Notes: What can I say? I was heavily inspired by the Olympics and, well, I just figured that this needed to be done. A quick word, though, this has more parts coming, I promise. And I was compelled to include Denmark, known here as Mathias, because I just figured he had the build for it. Alrighty, so, read away!
Matthew Williams has the prototypical teenaged life from every eighties' movie ever. He has a crappy job where nobody respects him; he isn't popular at school because everybody's too busy concentrating on or practically in love with his brother, Alfred, who's like the stronger, better, and more handsome version of Matthew. Except on steroids. And crack. On top of all that, he's failing Spanish which is really odd considering the amount of effort he puts into that class. With all that on his shoulders, plus crazy hormones and his frontal lobe developing, he's been in a really horrible mood lately.
The bad thing about that?
Yeah. There's his weird way of dealing with his anger and frustration. He does it passively and, to be honest, it's not exactly a walk in the park for anybody involved in it.
Seriously, because there's only so many times he can rearrange the magnet-letters on their fridge to say "Stop being an attention-whore, Alfred" before his brother figures out it's him and not ghosts or aliens. And there's only so many times he can leave post-it notes on his Dad's bathroom mirror that say things like: "Thanks for forgetting to pick me up, Dad." or, "Thanks for flirting with my teachers, Dad." or even, "Thanks for leaving your vibrator on the kitchen table, Dad." before his Dad gets annoyed. It's actually pretty sad that even some of his friends at school forget his name or mistake him for his brother. So, he leaves them little notes that always say, "Where's Matthew?"
So, to try and get rid of his frustration, Matthew thinks he needs to find something productive to do with his free time. Some sort of outlet. Or something.
***
Matthew's frustration reaches a crazy boiling point on a Saturday morning. It's chilly in his room and it's mildly uncomfortable and it's ten in the morning. Matthew wakes up to his phone vibrating loudly next to his ear. Matthew really can't do anything except check the text that he has apparently received. It's from his Dutch friend, Lukas, who smokes pot like he never left Amsterdam, and Matthew might just have to kill him and then himself.
"Just realized I'm too high to take the plastic off a slice of cheese." Matthew reads and he feels a pit of gloom and melancholy and despair start up in his stomach.
"Does this mean you're not driving me to work today?" Matthew texts back, chewing his lower lip and worrying at a string on his pajama bottoms.
"That's exactly what it means." The text winks up at him and Matthew groans. That pit of doom and gloom and depression turns into something a little scarier. Matt's pissed. No. Scratch that. He's beyond pissed. He's so angry he doesn't even know what he is right now. And with his luck, no one in his immediate five-mile vicinity will notice he's in a bad mood. Not that they would notice him, anyway. Besides, Matthew mopes, there's no way he's getting back to sleep now. So, he gets up and goes to the kitchen to have breakfast.
Matthew is in the kitchen for less than five minutes when he hears his Dad's door open. Matt opens his mouth to tell his Dad that if he doesn't hurry up, he'll miss his church service, when he hears it.
"Buenos días, Alfredo!" Is the cheery chortle that Matthew gets in return. Firstly, that is definitely not his Dad's French accent. That isn't even his Dad's language. Two, Matthew is not now and never will be Alfred or Alfredo. Matthew turns around and almost drops the bag of milk when he sees his Spanish teacher running a hand through his messy hair. And there's a huge hickey on his Spanish teacher's neck. Seriously, it's. Right. There. And, as if the hickey isn't enough, Mr. Carriedo is wearing his Dad's button-up. Some synapses finally fire in his brain and Matt wonders if that's why his grade went up this week.
"Mr. Carriedo? I—What?" Matthew manages to say after the initial shock of seeing his Spanish teacher coming out of his Dad's bedroom at ten in the morning. This is weirder than any conceivable weird situation that Matthew has ever come up with in his mind.
"Alfred! Will you tell your Papá to call me when he wakes up? Gracias, mi querido! Remember your test is on Monday!" Antonio says, kissing Matthew on both cheeks and practically skipping out the door, brief case clutched loosely in his hand. Apparently, and Matthew finds this just a bit strange, Antonio Fernandez Carriedo is the only person in the whole wide world that can do the Walk Of Shame smiling like a ray of sunshine.
He definitely, without a doubt, is going to kill himself now. From the kitchen, Matthew can hear Nirvana blasting from Alfred's room. Yeah, Matthew's probably going to kill himself. Or. Get into a fight before the day is over.
***
Sanchez is Matthew's best friend.
The only bad thing about Sanchez? Everyday it's the same darn thing with him. It's just that Matthew either has really, really bad luck or he just can't win in the game of Life because there's some weird crazy thing between Sanchez and Alfred that involves Sanchez wanting to beat the living daylights out of Alfred. Unfortunately for Matthew, Sanchez remains unconvinced that, even on Tuesdays, Matthew isn't Alfred. And he never will be Alfred. Ever. Period.
But Matt's at work one day scooping ice cream out for this shortcake who's pretty obnoxious in an endearing sort of way and doesn't really have eyebrows as much as he has caterpillars tacked up over his eyes where his eyebrows are supposed to be, when Sanchez comes back from his cigarette breaks. He just looks at Matthew and chuckles a bit to himself and says,
"You know what you need?"
"A vacation? Or, maybe, a pay raise?" Matthew responds, watching the shortcake skip off happily with his ice cream cone.
"Nah, man. You need something to do after school. Like a sport or something. I don't know."
"Yes, I s'pose. But what about school? I mean, there are practices and, uhm, stuff that goes along with practicing. And games! Those-those are time consuming." Matthew says conversationally, cleaning the espresso machine and wiping the counter down.
"Yeah, so?" Sanchez asks, eyebrow quirking somewhat.
"But-school!" Matthew tries, trying to get off of this topic.
"Yeah, what about it?"
And like that it's pretty much decided. Matthew will find himself some sort of extracurricular activity.
***
They're sitting at dinner, eating something French that Alfred can't pronounce right when Matthew brings up the after school sport thing. Their Dad, Francis, is standing up and leaning on the counter having dinner: a glass of wine and a slice of bread.
"So, Dad." Matthew starts, clearing his throat marginally.
"Oui, mon chou?"
"I was thinking about, maybe, getting something to do after school." Matthew starts and their Dad stops paying attention to the evening news for a split-second to give Matthew an odd look and then, like nothing, goes back to watching a segment on the French Culture Minister.
"Oui, mais, do you not already have a job? Je t'adore, Mathieu, mais I do not think you capable of working two jobs. Besides, there is no call for you to even work one job. It is quite pointless. Non, Alfred?" Francis says, swishing his wine around before taking a carefully measured sip.
"Uh, yeah, sure. Or, maybe, he wants to join a sport or something. Right, Mattie?" Alfred says, shoveling food into his mouth and possibly showing everyone in his vicinity the chewed up contents of his mouth. It's kinda disgusting and Matthew doesn't really know if he can eat anymore of his dinner. So he pushes it away from himself.
"Peut-être, mon ciel, but perhaps we need to ask your brother what he was thinking of."
"Yeah, sure. Go ahead, Mattie." Alfred says, downing a gulp of his massive slurpie from the gas station around the corner.
And just like that, something odd happens; Matthew actually has the floor and the undivided attention from both his sibling and his parent. Well, apparently, dreams do come true.
"I was thinking of maybe joining a sport. Something to serve as an outlet, ya know?"
"An outlet, mon chou? For what? You are not an aggressive person. Ton frère, oui. But you, mon ange? You are not mean or— or aggressive for that matter!" Francis continues, taking a small piece of bread and popping it in his mouth.
"Right, you don't know that." Alfred mumbles, finishing his food and taking another large gulp pf his slurpie and petulantly staring at Matthew over the rim of his giant cup that you could fit three hamsters in.
Matthew flushes a bit and looks at the table cloth shamefully. He loves his brother but sometimes, Alfred just annoys the heck out of him and. Okay. So it gets a little out of hand sometimes but Alfred can't always be the hero and accuse people who don't think the same way he does of being communists or fascists. And, okay, so it's a bit catty and mean on Matthew's part that he picks at Alfred's flaws until he's ready to cry when they get into a fight. And, yeah, Matthew can be a bit of a jerk when calling his brother fat. He's not really. But. Sometimes, Alfred just deserves it. And, really? Matthew should be entitled to mean streaks every now and then because Alfred is the. Biggest. Dick. Ever. And that's being polite about it.
"Alfred, chaton, let your brother speak."
"Sure thing, Dad." Alfred says, blinks lethargically and turns too-blue eyes toward Matthew.
"Well—I was thinking about joining a sports team. Maybe-uhm, soccer." Matthew says in his best loud voice, staring at the spot on the wall right above Dad's shoulder. Please. God, let this work.
It gets really quiet and Matthew is pretty sure that his family has completely forgotten about him because, hey, that happens all the time. And, maybe, Matthew is wishing, right now more than ever in his life that his invisibility powers would suddenly just click on. But they're not. And it's sort of intimidating the way Alfred and Dad are staring at him and not saying anything. At all. And that's really scary and disturbing because Alfred's mouth never takes a holiday and Dad? Well, Dad is Dad. He is never quiet, not even during Church services. And then, all hell breaks loose.
If there's one thing that Matthew knows about his Dad, it's the fact that the Frenchman tends to be overdramatic. And, surprise surprise, that's exactly what happens. Francis sets his wine glass down and promptly proceeds to have some sort of verbal fit in rapid fire French that Matthew can only grasp a few scraps of. Alfred stops gaping at him and starts laughing. Loudly. All in all, Matthew's already low self-esteem has reached a new low score. And then his Dad swoons a bit. Normally, that's not alarming because his Dad, in all his French glory, is always putting his hand to his head and pretending to faint into a conveniently placed chair. Except this time, his Dad's staged swoon doesn't go exactly as planned.
It's probably because, one, there's no chair to collapse into and pretend to get over whatever. Two, his Dad loses his balance and falls. Backwards. And cracks his head on the edge of the counter. And, now, his Dad's out cold. Matthew goes into some sort of crazed panic attack. Alfred? He's laughing so hard he's completely useless. Then again, Alfred is useless in more situations that aren't potentially life threatening.
So, with no help at all from his brother, Matthew hauls his fallen parent into a chair and Alfred, crying from laughing too hard, is trying (and failing) to shovel some ice into a bag usually reserved for sandwiches.
After a while, their Dad wakes up, with a bag of ice on his head and his pupils not reacting to light at all, Alfred wipes the tears from his eyes and says, "Dad, you probably have a concussion. Awh, man, Mattie, great joke! I mean, it was priceless. Completely boss. You? In a sport? Oh, man, you're a riot, Mattie. Athletic, that's funny."
Inevitably, Matthew bristles noticeably because he could make a sports team if he really wanted to. He wants to say something but he doesn't want to hurt anyone's feelings right now. He blushes and stares at his feet. His physical condition isn't really that atrocious. At least he doesn't get winded going up the stairs like their Dad.
"I'm being serious about this." Matthew says quietly, shuffling his feet somewhat.
"Mon fils, mon ange! You cannot be serious! You-you could risk getting hurt! What if something hits your face? Your beautiful face, Mathieu. You could— mon chou, listen to me. You come home sweaty and smelly and—"
"Whatever, you're always like that. Sweaty and smelly. It wouldn't make a difference. Why don'tcha just go ahead and take a shower, Dad?" Alfred mumbles and Francis doesn't quite catch it. Thank God for Dad's selective hearing.
"And depending on what sport you play, you could come back dirty! You'll play in the mud, in the dirt! You'll come home with dirty shoes and make marks all over my floor!"
"Dad, I—" And it is just so typical that Matthew is overshadowed by Alfred shouting.
"Dad, seriously, just take it slow."
"Alfred, I am taking it slow."
"Since when do you even care about what we do after school?" Alfred presses, hand rubbing at the back of his neck.
"I don't! I am only saying, please. Mathieu, please do not track your mud all over my nice floors. And keep yourself smelling fresh, oui, mon chou?" Francis says, pressing the ice pack closer to his head and sighing a little.
"You don't smell like a spring rose so much yourself." Alfred mumbles cheekily, rolling his eyes.
Once again, Matthew feels the need to point out his parental unit's selective hearing.
"Ugh, je crois que je vomirai."
And maybe, for just a tiny split-second, Matthew thinks his dad deserves to have a concussion. Only because he can't remember Matthew's birthday. But then he feels terrible about it and hopes it just some sort of bruise.
***
After the dinner debacle, Matthew figures that he needs to find a sport that won't completely annihilate his Dad's floor. But, Matthew figures, he needs to start with try-outs. He runs through a list of sports in his head and decides he should start out with track and cross-country. So, he tries out. It goes pretty bad because the Vargas brothers are fantastic at running away and, well, Matthew doesn't stand a chance against them. This is Monday.
Tuesday, Matthew shows up in the gym and people are swarming him, hands slapping his ass and groping him and Matthew lets out a squawk and pulls himself out of the massive, writhing orgy of people who have, once again, mistaken him for his brother. And Matthew's pretty sure he's never heard his brother about getting felt up by basketball players. Ever.
"Jones, I already told you to stay outta here." Matt is too terrified to correct the mistake. Which means, basketball is a definite 'no' for both Matthew and his brother. If only to protect his brother from getting gang-banged.
On Wednesday, Matthew stays after his Spanish class to help Mr. Carriedo—who insists on being called 'Antonio' now. Yeah, really,— take some equipment out to the field. Before practice starts, Mr. Carriedo kicks the ball a bit too hard and it nails Matthew in the face. Hard. Matthew reels back and falls on the groomed grass of the soccer field. Matthew feels a trickle of something wet down his nose. Oh, great. That must be from his glasses cutting into his nose. The worst thing about the whole thing? Matthew feels guiltier than Mr. Carriedo.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Matthew says, springing up from the ground and running off of the field. Soccer is out, too.
The next day, Thursday, Matthew goes up to Sadiq Adnan and asks about wrestling. He stops eating face with his boyfriend, Heracles or something, and just glares at Matthew. He doesn't look. He glares. He glares at Matthew. And that's when Matthew activates his really fantastic "Invisibility-Please-Forget-Me" powers and manages to camouflage himself up against the tan lockers. Sadiq looks around for a second and decides that, nah, there ain't anyone around and goes back to eating Heracles' brain out of his mouth. Matthew decides, hey, maybe wrestling isn't for him.
It's the end of the school day and he gets excused from his study hall to go help out with a Phys. Ed class. They're playing lacrosse today and Matthew watches a prissy little blond, Feliks flounce this way and that on the field, not really doing anything except avoiding the mud. And, hey, that could be something Matthew could handle. So, he asks the coach is he can play and, sure enough, he throws Matthew a Crosse and tells Matthew to knock himself out.
So, Matthew goes onto the field and everything goes really well until Feliks and Matthew are having some sort of lacrosse face-off. Maybe what happens next is just Matthew's bad luck and bad timing or maybe it's just Feliks asserting his position as Head Bitch but when the Coach said 'Knock yourself out', Matthew didn't think that anyone would take it seriously. Either way, the next thing he knows, Feliks is bashing him in the face with the Crosse viciously. And. It. Hurts. Really. Really. Bad. And that's probably because the bruise on the side of his face from getting soccer ball'd hasn't quite healed.
By the end of the school week, Matthew has a black eye, a busted lip, and a bruised-up-cut nose. So, as he's walking back to his house, Matthew decides that maybe Alfred is right and sports just aren't where Matthew belongs. As he walks through the parking lot, one of the coached from some team threatens to punch someone in the face. The coach's name is Arthur Kirkland. He is twenty-three years old. And he coaches the hockey team.
***
Arthur Kirkland had always been an angry kid. He had always been prone to getting in fights even if he declared himself a "perfect gentleman". He wasn't. But after his fourth fist fight in seventh grade, he's sitting in the guidance counselor's office. They've tried everything to get Arthur to calm down: therapy, anger management courses, rap groups, guidance counseling. Nothing's really worked for him so far.
But this time, the hockey coach is sitting in the office with them. He thinks Arthur has potential and, so, he gives the blond boy a long look and hands him a pair of skates.
He throws Arthur a pair of skates and throws him on the ice. Soon the fights are a thing of the past.
***
Matthew decides to try out for the hockey team because, really, what does he have to lose? That's when he notices that a bunch of the hockey players are looking at him like he's a gazelle and they're all hungry lions that haven't eaten in forever. Kirkland throws Matthew a hockey stick and a pair of skates and says,
"Have you played before?"
"Yes. Not a team before, though." Matthew says cautiously, quietly, eyes darting this way and that. He's acutely aware of his surroundings and every pair of eyes on him. He's a little twitchy because, well, he's just not used to being the center of attention. So, Matthew puts on his skates and waddles from carpeted stairs to ice.
Somehow, while he's playing, he manages to flip one of the team's centres, Berwald, in one move. It's pretty much like watching a Toyota Prius flip a monster truck: It's a little hilarious and nobody really knows how the hell it happened, but it did. Berwald sits up and shakes his head to get some balance back.
"He fl'pped m'over." Berwald says and Matthew wonders if he knocked some of the Swede's teeth out because people don't normally talk like that.
"'Ho damn!" Mathias, a right wing forward, shouts from his end of the ice. And then promptly crashes into the wall.
Needless to say, Matthew makes the team. He also feels "pretty hardcore", as Alfred would say.
Notes: Like I said, this is the first of about three chapters, I think. I hope you guys enjoyed reading it! Leave a review for me? Have a good day/night!
