Matthew had met several different Alfreds over the years.
The first had been probably the most honest, and Matthew had at least enjoyed that. The seven-year-old Alfred, who talked loudly and picked his nose and hung off of Matthew's new father, screeching for attention.
Matthew used to watch his new brother, curled into his bedsheets. Their beds faced one another across the room, and Matthew had ended more nights than one observing the other boy.
Alfred didn't care about anyone's rules, even back then. He would play his Gameboy, nose glued to the screen late into the night. The games would cast strange shadows dancing across the ceiling, and Matthew had fallen asleep watching them.
And Alfred had destroyed their room, throwing toys and games in search of more toys and games. Matthew had kicked Alfred's things out of his way, much to his brother's shouts of disapproval.
"Stop kicking my stuff," Alfred snapped, hurling a dirty pair of boxers at his brother. "Just step over it like our Dads do!"
Matthew had started kicking more things on principal alone. Alfred and Arthur weren't Matthew's anything. While Alfred had quickly fallen in with Francis, Arthur always overlooked his new son. It was always Matthew he made clean up the room.
Matthew tried to be good, to make peace with his brother. It was hard, and he failed more than once, sending Alfred to Arthur, cheeks flushed and on the verge of tears. But mostly, Alfred would shove Matthew and whine to Arthur.
Francis, on one knee, hand on Matthew's shoulder.
"They're our family now."
Slowly, the action figures had been usurped by bands that dressed in black. Alfred had begged to dye his hair fantastic colors. Matthew had ripped down posters that invaded his side of the room, combating with bands of his own.
"But my bands are cool," Alfred complained, counting change for hair bleach.
"No, they really aren't," Matthew breathed, throwing a few crumpled dollars into Alfred's palms.
"You're the best brother!" Alfred grinned, teeth bound with metal.
Matthew had to deal with much of his brother's pouting after the whole "hair" incident. Alfred had been confined to his room for weeks, Arthur slipping him magazines and sweets. Francis had cooked angrily in the kitchen, talking to Matthew in French.
"That boy," Francis sighed, shaking the pan back and forth, "is being ridiculous.Arthur is being ridiculous—" He muttered something too quickly for Matthew to catch, "And then he expects me to understand!"
Matthew hummed in agreement.
Their teachers called Alfred a "terror," something Alfred seemed more proud of than he should have.
"It just means I'm a rebel," Alfred explained, stretching his mouth and examining his teeth in the mirror. "They just don't get me."
"What is there really to get?" Matthew asked, squinting at his brother. "You just talk when you're not supposed to and fight with Ivan. Dad—Francis—says you should calm down so the school doesn't kick you out."
"Yeah," Alfred repeated absently, "they don't get me."
When Matthew had found his various manga series, a new Alfred showed his face. The band posters had been ripped off, replaced with athletes and trophies. Alfred gave him funny looks when Matthew talked about his new issues, especially when the football buddies would come over for pizza.
It wasn't so bad. Alfred and Matthew moved in different circles at school, so while Matthew would get an enthusiastic wave, he was left alone. Alfred had sports and Matthew was in French club and browsed various fansites.
Francis leaned against the doorway, frowning at the general clutter and mash of interests. "Are you and Alfred all right?"
"Hm?" Matthew looked up, glasses catching the glare of the computer screen. "Yeah. He's just weird, lately."