and swallowed, and continued. “‘But we will not be able to advance you to the next round at this time.’” His eyes were watering again. “Well,” he said thickly, dropping his phone back on the bench. “That’s that, I guess.” 

Matthew picked up his phone. 

Dear Alfred, 

Thanks for your interest in our contest. We loved your submission, but we will not be able to advance you to the next round at this time. However—

“Al, there’s more.”

“I’m not interested, Matt. I knew I wouldn’t win.”

“Shut up, listen. ‘However, we think you have a lot of promise and we thoroughly enjoyed your submission of the Chronicles of Some Guy. We encourage you to keep working on your art, and look forward to your application next year.’” 

Alfred gaped. “What? It actually says that?” He snatched the phone back and read it again. “Wait, so they liked it?”

“All this means,” Matthew prodded gently, “is that you’ve got what it takes and you just need to keep working at it. It’s what I was telling you too. The rejection doesn’t matter. As long as you keep working on your art.” 

Alfred wiped away another tear. “I guess. I mean, I’m still bummed out.”

“You get a couple of days to be bummed out, you’ve earned the right,” Matthew promised. “But you have to get back on the horse that threw you.”

“This sounds like Dad and Pops and their ‘Never Give Up’ philosophy.”

“They’ve got a point, you know,” Matthew argued softly. 

“Perhaps.” Alfred rolled his eyes. “But you take it way too far sometimes. Like the day of the migraine.”

“I needed to finish that assignment, it was to prevent the expulsion. Didn’t work, obviously, because I couldn’t submit it in time.” Matthew chewed his lower lip. “But yeah, maybe I do take it too far sometimes. I’ve never not known what I’m doing with my life.” 

“Well, I realised I liked art because I picked up the pencil and tried something new,” Alfred offered. “You’ve never actually tried anything different, have you?”

“Maybe it’s too late. People our age are graduating and getting jobs.”

“What, people like me?” Alfred joked. Matthew bit back a smile. Alfred nudged him. “Look, Matt, it’s my turn for advice, okay? Nobody has their life figured out at twenty-one. Not even Dad or Pops had their shit together at our age. Dad was in some punk rock band that never took off—”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah, he got beer-drunk once and told me, it was hilarious. And Pops was failing all his classes at Le Cordon Bleu.”

“I know about that…”

Alfred took a deep breath. “Your life is not over, Matthew. In fact, I think you’ve just been given a second chance at life. Mixing prescription pain meds with alcohol and weed is not a great way to appreciate that. And I think, instead of cursing yourself over not knowing what happens next, you should just take it easy for a bit. You can still barely walk without needing breaks. Let your leg recover, for pity's sake. Sleep in sometimes. Take up a hobby. Hell, I can teach you how to draw, if you want something to do. You don’t have to accomplish stuff every minute that you’re alive, sometimes you can just live.” 

“Shut up, Alfred,” Matthew muttered, mostly because his eyes were burning again. Alfred snorted, patting his shoulder. “You know that’s really hard for me, right?” 

“Right,” Alfred agreed. “But I think we both know you’re not afraid of difficult things. And you’re definitely not a pushover. You’re a stone-cold badass, Matthew. I think you could find a way to take it easy, if you really wanted to.” 

Matthew nodded. 

More silence. 

What time was it? 

“It’s almost two-thirty.” 

“Oh, really?” Alfred checked his phone. “Look at that. How pathetic are we? We spent our twenty-first birthday crying and having a heart-to-heart.” 

Matthew snorted. He stretched out his legs and leaned back, resting his weight on his arms. “Well, you also had sex, so you have that going for you.”

“Good point. I take it back. You’re the pathetic one.”

He smacked the back of Alfred’s head, albeit not too hard. “I dunno,” Matthew said, as Alfred laughed. “It could be a lot worse. There was a moment at the party where I swear to god, I would have got shit-faced and left to find Oxy.” 

“You keep bringing that up, man, I think you need to see a therapist before you actually do something crazy.”

“Gilbert said the same thing. I’m starting to wonder if you guys have a point.” Matthew trailed off. “I mean, I made the responsible decision this time. I really did, even though you may not agree. I just had to get out of there, Al. And skating for a bit actually helped.” 

“I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy your party.” Alfred almost sounded guilty. “I was really hoping it would cheer you up.” 

Matthew nudged him. “Thanks. And this—this cheered me up. I hate fighting with you, the last two months have been horrible.” 

“Ditto. Hell, I think I was responsible too. I checked my email! And I got rejected! And I don’t feel like a squashed ant. I still want to work on my comic. That’s something, right?”

“Yes, it is. I need to know what happens to Guy after he gets past the murderous jellyfish in the Nightmare Sea. You left it on a cliffhanger!” 

“You have to keep the readers wanting more! But oh well, I have some sketches. I’ll show you when I get home.” Alfred yawned and stood. “Great job, twenty-one,” he said to nobody in particular. “Okay, Mattie, you’re going to have to drive us back.” 

Matthew took Alfred’s offered palm and allowed his brother to haul him to his feet. His leg ached, but he’d go home and soothe it with a hot compress. “Happy birthday, Alfred,” he murmured as they walked out of the ice rink. 

“Happy birthday, Mattie.” 

Chapter Text

The party had already thinned when they got back home. Only Kiku was there, crashed on the couch, snoring away, and Gilbert, who was sitting alone at the dining table, eating cold pizza. “Oh, thank god you’re alive,” he said to Matthew when they walked through the door. He pulled him into a fierce hug. When he let go, he held Matthew at arm's length, peering into his eyes like he was looking for signs of inebriation. Finding none, he went on, “I wanted to come help find you but Alfred thought it’d be better if he went alone. You’re okay, right?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Thank you, Gil.” Matthew kissed his cheek, and they smiled at each other awkwardly until Alfred cleared his throat.

“Jeez, guys,” he muttered, “how sappy are you two? And—holy shit,” he added, with self-aware irony and genuine adoration, “my boyfriend is so pure and cute, move.” He shoved them apart and marched past them, laughing softly as he hauled Kiku off the couch. 

At length, they settled for the night. Gilbert took a cab home. Alfred carried Kiku upstairs. Matthew, alone and unable to sleep, picked up the food boxes and empty glasses, and wiped down the counters and floors. It took longer than he liked. The excitement of the day, plus the hour spent on the ice, had resulted in a bitter, persistent ache that had developed into a full-fledged limp. By now though, he’d become used to manoeuvring around the house gripping table corners and door handles and the backs of chairs for support. And as much as these thoughts led him down winding snake tunnel thoughts, Matthew was able to just focus on throwing out the garbage, putting away the half-drunk alcohol bottles, and switching off the party lights. He stopped only around four thirty am, when his leg literally hurt too much to move, and settled on the couch with a hot water bottle. He wanted to sleep--wasn’t sure he could, what with the pain and awareness still rushing in his blood--but one minute he was looking through his Instagram, and then it was morning. 

Sunlight was streaming through the bay windows. A weight dipped the sofa near his feet. Alfred was sitting beside him, eyes glued to the TV, engrossed with his PS5. He was intermittently munching yesterday’s Chinese food. “Morning Mattie. Wanna play?”

“Wha…no,” Matthew said thickly, yawning as he sat up. The pain in his leg had dulled, thank god. “What time is it?”

“Past noon, last I checked. Dad and Pops will be home in a bit.”

“Where’s your beloved?”

Alfred’s lip curled in an embarrassed smile, but he didn’t turn away from the television. “Kiku went home ages ago.” 

Matthew clambered off the couch to freshen up. He was still limping, but it was so much better than last night. He got some coffee and chicken fried rice, then returned to the couch to watch Alfred destroy some aliens, or whatever it was he was doing. He would intermittently howl or cheer, and Matthew would give him supportive pats on the shoulder in both cases. 

“This might be the best birthday gift, like, ever,” Alfred said, mid-game. “What did you get?”

“Oh,” Matthew shrugged. “Nothing, I think? They said my gift had delivery issues. But it doesn’t matter, I don’t really want anything. I can’t think of anything I need, anyway.” 

Alfred’s gaze was oddly quizzical. “That’s so annoying, I told them to get you something good this year, too.”

Matthew laughed. “Wow, well, I appreciate that, Al, but you don’t have to worry. Like I said, I don’t really want anything.”

Alfred ended the game and offered the spare controller to Matthew. “Okay, here’s your console-ation gift, you can pick the next game.” 

Matthew snorted. “Thanks.” 

Matthew chose a racing game and for a while they played in silence, except when Alfred jumped up to do his victory dances. They heard their parents’ car in the driveway around two pm. Alfred ended the game. “They better have your gift, or I’m gonna have to defend your honour.” 

“Please don’t.” 

“I can’t look at my PS5 guiltlessly until you have an equally cool gift! I have selfish motivations!” 

The key turned in the door and Papa walked in, carrying an overnight bag. “Mon chou, mon lapin ! How hungover are you?” He dropped the bag on the floor and came to give them a hug. 

“Not that hungover,” Alfred said in Papa’s arms, “but I do have a boyfriend now.”

“What! Tell me everything.” 

“I’m not going to tell you everything, but I’ll tell you the highlights: I have a boyfriend now; he is very hot.” 

“They hooked up at the party like a couple of sluts,” Matthew said, picking his phone off the coffee table. Alfred aimed a couch cushion at his head, and missed. Papa snorted. 

“Now that,” he said, “takes me back to my youth.” 

“Where’s Dad?” Alfred demanded, probably to change the subject. 

“He’s coming; I left him to deal with the rest of the luggage.”

“What luggage? Y'all only took one bag!” 

“Francis! Bloody hell, help me with this.”

Their Dad burst into the living room, arms laden with two bulging bags from something called Ye Old Pet Store—and in his hands, a fluffy white creature. Matthew actually gasped, jumping to his feet. The motion jolted his leg, but he ignored it, he had to, because Dad was holding a PUPPY. 

“Ah, Matthew,” Dad said, as though he was carrying a head of broccoli instead. “Want to take this off my hands?”

“This—is that—for me?”

“Coolest present ever, Mattie,” Alfred whispered somewhere in the background, as Matthew gently took the puppy off his Dad’s hands. Gosh, it was the most precious thing, pure white and fuzzy, with large, intelligent eyes and a quiet manner. Matthew felt calmer just holding her. 

“It’s a Great Pyrenees,” Papa said. “You have been so depressed lately and you have always wanted a dog, so your Dad finally talked me into it.” 

“I had dogs growing up,” Dad said. “I’ll teach you how to train her, all right? This is a clever and independent breed…bit like you, actually, so we’ll have to work hard, but I’m sure she’ll take to it. You have to take very good care of her, Matthew, she’s your responsibility. Which means you have to take care of yourself.” Dad eyed him closely. “That means no skipping meals or going radio-silent or exacerbating migraine attacks. She depends on you.” 

Matthew looked down at the puppy, and the puppy looked up at him, and the world was softening at the edges, and Matthew realised that was because he was crying. Such a strange and stabilising feeling: to be given a consequence. Wasn’t that what he’d missed about losing hockey? The feeling that his actions had effects? That the things he did mattered? Now here it was again—the responsibility he took so well to. It was terrifying. And it held him steady. “Okay,” he squeaked. “I love her, I love her, I love her. What’s her name?”

“It’s your dog, Matthew, you name her!” Papa said. 

The puppy wriggled in his arms, and Matthew gently set her down. She padded across the floor, sniffing curiously at the furniture, and at Alfred and Matthew’s dirty lunch plates. Alfred quickly swiped them out of reach, and Dad muttered something about puppy-proofing the house, but all Matthew could look at was the dog’s—his dog’s—fluffy white tail. “Snowball,” he said at last. 

“Perfect name!” Alfred crouched, stretching out a hand. “Here Snowball, hereee puppy. I’m the cooler twin, come say hi!” 

Matthew laughed as Snowball tumbled into Alfred’s arms, and Alfred kissed her on the forehead. 

“Oh my god, she’s such a fuzzy munchkin. I can’t believe we finally have a dog!” 

“Don’t let her get on the couch!”

“Forget it, Francis,” Dad patted his arm sympathetically. “Just say your goodbyes to the couch while you still can.” 

Snowball was asleep on Matthew’s lap. The silence was painful, but not as deadly as he feared. Their home had dog treats and bowls and toys, and a puppy pen set up in the downstairs bedroom, and Alfred was sitting beside him in moral support, and Matthew had to talk. Matthew had to talk, because he could not trust the darkness of his own silences anymore. Because he was so tired of being so alone, and because he didn’t know how to keep up the act anymore. 

“An expulsion, Matthew? Really?” Dad’s voice was even, but disappointed, and Matthew thought he might scream were it not for Snowball’s tiny, tired body draped over his lap. 

“How did this happen?” Papa asked. He’d emerged from the kitchen with two glasses of wine, one of which he gave to Dad. 

So Matthew told them: his failing grades, his deadline extensions, his cataclysmic migraine attack and the reason why he didn’t just rest. His voice wavered and he had to pause many times to prevent himself from crying. Alfred said nothing, sitting on the couch with his knees to his chin, coiling a piece of his pyjama seams around his little finger. 

“I’m really sorry,” Matthew said thickly, glancing away. “I understand if you’re mad. I totally get it if you want to take Snowball back. I’m not sure I deserve her.” 

“Mon dieu, Mattie, we are not taking your dog back. Come on. Besides everything else, that would be cruel to the dog.” Papa’s eyes landed on Snowball and he shook his head. “We are disappointed, and sad for you, of course. But it’s not the end of the world.”

“That’s true.” Dad stood to approach and sat beside Matthew on the couch. He pulled Matthew into a hug. Between them, Snowball stirred, but did not wake. On letting go, Dad asked, “Maybe we can appeal to the university. Perhaps they’d be willing to give you another chance. You were a star athlete. They could be convinced into making an exception…”

“No. Don’t.” Matthew curled in on himself. “Don’t.” His breath was so sharp it seemed to cut his lungs. And it was like his heart was being pushed back into his spine with each breath. “I don’t—I can’t—I don’t—”

“Whoa,” Alfred cried, as Papa jumped to rub his back. 

“Matthew, calm down!” Dad cried, grabbing his hand to squeeze it. He hadn’t had panic attacks like this since he was six. On his lap, Snowball jerked awake. Dad plucked her off Matthew and handed her to Alfred. Matthew heard a rustling above him, and in seconds, Papa had produced a paper bag that smelled vaguely of vinegar and soy sauce. Packaging, Matthew figured, from the catering last night. He did as he was taught to do when he was little. He breathed into the bag until the hyperventilation eased, and when he finally lowered it, Papa was already standing there with a glass of water. Snowball, Matthew noticed, was already asleep on Alfred’s lap. 

“I’m okay now,” Matthew rasped. He swallowed thickly. “I just meant to say that...I can’t—I need to pause. I feel like I’m hurtling towards a wall, like I’m about to collide with concrete and break what’s left of my body. I just need to pause. I can’t do school right now.”

For a terrible second he thought his parents might explode. But Papa just sighed, and Dad pursed his lips and nodded, and two pairs of arms—the same arms that had carried him back from the first week of hockey practice when he twisted his ankle, the same arms that steadied him every time he careened to the side from pain, the same arms that held up all the world’s achievement and approval—those arms…pulled him into a hug.

“Take your time, Matthew,” Dad said gently. 

“Yes, if you need a break, you need a break. It’s okay.” Papa stroked his hair. “Do you feel better?”

He nodded in earnest. A stone in his heart was gone. 

“Thank you for being honest,” Dad said. “I know it mustn’t have been easy.”

Matthew could actually feel himself going quiet again. He once described it to Papa like a machine powering down; this sense of, oh, I’ve talked enough for now, I need to recoup. And even though his parents didn’t notice it, Alfred immediately did, because he nudged Matthew sharply in the ribs. “You wanted to say something else?” Alfred added, shooting Matthew a stern look. 

Right. The worse thing. Matthew pulled back and balled his fists to his side. Alfred picked up a sleeping Snowball and carefully put her on Matthew’s lap. She snuggled up to his abdomen, but otherwise did not wake. Glancing once to Alfred for a last shot of encouragement, he turned back to his parents and said,  “Look, I think I need to see a therapist. I think…” he glanced at Alfred again, who nodded persuasively. “I think…” oh god. “I think I might be at the verge of developing a substance abuse habit or something.” 

“What?” Papa cried, as Dad went very still. Papa perched on the coffee table, his hand directing Matthew’s chin so they were eye-to-eye. “What do you mean, a substance abuse habit? Did something happen at the party yesterday?” 

It was like pulling out his own ribs. Matthew hated it so much, having to talk like this. But he told them. He told them about the Oxy and the alcohol, and how he’d wanted to get trashed again the night before, and how he was terrified that he was only one bad day away from doing something extremely self-destructive. And holy shit, he was crying so violently as he spoke that Dad had to grip him by the shoulders and talk him down from another attack of hyperventilation. 

“Matthew, hey,” Dad said, kissing his head, “We’re glad you told us. And of course, we’ll get you help. I’m so sorry you were feeling this way.” 

“Many chefs do cocaine,” Papa said out of nowhere, glancing away. He sighed, his eyes downturned. “I told you about this, Arthur. It’s such an open secret that one time I was asked by a customer to sprinkle cocaine on a dessert instead of sugar.” [1]

“What?” said Alfred. “That’s crazy.” 

“Yes, I agree,” Papa said heavily. “When I was younger I worked in a restaurant where the sous chef died of cocaine overuse. In another place I worked, the chefs took speed and whiskey [2] on busy nights. It is the culture, but it is very frightening when you stop to think about it. You did the right thing by telling us, Matthew. It’s good, if you feel this way, to nip the problem in the bud.” 

“It happens in finance all the time, too,” Dad sighed. “Cocaine and strippers. I worried this might happen when you first got that opioid prescription, that’s why I threw it away. I had no idea you’d go to such lengths.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Matthew said in a small voice. “I don’t know--I honestly don’t know what happened. It’s like I’m not the same person I was before the accident.” He pressed his eyes so hard he could see stars. “It’s so stupid, I’ve prided myself on being so together and in control, and suddenly I’m not, and it’s terrifying.” 

“Ultimately we have very little control over anything, love,” Dad said, stroking his arm. “Holding yourself to that kind of standard…it’s not wise.”

“That’s the standard I was raised to believe in,” Matthew said, and they fell silent. From the corner of his eyes, he saw Alfred’s mouth twist downwards in what he could only describe as a Yikes-Like Expression. “You two have always demanded perfection,” Matthew went on, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. “Not directly, no, but always through the little things. You’re both so exceptional, how is anyone supposed to keep up with that?” 

“Exceptional?” Papa laughed. Dad locked eyes with him and smiled. “Would you like to hear about our failures?” 

Matthew glanced up, and even Alfred leaned forward. 

“So much for my good reviews,” Papa went on. “Last week, an ambassador’s wife screamed at me because she thought her food was bland. Screamed at me, you know, in front of the whole restaurant.” 

“That’s horrible!”

“Ouais, yet it happens.” 

“I’m on the verge of losing an important account,” Dad continued. “I’m going to have to put out many fires in the coming days, and who knows if I’ll be successful. Don’t say we’re exceptional, love. Exceptional is only what things are from the outside. Like a shiny coat of paint.” 

“We’ve messed up many times! And we’ll continue to. We are both very…” Papa glanced at Dad again, “we are both very tenacious, I suppose, and ambitious, but that’s only because we’ve messed up so many times that we simply have to be.”

“Exactly, yes. We’ve had a lot of dreams break on us, you know. A lot. But what can you do with broken pieces, Matthew, if not construct beautiful mosaics?” 

Matthew said nothing. He couldn’t actually speak. He’d been talking for ages, and now he’d run out of words. It was Alfred who reacted, standing from the couch. He rubbed his arms, somewhat shyly, and muttered, “Let me show you guys something. I’ll be right back.” 

He returned with a large plastic folder. “I’ve been drawing a lot lately,” Alfred said, settling on the couch. “Actually, I’ve been drawing for years. I’m still learning, you know, but…well, I’ve been working on this comic.” 

“It’s really good,” Matthew supplied. Alfred shot him a grateful smile. 

He passed around pieces of his comic, each hand-drawn, lovingly-inked page, and as Alfred launched into an explanation of the plot and the characters, Matthew saw their parents’ eyes shining with pride and fascination. Dad read the dialogues aloud, laughing at each punchline. Papa traced the clean lines of artwork, complimenting their proportions and detail. 

“This is bloody brilliant,” Dad said, chortling as he turned to the next chapter. “‘Zombies are just intellectuals’—what a unique perspective!” 

“Thanks! I was quite proud of that.”

“Alfred, I am very, very impressed with your art skills! You know, I have always wanted to have a portrait of myself drawn.” Papa’s eyes were twinkling. “Would you do the honours?” 

Alfred snorted. “Sure.” Smile fading, he added, “I took part in this contest recently…did not win, of course.” 

“Who cares about some contest?” Dad countered, his tone breezy. “This,” and he pointed at the paper, “is funny, original, and quite beautifully drawn. If they don’t see that, it shows you how little they know.” 

“Yeah, exactly,” Matthew chimed in. “I was telling him as long as he keeps working on it, that’s all that matters.”

“Oh, yes. I’m so excited to have another creative type in the family!” Papa clapped his hands. “It was so lonely being the only artist. Now we can be creative together!”

“Sure… oui,” Alfred’s grin was coming back. “It actually feels good to show you guys, finally.”  

“Snowball’s waking up!” The puppy on Matthew’s lap blinked and yawned, and Matthew collected her up in his arms. “Good morning, Snowbaby,” he said, nuzzling his dog. “Can I take her for a walk? Has she had her vaccines yet?” 

“Oh yes, she’s fully vaxxed. She’s ten weeks old.” Dad returned Alfred’s drawings, saying, “Don’t let her nibble on these.”

“Good call.” Alfred put his papers away and stood to put his folder back in his room. He was halfway up the stairs when Papa spoke. 

“Shall we walk the dog together? We bought her a collar and leash and everything.” 

“No wait, I want to come too!” Alfred cried. 

“What does together mean, Alfred? Matthew, why don’t you put her collar on? Alfred, hurry!” 

Snowball wiggled as Matthew tried putting on the collar, and he couldn’t help but laugh at the puppy’s nibbling teeth. “It’s going to be a short walk, right?” Matthew asked. “They get tired easily?”

“Yes,” said Dad, “besides, so do you.” 

“Oh.” Matthew actually smiled at the joke, which was something he never thought possible. “Well, that’s true.” 

Alfred came bounding down the stairs two at a time. “I’m readdyyyy! Is Snowball ready?” 

“Just about.” Matthew clipped the leash on. “You ready, Snowbaby?” 

The puppy yipped. Alfred and Matthew collapsed into giggling coos. Dad walked ahead to open the door. Matthew tugged gently on the leash and clicked his tongue to encourage the puppy to walk. Papa gave Alfred a handful of dog treats. 

“This might help.” 

“Look, Snow,” Alfred held out a cookie. “Come on, little dude, let’s go out.” 

 Matthew let Snowball scamper up to Alfred. They left the house, all five of them, and Matthew thought, this is different. Snowball picked up a pebble and Matthew pried it out of her mouth. This is different, but I think this makes sense. His leg was not strong enough yet. It was already tender, already aching. But Snowball kept pace with him anyway. Alfred hung back. Dad and Papa flanked them on either side, talking about childhood pets and furniture, and it was nice, really, to just stroll.