Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone who left reviews on the previous chapter. I'm amazed by how many of you were able to relate to this story, and I admire the courage of those who shared their personal experiences with me. Stay wonderful. :D
San Diego, California 1976
After an arduous process of trial and error, Arthur can now confidently say that he and Alfred have mastered the delicate art of shopping trips. They're no longer a chaotic fest of tantrums and broken dreams. Eggs, apples, and juice cartons haven't been harmed for weeks since Arthur acclimated the boy to the routine of getting groceries.
Every Monday after dropping Matthew off at school, Arthur drives to the supermarket, whereupon Alfred is placed into the designated children's seat of a shopping cart. Twenty minutes is usually the maximum extent of the child's patience, and so, Arthur knows he must work quickly. He walks through the produce section with a mission in mind, and he maps out the most efficient route for getting all of the things they'll need.
Once upon a time, he left all things food-related in Francis's hands, but given his husband's recent work schedule, expecting him to handle dinner every night just isn't realistic anymore. Thus, they've all had to make do with Arthur's minimalistic culinary abilities.
"How does spaghetti sound?" Arthur asks Alfred as he sets his sights on the bread and pasta aisle. Fortunately, the boy is being well-behaved today.
"Hamburger," Alfred responds simply, turning over a cereal box in his hands—cornflakes with bits of dried strawberry mixed in, which is Matthew's favorite.
"No, no hamburgers," Arthur tells him with an amused smile. "We need real food for dinner."
"Hamburger," Alfred repeats, insisting.
The boy's certainly been making progress with his words. Arthur would prefer it if he would speak in full sentences, but there's no need to rush him. Single worded responses and the occasional phrase aren't ideal, but they're better than nothing.
Arthur cards a hand through Alfred's hair, drawing a little laugh out of him. "I said we aren't having hamburgers, and that's my final decision on the matter. Now where do you think we'll find the tomato sauce?"
There are, of course, inquisitive stares no matter where they go, and Arthur worries that one day, Alfred will notice, if he hasn't already. But the best thing they can do for now is pretend the other shoppers don't exist.
After filling their shopping cart without much trouble, they head for the cash register, and Alfred helps put their items on the counter, happy to help. He's being so cooperative that Arthur decides they should stop by the ice cream parlor on their way home. It's a cozy, little place with an outdoor seating area—perfect for unwinding and watching the sparrows zip back and forth between the trees.
When they get there, Alfred picks a table, sits down, and licks at his chocolate double-scoop cone with gusto. Part of it, naturally, ends up on the corners of his mouth and on his chin.
Arthur sits next to him with his own ice cream (pistachio) at hand and sighs as his shoulders relax and his mind slows its racing thoughts for a moment. "These errands have taken their toll on me, Alfred. I daresay I'm getting old."
"Hamburger," Alfred mumbles softly.
"I'm concerned about this fast food obsession of yours. One cannot subsist solely off of hamburgers, I fear."
Alfred blinks owlishly, gaze focused on Arthur's ice cream.
"Would you like some of mine?" Arthur asks, holding his ice cream out to Alfred.
"Green," Alfred says, taking the cone.
"Yes, it's green. Very good."
Alfred takes a lick of it, smacks his lips, and hands it back.
Arthur laughs. "Not your cup of tea, hmm?"
Alfred thinks for a moment, and then hands his chocolate ice cream to Arthur as well.
"What's wrong? You don't want any more?"
Alfred shakes his head. "Daddy, eat."
He's sharing.
Arthur takes a second to feel touched. Obediently, he tries some of Alfred's ice cream before returning it to him, causing the boy to giggle with unfettered delight. "Thank you, poppet."
A fleeting second passes, and Alfred's eyes are downcast again. Just like that, it's as though a switch has been flipped, and he's in his own world once more, oblivious.
1977
"You have to put this one on top, like this," Matthew demonstrates, building a fortress out of wooden blocks. Alfred is sitting quietly beside him, watching with great interest.
"This is where the king is going to stay," Matthew continues. He's a fairly competent architect for a seven-year-old. "And his soldiers are gonna be here, where the smaller tower is."
"Ob-la-di," Alfred replies.
"And we're gonna put a flag at the top. I haven't made it yet, but—"
"Ob-la-da."
"Dad! He's singing that stupid song again!"
Dad's disapproval can be heard from his and Papa's bedroom across the hall. "If he wants to sing, let him."
"But it's annoying!"
"Matthew, I don't have time for this right now. Get along with your brother for a few minutes, please."
Matthew frowns and grumbles under his breath, "Yeah, you don't have time for anything anymore."
"Ob-la-di," Alfred chimes.
"Can you stop it?"
"Ob-la-da."
"Stop singing."
"Ob-la-di."
Matthew growls and focuses his efforts on the construction of the fortress instead. He picks up another block and balances it carefully on the roof of the king's quarters, careful not to jostle anything in the process.
And that's when Alfred decides to touch one of the blocks.
Matthew watches with horrific realization as the fortress collapses, making a huge racket as all of the blocks scatter themselves in a heap on his and Alfred's bedroom floor. This is exactly why he's been begging for his own room.
He knows he shouldn't yell at Alfred, but the anger is so overpowering that he grabs his brother by the shoulders and screams, "Look what you did! You ruined everything! You always ruin everything, you retard!"
There's a second of utter silence before Alfred's eyes grow wide with fear, and then, he bursts out crying, red-faced.
"Matthew!" Dad scolds as he comes into the room, setting down a basket full of laundry. He's wearing his you-can't-even-imagine-how-much-trouble-you're-in scowl. "Nose in the corner, now!"
Matthew can feel his stomach dropping in regret. His anger burns itself out, leaving him with a strangely hollow sensation in his chest. "But he—!"
"Don't test my patience. Not another word out of you, until I say you can speak."
Conceding, he stands in the corner as instructed, staring at the blue pastel wall as Dad crouches down and tries to get Alfred to stop wailing, which isn't an easy task.
"Shh, stop that. You're okay," Dad assures, and Matthew can hear the sound of clothes brushing together as Dad hugs Alfred and rubs his back. "Your brother's merely being naughty."
Matthew huffs. He wouldn't have had to yell at Alfred if he hadn't destroyed the fortress he'd worked so hard on. Why does his brother always get a free pass for everything? Why doesn't he get in trouble for messing things up? What's with all of the special treatment?
"Matthew, come here."
He sighs and trudges over to Dad, arms folded petulantly across his chest.
"Apologize to Alfred."
"But—!"
"Apologize. I won't say it again," Dad cautions, and Matthew can sense the severity of the threat behind his words.
"He doesn't understand anyway."
Dad frowns, brows drawn together. "That's not true. Of course he understands."
"How do you know?"
Dad pinches the bridge of his nose and lowers his voice, sounding even sterner as a result. "Tell him you're sorry. We're going to have a long chat regarding your behavior lately when Papa gets home."
Matthew grits his teeth, looks down at Alfred's swollen, bug-like eyes, and grumbles, "Sorry…"
"Sorry for what?" Dad prompts.
"For yelling, and for calling you names."
Surprisingly, Alfred meets Matthew's gaze and says, plainly, "Okay... Matt?"
Matthew swallows painfully and nibbles on his bottom lip, arms now tucked behind his back. "Yeah?"
"S-Sorry," Alfred stammers, stumbling momentarily over the word. There's a kind of recognition and attentiveness in his features, and Matthew knows his brother isn't simply repeating things back to him.
"It's okay."
Satisfied, Dad nods at them both, and then tells Matthew to go and wait in the living room for what will undoubtedly be a lengthy lecture.
Both Papa and Dad are disappointed in him, and frankly, Matthew's not too proud of himself either. He doesn't know what it is, but something about Alfred always manages to bring out the worst in him. He never used to get punished because he never gave Papa or Dad a reason to be upset with him.
Now Alfred's coloring in the kitchen, and Matthew's finally got Dad and Papa to himself, although this isn't how he planned to get their attention.
"Mathieu, the way you treated Alfred today is unacceptable," Papa begins, uncharacteristically firm. "You know you have to be patient with him."
Dad nods in agreement. "What troubles us in particular is the language you used today. It was very rude and offensive, and we won't tolerate those kinds of words in this house. Do we make ourselves clear?"
"Yes, Dad."
"Mon lapin, Alfred is your brother, and you must treat him with the respect he deserves," Papa adds.
"I know, but," Matthew falters, scared that if he continues talking, he'll give his parents more of a reason to punish him. "Alfred's always making mistakes and doing things wrong, but you guys never yell at him. A-And you're both busy with him all of the time, and you never have time to play with me or take me to learn how to ride my bike like I wanted to or—"
He cuts himself off because there are tears falling down his cheeks, and he touches them in astonishment, embarrassed by what a baby he's being. He's not going to be taken seriously if he doesn't assert himself.
"Oh, mon chou," Papa coos, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. "We have time for you."
"No, you don't!"
Dad, meanwhile, stands before them and tries to come up with something to say to make everything better. He puts a hand on Matthew's knee, takes in a deep breath, and explains, "Matthew, as you know, Alfred sometimes needs extra care from Papa and me. However, that doesn't mean we love you any less. We care immensely about you both. Papa and I admit we don't always have time to do certain things, and we have made some mistakes in the past. We'll try to do better in the future and make more time."
That's what they have to say. They'll say he matters to them, but tomorrow, he'll go right back to being invisible. He has stopped trusting them.
"Mathieu, you're being selfish," Papa says, and Matthew wants to scream but doesn't.
He sits there listlessly and waits for the verdict on his punishment. At the end of it all, he's stuck with an early bedtime for two weeks and whatever chores Dad decides to give him until he loses his "short temper."
And so, instead of feeling as though the issue has been resolved, Matthew is made to feel he must passively accept being forgotten lest he's punished.
He goes to bed that night with a pillow smooshed against his face forcefully and cries. He can feel Alfred's eyes on him from across the room, wordlessly asking him what's wrong, and Matthew's self-control goes slipping through his fingers again as he lifts his head, turns to his brother spitefully, and says, "This is all your fault."
Alfred, naturally, doesn't respond, but Matthew swears he sees a flicker of hurt in his twin's eyes. He might've imagined it.
The whispers from the neighborhood are getting louder.
"Arthur, maybe this is a bad idea after all."
"Would you stop it? We're not going to shut ourselves away. We're going out to dinner like any other family."
Matthew watches Dad and Papa bicker in the hallway, wishing they could get a move on because his stomach is beginning to grumble. They fight over the tiniest things sometimes.
"Why can't we celebrate my birthday here, at home?" Papa asks, sounding a little deflated.
"Because you won't eat my cooking anymore, and I'm not about to let you slave away in the kitchen on your birthday," Dad responds firmly, leaving no room for dissent. He helps Alfred tie his shoes, grabs the car keys, and swings the front door open with a pointed flourish. "Let's go."
Papa murmurs something under his breath in French and then adds, "How did I end up with such a stubborn man?"
"How did I end up with such an insufferable frog?" Dad cajoles back, a sly smile on his face. "Come now, it's only once a year. You're supposed to enjoy yourself tonight. At the moment, you look like you're anticipating a root canal."
"Oui, it's because I don't like being reminded I'm yet another year older."
"Well, you'll have to endure it for at least a few hours."
They finally get into the car and drive to the restaurant, which is no more than twenty minutes away. When they arrive, Matthew's surprised to see how nice the place looks from the outside. It's definitely fancier than any restaurant they've been to in the past.
Apparently, they have reservations, and so, they're seated quickly at a table by the window from where they can see the luminescent, lively street just outside. Now Matthew knows why Dad has started working at a bookstore on the weekends when Papa's home. He's been saving up.
"I hate you," Papa whispers across the table to Dad. "I hate you for wasting money on me."
"Hush. Don't be ungrateful," Dad replies, rolling his eyes. He seems to be enjoying how flustered and annoyed Papa is with him. "Normally when someone does something for another individual, that individual is a bit more appreciative."
Papa gnashes his teeth. "Y-You shouldn't have…"
"Why not?"
"Because… Because I don't deserve this."
"That's only one opinion," Dad says smoothly as a waiter comes over to ask if they'd like any drinks.
Dad orders some wine for Papa and himself, and then turns to Matthew. "What would you like, love?"
Matthew looks down at the children's menu in front of him and fidgets in his seat a little when everyone's gaze rests on him. "Apple juice, please."
The waiter scribbles it down on his notepad, and everyone's focus shifts to Alfred, who is sitting directly beside Papa. His head is turned in the opposite direction as something outside catches his interest.
"Alfred," Papa says, trying to coax him out of his daydream. "Tell the nice waiter what you would like to drink. What flavor juice do you want?"
Alfred does eventually turn around, but he purses his lips together instead of speaking.
The waiter, fortunately, is incredibly patient, and his smile remains glued to his face.
"Look, let's see what they have, hmm?" Papa suggests, skimming the menu. "Fruit punch, apple, grape, or cranberry?"
Having specific options seems to help, and Alfred responds immediately this time, "Fruit punch."
Thus, the first phase of the dinner passes by peacefully. Within a few minutes, the waiter returns with their drinks, and they all order their food. Papa and Dad pick out some kind of seafood, Matthew settles on the roast chicken with vegetables (he'd rather take the dish without the broccoli, but Papa and Dad insist he eat something healthy). Alfred, of course, asks for hamburger, and is a little upset when he's told he can't have any, but he doesn't complain for long.
There aren't any tantrums, Papa eventually loosens up after his second glass of wine and allows himself a laugh and a smile, and Matthew talks about school and the book he's reading for class. The food is undeniably great, the service is quick, and they order Papa a tiramisu birthday cake for dessert, adorned with candles and extra frosting.
"Make a wish," Dad reminds, and Papa thinks for a couple of seconds before blowing out the candles.
Then, Papa leans over to give Dad a peck on the cheek, and suddenly, someone makes a disgruntled noise from the table behind them.
"Disgusting," a man says, and Matthew feels his throat tighten.
What's so wrong with a papa and a daddy kissing each other? He becomes oddly protective of his parents, despite the disagreements he's had with them recently.
Papa and Dad ignore it, and the longer they remain silent, the more affronted Matthew becomes. How can they just sit there without saying anything to the man? How can they let themselves be insulted like that?
Invigorated with a burst of courage, Matthew stands up from his chair, looks straight into the eyes of the man, and asks, "Why're you so mean?"
Heart ramming wildly against his ribcage, he's made aware of how small he is. He's not a very imposing seven-year-old. Generally, he avoids putting himself in unnecessary social situations, but he's been changing a lot lately, and frankly, he's surprised by his own bravado, too. It's unlike him.
Dad puts a strong hand on his shoulder and tries to get him to sit down. "It's all right."
"No, it's not!" Matthew tells him, tears in his eyes. "He shouldn't be allowed to say that kind of stuff!"
The man from the other table scowls, "You people are sick."
Bravery crumbling into helplessness, Matthew feels his breath hitch against his will, and Dad successfully makes him sit. "Don't let it bother you, poppet."
"B-But—!"
"It won't change anything," Dad whispers, brushing his hair back with a gentle hand. Then, he looks to Papa and says urgently, "Let's get the bill."
They're out of the restaurant as soon as most of the cake is gone, and they walk back to the car. Dad drives, since he's only had one glass of wine, and when the atmosphere is too heavy to bear, Matthew says, "Why didn't that man want you guys kissing?"
Both Dad and Papa sigh, and they exchange a look, wondering who should try to explain first.
"Your father and I are different," Papa states, "and people don't like those who are different."
It's not the best explanation, but it's something. Matthew mulls it over for a second, and from beside him, Alfred begins to mumble.
"Different," Alfred parrots, chewing on his thumb. "Different… Different like me?"
"Oui, you're different in your own way, too, Alfred," Papa agrees, looking sad.
"But being different can be a good thing," Dad jumps in.
Alfred smiles brightly. "Different is good?"
It's the most his brother has said all week, and Matthew can tell Dad and Papa are impressed with the development.
"Yes, different is good, love," Dad assures, hands relaxing on the steering wheel. There's a soft smile on his face now, too, and soon, Papa joins them.
Different is good.
Matthew says it over and over again in his head, trying to convince himself, but he can't get the image of the man at the restaurant out of his memory. The way his lip was curled, the dark look in his eyes, and the stark hatred in his expression makes him shiver.
He casts a sidelong look at Alfred, sees his gleaming, smiling face, and feels a little less cold.