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Matthew had been thinking about doing this for a while. Two and a half days, and here was the perfect opportunity presenting itself on a silver platter right in front of him.
Unloading the dishwasher, he was contemplating baking some bread, but in the back of his mind he was hoping for Alfred to walk into the kitchen. Their parents were nowhere in sight, so it would just be them.
He had just begun to refill when his prayer was answered.
“Hey Mattie,” Alfred opens the cupboard and pulls out a bright green package. Glancing at it, he snorts, “Wanna know something,” He asks, grabbing a towel to wipe down the stovetop, “This wants you to-,” Matthew, who had not been paying attention, pauses, “What?” Closing the dishwasher, he shifts out of his brother's way so Alfred can access the pot cupboard.
“The instructions want you to boil a cup of water and a cup of milk,” Alfred explains, setting the pot on the stove. Matthew blinks “That uh,” He shifts slightly. Lord, why did talking have to make him feel so– stuck. “That doesn’t seem like it would make it taste good,”
Alfred shrugs “Maybe,” He pours water into the pot and turns back to the instructions. They fall silent, and Matthew–
Say it.
He breathes softly, feeling a pressure beginning to build in his throat.
The kitchen is quiet after that. Matthew feels the silence settle heavily over him, and he swallows hard.
Alfred is the one to break the silence “I have to melt margarine in the water,” Matthew clutches onto the potential conversation like a drowning man. “Really?” He steps to the stove, “That seems– um,” He fumbles and slips back into the ocean to die.
At least he wishes he could. He feels sick.
Alfred, bless his heart, -and Matthew wished his brother didn’t have to deal with his stupid dumb idiot brain being stupid and dumb and not being able to hold a fucking sentence let alone a conversation– nods. “Yeaaaah, bit strange.” Matthew nods back, squinting at the lump of margarine. He has this indescribable urge to poke it. Don’t be a fucking weirdo . The conversation fades.
Alfred goes back to his phone, waiting for the water to boil, and Matthew wipes down the counters, throat tight.
They exist in the silence then, Alfred only breaking it once more to point out how neat the margarine melting in water looks. It settles over Matthew and winds around his throat as he finds things to do so it doesn’t look like he’s just standing there watching Alfred.
When he runs out of stuff to put away he opens the cupboard and empties the last of the pretzel sticks into a bowl.
Now what? Freezing, he stares into the pretzels like they hold the key to the universe. Say it, just open your mouth . The click when he sets the bowl on the counter feels like a gunshot and he blinks away the tears pressing at his eyes.
He can do this. Alfred won’t care, he knows he won’t, You’re overreacting . Matthew eats a pretzel, and leans over to drag the recipe box toward him.
He doesn’t even have to say it out right, he could start with something else– So how's it going? How’s school? What have you been up to? Matthew slides the box back into place. God. Al l of that sounds like something a relative you haven’t seen in months would say, not someone who fucking lived with you.
If he could just somehow kick his brain into working order and stop overthinking every tiny thing–
Matthew leans on the counter and stares at the cupboard doors. Just say it you fucking hoser . He takes a deep breath, lets it out.
He opens the cupboard.
Behind him he can hear Alfred messing with the packaging of the noodles. Say it . His hands are shaking slightly as he reaches for a glass. You know he won’t care, he has friends who- . Matthew swallows, throat tight. There's pressure behind his eyes, but no tears come.
Matthew opens the fridge and stares for a moment, feeling nauseous. He grabs the jug of iced tea and slowly fills the glass, staring at his hands. Tears prick at his eyes and he feels so, so stupid because Al won’t care, he knows he won’t, but Matthew can’t get rid of the lingering apprehension or the steadily climbing nausea or his shaking hands and he can push down the tears but not the lump in his throat or the pressure behind his eyes and he’s not going to cry goddamnit .
He takes a careful sip of the tea and breathes steadily. He just has to open his mouth and say it but he knows from the feeling in his throat that he’s not going to be able to make a sound. He drops his shoulders on the exhale. Say. it.
He doesn’t say it. In his head. He runs through his words. I want to use he/they pronouns. No- I’m using he/they pronouns now? Please use– My pronouns are–
Deep breath. I want to use he/they pronouns .
Okay . Matthew takes another sip of tea, they can do this. I want to use he/they pronouns . Inhale, exhale, 1, 2, 3. He turns, ready to speak-
“I-ehhhhh– nope ,” The last word comes out in a tiny squeak.
Matthew grabs his pretzels and walks out of the kitchen feeling like a failure. He’s not even sure Alfred had heard him, his earbuds were in and he was snickering at his phone.
He darts upstairs and into his room as fast as possible without running. As he closes the door, the pressure behind his eyes grows again. The tears start as he places his food on the dresser, and he sits down, leaning against his bed as his breath comes in short, uneven gasps.
God he is such a coward.
The beginning notes of piano man come on over the radio and Matthews breath hitches. His room is blurred and his face is sticky with salt and he can’t breathe properly and piano man is playing on the radio.
With shaking hands, he reaches up and grabs his glass of tea. It’s cool in his hands and makes his throat feel slightly better when he takes a small sip.
The tears start up again, but he has his breathing under moderate control and he mumbles along to the third verse through sips of tea and quiet sniffles.
Eventually the song ends, and as the opening to Home for a rest begins playing Matthew pushes himself to his feet. He stares at the mirror and feels the tears welling up again. He sniffs.
They couldn’t do it. Two and-a-half days of psyching themself up and they couldn’t do it because they're a useless fucking coward.
He flops down again and grabs his pretzels.
He’s not being fair to himself. Last time he came out, when he told his family he was gay, it had taken him the better part of two years to work up the courage. he wasn't going to be able to do this overnight.
He tried. Matthew lies on the floor and scrubs roughly at his face, rubbing away the tear tracks.
They tried, and that’s what mattered.