F is for Failure:

"Hey, Matt. How's it going?"

Awful. That's how things are going.

"I'm not in the mood to talk."

Alfred cocks his head at him and draws his brows into a worried line. He's devouring a bowl of popcorn on the couch while the television emits the booming sound-effects of computer generated explosions and plane crashes. He sure does love his action movies. "Aww, are you still mad about the cornflakes I spilled in the room this morning?"

Ah, yes. Why can't his brother eat like a normal human being? A third of everything he snacks on typically ends up on the floor.

"I cleaned it all up after you yelled at me. I even vacuumed," Alfred continues when he doesn't respond, shamelessly shoveling another handful of greasy popcorn into his mouth.

Matthew grimaces and puts his sneakers away. "It's not about that."

"Oh, so you found out I'm the one who keeps putting the toilet paper on the wrong way and blaming Papa for it?"

"I already knew that was you."

"Oh…" Alfred frowns, licking leftover salt and butter from his lips. "What's eating you, then? Whatever I did, I'm sorry."

Matthew gives him a pathetic laugh as the ever-growing desire to cry blossoms in his stomach. It's so stupid for him to be sad. It's not even a big deal, but no matter how much he tries to stop thinking about it, he can't.

"Nothing. I don't feel like talking. Thanks for apologizing though," he says, because it seems like the right thing to do. All he wants to do is go to bed and forget this day ever happened. He always feels better after a long sleep, and maybe when he wakes up, he won't hate himself quite as much.

Alfred, however, doesn't seem keen on giving up the interrogation just yet. Nothing can stop him when he switches into protection-mode. "Bro, you know we don't lie to each other unless it's about food or money. Come over here and tell me why you're bummed."

"Al, I mean it—I'm not in the mood."

"Too bad, Mattie. Sit on your favorite brother's lap and pour your heart out," he coaxes him, putting on his famous pout. "I won't take 'no' for an answer."

"You're such an idiot," Matthew huffs but decides he'll humor him for a little while. He collapses next to Alfred on the couch and swings his feet up and onto the coffee table since their parents are nowhere to be seen.

"Dad and Papa are at the store," Alfred supplies after a moment, and he lowers the volume of the television. "Did something happen at school? Do I have to beat someone up?"

Matthew allows himself a smirk. "Stand down, soldier. Don't assault anyone… I failed my physics test."

He can tell Alfred is surprised by the news, but he recovers at a remarkable rate. "Gotcha, I'll beat up your physics teacher then."

"Alfred, it's not funny."

"I'm not joking."

It's a silly thing to get worked up over. To the onlooker, it's just one measly test, but to Matthew, it's more than that. He'd devoted his entire weekend to studying for it, and now, he knows all of the time he spent trying to teach himself thermodynamics was a waste of effort.

It's also a huge blow to his pride. He figures he's not as smart as he believes himself to be, and although he doesn't plan to pursue any career that would require him to be a physics-wiz, he feels like he's failed himself. He had the potential to become a person who could measure the rate of energy transfer for a lead block but no—the Zeroth law of thermal equilibrium eludes him no matter how many hours he spends beside his trusty textbook.

"You're too hard on yourself," Alfred states before he can finish sulking. "There's always going to be stuff you're good at and stuff you're not so good at. You don't have to be a genius at everything."

He's right, but Matthew will never admit it. He wants to mope because he hates giving up before he masters a subject.

Alfred ruffles his hair and passes him the bowl of popcorn. "You could've told me you need help with physics. I could probably explain it to you. You don't havta be embarrassed."

It's true, as an aspiring engineer, Alfred loves anything and everything mechanical. He can take apart a computer, fix a microwave, and find exactly what's wrong with a circuit. He sees in numbers and works with his hands. To him, life is a series of moving equations and mathematical laws. He demolishes things and builds something even better out of the rubble.

As such, physics is second nature to him, and he takes to it like a pig takes to mud, but Matthew can't bring himself to ask his brother for help with academics, mostly because Alfred is the one who should be asking him for tutoring, and not the other way around.

"It doesn't make you dumb," Alfred assures him, sticky fingers fumbling with the TV remote. "We can study tomorrow, okay? Right now, we're gonna finish watching this movie about robots taking over the planet, so get comfy. Everything will seem better in the morning."

It's a difficult lesson to swallow, but he'll warm up to it. "Okay."

Papa and Dad come home an hour later, and when they see their sons fast asleep with an empty bowl of popcorn between them, they decide not to ask any questions. It's best to let them be.


G is for Gentlemen:

Chivalry isn't dead—not in Alfred's book.

He's punctual when picking up his date, always brings flowers or chocolates even if it isn't a special occasion, opens every door, and pulls out every chair within the vicinity to make sure she knows how important she is to him. He carries an emergency handkerchief in his back pocket (a gift from Dad), pays for every meal even if his date complains about it, and always brings her home by her curfew, no matter how early that curfew may be.

His dates are treated like royalty because if he treats them any other way, then Dad or Papa will certainly find out and give him a sound scolding.

Over the years, his parents have put him through romance-boot-camp. Always listen. Never interrupt. Offer your coat to her if she's cold. Be nice to her family. Compliment her. And by god, don't swear around her until you've been married for at least two years, and even then, keep it limited.

Above all else, be a gentleman.

Before he had even reached the second grade, his and Matthew's manners were frequently tested around the house, and Papa always reminded them that "respect and kindness are the way to a woman's heart".

But back then, manners were complicated business, and he often approached Dad and asked him why they were necessary in the first place.

"Why do I havta be a gentleman?" he would ask, standing on his tippy-toes to seem taller and more mature.

Dad would smile, pet his hair, and say, "Because it's important to treat others with the compassion and respect they deserve."

"But how come girls are treated special?"

"In today's day and age, women aren't appreciated enough for all that they do. By being gentlemen, we show women that we value them just as they value us."

It made sense even to his younger self, and the adult Alfred hopes he will be able to teach his boys these same principles because they are not outdated. In fact, they are needed now more than ever.

"And never, ever, lay a hand on a woman," Papa would say like a broken record. "Don't even consider it for a second! A man who hits his partner is a coward."

"But what if—?"

"But nothing! There are no excuses, young man!"

As he grew older, the questions became more complicated.

"But Dad, if we're supposed to have gender equality, why do we have to keep doing the gentlemanly stuff?"

"It's possible to embrace gender equality and still be polite. The best way to show you treat your partner as an equal is through good manners. That's what being in a relationship consists of—mutual support."

So when Alfred arrives at exactly three o'clock for his date to the movies, he doesn't hesitate to hold the car door open for her with a flourish of the hand and a "right this way, love."


H is for Hard-work:

Standing behind the cash register is a step up from stocking shelves in the aisles, but at least the shelves don't talk back. Honestly, Matthew prefers the labor over dealing with angry mothers who bring their screaming children to the grocery store. The customer is always right, but at the end of his shift, he whispers profanities under his breath and says all of the things he can't say while wearing his nametag and apron.

Yes, little old lady with the thick spectacles, the strawberries are two dollars and twenty-five cents per pound, not two dollars and five cents. Inflation sucks, the economy sucks, this generation sucks, technology is destroying daily life—yadda, yadda, yadda. It's the same speech every Tuesday. Now, would you like a double bag for that?

Patience is key, and though Matthew rarely lets his temper get the best of him, standing around for five hours straight and listening to twelve autobiographies can set free the monsters in your soul.

The pay is decent, at least.

Holidays are the worst. The lines are long, costumers are irritable, and Matthew prays for reprieve from the madness. How many boxes of Christmas lights could one family possibly need? Apparently, thirteen. Everyone wants a price-check for the tinsel because the giant sign in front of it just isn't convincing enough.

He makes his retreat as soon as the clock strikes eight, whizzing past the crowds to remove himself from the buzz of commotion. He's going home to make himself a big cup of hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and marshmallows. All he has to do is endure a bus ride.

Except, maybe he doesn't need the bus after all because he's pretty sure that's Papa's car stationed in front of the automatic doors to the supermarket. Sure enough, the man waves to him a moment later with a crooked smile.

"Bonne soirée, Mathieu. How was work?"

"The same as always. I didn't know you were coming to pick me up."

Papa pats his shoulder. "I thought I would surprise you."

"Thank-you. I'm definitely surprised," Matthew shoots him a grin of his own.

"Every working man needs a break sometimes."

"Well, I can't argue with that."


I is for Insurance:

Damn it, damn it, damn it.

Dad is never going to let him borrow the car again, not after tonight. Not when he sees the dent in the bumper. In the dark, it's not very visible, but it's still there, and it might as well be the size of the Grand Canyon because Dad is going to completely flip out.

Alfred had been cruising down the road on his way back from the volunteering at a preschool not too far away when some jerk rear-ended him at a red light. He thought his neck was going to snap from the impact, and by the time he had regained some composure, the culprit had already bolted away as though nothing had happened.

He didn't even manage to catch the license plate number.

And now, as he sits on the curb and gets checked out by some paramedics, he can't stop thinking about how Dad is going to murder him for being irresponsible—for breaking his trust. Alfred has promised him multiple times to drive safely, and everything had been fine until now.

He answers some questions from the police, and they write up a report as a paramedic shines a light into his eyes and tells him he has a minor concussion.

Oh, that and his left arm feels like someone tried to saw it in half.

"Young man, we're going to have to take you to the hospital for an MRI and an x-ray."

Alfred groans and tries to reassure everyone that he is all right. There's no need to fuss over him because his father is going to put his head on a silver platter anyway. A headache and an injured arm are the least of his concerns.

But the emergency workers are insistent, and so, Alfred follows them into the back of the ambulance and sits down on the gurney, wondering if there is still time to write his will. He plans to give most of his belongings to Matthew, and whatever is left over can be cremated and dumped at sea.

Of course, he has to call Dad to inform him of the situation. He'd rather call Papa, but he's working late tonight.

After taking a deep breath and bracing himself, he calls Dad on his cellphone. Waiting for his father to pick up is excruciating, and when he finally does, Alfred finds himself incredibly dizzy.

"Dad, don't freak out, okay?"

Hearing the panic in his voice, Dad begins his stern questioning. "What's wrong?"

"There may have been a tiny accident."

"An accident?" Dad's tone goes up a few octaves. "Are you all right? What happened?"

"I-It's hard to explain right now. I'm being taken to the hospital to—"

Dad cuts him off before he can finish the sentence. "The hospital?"

"I told you not to freak out."

"My god! Are you hurt?"

"I'm okay, just a little banged up."

Their conversation doesn't last very long because Dad immediately goes about heading for the hospital as though Alfred is on the verge of death. He predicted that would be his father's reaction, and—oh, Jesus Christ—when he sees that dent. It's going to be awful, he's sure of it. He won't be allowed to drive again until he turns forty.

When the ambulance arrives at the hospital, he's taken to the ER, where he's seen to rather promptly by a doctor, and it's nice because he had been expecting a long wait. He's given the same verdict that the paramedic gave him, except the doctor also mentions that his arm is most likely fractured. He's told that he'll be taken to radiology for an x-ray, followed by the MRI to make sure his brain is working the way it should be.

But before any of that happens, Dad arrives on the scene, eyes wide and full of concern.

"Oh, Alfred, I tried to get here as fast as I could. How are you feeling? Are you in any pain? Have you spoken to a doctor yet?"

"I already told you I'm okay, Dad. I spoke to the doctor. He thinks I have a concussion and a fractured arm."

At that news, Dad starts fretting all over again. He puts a hand on Alfred's head and says, "I want you to rest. Let me worry about everything else."

Alfred can't believe what he's hearing. Maybe Dad doesn't know the extent of the damage done to the car yet. It's probably better to tell him now than for him to find out the hard way later. "There's a dent in the bumper. I took a picture of it on my phone. I swear it was an accident. The guy just drove straight into me, and there was nothing I could do. He got away before I could get his information, and—"

Dad clicks his tongue in disbelief and sweeps the hair out of Alfred's eyes with his hand. "Shh, we can talk about that later. Your health is more important to me. The car can be fixed. I can buy a new car, but I can't buy a new Alfred."

It's such a cheesy and cliché thing to say, but it makes Alfred feel better nonetheless.

"I'm so sorry! I really am! I was driving safely like I said I would!"

"Hush, I'm not upset with you."

"Y-You're not?"

"No. Accidents happen, lad, and it doesn't matter how much driving experience one has. It happens to all of us. I'm relieved that it wasn't serious."

He's not in trouble? Just like that? He calms under the warmth of Dad's hand smoothing over his head, unbelievably tired from all of the pandemonium he's been through. He's also feeling achy and sore all over, so the soothing gesture is much appreciated.

"It's a good thing I'm under your health insurance plan," Alfred jokes, yelping when he jostles his arm in the process.

"Sleep, poppet. I'll wake you up if anything important happens."

It's nice to know that Dad still watches over him, even though he's too big to be smothered.

"Okay… Love you."

Dad's a huge softie during times of crisis, and now is no exception. "I love you too."


J is for Joy:

Experiencing joy as an adult is different from when you're a kid. Matthew remembers times when the best part of the day was sitting in Papa's lap in the evenings for a good bedtime story. It didn't take much to make him smile then. He'd laugh at a funny face or at the sun in the sky. He could admire the stars with a sense of boundless wonder. He had the energy to find joy in nearly any aspect of life.

With adults, the things they notice throughout the day are different, so the joy they feel is different too.

Nowadays, seeing children play always makes Matthew shed a smile, but just a few years ago, he was the child caught in an adult's world. He enjoys silence. He enjoys the freedom to be bored. He enjoys a good book and a cup of coffee or herbal tea. He enjoys afternoon naps and simple comforts.

It's seeing the world from a whole new lens.

He enjoys the company of his family more than he used to. He enjoys the adult conversations that they can have, and the insight they share. He enjoys the fact that he can talk to his parents as though they are just ordinary people every now and then. He can talk about politics, love, or anything else he can imagine while being treated with the reverence children don't have the pleasure of experiencing.

He is an individual. He has his own thoughts, beliefs, goals, and suddenly, his parents have little say in what direction he chooses to take his life. It's both magnificent and terrifying.

"I must be getting old," he tells Alfred one evening as they sit on the porch. "I could just stay here for hours, doing absolutely nothing."

His brother is a five-year-old at heart though, and thus, he sticks his tongue out and mutters, "Yeah, soon you'll be getting a hip replacement."

It's okay though. He'll understand someday.


K is for Kitchen:

When Francis and Arthur come home from work, they are pleasantly surprised to find a hot meal waiting for them on the kitchen table. Upon further inspection, they realize it is a chicken pasta Alfredo with fresh mushrooms and a rich parmesan sauce, and it's made to near perfection.

"Now who could have done this?" Arthur speculates, settling himself in a chair. They will be having dinner for two today, it seems, and he isn't complaining. Someone has also taken the luxury of lighting some scented candles.

Francis flashes a smug grin and peers into the living room where Matthew is working on his term paper.

"Mathieu, you shouldn't have… You're already so busy with other matters."

Matthew raises his head from his computer and frowns. "What are you talking about?

"The dinner in the kitchen—it was your doing, non?"

"That wasn't me."

"Then who—?" Francis allows himself a moment to be dumbstruck. "No… Alfred?"

Matthew hides a smile behind his hand and nods. "You need to have more faith in him."

"I have faith in him, but I'm still surprised… Arthur, I have marvelous news!" he exclaims as he rejoins his husband in the kitchen. "Alfred hasn't inherited your horrible culinary skills after all!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"The boy can cook! It's a miracle! Where is he?"

Arthur narrows his eyes, already on the defensive. "Are you suggesting my cooking isn't satisfactory enough for your tastes?"

"Arthur," Francis says carefully, pecking a kiss onto the man's cheek. "You are many fantastic things, but you are not a chef."

"How could you—?"

Undaunted by the man's fury, Francis scours the house for Alfred instead. He eventually finds him in the backyard, and without thinking twice, he swishes forward and grabs him in a glorious hug, completely beside himself.

"Thank-you, Alfred! Your father and I are overjoyed!"

"Overjoyed with what?"

"The dinner you prepared for us."

Alfred furrows and rubs the stubble on his chin. He doesn't bother to shave his whiskers until Arthur starts scolding him for looking like a barbarian. "The dinner—? Oh, the dinner…"

"Yes, it was quite well done."

"Well, thanks, but I didn't cook that, Papa. I bought it on my way home. You know, from the diner? I went to get some grub there because there wasn't much to eat in the house, and I thought you and Dad would like it if I picked up something for you guys too."

To say Francis is heartbroken is an understatement. He lets his arms drop from Alfred's midsection and solemnly says, "I see… I just assumed… Never mind."

"Oh, jeez. I'm sorry if I got your hopes up. If it makes you feel any better, I'm actually trying to learn a few recipes. Maybe you could show me how to make them sometime?"

"Yes, yes… Of course," Francis sighs. Perhaps there is still a way to salvage the boy's taste-buds if he keeps him away from Arthur long enough. "First thing tomorrow, you can help me cook breakfast, okay?"

"Sure!"

There is hope.