The door barely swung a-jar as I unlocked it. I looked into the darkened corridors of the nearly empty house; a fading light illuminated the seemingly infinite shelves of neatly lined rounded bottles that hung off the walls like soldiers waiting for the signal to advance.

The sound of our feet screamed along the maple wood floor, now caked in dust, leaving our trail embedded into the filth. Nothing seemed to have been touched or cleaned in a very long time. The faint illuminate drew life from a shut door at the end of the corridor, a humming of a static crowd, an announcer and skates on ice accompanied it.

"I didn't think he had gotten this bad…" Arthur whispered from a few steps behind me,

"Oui, neither did I," I admitted, "I knew it was bad but-"

"DUDE, ARE YOU HOME?" I was cut off by the dulcet tones of a headstrong idiot,

"Shut up Alfred," Arthur and I cried in vain, "He's not supposed to kn-!"

"WE, LIKE, NEED TO TALK TO YOU ABOUT-"

"If you don't shut the hell up I will personally replace every coffee you make or buy in the next year with PG-tips."

That stopped him. As much as I may think Arthur's parenting strategies are a little severe, they worked, and as much as I wanted to tell him this and watch him irritating little head explode, we were here to see to my son, not him or his brother.

I crept towards the illuminated door at the end of the corridor, consumed in a thick veil of dread that had refused to lift since I made the call to Arthur about this. What if he wouldn't listen? What if he wasn't in? What if he was too deep in to help? What if he was beyond salvation? No, he'll listen, he has to.

"Are you sure about this?" it was strange to here an actual tone of concern in Rôti de bœuf's voice. I thought for a moment. Instead of answering him I pushed the handle down and stepped into the blinding room. Arthur and Alfred close on my heels.

This room was unlike any of the others we had seen on the ground floor. The white tiles gleamed in the clear light streaming through the glass windows and sliding doors. The counters were clean and the wood well cared for. The hob shined from its place on the oven. I would have been so proud that my dear son kept such a beautiful kitchen, but out of the corner of my eye I could see bottles; clustered in corners where the sun barely walked. Their autumn shaded, liquid entrails laughed at us from behind labels emblazoned with 'Buckwud' or 'Vermont'. My boy was sat at one of the small counters with a miniature television set; wheat coloured locks tucked behind one ear, his eyes transfixed on the screen.

"Mathew?"

He jumped so far out of his skin he could have sat next to it.

"Papa? Sorry, I didn't hear you guy come in," he smiled at us all, "How come you're all here?"

Before we could stop him; Alfred leaped from the doorway, slapped his hand on Mathew's shoulder and gave him the most grin with a thumbs up "It's your intervention, bro! Dude you look like crap."

"Inter…?"

"You dolt! Do you not even know how serious this is?"

"Papa? What does he mean?"

I sighed and looked down at my feet. I didn't want to meet his eyes; I already knew how hurt he would be.

I looked up at him, dead in the eye, "exactly what he said. We need to talk to you about your… Habit."

"Habit? What do you mean?"

"Maple Syrup, Mathew," Arthur calmly stated from just behind me, "we're worried about you."

"Worried? Worried about what? It's just Maple Syrup."

"Dude have you seen how many bottles there are out there? You could totally build a super hero out of then!"

"I don't think glass is the right thing to be making super heros out of."

"What do you know? How many super heros do you have?!"

"I don't need super heros, I have sense."

"Enough," I glared at the scruffy haired brothers, "this isn't the time for this." They looked down, guilt crept across their faces. I turned to my boy. "Mathew, I think you're developing an unhealthy habit for Maple Syrup." At this he rose from his stool with such speed it flew backwards,

"What the hell do you mean 'a habit'?"

"Dude it means you're addicted"
"I know that! How could you think that?"

"Mathew, look around you," Arthur stepped in, "You're surrounded by those blasted bottles and you're always using the stuff."
"That doesn't mean I have a 'habit'!"
"Bro you cook ham in the stuff."
"That's because it tastes better than cooking it in oil!"

The voices raised and an argument broke out between the boys. I couldn't speak. I just stared off into that one spot of no-where in the air. I vaguely heard snippets of the dispute, something about coffee and something to do with drinking out of the bottle; when something clicked in the back of my head.

"When did you last sleep?"

"What?"

"When did you last go to bed?"

Silence. Mathew's eyes seemed to search around for the answer before his face finally screwed up,

"I don't have to listen to this," he made to leave but Alfred stationed himself in front of the sliding door, "get out of the way, hoser!"

"Matt you look like crap."

"You always look like crap, but I never stopped you from leaving," he clasped his hands to his mouth. Alfred looked as if he'd stabbed him in the heart. "Al, I'm so sorry…"

Alfred said nothing. He just looked away.

"Mathew, do you know how much sugar goes into the syrup?" his hands screwed up into fists. I couldn't see his face, but his head lowered until it nearly disappeared from view.

"Mathew?"
"I'm fine, Arthur," his voice cracked and the signs of sadness began to shake him. Without the need to think I turned him round and pulled him to me and wrapped my arms around him. My little boy began to sob quietly into my shirt.

None of us moved. None of us spoke. It felt as if the whole room was holding its breath.

"Papa… I'm so tired."

"I know, mon fils, I know."

I turned and lead him through the darkening kitchen, out through the filth and untouched rooms, to the stairs and up to his abandoned room to finally sleep off the self-inflicted insomnia.

In the distance, the static sound of cheering and a horn marking a point scored echoed from the miniature television set.

*Extra*

The sound of Francis and Mathew's footsteps faded from earshot. I was left standing in the awkward silence left behind. It was time to begin work, however. Venturing over to the corner of the room I began to collect up the autumnal bottles that filled the space. There were more that I had originally thought and I was soon overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of them. I turned to face the door, my idiot brother appeared to be devoid of all feeling; staring at the corner of the door frame:
"Well, aren't you going to help me, wanker?"
Without a word or even looking at me he meandered to the corner and began to collect up the bottles I couldn't hold.
"He didn't mean it you know."
"Huhm"
"It was the sugar."
"Yeah."
His bloody ego was hurt.

We took our syrupy spoils out to Alfred's car and loaded them on. It was time to take them away from here where they could do no good.