CONTENT WARNING: Mentions of alcohol abuse, heavily implied and mentions of self-harm, and Alfred has very negative thoughts about himself. If any of this makes you too uncomfortable...well I don't know why you're reading this story, really. Cause it's only going to get worse from here on out.
Clearly, something had been wrong. Alfred noticed the change in his dad fairly quickly. While he'd never been the most active or patient father around, he was good humored, passionate, focused, loving, hardworking – traits that all started to fade a month or so into Alfred's sophomore year. When they broke the news to him, announcing that multiple myeloma was causing the change in his dad's behavior, Alfred felt that he'd seen it coming. He remembered hearing his mother say something about it being cancer inside the bones, but Alfred wasn't listening enough to process it.
He wasn't shocked. He was uncomfortable and a little sad, but he wasn't upset. Honestly, he just wanted to go back to procrastinating on his algebra homework. Maybe he actually had been in shock - maybe he'd just shut down long before they started talking to him – whatever had happened to him that day, it was only the beginning of a long routine of muted emotional responses that aggravated his mother to no end. Alfred never had that sense of denial that everyone seemed to want him to have – they wanted him to be normal and have moments where he believed that his dad's cancer wasn't real. But he knew it was real; that was never an issue. Technically, his problem was the opposite: unlike his mother, brother, and practically everyone else who spoke to him about the matter, Alfred never once believed that his dad would get better. It was always a possibility, he guessed, but he didn't allow himself to be hopeful. His father was dying; it didn't take a fucking doctor to see that.
There'd been a day in school, a particularly bad day, when he'd started crying in health class. His dad hadn't played the radio in the car, and Alfred cried. They always listened to music in the morning when dad was driving the brothers to school. Always. But his dad had been too tired that morning. Had a headache. The health teacher asked Alfred why he was crying in the hall, and Alfred couldn't really answer. "I'm just angry," he told her, wiping at his tears with his sleeve as an excuse to shield his quivering lips from her gaze, trying to maintain some dignity in front of the adult.
"Who are you angry at?" she'd asked him.
Who had he been angry at? Alfred couldn't remember. He was pretty pissed at the doctors for telling him that his dad could pull through. Pissed at his brother for believing the doctors, for stupidly holding onto useless hope. Honestly, a little pissed at his dad for not being in his life anymore because of the fatigue caused by a dying body – in the beginning, there had been a small thought of, "Get over it," in Alfred's mind, but he always suppressed it, knowing that it was stupid and impossible and inconsiderate.
Then there was his mother. Alfred had always tried so hard to force himself to see that he was being unreasonable in his anger towards her. But every time, anger pushed logic down and demanded attention.
You're just projecting your anger at her.
But.
No one is handling this well, you can't place any more blame on her than anyone else.
But.
That's how it always went. He'd try to check the facts, to articulate the injustice in his growing hatred towards the woman that brought him into the world. But anger would rear its ugly head, tap into his ego, and suddenly he felt like he was letting her win, letting her get away with it. Before he could make amends and forgive her, Alfred would shove her out of his heart and mind all over again. It didn't help that there were legitimate things to be angry about.
She had always enjoyed having a drink or two, almost nightly. There'd never been a problem with it. It wasn't until one night in February, only months after the first diagnosis, did Alfred realize a problem when the found gallon-sized bottle of vodka that his mother had bought two days ago in the trashcan – empty. Alfred never said a word, just harbored the secret that he was never meant to see.
He saw her differently after that. Her existence in their house made him sick. How could she do that to the family? To him? To his dad? Why couldn't she just move on with life and deal with what had to be done right then like the rest of them? Alfred and Matthew did their homework. His dad diligently went to the hospital for weekly checkups and attended physical therapy without complaint. Where did his mother get the idea that she was somehow exempt from her responsibilities as a mother, as an employee? She always got on his case about keeping his grades up, especially during such hard times, to make his father proud. What a dirty trick. Guilt tripping him when she had lost control of her own damn self?
Alfred had began to resent his mother. But still, he never told Matthew or his father about her drinking. He didn't want to hurt them. He had enough anger for all of them.
Naturally, that came to bite him in the ass, just like everything else in his life. He never got to talk to her before she was taken by ambulance to the ER when she had taken too many sleeping pills while drunk. His dad had to walk to his room on frail legs, mid April, to tell Alfred where his mother was going.
When she came back home a week later after spending some time in the behavioral health unit, she sat him down on his bed and promised to go sober for a year, that she never wanted to do something like that to him. Alfred just wanted her to get off his bed and out of his room so he could get back online to watch YouTube videos and Netflix. She was alive, that's all that mattered. While Matthew had jumped to meet her at the door and hugged her and attended to her every need, her presence back at home instead of in the hospital didn't really matter to him. It's not like she was really there for him anymore, anyway.
But she had promised to stay sober all those months ago.
That's why, for the past ten minutes, Alfred had been on her bathroom floor, just sitting there. The cabinet door was still wide open.
He'd gotten a paper cut while putting all the loose-leaf paper into a new binder he'd gotten for school with Matthew - there was only a week left before they started again. Alfred wouldn't have cared about the cut, except that he'd started getting blood on his school supplies and Matthew said that there was a first aid kit somewhere in the bathroom his parents used to share.
Alfred still hadn't found the Band-Aids, but he'd found the stash of alcohol under the sink: a couple large glass bottles of vodka, a six-pack of beer, and two wine bottles. Most of them were close to empty. Of course, Alfred had no way to know how much had been consumed and when – he hadn't even known his mother had been buying any of this at all. It didn't really make a difference.
She promised.
The cut had stopped bleeding, and he realized that there was no point in staying there any longer, so Alfred got up, still in shock, and closed the door. He didn't want to be in that room anymore.
Matthew, as observant as ever, noticed the shift in his brother's attitude when he walked back into the living room, still no Band-Aid.
"What's wrong?" his brother stopped labeling the notebook in his hand with the Sharpie.
One would think that Alfred learned his lesson about hiding these kinds of secrets, but looking at Matthew's innocent face, filled with worry for Alfred (worry that their mother clearly didn't feel)…
"Nothing. I couldn't find anything that'd stay on my finger. It stopped bleeding anyway, so it doesn't really matter."
They continued labeling and organizing, groaning about all the work to come, ignoring the fact that Alfred would actually have a lot less homework than Matthew because of the dropped math class that came with his partial medical leave. It was awkward enough just knowing that Alfred was handling life worse than Matthew; they didn't need to put it out in the open, not even to crack a joke about it.
Leave it to Alfred to be the one to stand out in all the wrong ways.
If only he could go back to being under the radar like in elementary school. Now he was going to stand out more than ever. The guy whose dad died, part of the only openly gay relationship in the junior class, and now the guy that didn't have to take math because he's on a partial medical leave. Alfred was going to get shit from his classmates, and he couldn't deny he was afraid. The last thing he needed was an alcoholic mother on top of his soured reputation at school.
That's why he decided to confront his mother when she came home after having dinner with a friend. He almost felt bad for ruining her good mood, but his anger boiled over when he looked at her oblivious face. She was happy because she thought her secret was still a secret, and Alfred couldn't stand the dishonesty.
He waited until Matthew had gone to sleep, when he could get his mother alone in the kitchen.
"Hey, mom," he started, heart already pounding in his chest. He felt like he didn't know how to talk to her anymore, which was frightening enough, but to top it off, he was purposefully starting an argument - and it would be an argument. There was no way he could say this without her jumping to the defense.
She looked up from the pile of paperwork and her checkbook, startled. She was still unaware, though. There was no way she knew what he knew. Must have just been surprised that he was starting a conversation with her at all instead of staying in his room. "Hi, sweetheart. What's up?"
"I have a question to ask you."
"Okay? Would you like to sit down? I was just trying to balance the checkbook before going to bed—"
"I was looking for the first aid kit in your bathroom earlier, and I checked under the sink."
Realization spread across her face, and she leaned back a little, hiding behind her glasses as her lips pressed into a thin line. "Oh."
"Mom," he took a deep breath, hoping it would give him the strength to go through with shattering any possibility of pretending like he didn't know. Instead, he felt the damn begin to break, "Why the fuck is there a shit ton of alcohol in there?"
"Hey! Watch your language!" she scolded, giving him a sharp look. But she was just avoiding the question.
"Who the fuck cares about language," he retorted, a bit more aggressively than intended or needed. "Seriously, what the fuck mom? What the fuck? You promised me - you fucking said, you told me you were going to be sober for a year. It's been, what, four months since then?" He couldn't help the way his voice was raising with every word. He mentally noted that Matthew could probably hear him from his room, and the shame in that was all that was keeping him from straight up yelling.
His mom began taking the side of defense, as expected, and wouldn't make it easy for him to contain his anger.
"Alfred, you watch your tone with me," she glared, being as menacing as she could be in her pajamas. "You don't know the half of what I've been going through."
"So what? I don't know, so that gives you the right to drink your problems away? That's so - like are you shitting me right now?"
"I have a right to do whatever I want, so don't you dare speak to me like that. I've done so much for you and Matthew, it's not nearly as easy as you may think."
Despite the anger, his heart was racing, telling him to shut up already.
Shut up shut up turn back apologize and pretend this never happened just go to sleep it'll be gone in the morning.
He could see the way she looked at him like he was a piece of shit of a son, and he knew he was. But he'd already started the fight, he couldn't bear to give in and let her think that she could get
away with this. Pulling the parent card wasn't going to work on him this time. Alfred's family was already broken apart, this was all he could do to keep the pieces together, at least a little.
"I don't care, mom! So you lost your husband? Well Mattie and I lost our dad, okay? You don't see us avoiding our fucking responsibilities like you are right now. I mean, Jesus, we're about to start school in a week, you can't just do this to us!"
Shock and unveiled anger radiated off of his mother. The comment about her losing her husband - he'd gone too far and he knew it. It wasn't fair, but he couldn't take it back.
"What exactly am I supposed to do?" she began yelling as well, her voice cracking disgustingly. Alfred's stomach churned. "Yes, I've slipped. I'm so sorry that I broke my promise, I am. But I'm human, I have emotions, too, and I need to grieve. And you know what? I can't do that because you keep pushing me away! You know, you shouldn't have even been going through my cabinets in the first place, that's not where the first aid kit is. You always make such a big deal of wanting privacy in your own room, privacy from me, but suddenly everyone else's stuff is your territory? Everyone else's boundaries don't matter! That's bullshit!"
She's right, of course.
"Oh, you're gonna fucking blame me now? For wanting a stupid Band-Aid?" Alfred felt the guilt start to eat his core, and he lashed out more. "You're just trying to change the subject. You know what, if you think a stash of alcohol is something that I shouldn't be seeing, you already know damn well that you shouldn't have it in the first place. And guess what, you got problems? Go to Matthew or some shit or just get over it! I don't understand why you're trying to make me feel bad for something I'm not even responsible for. We're all hurting, you aren't special!"
Oh my god, Alfred, shut up already!
Alfred's mother stood from her chair and moved away from Alfred, leaning against the kitchen counter to stare him down at full height, now. She'd started crying. "Why are you being such a brat?! See, this is exactly what I'm talking about! Whenever I try to reach out to you, you just make me feel like shit-"
"Wow, look who's using language now-" Shut up, Alfred.
"Alfred! I can't win with you! It's like I'm walking on eggshells around you! What I need is both of my sons right now; I need to grieve with the both of you. But you keep rejecting me. Sometimes, all I'd like is to have a moment with you, to cry with you, to comfort each other," she made a point to wipe away the tears from her puffy red eyes, "But clearly you don't want that, so I have to sacrifice my own healing to make you feel better all the time! I feel like you don't even care about me."
Alfred groaned in irritation, "Holy shit mom, how don't you get it? Please just stop making everything about you! I don't deal with shit the same way you do, you're just going to have to fucking get over that fact, okay? Get a therapist or something, I don't care what you do – but when you try to force me to sacrifice my personal space to help you 'heal', it hurts me, okay? That's not okay! I can't take it!"
"I hurt you?!" Real malice had worked its way into her voice.
For a moment, there was a spark of fear. Alfred had never been yelled at like this. His mother had never raised her voice at him like this. You really should have shut up.
He'd seen her get mad, like really mad, the couple times he accidentally walked in on a fight between his parents, the fights that almost had them reaching for their lawyer's card, but that anger had never been directed at him. And honestly, it was getting to the point where he knew he deserved it. This had definitely not been the direction he'd wanted this to go. Really, he just wanted his mom to confess to slipping, apologize, then throw out everything and they'd all go back to the regular shitty life they had before he found out.
Alfred's voice cracked as he tried to speak just a little softer so she wouldn't yell at him so loudly, "Yes you hurt me. Every time you try to hug me or talk about your feelings with me, despite the fact that I've made it clear I don't want to, it fucking hurts, mom!" Alfred viciously wiped his nose, trying to keep his own tears under control. "You say that you feel like I don't care about you? Well, same here! I'm just trying to deal with all this shit in the way that works best for me, and you just keep getting mad because it's not the way you want me to deal with it. You don't care about what's best for me, you just care about everyone making you feel better without regard to how we feel."
She clenched the side of the counter harder and spit, "How dare you imply that I don't care about my own children."
"Well how can possibly care for your kids when your drunk?!"
Finally, his mother was silent. Her eyes had widened for a moment before she looked to the side with thin-pressed lips, tensely moving further back and crossing her arms over her chest.
His heart rate began to slow, the silence amplifying the sound in his ears as the thumping steadily evened out. Alfred had no interest in staying in that kitchen with her anymore, and frankly didn't want to talk to her for at least a few days. While she was still saying nothing, he took the opportunity to officially shut down the conversation that he'd started.
"Deal with your shit how you want, but you can't neglect me and Matthew in the process. You're the only parent we have left – you don't get to fuck up like this."
Alfred turned around and all but ran back to his room, unable to look at his mother's face anymore. He felt like he'd help up his side enough, and he would have felt pride in his closing argument had he not felt so awful. He wasn't the parent, he had no right to talk like that. How could he have said something so awful? She probably hated him now. He'd fucked up the relationship for good.
When he slammed the door to his room, the noise just upset him further.
Eyesight heavily blurred from the fresh tears that welled in his eyes, Alfred struggled with typing out his message to Arthur.
10:27 PM: "Arthur? R u still up? I need 2 talk…"
10:28 PM: "I'm still up, but I'm about to go to bed…"
10:28 PM: "Can't you u just stay up 4 a few more mins?"
10:30 PM: "Can it wait until morning? I really do have to go to bed."
10:30 PM: "I promise I'll listen in the morning"
10:34 PM: "Forget it. Not that important. Goodnight."
10:35 PM: " :/ Ok. Goodnight 3"
Alfred carelessly threw his phone on the bed. Fuck Arthur. Couldn't he tell that Alfred wasn't okay? Or did he just not care. Alfred didn't see how losing twenty minutes of sleep could be so bad that Arthur would ignore him for it. Did Arthur really not care that much?
Of course he doesn't. He's never really cared enough to put anyone before himself. You're not special.
Feeling like utter shit and helpless, Alfred sat on the floor instead of his bed and picked at the dog hair stuck on the overhanging covers. The paper cut on his finger seemed to have opened up again – he probably scratched off the fresh scab at some point during the fight.
Using his fingers on the other hand, he gently prodded at the wound, trying to see if any more blood would come out, for no real reason other than curiosity and the distraction provided by even the smallest goal. Alfred's stomach clenched with annoyance and distress when nothing happened, despite the aggressive treatment he was giving the cut.
Frustrated, he sat there, wondering what to do. He couldn't sleep like this. The paper cut, raw and open, but bloodless, taunted him.
…He couldn't.
He'd never once considered it before.
But what would it feel like? He heard of people doing it, but it had never felt like a real thing he'd ever have to think about.
Surely it wouldn't matter if he just…tried it.
Alfred thought of the hatred his mother must feel for him, his destroyed family, how Arthur didn't even care to make sure he was okay, how much he doubted he'd be able to handle school because he was just weak and unprepared like that. He felt the guilt of fighting with his mother, the guilt of abandoning his friends over the summer.
Just try it.
He couldn't sleep like this.
No one has to know.
I'm just satisfying my curiosity, he told himself. Even if he wanted to…hurt himself…he had no idea how. Surely there was a better way than just grabbing an old kitchen knife. That seemed like overkill and cliché, and quite frankly, way too dangerous.
Alfred felt silly and gross, looking up how-to's online. Seriously, who was going to write an instruction page for this shit?
Several people, apparently, to Alfred's disgust and excitement. He couldn't believe this stuff was actually on the Internet.
All laid out for him to use...
Alfred was so grateful that he and Matthew both had provisional licenses, now. It saved him one hell of an awkward car ride with his mother. Instead, he sat shotgun and let Matthew drive the two of them to their first day of school. He would have driven, but he didn't think it'd be a great idea for him to drive with his nerves shot as much as they were.
Arthur had tried to call him in the morning about a week ago, the morning after the fight with his mother. Alfred stuck to the vague details. Arthur didn't care, anyway, he didn't want to work himself up over explaining something so complicated to someone who didn't want to know. Arthur had prodded a little, asking what the fight was about, but Alfred just didn't want to talk about it. The two of them hadn't spoken since. And now, Alfred was going to have to see Arthur face to face again, as well as the rest of his friends.
He hadn't heard any of their voices in months, and he was terrified. What if they wanted nothing to do with him? What if they didn't leave him alone? Or did they all just hate Alfred for ignoring them. He really hoped not. Because despite the fear, warmth blossomed in his chest at the thought of finally seeing them again, getting to hug them and hear their voices and be in their presence and know that they were real, that they were real and loved him. He missed talking to Kiku about fandoms and video games and science shit that no one else really cared about. He missed Francis' passion and grace, his inappropriate jokes that would make anyone else uncomfortable, but just made Alfred feel like there's nothing he could do or say that Francis would judge him for. He missed cracking jokes with anyone and everyone that would listen, regardless of if they were friends or not. It's because he missed all of this so much that he was so terrified of losing all of that because of his own stupid behavior.
So driving was out of the question, because anxiety plus unpracticed driving skills equaled crash waiting to happen, and Matthew understood. His brother had been overly understanding lately. He knew Mattie had heard the fight between him and their mother, but not a single word about it had been spoken. Alfred just really hoped that Matthew hadn't been able to make out exact words – Matthew didn't deserve to go through life knowing that their mother was a relapsed alcoholic.
Alfred wouldn't deny that there was another part of the driving arrangement that Matthew could never know about – not even Matthew would understand this. He'd realized that morning as he'd gotten dressed that the only long-sleeved shirt that was thin enough to prevent hyperthermia didn't go far enough down his arms to fully cover the cuts that were all in various stages of healing. As long as he kept his arms down, though, no one could see.
So, no driving for Alfred. That was one more thing he didn't need everyone else knowing
about.
He felt so out of place when they walked into the student common area together. Other students only glanced at them because of their entrance, but he couldn't help but feel that they were all looking at him, probably pitying him for his loss, viewing him as fragile or damaged. In a
way, Alfred kind of wanted them to think that. Maybe it would spare him from any bullying now that he and Arthur were publicly a thing. They may have gotten together about two months before the end of sophomore year, but they'd agree to hide it from the grade, at least, and wait to come out at the beginning of the next school year.
Of course, for them to be public about it, they had to start talking to each other again, first.
Since Matthew insisted on getting in the habit of showing up to school half an hour early to be safe, Alfred was tortured with the wait for any of his, or even some of Matthew's friends to show up.
Alfred almost thought he was going to cry when he caught sight of the short Japanese boy shuffle in with his giant backpack, eyes cast to the floor. Alfred jumped from the beaten down, stained, sad excuse of a couch and made somewhat of a scene calling Kiku to where they'd been sitting. Kiku wasn't one for physical contact most of the time, but that didn't stop Alfred from grabbing at his hands and pulling him to sit at a stray chair in front of them. To Alfred's relief and delight, Kiku's eyes shown brightly. There wasn't even a hint of unfriendliness or irritation.
"Alfred, it's so good to see you again," Kiku smiled warmly, shrugging his backpack off and carefully leaning it against the chair legs before taking a seat.
"Bro, holy shit, you too! I mean, I'd say I'd almost forgotten what you look like, but you know that could never happen."
"Of course. Speaking of which, I would have Skyped you a few days ago to compare schedules, but my computer wouldn't let me start it without updating it, and it's been doing that ever since."
Alfred laughed, "Ouch, dude. Gotta love Windows. But, um, here, I have my schedule with me, actually. Feel free to compare all you want."
It was mind-blowing how easy this was. Talking to Kiku, just being happy. Kiku hadn't given up on him after all. And, Kiku wasn't asking questions about what had happened over the summer, to Alfred's relief. It seemed like, just as always, Kiku only cared about the present.
Alfred wondered why he ever worried it'd be different.
Kiku wasn't Arthur.
Turns out, he and Kiku didn't have any classes together, and suddenly his good mood had gone south again, just in time for Arthur and Francis to show up at the same time, minutes before school started.
Francis spoke to Alfred first, shockingly, "Wow, nice couch. Is this going to be the new hangout? Because quite frankly, I don't think I'm worthy enough to lounge on such fine home furnishings," Francis looked sadly at the monstrosity of a couch for a moment before grinning and pulling Alfred up into a hug. "It's so nice to see you, ami. I haven't even heard from you in, well, months."
Alfred pulled away with a grimace and stared off to the side, "Ah, yeah. Look, I'm super sorry for not talking to you. It was a…a rough summer I guess."
Francis raised his brows, "Rough? Alfred, you've practically gone through hell. We all understand. Just, ah, I'd like to hear about how your life is going directly from you."
"Oh, um, yeah. Again, I'm really sorry. I…wait, directly from me?"
"I've been getting regular updates from him," Francis motioned to Arthur, "because even if you don't want to talk to me, I still worry about how you're doing."
Alfred stared blankly at Arthur and Francis for a moment, taking in the information. He didn't even know that Arthur had been talking to Francis at all, nevertheless sharing details about his life with him. Alfred was fine with Francis knowing, hell he would have told him directly had he worked up the energy to do so, but something about the two of them talking about him – and Arthur never mentioning it – scratched at his mind.
But first period was starting soon, and school was not the place to talk about this with Arthur. Instead, the two of them, coincidentally sharing the same class first period, walked together after saying goodbye to their friends, making small talk.
The air between them was awkward, though Alfred knew that logically, it shouldn't be. Something still didn't feel right, but there was nothing he could think to ask. When Alfred tried complaining about how he was going to have to make up a year of math over next summer, Arthur responded politely, but only out of necessity, it seemed. When Alfred brought up how he was mostly upset because his dad wouldn't be there to help him with the problems at home, Arthur just solemnly agreed and said he was sorry, but nothing more. There was a very strong feeling in Alfred's gut that Arthur didn't want to talk to him, and his heart began to sink. Either this was just a bad time to talk because of the environment and all, or he was doing something wrong.
Alfred just couldn't shake the feeling for the rest of the day that there was something he was missing.
Chapter End Notes
Both Alfred and his mother are being shitty, honestly. But it's important to remember that it is her responsibility as a mother and experienced adult to find a way to handle herself better. This isn't really a this or that, situation - Alfred is still learning AND is responsible for his actions. While his age isn't an excuse, it's still a truth that needs to be remembered. His mother, however, isn't in a place where she has any flexibility to make these kinds of mistakes. She has two teenage boys to care for all on her own - the pressure on her is exactly why she /shouldn't/ turn to things like alcohol. She loves them, and this is not acceptable behavior.
Sorry for that rant, but I really needed to make that clear. The fight scene between them is an actual fight that I had with my mother a few years ago, and let me tell you, I said nasty things to her that hurt her, but I literally grew up with that kind of treatment from her, permanently changing my personality and psyche. Teenagers are impressionable. Their environment is still important.
Recognize when you're parents aren't acting like parents anymore and talk to someone if you need to.
Song for this chapter: /watch?v=F5qBPQz20Ow
