Chapter Text
Alistair had come home.
It had been a surprise, one that wasn’t revealed until Arthur’s eldest brother walked through the door, his arms wide and his smile wider. No signs of his other brothers, though deep inside he knew that they would not be coming.
His mother was unarguably the most excited, as her second favorite son had finally returned. Peter received his status only through the fact that he was the youngest, but Alistair had earned his. He had done everything their mother wanted, following her suggestions and taking them to the next step.
All of them, save for one.
“Alistair.” Their mother never referred to them by anything other than their full first names. No use in giving a nickname when there was something much more proper, much more official, available. “Are you running low on razors? Do I need to purchase some for you?”
Alistair laughed, a hearty sound that filled their otherwise desolate foyer. “No mum, I’m growing it out. You don’t like it?” He batted her fingers away from his face.
Their mother huffed in every sense of the word, crossing her arms together in a look that radiated displeasure. “I just like a clean shave, is all. You look much more handsome, much more dashing, without all that scruff.” She emphasized the last word as if she were trying to beat the point into him.
Her frown only lasted a few seconds before breaking into a large smile. She sighed, pulling Alistair into her arms, his older brother giving her several pats on the back as she did so. Strangely enough, his smile looked genuine.
When Alistair pulled away, he looked around the foyer, his eyes never settling on one thing for long before moving onto the next. “I must say, I think I like the Manchester one the best. Remember when we lived there?” They had lived in several places and several houses, all different in varying degrees. Arthur couldn’t say he agreed.
Peter rocked on his heels, a mischievous grin shaping his lips. “I liked that one, too. Too bad Arthur ruined it for us.”
Alistair’s expression matched Peter's to a T. His smile faded, forming into a mocking scold, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Now, now, Peter. It's not Arthur's fault that he got into three fights too many and ended up expelled. What was he to do? Be nice to people?”
“Oh, fuck off, you bastard.”
“Arthur.” His mother’s voice was stern, her eyes staring daggers into him. “Your brother was joking, calm down.”
“Nah, mum. It’s fine, it’s fine.” Alistair wrapped his arm around his shoulders, squeezing tight and holding him down. He scrubbed his fist into Arthur’s scalp as he spoke. “Artie’s just a little sensitive. That's all.”
Arthur batted away his hand, a scowl working its way up his face. He dug his fingernails into the fleshy part of his palm, squeezing as hard as he could. He could punch him. He wanted to. If it were Dylan, he would.
Alistair glanced down at Arthur’s clenched fist and Arthur could’ve sworn that his grin faltered. The grip on his shoulders eased away, Alistair’s hands dropping to his sides. Giving up.
There was something about it, the surrender, the submission, that left him hating Alistair a tiny bit more.
He turned to say something. What, he didn’t know. But it would be something scalding, something that he would regret. The insult was on the tip of his tongue, ready to be shot out at a moment’s notice, when his father stepped in.
John Kirkland had been standing in the corner of the foyer, his arms crossed at his chest and his frown growing deeper by the minute. He snatched Arthur’s attention as he stepped into the peripheral, his eyes flashing with a warning.
His father laid his hand on his mother’s shoulder, giving it a quick squeeze, a small, rare smile on his face. Arthur noticed, trying his best to suppress the upcoming cringe, that the hair on his fingers had grown thicker.
“Love, if we don’t hurry, breakfast will grow cold.”
His mother’s eyes widened, her jaw dropping and lips forming into an “O”. It was gone in seconds, replaced by a loving smile, one Arthur hadn’t seen in what felt like years.
She clapped her hands, fingers folding themselves in and out, the light in her eyes shining brighter than the sun. “Right, breakfast, breakfast.” Rose looked back and forth between the four of them before finally settling on Alistair. “I made your favorite. Waffles.”
Alistair grinned, looking just like the wolf he pretended to be when they were children. “Well, we better get going, then. Can’t bear to leave them alone any longer.”
As they made their way to the dining room, the realization that one of his brothers was home hit him— harder than their absence had. They couldn’t have known about anything that had happened these past few months. Surprising as it was, his mother wasn't the type to share her struggles with them, especially not the ones that mattered.
No, surely not. The few tidbits he’d caught the past couple years were of mundane occurrences. What they had for breakfast, homework, and other trivial things. Never about fights or expulsions or anything similar.
She spoke to a different one every night, a set schedule made for who gets what day. Arthur didn’t know the details down to the specifics, hadn’t cared enough to ask or spend the time listening to her conversations. He would be Wednesdays, he knew.
Another way of control, to keep them in her grasp, even when they were kilometers away, and, in his brothers’ case, an entire ocean away. A missed call turned into five more, a denied one brought ten and a legion of text messages.
They made their way into the dining room, Alistair sliding into his usual chair next to their father. The table was large enough to seat twelve, a piece of furniture his mother had inherited from his great-grandmother. Large enough to fit all eight of them, should all of his brothers be home, in addition to four guests. Or, when his father had his way, the two of them and ten guests.
As always, Arthur sat in his usual chair, across from Alistair and to the right. Dylan would normally be at his left, William at his right and mother’s left.
Nestled in the middle, hiding from scrutinizing eyes.
Rose disappeared into the kitchen, her stiff, curled hair gently swaying behind her. When she was nowhere in sight, Alistair sighed, slouching in his chair and glancing over to Peter. “Waffles, huh? I assume that you had a part in this?”
A cheeky grin. “Perhaps.”
Arthur watched the exchange from his chair, eyes darting back and forth between the two and his father, the latter having an odd, almost guilty, look. If his brothers noticed it, they hadn’t given any indication. Something was about to go down. And he was going to be in the center of it.
The clicking of heels brought Arthur’s attention back to his mother, who was carrying multiple dishes at the same time. She smiled at him, as if it were the most natural, carefree action in the world.
A ball dropped in his stomach. She was planning something. A grand reveal, maybe. Arthur should’ve known that he wouldn’t have gotten away with a simple tongue lashing or strike. No, this was something that the cunning bitch had spent the week planning, something that-
“Alistair.” His father’s voice was gruff as he spoke, Alistair’s head snapping up from the stack of waffles in the center of the table. An immediate response. “How’s school going for you?”
Alistair was going to school to be an accountant, of all things. Arthur remembered the nights when his brother would slam the calculator against the math textbooks, his face red and fingers slightly trembling with rage.
Terrible math skills, it seemed, were a family trait.
Which made it all the more surprising when Alistair announced at the dinner table one evening of his aspiration. George laughed, asking if he was serious, laughing even harder when Alistair said that yes, he was. That night, the post-dinner discussion the six of them used to hold was rolling with more tension than usual.
Alistair smiled, the tips of his fingers lightly grazing the edge of his glass. “It’s going great. A mate of mine’s father has a firm. Said he would let me be an intern, if I wanted.”
“And you’re sure that’s what you want to do?”
There it was. A small question, one posing the part of a caring, supportive father showing concern for his other son. Never mind the gruffness of it, the firm tone that told Alistair to just try and go against him.
A slimy feeling settled in his back. Arthur quickly clicked his phone to life, sighing softly through his nose. It wasn’t even ten yet. This would be a bad morning.
Alistair, ever the optimist, took a quick sip from his glass, his rows of crooked, slightly off-white teeth on display soon after. He spoke as their mother walked in, a second platter stacked with waffles- blueberry, it seemed- resting between her hands. “Yes, absolutely. I think this will be good for me.”
Rose slid into her chair at the head of the table, manicured fingers going straight to a stem of her glass. Some type of morning wine, most likely. “I, for one, think it’s a fantastic idea. William’s going into law, so let Alistair do what he wants.” William, the second eldest, was an even greater kiss-ass than Peter. Even if he was a condescending bastard to everyone else.
Alistair grinned at his mother's defense, shaking his head. He pulled the platter of waffles toward him, stabbing two with a fork and transferring them to his plate. “Enough about me, mum. How have you all been settling? It was freezing when I got out of the airport.”
She waved him off, taking the platter from Alistair and handing it to Peter. As usual, she would get her food last. “It’s a new place, like all others. We’ll get used to it. It’s not too bad, I quite like it.” She took a sip from her glass before taking a long pause. A mischievous grin shaped her lips, one Arthur new quite well. “Actually. Arthur has been busy these past few months.”
His shoulders stiffened. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Alistair’s eyes widened as Peter matched his mother’s grin. “What did he do this time?”
Arthur took the time to scan his mental map of the house. His shoes were in the foyer, left from when they had gone out to dinner the night before. Celebration for Peter getting straight As this past semester, never mind the fact that Arthur had, too. His coat was in the coat closet, but it was close enough to the front door that he would be able to take a detour, should he need it. But it would come into question, should he-
“Well-” His mother took another sip from her glass. She planned on drawing this out as painfully as possible. “He went on a little shopping trip?”
“Oh?” At the same time the word left Alistair’s lips, his father snorted.
Rose ignored both of them, her eyes pointing daggers deeper into Arthur’s throat with each word leaving her lips. “Oh, yes. In fact, he charged almost five hundred dollars onto my card. Five hundred.” She spat out the words as if they were a foul taste in her mouth. “How do you spend five hundred dollars in one go? How?”
Alistair sent a glance in Arthur’s direction. He mouthed the word, “Really?”
“Oh, and that isn’t even the best part.” A laugh, one that sounded faker than anything he'd heard. “He took the clothes that I bought for him in August and put them in the bag meant for charity.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Arthur wanted to scream the word. He sat up straight in his chair, debating the merits of fighting back. He opened his mouth to say something, to defend himself.
His father got to it first. “Rosalynn.” He used his mother’s full first name, something saved for when he was in on what his mother was planning. “I don’t understand why you’re so surprised. The boy hasn’t met a single one of our expectations in nearly— what? Four, five years? It’s not like he’s going to start soon. He has the future of a goldfish in a muddy bowl. Dismal, at best.”
Arthur’s cheeks burned, Peter’s laugh boiling the blood in his veins. He silenced the latter with a single look, one that promised payment, should he continue.
His mother scoffed, her eyes as hard as ever. “Don’t look at your brother like that. He’s done nothing wrong, which is better than what we can say for you.”
Arthur stood up from his chair, kicking it back with enough force that it tipped over. He looked his mother in the eyes, the words spitting from his mouth before he could stop them. “You can go fuck yourself.” He turned and marched out of the room, his father chasing after him, his face red and voice full with rage as he yelled.
“Don’t you ever speak to your mother like that.”
He raised his hands in a two-finger salute, not bothering to turn back to his father. Arthur walked straight for the foyer. No time to grab his coat, not when he had two-hundred pounds of asshole on his heels.
Arthur picked up the pace, quickly grabbing a pair of slip-on shoes— Alistair’s, he was pretty sure— and shutting the door behind him. He would apologize for taking them eventually.
As soon as Arthur was off the porch and onto the sidewalk, he broke into a sprint, bolting down his driveway and past Antonio’s house. He didn’t stop until he reached the three-way, his lungs burning, screaming for breath. He ignored it as best he could, weighing his options.
If he turned left, it would take him to school. With it being winter break, it would be closed, but it would at least give him somewhere to kill a few hours. And, if he was lucky, Mr. Vargas might’ve forgotten to lock the performer’s entrance to the school’s concert hall. On the other hand—
Arthur sighed and continued walking forward.
Several minutes later, he found himself walking up the driveway of the yellow house, a familiar car sitting in the driveway, next to another. An American flag hung from one of the posts of the wrap-around porch, something that had been missing the last time he was here.
He stepped towards it, running his fingers along one of the red stripes. Bone dry. Arthur couldn’t help but snort. The bastard and his family were patriotic to the point of following flag code. It was almost cute, in a way.
Arthur shook his head, no use in thinking that.
The concrete steps leading up to the porch made muted clicks as he made his way up, the sound filling the once again silent street. Empty, completely empty, the ghost of summer settling on the asphalt as winter barreled its way through.
He rang the doorbell.
Regret coursed its way through him as soon as he heard the muffled ring. Perhaps Alfred wasn’t home. Perhaps a friend of his, maybe Gilbert or that dreaded Antonio had picked him up. Arthur turned to leave, several new ideas of what to do popping up in his head, when the door unlocked.
It opened to reveal Alfred, or, at least, someone who looked like Alfred. The hair was too long, not with the usual undercut, too bright, not the smooth, melted caramel color that Arthur had grown used to. More of a honey color, just barely lighter than Vlad’s—
No.
The lookalike’s smile was even similar, except it was instant teeth instead of Alfred’s slow-splitting grin. And it was fake— or, at least much less genuine. “Hi, can I—” The smile fell as soon as the lookalike took a full scan of Arthur, morphing into what could be called, at best, a scathing scowl. “Oh. It’s you. What do you want?”
Something dropped in Arthur’s stomach. His eyes narrowed, shoulders tensing. The anger, everything that had built up in the last couple of weeks, in the last couple of days, hours, welled. He opened his mouth, ready to spit some venom, to say something, anything that would get this tension, this rage out. “Excuse me, what do you—”
“Oh, Arthur!” Alfred popped behind the lookalike’s shoulder, that toothy grin— the right one— already up at full blast. He looked out of breath, as if he’d been running or rushing down a set of stairs. His hair was messy, disorderly. As if he had just woken up, never mind that it was late morning. “What are you doing here?”
Fuck. The pit in Arthur’s stomach burrowed deeper, his mind instantly scrambling for words. He didn’t bother trying to look for an excuse, didn’t think that he would need one. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“Um.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, realizing that he had forgotten his cell phone. He supposed that that was a good thing, considering that someone— whether it be his parents, Alistair or Peter— should be blowing it up by now. Suddenly, an idea popped into his head. One that was stupid, one that had multiple holes in it, but it would work. “I was actually having troubles with the homework, that, you know, Mr. Wang assigned to us for homework. I was wondering if you could help me with it?”
Alfred blinked rapidly, almost as if he were in shock. It was then that Arthur realized that he had never outright asked for help, not even in tutoring. He was losing his touch.
Alfred broke out into a wider grin, strands of his hair bobbing with his head as he nodded. “Yeah, absolutely. Of course!” He glanced down at Arthur’s hands, the smile slightly faltering, only to be back up in a split second. “Do you have it with you?”
Arthur followed Alfred’s stare. He was empty-handed. Shit. Arthur wanted to scream the word, to shout it loud enough that his mother would be able to hear it, or perhaps one of his brothers, thousands of miles away.
Instead, he widened his eyes in mock surprise, dropping his mouth before snapping it shut and pursing his lips. The lookalike snorted. “Shit, I’m sorry, I completely forgot.” Good. This was a stupid idea anyways, one that he should’ve cut down the moment it crossed his mind. He turned to leave as he spoke. “You know what— It’s fine, I’ll just—”
“Wait, wait! It’s fine!” Alfred pushed back the lookalike, stepping forward, his arm outstretched. Almost as if he intended to grab for the seam of Arthur’s shirt. “We don’t need it! We can just work on some scratch paper and you can take it with you. We can look off my paper. It’s all good.”
Fuck.
Arthur turned back, his eyes making eye contact with Alfred’s own, wide and clear. Alfred’s smile grew, whether it was from a look on Arthur’s face or what, he didn’t know. He sighed, offering up a curt smile of his own.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, yeah, absolutely. Come on in.”
Arthur stepped past Alfred as the latter ushered him in, the lookalike disappearing further into the house. Unlike before, the house was a decent temperature, much warmer than the outside, but not at the sauna-like temperature it was before.
“You can take your shoes off, if you want.” The tone of Alfred’s voice told him otherwise about the possibility of choice.
Arthur silently slid off Alistair’s shoes, placing them in a long line of others. They weren’t anything that he would willingly wear, but for today, he supposed they would do. He set the shoes next to what he figured were Alfred’s, a pair of red high top Converse, the white tip of the shoes covered in nicks and scratches.
He nodded at Alfred when he was done, following him further into the house, It seemed messier, more cluttered, than it had been before, with several blankets and pillows strewn about along with stacks of dishes piled on top of any available surface. On the couch sat a large golden retriever who offered Alfred a lazy smile, his— her?— tail slowly swishing against the leather sofa.
Alfred casually approached the dog, his hand going straight for the stomach. He rubbed in a circular motion, not looking at Arthur as he spoke. “This is Lib, the sweetest girl in the world.” The tone of his voice changed mid-sentence, Alfred speaking to the dog as if she were a small child. “Aren’t ya Lib? You’re a good girl, aren’t ya?” Lib’s tail began wagging faster and faster.
Lib offered Alfred a lick on the hand, and it was then when Arthur looked away. The lookalike had settled onto a leather recliner, a silver controller held tight in his hands. He glared at Arthur when he met his gaze, a sneer slowly shaping his lips. Surprisingly, Alfred caught it.
“Hey, don’t be a dick.” Alfred rose to his feet, giving Lib a final pat before turning to Arthur. “Arthur, this is my twin brother Matthew. Don’t mind him, he’s just an ass who takes a little while to warm up to people.”
Matthew sent a grin his way, but there was none of the genuity in Alfred’s. It was different, in a snarky, I’d-rather-you-be-anywhere-else type of way.
“Right, I’m gonna go upstairs and grab a sheet of paper and the textbook. Arthur, do you know what specific questions you need help on?”
“Yeah, just nineteen.” That was the longest problem that Mr. Wang had given, he was pretty sure. Why anyone would— never mind the fact that this was supposed to be a college class— assign three pages of math on a winter break, he didn’t know.
Alfred clapped his hands, scrubbing them together. He grinned. “Great, I’ll be right back. I’ll grab an extra calculator.” Alfred pointed towards the coffee table in the center of the living room, which was covered in empty bowls and half-eaten bags of crisps. “Feel free to have a snack, if you want.”
And he was gone.
The stairs quietly creaked as Alfred turned the corner onto the second floor. Arthur watched him as his hand glided across the wood of the banister before turning to look at Matthew. The latter had started up a game, what it was, Arthur had no idea, but Matthew played it fervently, knocking down enemy after the next.
Arthur watched him, the living room settling into a hard silence. He reached forward towards the coffee table, pulling the closest bag of crisps towards him. Slightly pushing the bag down, Arthur twisted himself to be able to read the flavor listed on the bag. Baked barbecue. That would do.
It wasn’t until he grabbed a handful of crisps that Matthew spoke. “Alright, what do you want?”
He asked the question while Arthur was in mid-chew. He held up his index finger, feeling his eyebrows shooting up to the top of his forehead. For once in what seemed like forever, something had tried and succeeded and grabbing at Arthur’s attention.
Finally, he swallowed. Arthur whipped his head over to Matthew, his voice sounding squeaky as it left his lips. “I’m sorry, what?”
Matthew paused his game, tossing the controller onto the coffee table. It clattered against the glasses and bowls, creating a rattling sound that echoed off the walls. The second interrogation he’s gone through this past week.
“Come on, cut the shit.” Matthew ran his fingers through his hair, scraping his teeth along his lower lip. “You come up here, knock on the door, get Alfred all excited at the prospect of seeing your face, and then oh no! You need help with math homework that you could’ve easily googled. Do you enjoy that? Do you get off to fucking with people?
No, don’t speak. I went to middle school with Francis, I know what you did. I didn’t like Kiku, either, but what you did was an ass move. You’re a grade-A cunt, you know that?”
For the first time in what seemed like months, Arthur was left speechless. Matthew was a problem. His jaw dropped before clenching, his thoughts scattering to say something, anything--
“Hey, I’m back!” Alfred quickly descended the stairs, a stack of papers and a thick textbook in hand. His smile from earlier was slightly faltered and Arthur couldn’t help but wonder how much he had heard.
Matthew settled back into his chair, taking the controller he had set on the coffee table in hand and continuing his game. Arthur watched as the characters came to life on the screen— which, now that he was looking at it, was maybe double the size of the TV they had at home.
If Alfred heard anything of their conversation, he didn’t show it, setting his papers on the coffee table haphazardly. He moved several bowls and empty soda cans out of the way, tossing an opened bag of pork rinds at Matthew. The arsehole swore as several rinds fell from the bag and onto his lap. Arthur couldn't help but snort.
“Surprised you’re giving these to me, considering how big of a fat ass you are with these things.”
Alfred grinned before flipping open his packet. They both received glares from Matthew, who began eating the escaped pork rinds before giving them a one-finger salute. The whole ordeal, though trivial, was amusing, in a way, reminding him of the way he and his brothers would act with each other in one of their few pleasant moments.
Pulling his graphing calculator out of its sleeve, Alfred spoke without looking at his brother, his grin turning mischievous. “Shut up, Matt. You’re just jealous that I have a fat ass. Fat. Ass. Not with an ‘F’ with a ‘PH’. Phat.”
A laugh. “Nah, man. You know how they use those cardboard discs in commercials to make the pancakes look fluffier? Yeah, well, those have more depth than you do.”
“Fuck you. I’ll have you know that I am thick. Thick with three ‘C’s. Three.” He rolled his tongue on the last word, Arthur watching their exchange with wide eyes. Never in his life had he expected such a thing to come out of Alfred’s mouth.
He was suddenly reminded of a conversation they had had on the first day of school.
Matthew opened his own mouth, to offer another idiotic addition, no doubt, before breaking into a laugh. It was genuine, surprisingly, and remained so even when Matthew pointed his finger toward Arthur. “Your face. Oh my god.”
Alfred whipped his head over before laughing himself. Arthur stared at him as he did so, curling his fingers into a fist and back out again.
“Arthur.” Alfred wiped the inner corner of his eye, pausing every few words to snicker. “Have you never heard anyone say that before? Ever?”
He blinked. “No. Never. What the hell was that?” Arthur knew he sounded like a dumbass the moment the words left his lips. Perhaps he should’ve spent more time scrolling through his Instagram feed— cultivated by Vlad, of all people, the thought leaving a bitter taste in his mouth— before deleting it.
Alfred clapped his hands, scrubbing them together as he spoke. “Oh, my god. I’m definitely gonna have to show you some memes when we’re done with this.” He flattened the crease of the packet, pressing random buttons on his calculator before clearing it, doing the same thing several times before speaking. “I’m gonna be honest, I haven’t actually looked at any of this yet. I was planning on doing it first period on the day we come back, so yeah. We’ll just have to wing this together.”
“Great.” Arthur slid off the sofa and onto the plush carpet, meeting Alfred at his level. He quietly tapped his fingernails against the wood of the coffee table, earning a grin from Alfred in return.
“Great, indeed.” They fell silent for a couple of seconds, the only noise in the room the sound effects from whatever game Matthew was playing. Arthur watched as bright colors erupted on the screen and several of the characters were pushed off the platform, only looking away when Alfred began his explanation.
“Oh, so this is an easy one.” Arthur inwardly cursed. Of course, the one he thought was the hardest just had to be the opposite. “Yeah, so it’s just—”
He grabbed his pen— because of course, Alfred would do maths with a pen— swinging it between back and forth between two fingers. “Four over one, squiggly line, two over two ‘X’ plus two.” When he was finished, he flipped the sheet paper so Arthur could see. “That’s it written out.”
“Ok.” Arthur had no idea where to even start.
“Yeah. So, ignoring the two on top, two ‘X’ plus two equals ‘U’. That’s just us attaching a variable to it. Kinda like attaching a song to an album. So two over two ‘X’ plus two will now just simplify out to two over ‘U’, got it?”
So ‘DX’ equals ‘DU’ over two. And ‘DU’ over ‘DX’ equals two. So ‘X’ equals squiggly line two over ‘U’ multiplied by one half. That’s ‘DU’. That equals out to squiggly line ‘U’ with a minus one exponent which equals out to the natural logarithm of ‘U’, which we established earlier to be two ‘X’ plus two.”
Alfred shrugged, as if what he said was any spoken language. There was not a single mistake in what he said, Arthur knew, but the fact that he acted as if it were the easiest thing in the world—
As if it was simple.
Alfred continued. “After that, it’s just simple integration. Bracket two ‘LN’— that’s the natural log, keep in mind— parentheses two times four parentheses plus two bracket. Then subtract that by the same thing, but instead of multiplying two by four, you multiply it by one. Make sense?”
He didn’t give Arthur any time to answer, pushing the paper up, revealing the remaining open space. He drew a crude coordinate graph, squiggling a positive line across it. “So, basically, the entire reason we did this was to find the area of this little part of the graph.” Scribbling in a small portion between the positive line and the corner of the origin, Alfred grinned. “And so, if you punch all this through the calculator—” Soft clicks before a quick pause. “You’ll get one and eight tenths as the area.”
Arthur slowly nodded, trying to figure out how in the hell Alfred arrived at that answer. They fell silent again, which was only eaten up by a whistle from Matthew, similar to that of a bomb dropping.
“Alfred, what the fuck was that?”
“What do you mean, ‘what the fuck was that’? I solved the problem.” Alfred’s eyebrows knitted together, and though he would never admit it allowed, he couldn’t help but think that it looked attractive. Not that Alfred never was.
Matthew scoffed, keeping his eyes on the screen, a determined look in his eyes as he dodged being pushed off the platform. “You just barreled through that, didn’t even ask him what he needed help with, didn’t stop to see if he was following, and when you did, you didn’t even give him time to respond.” He glanced back at them for a split second before returning his attention to the screen. “I mean, yeah, you’re probably right, cause it’s you with math, but god damn.”
Arthur had only known Matthew for fifteen minutes, if that, and at that moment, he wanted nothing more than to throttle the bastard. He almost felt bad, in a way, when Alfred turned those puppy-dog eyes— he was more like Matthias than Arthur originally thought— and pouted like a child.
“Arthur, did you understand it?”
Almost.
He gave him a close-lipped smile, one of the best from his mother's repertoire. In reality, he understood nothing, but he wouldn’t flat out insult him. Not when he was in unfamiliar territory.
“Of course, best explanation you’ve ever done.”
Alfred laughed, shaking his head as Matthew shot a quick glare in his direction. Oh, he was trying hard not to tell Arthur off. Not in front of Alfred, at least. No, certainly not, with what he said earlier.
Arthur barely suppressed a snort. Get his hopes up, indeed.
They were done here, and Arthur had gotten what he wanted. He patted his pockets, only to realize that he had forgotten his phone and his wallet. Arthur cursed, grabbing the attention of both Alfred and Matthew.
He smiled at both of them as a message of reassurance, shrugging before shaking his head. “Left my phone at home.” He couldn’t imagine how many messages he had now, from his mother, Alistair, whoever. How many calls.
Alfred hummed with understanding. Grabbing the paper that he had just written on moments prior, Alfred folded it along its width and then along its length, flattening the creases with his fingernails. He handed it to Arthur, lips splitting to show teeth as he let it go. “Take that with you, then. I certainly don’t need it.”
As soon as he took the paper from Alfred’s hands, he stood, shoving it into his pocket. Arthur nodded at both Alfred and Matthew, taking his steps towards the entry hall for his shoes. “Well then, best get going. Thank you for—”
“Wait, you’re not staying?” Alfred’s grin had fallen, the pout returning full blast. It made him wonder what, exactly, Matthew had meant before.
The man in question glared at him. A warning, telling him to not take up what Alfred was offering. To stay here, probably an hour or two more, or go home to whatever consequences were waiting for him.
Fuck him.
Arthur blinked before lifting his eyebrows, shrugging once again. “I mean, if you want me to stay, I’m not doing anything today.” Nothing besides avoiding getting his hide skinned.
The smile was back, Alfred pushing himself back on the couch and scratching the spot between Lib’s ears. Arthur stood and watched as a golden tail started whipping back and forth. “Good, good.” Alfred gestured to the TV, where Matthew still played his game, the bright colors and explosions almost dancing on the screen. “You’ve ever played Smash?”
“No. Never even heard of it.”
A smirk. “What video games have you played?”
His mother bought them a console when Alistair was about to leave secondary school, its name and what they had played on it blanking in his mind. Damn it all. “We had a Wii when I was in primary school.” It was the only thing that had come to mind, and even then, it felt stupid as soon as he said it.
Matthew snorted, quietly laughing to himself as he brought up the menu of the game. Arthur ignored him in favor of Alfred, who had stood and was digging through the TV table. He pulled out a second controller, one that looked almost exactly like the one in Matthew's hands, except it was red.
Arthur caught it when Alfred tossed it to him, balancing the controller between his hands and running his thumbs around the smoothest parts. Alfred sat next to him, close, their knees and thighs touching. He could feel his breath curl against his ear, Alfred’s fingers covering his own.
“Ok, so, first things first, you move the joystick—” he tapped the top of it before continuing, “— back and forth to move around. That's the basics.” Alfred opened his mouth to continue before pausing. He glanced at Matthew, watching the screen as he spoke. “Hey, Matt, can you move to the training mode? I don’t want him to get squashed against someone online.”
Arthur ignored Matthew as he sighed, quietly grumbling to himself as he selected the training mode. The screen dissolved into white, with gray squares stretching across the entirety of it, some cut off by two intersecting red lines. The whole thing looked like a coordinate grid. Math, it seemed, would follow him everywhere.
“Ok, uh, what character should we give him?”
“Give him King Dedede.”
Alfred glared at Matthew, though it was half-assed at best. “Dude. We’re trying to teach him how to play, not get him merked.” The confusion on Arthur’s face must have been clear, as Alfred sighed through his nose, almost as if it was in amusement. “So, the game that we’re playing, smash, there are a bunch of characters you can choose to play with. The players are all organized into tiers—”
Matthew cut him off before Alfred could speak any further. “And King Dedede is the best of —”
“No, shush.” Alfred turned and smiled at Arthur, and for the first time, he couldn’t tell what emotion was behind it. “I’m thinking Kirby. That sound good?”
He had no idea who Kirby even was. Arthur opened his mouth to say something, a confirmation, maybe, only for Matthew to cut him off.
“Bruh, you’re gonna refuse to give him a tier five, only to give him a tier four?”
Amazing, it was. How twins could not only look similar, but also induce equal amounts of fury at any given time. His own brothers were the same way, but different in that they found their entertainment in pestering he and Peter constantly. When you were the middle sons, there was little to do besides that, Arthur supposed.
Alfred snorted at Matthew’s words, and though he would never say it aloud, Arthur couldn't help but find it attractive.
“A tier four is perfectly acceptable as a starting character. Tier five is just cruel.” Matthew voiced his protests at this, something along the lines of how they had to start out with the tier fives, or whatever they were. In truth, Arthur stopped paying attention the moment Alfred turned his head back to them. They were close, very close. Too close to be an accident, but he wasn't going to ruin it and say anything. Not now. “Ok, so each character has four special moves. You can activate them by moving the joystick any direction and pressing the bottom button. Now, I dunno if you’ve ever heard of Kirby, but he can do this cool thing where—”
Arthur allowed himself to be pulled into the lull of Alfred's explanation, trying out the button combinations when told. He fought the animated characters when they came on the screen, his own— a familiar pink puffball— occasionally swallowing enemies whole. It was amusing, to say the least.
After winning a couple of times to the computer-based enemies, they switched to a battle mode. Arthur watched as Alfred pulled out a third controller, choosing a character similar to Arthur’s, save for the addition of large cat ears and a swirl of what looked to be hair,
The platform from earlier loaded onto the screen, this time with a different background. They continued to play, throwing shots at each other in an effort to knock each other off the platform.
Arthur lost track of time, pushing away thoughts of his family and what was waiting for him. With the handful of matches they played, he only managed to push someone off the platform once, and only when teaming up with Matthew against Alfred. He screeched when he fell, sending the three of them into a fit of laughter.
It felt nice, oddly.
They were in the middle of a match, Arthur getting ready to pounce on Matthew’s character, a yellow Pokémon whose name stuck on the tip of his tongue, when the front door rattled. He watched the lock spin, and though he knew that it would never be the case, Arthur’s stomach dropped at the thought of his mother walking through the door.
The woman to come in instead was nothing like his mother, not in the slightest bit at first glance. Her dark hair was held in a ponytail by a pink scrunchy, and when she turned after closing the door, she smiled with straight teeth, so impossibly white that he immediately thought of Alfred.
She held up a large white bag, the smile growing wider as she spoke. “I brought lunch!”
Matthew powered off the switch, setting his controller on the coffee table. Arthur followed suit, hearing the soft tell-tale tapping that said Alfred had done the same.
He felt the woman’s— Alfred’s mother, no doubt— eyes settle on him, and it sent chills down his back. He resisted the urge to wince.
Her eyes were on him for a split of a second before shifting to his left and then his right where the twins who stood behind him. “Who’s this?” Her tone was genuinely cheerful, her words, strangely enough, unhoneyed.
To his left, Alfred cleared his throat. “Mom, this is Arthur. He moved into that one house down the street.”
Though he may have imagined it, Arthur could’ve sworn recognition flickered into her eyes the moment Alfred said his name.
The bag in her hands crinkled as she stepped into the living room from the entry hall. She spoke as she walked towards the kitchen, the soles of her flats clicking against the hardwood floors as she did so.
“Well, Arthur, I would’ve gotten you some lunch, but a certain someone—” She stopped to flash a look at Alfred and Matthew, but it seemed to be more joking than anything. “— or two didn’t tell me we had a guest.”
Arthur had lived with his mother long enough to be able to take the hint. Tugging his shirt, Arthur thought of the quickest excuses that would come to mind. “Right. Well, I best get going—”
“Oh no, you absolutely don’t have to. You’re not intruding at all. I’m just joking.” She finished with a wink, and even when not looking at him, Arthur could feel Matthew deflate with disappointment.
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Jones.”
“Nonsense, call me Addie.” A grin.
Arthur had been in Alfred’s kitchen before, but instead of the barstools lined at the island, they made their way to a simple table. Beyond in the next room, Arthur saw a much larger dining room table, with several rolls of wrapping paper and tape stacked on top. Neat, but lived in.
Mrs. Jones set the bag in the center of the table, Arthur watching as it sagged, several spots of grease visible on its sides. The smell of chips filled the room, with Alfred scrubbing his hands together. “What all did you get?”
“Well, I got six burgers and then fries for us to split.” Mrs. Jones looked at Arthur before continuing, though there was no flame in her brown eyes. Only apology. “Good thing I got six. That way each of us can have one and a half. Sound good?”
There was anger in Matthew’s eyes. How such a person could come from a relatively well-tempered family— not that Arthur had met their father, nor did he ever want to— was beyond him.
Then again, even Arthur’s own mother behaved differently when in the presence of guests. Besides that one dinner with Vlad and Lukas.
Arthur cringed at the thought of their names. They blocked both his Instagram and his Snapchat, two things they made him get. The self-serving bastards deserved whatever they got, though, of course, they probably felt the same way about him.
Mrs. Jones caught his cringe. “Arthur, is something wrong? Do you not like hamburgers?”
Fuck. The twins turned their attention on him, a dare in Matthew’s eyes and an unreadable question in Alfred’s. He had to act fast.
Arthur rolled his shoulders back, showing the most genuine-looking smiling he could manage. “Oh no, ma’am, burgers are fine.” He forced his smile wider. “I was just thinking about how I need to start on my winter homework.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Jones laughed, the noise spiking the headache slowly forming in his head. “Winter break just started. These two usually do it the night before.”
Matthew grabbed a wrapped burger from the bag, tossing it to Alfred before handing another one to Arthur. When he spoke, he began unwrapping his own. “Ma, it’s Alfred who starts last minute. I already have mine done.”
Alfred scoffed. “It’s winter break.” He put extra emphasis on “break” before taking a bite. Arthur suppressed a cringe as Alfred spoke through his food. “I don’t understand why we have to work on break. Half of the people don't even do it!’
Arthur took a cold water bottle from Mrs. Jones. It slightly burned at his fingertips. “Normally, it’s pre-work for the next unit. Or they like seeing us suffer.”
Mrs. Jones laughed again, though this time, Arthur struggled to tell whether or not it was genuine. “That is true. In high school, my husband and I always thought our teachers were out to get us. They just gave so much homework! Though, we probably got what we deserved considering we talked so much.”
Of course, Alfred’s parents were high school sweethearts. Of fucking course.
Arthur kept his smile on, even as the room fell into a brief bout of silence. Mrs. Jones broke it.
“If you don’t mind me asking, Arthur, where are you from?”
“Oh, I'm from the UK. Liverpool, specifically.”
He was met with blank stares. Across from him, Alfred's grin fell, his eyebrows slowly knitting together. Comical.
“It’s sort of in the northwest. Right by the tip of Wales.” He hoped they knew, at least, where that was.
Mrs. Jones’s smile grew tight and close-lipped, the same look he received whenever he mentioned where he was from. Perhaps she was hoping for London. “That’s nice, I’ve always wanted to travel overseas. I’ve gone on my share of cruises, but I imagine it’s a lot different.” Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but closed it after she continued. “Now, do you go to school with Matthew or Alfred?”
“I’m sorry?” He had never seen Matthew at school before, but the building itself was big and populated enough that he had only seen around a quarter of his class. If Matthew didn’t even go to the school, it would make a lot more—
“He goes to school with me, Ma.” Alfred ripped the top half of the bag, pouring a cup of fries into the bottom. An interesting technique. “He’s in my math class and choir. He sat next to me at the madrigals dinner.”
“Oh, that's right! You had the green costume. But that’s unfortunate, spending so much money, just for one year.”
“Who knows, Mrs. Jones. Perhaps I could find a hobby in Elizabethan-era festivals.”
The rest of their lunch went by quickly and smoothly, with Alfred and Matthew taking jabs at each other and Arthur answering Mrs. Jones’s questions whenever they came. Some were simple, such as what, exactly, a digestive was or simple dialect differences. Others required answers that Arthur couldn’t possibly care to learn, such as the origins of marmite.
“Look, I’m just saying, if Matt gets to go to a school downtown and eat up all that gas for a stupid hockey team, then I should be able to save my ‘wittle’ tongue.”
Arthur never wanted to hear the word “wittle” come out of Alfred’s mouth again.
“No, but that’s not the point.” Matthew had been playing with his half-empty water bottle for the past five minutes, squeezing it before popping it back out to its original shape. Arthur watched him as the former spoke. “Would you, if offered some kind of reward, like cash or something, eat a large spoonful of marmite?”
Arthur shook his head, unable to contain the cringe raveling up his nose. “No, absolutely not. That stuff is strong. Even a teaspoon on toast is toeing the line.”
Mrs. Jones laughed. “Arthur, you’ll have to bring us a jar the next time you come over. We’ll put that to the test.”
Thirty minutes later, the four stood in the entry hall, as Mrs. Jones had to return to work. From the corner of his eye, Arthur could see the family photo from the first time he came.
Mrs. Jones wished her sons well behavior before turning to Arthur. She smiled. “Arthur, it’s been a pleasure meeting you and having you over. Feel free to come over any time you’d like.”
An invitation of courtesy, but a good sign, nonetheless.
Arthur smiled, the backs of his piercings rubbing slightly against his teeth. “Thank you, Mrs. Jones, I certainly appreciate it. And for lunch, as well.”
She smiled, and was gone.
Matthew let out a long sigh, turning from Arthur and Alfred and back towards the living room. The two followed the former, who sat in the same seat he had prior.
He knew Alfred was watching him as Arthur picked up his controller, taking his seat and resting his ankle over his knee. The living room fell silent.
“Well, I hope you like failure, as I’m going to be kicking both of your arses this round.”
For the first time since their fateful incident at the beginning of the year, Arthur didn’t find himself reeling from the smile on Alfred’s face.