Chapter Text
Matthew stares down at the teacup with eyes bloodshot from what Arthur hopes is only a lack of sleep. He sighs, shoulders dropping, defeated, and accepts it from the ceramic rim, turning it slowly in hand until his long fingers link into the handle. Arthur hesitates. This must be a point where he ought to say something comforting. But he has never been good at sentiment, that's Francis' domain. The problem is Francis can't cope when Matthew is in these moods; he becomes too emotional, too upset. And it upsets Matthew, because he hates making his Papa cry.
Arthur sits with him on the couch and they stare silently at the TV screen. Steven Colbert. Neither of them laughs at the jokes. Arthur's not sure Matthew is even paying attention to the monologue. Arthur stares not at the screen but at the framed pictures above it. Family photos, pictures of Matthew with his friends.
"Did Alfred tell you to check on me?" he mutters at last, toneless, tired. He sips the tea. "I missed a few of his calls."
"You missed twelve of his calls," Arthur corrects gently. "And fifteen of his texts."
"So you spoke to him," Matthew concludes, shaking his head. He sets the cup down and turns away, towards the overcast light streaming through the window.
"He'd have come himself, but he's travelling for work."
"I'm okay, Dad. I didn't relapse, if that's what you're wondering."
Arthur had been wondering that, actually, he just didn't know how to ask. Matthew has been clean four years, and he even has a career. He's doing the adult things now. He's paying his credit card bills and his taxes. He invested in index funds. He bought plants. He waters them every day. Arthur spots some rosebuds in a corner lit by the dim April sun. They're about to bloom.
"Matt, what's going on?" He turns so he's facing Matthew on the couch, trapping him with his body so his son has nowhere to look but at Arthur or the wall. Matthew switches off the TV. Digs his fingers into his palms. Sucks in his cheek. "Matthew?" Arthur prods, gently still, but in a tone that he hopes conveys his seriousness.
"I said I didn't relapse," Matthew repeats. "I guess you don't trust me. Can't blame you."
"I do trust you. If you say you're clean, you're clean, and I'm not going to argue that." Arthur squeezes his knee. "But you're not okay. What's going on?"
Matthew bites his bottom lip. Hard. A small trickle of blood runs down his chin. He wipes it off, impatient, and mutters, "Lost my job."
"Oh!" Arthur's heart clenches. "Oh, Matthew, I'm so sorry. What happened?"
"Nothing. I did nothing wrong. The company was just struggling. So they laid off like half their staff." He digs his hands into his overgrown curls and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. "I mean, what's the point, Dad? What's the fucking point? You try and you try and you try and then for no reason, it's just gone. It's all gone."
Arthur pulls Matthew into his arms. It's awkward. Matthew is a lot taller than him. He's stiff and his posture is owlish. He drops into Arthur's embrace like a wood sculpture falling off a table, but Arthur catches him anyway. Kisses his hair. "Do you need some money for rent?"
"No," Matthew snaps, vehemently. "I'm done asking you and Papa for money."
"Don't be silly. We're your parents. And these things happen. Everyone falls on hard times. If you need help with rent or food—"
"No," Matthew declares flatly. "I have savings."
"Okay." Arthur rubs his arm. "Okay. Shh, it's okay." He hugs Matthew tighter. "I lost my job once too," Arthur confesses. "Except, unlike you, it was completely my fault. Slept with the boss's son."
Matthew snorts in soft laughter, and it's the best sound in the entire world. "You didn't."
"I did," Arthur insists. "Ended up marrying him, too," he adds with a dramatic sigh, and that really gets Matthew laughing. He raises his head and grins up at Arthur.
"Seriously? Grandad fired you? Didn't that make the wedding awkward?"
"Oh, we laughed about it eventually," Arthur smiles. "We never told you and Alfred the story because it's not exactly kid-friendly. But you're old enough now, I suppose." He strokes Matthew's hair. Goodness, he has beautiful hair. "What I'm trying to say is that bad things happen sometimes. But there are silver linings. I promise there are."
"I know." Matthew shuts his eyes. "I know...I just feel like such a failure. And usually when I feel like this it's my fault. Because I ended up drunk somewhere or I'm waking up in some fucking alley without my wallet or my shoes and I'm stealing cash from Alfred or you or Papa—"
"Hey," Arthur reminds him. "That's in the past."
"Right. Except, it's not, is it, Dad? I swear, I feel like it could happen again if I let my guard down. And so far it's been okay because I've been really making an effort, but...if for all that effort, I don't even have a job to show for it—"
"What are you talking about, Matthew?" Arthur cuts in. "Look at this apartment! Look at your rosebuds!" he adds, letting him go for a moment to gesture to the plant in the corner. "Look at the photographs above the TV!"
Matthew casts his eyes about the room. The stiffness in his spine eases a bit. Arthur knows he's listening.
"You saved your life," Arthur reminds him. "And it was not easy. And losing a job is not easy, either, but if you're tough enough to save your life, you're tough enough to survive this, too."
"...I know," Matthew murmurs. He shuts his eyes. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"I needed to hear that."
Arthur kisses his head again. "When was the last time you slept?"
"I dunno. Two nights ago, maybe. I just couldn't..." Matthew sighs. He's practically curled into Arthur's lap, hugging his torso. Arthur strokes his hair, saying nothing. He doesn't even tell Matthew to go to bed. It's been years since either of his boys clutched him like this, and though he's proud of how they've grown into young men, he does sometimes wish he could hug away their nightmares and chase away their flus. So he lets Matthew cling to him. And they sit like that for a few hours. Even Arthur dozes off. Silent in their spot, the rosebuds slowly open.