The way he carries himself is a gliding dance much like the snow dusting his front porch. His chin stays down, his gaze hovering only ever on his feet. Because of this, his black glasses are always on the tip of his nose. The only time they get pushed back up is when he's talking to someone important to him, like his brother or the albino who somehow always manages to remember his name.
"Birdie! Guten morgen!" Matthew, or Birdie, looks up slowly. His violet irises connect with red ones and his pulse quickens. Around this silver-haired German, his palms always becoming sweaty. He can never seem to figure out why, but only because he denies any idea his brain produces. He's been dealing with this since the first day of his junior year when the albino, Gilbert, rescued him from the depths of his own locker. He had been fully prepared to wait out the day as usual, and was surprised at the beaming face looking directly at him. When the teen didn't forget him, they became best friends.
Matthew is silent, alone in his thoughts as had become normal over the years. He had only a polar bear to talk to, and he doubted even it remembered him, and its characteristics were and are those of his imagination. The soft and surprisingly white bear is being squeezed between Matthew's tan covered arms. The white of the bear's fur blends with the cream-colored fur lining his coat. Matthew carries it with quiet dignity, no shame evident. His eyes go back to his fur boots, replying quietly in French as fluently as he would in English.
Being adopted had obviously taken a toll on him, with two fathers at home. He's surrounded by constant bickering and no idea what to do. His nights often include tears, being huddled in a corner, and rash decisions that often leave the water swirling in his sink red. No one but his brother knows about this, not even Gilbert. But then again, he has no one else to tell. No one else who cares enough to question his constant wearing of hoodies. But he can live with that. He's lived with it for years upon years. Nothing has changed except the albino now inhabiting his life, entering his mind and getting a feel of his horribly dark soul.
But Matthew felt Gilbert could help. His eyes brighten at the sight of him every morning, with the comforting sound of tire against gravel to transport him to, yes, yet another hell. But this purgatory has a silver lining, unlike the rest. At least his grades are good, even if teachers don't remember he's there or who he even is. He is thrilled by the pause in argument or make-up kissing for his Papa and Dad to congratulate him on his grades. Which is the only reason he hadn't dropped out after sophomore year.
His wavy golden hair falls to his shoulders, much like his papa's. His papa, Francis, has a thing for fashion and beauty that connects him to his direct French heritage. Which is also how Matthew was brought to America. Brought from Canada, yes, but the very much French Quebec. Francis knew he was the baby boy for him with his pale skin and glittering amethyst eyes. But not even a few hours after being brought home, his dad, Arthur, had forgotten all about him. Didn't tend to his cries or sing him lullabies like Francis.
Matthew loves him just the same, happy to help around the house and make dinner for his dad. But he wished he could feel love in return, not only after having to explain that he is his son. He can never really figure out why people forget him and don't notice him. He curls his hands into fists just thinking about it, his fingernails digging into his palms and the skin threatening to open on his wrists. The only time people bother to remember him is to shove him in a locker or bully him in any way they can think. Tears spring to his eyes, and he shuts them instantly. He can't cry in front of Gil. He can't. That'll provoke questions he doesn't want to answer, and then Gil would refuse to take him to school.
Deep breath in, deep breath out… the words replay in his mind like always. Everyday, a near crash course in the presence of the man who keeps his heart beating. But he can't break down. He just can't. Even if forever darkness sounds extremely comforting, he has to push it away. He can't imagine leaving Alfred or Papa, much less Gil right when he's given a new chance. A chance he doesn't want to pass up. Maybe things can get better. A little spark lights inside of him, sending a heated chill through his veins. Yes. This is his chance.
"Gil, I-"