Hello all! I'm back, after a little too long, to bring you chapter 4! This has been a long time in the making. I started work on it almost as soon as chapter 3 went up, but then life happened. I was working. Immortal x Snow came to visit me. I was volunteering at my church's Vacation Bible School. But here I am, at long last.

I think I'll let this chapter speak for itself. Those of you who have picked up on the historical background probably know where this is going. It's gonna get intense. Same warnings apply, though I don't know that they're extremely relevant in this chapter

I don't own Hetalia


Mattie wakes up on the first day of school, confused when he sees Al's bed already empty. He panics for a minute, flailing out of bed, trying to get a glimpse of the clock. It reads quarter after seven, however—the time he normally gets up for school. Why on earth is Al up already? He normally needs to be all but dragged out of bed to make it to the bus stop on time. The bedroom door creaks open.

"Matthew, are you up?"

Arthur sticks his head into the room, sees Mattie sitting on the floor in a tangle of blankets, blinking owlishly, and raises a bemused eyebrow.

"So is that a yes or a no?"

Mattie blinks twice more and shakes his head. "Where's Al?"

Arthur frowns. "He left about half an hour ago."

That's right, Mattie remembers, feeling slightly foolish. Al was starting high school today—right now, actually, he thinks as he glances once more at the clock—and the high school begins classes forty-five minutes earlier than the middle school, which doesn't start until eight. So Arthur must have already dragged Al out of bed at six-thirty or so. Mattie winces. That must have been fun. How did he ever sleep through it?

"Oh yeah," he mumbles.

"And you should be leaving in another half hour," Arthur continues, as though reading off a script or a grocery list, "So get up, get dressed. There's breakfast downstairs. I have to take a phone call at seven-thirty, so you'll have to walk yourself to the bus stop."

Mattie sighs and bites his lower lip, but Arthur is gone before he can say anything, so he takes out his frustration by kicking off the sheet wrapped around his legs in the least efficient way possible. He knows he should be grateful that Arthur made breakfast, but it's the first day of school. Even though he doesn't need Arthur to walk him to the bus stop anymore, it would be nice for today. Especially since he won't have Al. He can't believe he forgot Al had to get up earlier. He should have been up to say good-bye and good luck. High school is a big deal. Mattie isn't entirely sure why, but it is, so he wanted to be there to see Al off. Standing up, he kicks moodily at the desk that has stood at the foot of his bed for a couple years now, since he can't actually kick himself. Really though, from the outside, it's hard to tell whether he kicks it on purpose or merely because there's not enough room to move around without kicking something. The bedroom which once comfortably housed two little boys has grown fractionally smaller over the years, what with Mattie's bookshelf and Al's sports equipment, two desks for the heavier homework loads of middle and high school, and the natural growth spurts of teenage boys. Arthur has talked about moving his office things and letting Al take the office as his new bedroom, but with nowhere to move but into his own bedroom, he hasn't actually effected the change. He probably won't, especially since he spends more time than ever in his office these days. He needs his own space, Mattie figures, and it's not as though sharing the bedroom with Al is a big deal.

Still, he finds himself thinking as he begins to get dressed, it would be nice to be able to open his dresser drawers all the way without backing into Al's bed. A few years ago, when they bought the desks, Arthur decided it would be most economical to put the beds on risers so they could keep the dressers underneath. It was like a life-size game of Tetris on a board that kept shrinking. Neither boy complained, but some days they felt keenly the lack of space. When Mattie learned in his sixth grade science class that goldfish kept in small tanks didn't grow as big as they would in a larger tank, he wondered if maybe that was why he was shorter than other boys in his class: because his bedroom was so small. Of course, he thought later, Al was sprouting up like a beanpole, so maybe that theory didn't check out.

He pulls on his bookclub t-shirt and the first pair of jeans he finds; gone are the days when he worried overly much over what to wear on the first day of school. Really, he never worried very much about it at all, but it always seemed important to Arthur, so he would let Arthur fuss over him on the first day of school, picking out everything down to what socks Mattie and Al would wear. Then on the first day of seventh grade, Al pitched a fit, saying it wasn't cool for Arthur to dress him and demanding to know why couldn't he just wear random shorts and a t-shirt. Arthur backed down quickly, but a hurt expression flashed across his face before he disappeared back into his office. Mattie still would have let Arthur pick out his clothes if he wanted, but he didn't mention it any more, so Mattie attended the first day of sixth grade in an outfit of his own choosing. Nobody deplored his fashion sense—of course, nobody had done so before either. And so life went on.

His backpack is full of fresh notebooks and unused pencils that seem to rustle around more crisply than their worn predecessors as Mattie slings the bag over one shoulder and heads for the stairs. Arthur's office door is closed, muffling the sound of one side of a tense conversation. Mattie sometimes thinks he remembers a time when Arthur didn't sound so worried every time he was on the phone, but maybe that's just wishful thinking. The stairs creak underfoot as he makes his way downstairs, no matter how quietly he tries to step—another inevitable side effect of growing up. Along with eating breakfast alone, apparently. There are eggs in a covered pan on the stove, and day-old scones in a basket on the table. A pot of tea sits, still steaming, next to the scones. Mattie reminds himself once more to be grateful—Arthur made a hot breakfast—but he's not very hungry. He serves himself some eggs, which he pushes around on his plate for a few minutes before taking a few bites out of scone. But the scone is dry and crumbly and sticks in his throat and in odd corners of his mouth, so he gets up from the table and pushes all the food carefully into the trash, covering it strategically with his napkin to hide how much he threw away.

Food disposed of, he stands at the bottom of the stairs, wondering if he should go up to say goodbye to Arthur. He's not sure how long he stands there, but however long it is, it's too long. The croaking honk of the school bus' horn sounds faintly from the end of the street and Mattie has to go.

"Bus is here," he shouts up the stairs before grabbing his backpack and striding out the door, breaking into a run the minute his feet hit the sidewalk.

The bus driver is shaking her head at him as he climbs the steps onto the bus, panting but managing to flash her a grateful smile.

"Mattie boy, one of these days I'm gonna leave your ass behind," she scolds, but with the air of someone making an old joke.

Mattie only gives a little chuckle in response. The first time she said it to him, he blanched visibly. Now it's as familiar as the smell of Al's cleats in the bedroom—not exactly the most pleasant thing, but somehow reassuring in its constancy. Of course, now that he and Al aren't riding the same bus anymore, he might actually be on time most days. He takes a seat at the front of the bus, hugging his backpack against his chest and staring vacantly at the greyness that is a muggy September morning. The bus whines to life—no other children get on at this stop—and chugs away down the road. Excited babble floats to him from the back of the bus, but it moves inexorably forward with each stop, until Mattie is surrounded by noise that he can barely tune out by closing his eyes and focusing on his breathing. It's a trick he taught himself in sixth grade when Al went through his drumming obsession. He didn't actually have a drum, but he would bang out haphazard rhythms on any flat surface within his reach, and then Arthur would yell across the house to stop, for the love of God, Alfred, or so help me, I will—blah, blah, blah. Mattie has honestly stopped paying much attention to their fights. They're full of angry words and empty threats, and they leave behind a sullen cloud that hangs around—sometimes for days—but they've kind of...faded. Just another feature in the backdrop of his life. And the fights have actually gotten less frequent as the boys' lives grow busier and Arthur spends more and more time in his office. When Arthur doesn't come down for breakfast anymore, it's hard for him to scold Al about the massive bowls of cereal he still pours for himself.

Beneath his seat, Mattie can feel the tension in the brakes as the bus whines to a stop. He cracks his right eye open, peering out the window to see the familiar brick building that has been his house of learning for two years already. He doesn't have particularly strong feelings about it either way, but right now he's glad this is his last year here. The space where Al used to sit next to him on the bus seems to radiate a cold, empty energy, and Mattie glares out of the corner of his eye at the nearly identical brick building next door. It has stolen Al from him and he doesn't like it. He closes his eyes and waits for the chattering crowds to get off the bus so he can follow them at a distance, unhurried and alone with his thoughts.

"Have a good first day, Mattie-boy," the bus driver calls after him as he finally climbs down, and he turns with a smile to give her a wave.

The bus pulls away from the curb, giving way to the one right behind it. Another swarm of students descend through the doors that hiss open, and Mattie finds himself carried along with the babbling current of Sunday best and stiff new backpacks and shoes that still shine, unmarred by the all-powerful dinginess of middle school. He looks down; his own shoes are anything but shiny. Al got new shoes because he was starting high school. Next year, Mattie tells himself, next year he can replace the faded, once-white and red tennis shoes that pinch his toes just a little too much to be comfortable. He doesn't mind that much; he's walked with his toes curled up for almost as long as he can remember. He used to curl them like he curled his fists when he was uncomfortable, but somewhere along the line it just became a habit. Arthur still gives him the occasional odd look for it—it makes his feet look disproportionately small—but his toes feel cold and strange when he stretches them out all the way. So he keeps them curled. And it works out, because now he can pretend his shoes still fit him.

Looking at his shoes in the middle of the hallway is, however, a dangerous occupation, and his gaze jerks upward as he catches his elbow on the backpack of a tiny sixth grader who disappears back into the crowds before Mattie can open his mouth to apologize. Around him mill hundreds of babbling preteens, some tall and gangly, some chubby, some short, all awkward, all talking, all unintelligible. And although Mattie walks among them, he somehow isn't one of them. He's never needed them. He's always had Al.

He finds his locker as quickly as he can, leaning against it and closing his eyes so he can finally catch his breath and gain his bearings through the chaos. He tries thinking back three years ago, when Al started middle school and he had to face fifth grade on his own. He doesn't remember it being this hard. He remembers other kids—not friends, exactly, but friendly faces who didn't care that Mattie mostly kept to himself and had a reading level well above their own, who didn't think he was "weird," who didn't know yet that it wasn't cool to hang out with the foster kid who didn't have a real family. Instead, he remembers Al coming home, downcast and confused, asking why his friends from last year wouldn't talk to him anymore. But then he went to soccer tryouts the next day and one look at his skills convinced the other boys that he was cool enough to let into their circle. Al's social problems after that were minimal—he even got a date with the most popular girl in the sixth grade to the annual Valentine's Day dance—and so the year after that Mattie coasted comfortably into the middle school social scene by virtue of the fact that he was Alfred' little brother, so he must be all right. None of that, however, would be any help now. Al's friends are gone, just like Al, and there is nobody to defend him against the judgmental hive-mind of pre-adolescent caste systems. Still, as he has never been particularly outcast before, the odds that he will simply be left to himself are reasonably high, and without Al, that's all he really wants, anyway. So with that encouraging thought, he pushes off from his locker, opens his eyes and takes a deep breath. Here he goes.

. . .

When Mattie gets home that afternoon, the silence rings in his ears the minute he opens the door. When he goes to drop his backpack at the kitchen table, the breakfast dishes are still sitting out. A heavy ache settles in the pit of his stomach, and he chews absently at his lip as he pours out the cold tea and places the leftover scones in a plastic bag. Has Arthur left his office at all since this morning? Has he eaten anything? Mattie puts the kettle on the stove; the least he can do is make some fresh, hot tea. Then he takes out two scones from the bag, wraps them in a damp paper towel and sticks them in the microwave. A few minutes later, he's got an entire tray assembled, complete with tea, scones, jam, and two aspirin tucked under a napkin. His hand hovered over the cabinet door for a long minute before he opened it and took out the little white bottle of pills. Mattie can't recall a day in recent memory that went by without Arthur opening that bottle. Long hours spent on the phone and on the computer take their toll, and all Mattie wants is to make it a little easier. So he double checks to make sure the aspirin are both still there, then climbs the stairs to Arthur's office, slowly, so as not to spill a drop of the hot tea.

He taps on the door. There's no response, but he doesn't hear anything else, either, so he cracks the door open and peers inside. Arthur's head is in his arms. The computer screens are black, so he must have been like this for quite a while. His breathing is slow and even, and he doesn't move at the low creak of hinges as Mattie slips all the way into the room. Mattie hovers over his guardian, unsure whether or not to wake him. The conviction that Arthur ought to eat something wins out, however, and he speaks in the gentlest whisper he can manage.

"Arthur?"

Arthur starts up with a gasp.

"Matthew? What are you doing? What time is it?"

Mattie checks his watch. "A little after three. I'm back from school."

Arthur sits up all the way and runs his hands through his hair.

"I must have dozed off," he mutters, half to himself, then smiles wryly, "It's quieter without you boys here."

"Without Al, maybe," Mattie retorts with a small laugh, setting the tray down on Arthur's desk. "Where is Al, anyway?"

"He told me he was going to stay after for soccer tryouts. What's all this?" Arthur gestures to the scones and tea.

Mattie shrugs. "Nothing, I just thought you might be hungry. You didn't come down for breakfast this morning."

He hopes Arthur will say something, reassure him that he ate breakfast, ate lunch, had a snack, anything. But Arthur says nothing, only picks up the tea, takes a sip, and sets it down again, as if even lifting the cup for that long took too much effort. Then he reaches for the napkin, more out of habit, Mattie supposes, than because he actually needs it, but the corner of the white paper hits one of the pills underneath, sending it skittering across the tray, and Arthur freezes. His eyes dart up to meet Mattie's own, solemn expression, and he puts the napkin down once more on top of the pills. He aligns the corners and smooths out the creases, like making that napkin look perfect is the most important thing in the world, then his hands return to the teacup and he puts it to his lips once more, taking a longer drink this time.

"Thank you, Matthew," he says as he returns the cup to its saucer, "The tea is excellent."

Of course it is. Mattie's been making tea for years now. Almost since the moment he walked through Arthur's door. Seven years. After seven years he's bound to be good at making tea. That's really not the point. What was Arthur thinking when he saw the aspirin? Did he not take it because he doesn't need it? Because he's embarrassed? Mattie didn't have time to study his expression in the brief look he gave him, but he thought he saw a pain in Arthur's eyes that he carefully smoothed away—like the creases in the napkin—when he looked up again. He just can't quite bring himself to believe that Arthur doesn't need the pills. Maybe he's waiting for Mattie to leave, and then he'll take them. Mattie can't imagine why. It's not like it's some big secret. It's not like headaches are something you can control. It's not like taking aspirin for those headaches is anything to be ashamed of. Mattie chews his lip, thinking, but he can't figure it out. So he does the only thing he can. He changes the subject.

"When do you think Al will be home?"

Arthur looks up, mid-sip, over the rim of the teacup. "Not sure. It'll probably be a while," he says, lowering his elbows to the table, holding the cup in front of him. Like this has only ever been a normal conversation.

Mattie nods. "I've got some homework to do. I'll try and get it done before Al gets back." He manages to crack a small smile. "Since he's the noisy one."

Arthur hums vaguely in response, already sorting through papers on his desk. Suddenly, he gives a great start.

"Shit!"

Mattie tenses involuntarily. Arthur looks up at him with an apology in his eyes.

"I have a call at four o'clock that I haven't read the briefing for. I'm sorry. Go get your homework done. I'll be down for dinner at five."

He doesn't say "hopefully," but Mattie can hear it dangling in the space where the words end. He nods.

"Okay."

He slips out of the office, closing the door almost all the way behind him. Then he stands in the doorway a few seconds longer, peering through the crack he left between door and frame. He watches Arthur slump forward, run his hands through his hair and massage his temples, then, with a practiced pinching motion, take the two aspirin off the tray and pop them in his mouth before lifting his teacup once more and draining it, as though trying to forget that anything but that lukewarm beverage had passed his lips. Mattie's own lips form the thinnest of lines, and he swallows with some difficulty past the lump in his throat, which he tells himself is just from holding his breath so Arthur won't hear him still outside the door. He looks on for a few more seconds as Arthur sighs deeply, starts up his computer, and begins skimming through a stack of papers, then shakes himself and heads downstairs to where his backpack sits at the kitchen table, full of books and pencils and pre-algebra.

He's working on the pre-algebra when Al gets home. He'd rather be reading Tom Sawyer, but he's decided to save the best for last.

"Al, what's thirteen times thirteen?"

"169." Al drops his gym bag on the floor, goes to the sink and fills up a glass of water. "Don't you have a calculator?"

"Not allowed," Mattie replies without looking up.

Al shrugs, choosing not to comment on the blatant legalism at work in his brother's reasoning. "Where's Arthur?"

Mattie chews his eraser, writes down a few numbers on the paper in front of him and frowns. "In his office. He had a call at four."

Is it just his imagination, or does Al give a sigh of relief? He looks up sharply. "Why?"

"Just wondering." Al's voice echoes with affected carelessness. "I'm gonna go take a shower."

Mattie frowns. Something is off, but he can't figure out what it is. He's about to return to his homework when Al turns around and Mattie glimpses a long streak of orangey-red running down the back of his brother's shirt. Something tightens inside him. He knows what that is, and he knows where Al got it. It could be nothing. But then again, it might be something.

"Did you get that at soccer tryouts?"

Al stops. "What?"

"Oh nothing, it's just I didn't know they decided to make the fields red this year." Mattie has to force the lightness into his voice. "Like, I'm pretty sure grass is normally green."

"What the hell are you talking about, Matt?" The words come out clipped, chopping off the last syllable of Mattie's name and making it sound sharp and angry.

Mattie swallows hard. "I mean, unless you weren't at soccer tryouts?"

Al's eyes narrow. "I really don't see how it's any of your business."

"Dude," Mattie snaps, "You can tell me where you were. Geez, it's not like I'm gonna tell on you. And I mean not going to soccer tryouts isn't exactly something you can hide from Arthur. Pretty sure he's gonna figure it out when you're not at soccer games."

Al seems to deflate. He drops his gym bag again and slumps into the chair next to Mattie.

"You're right," he says in a low voice, "I didn't go to soccer tryouts."

Mattie rolls his eyes. "Obviously."

"I went to play with some of the baseball guys." Now that he's started, the words tumble out practically on top of each other. "I mean obviously their season hasn't started yet, but there were fliers up for a walk-on captain's practice. So i thought, hey, might as well. Mattie," he lowers his voice to a barely contained whisper, "they said I'm really good for a first-timer. They want me to keep coming to unofficial practices and then try out for real in the spring."

For a moment, Mattie stops to wonder what it must be like to be Al. To be good at every sport he tries his hand at. To walk onto a soccer field and impress boys two or three years older than him. To walk onto the baseball field—with barely any experience beyond whiffle ball in the park occasionally—and impress the senior captains of the team. To make friends easily just because he can run fast and hit a ball, with his feet or with a big stick. It's a world Mattie doesn't understand. Doesn't really want to be part of, either. But sometimes he wonders.

He resurfaces from his thoughts to see Al staring expectantly at him, beaming an overwhelming combination of joy and anxiety. This is all Al has ever wanted. His dream, coming true. All of a sudden, Mattie doesn't know what to say. So, of course, he says the exact wrong thing.

"Isn't baseball a lot more expensive than soccer?"

And Al's face falls immediately.

"Yeah," he murmurs, "There's a lot more equipment, so the fee is bigger. But," his face brightens again, "maybe since it's not till the spring, we'll be able to save up the money, right?"

Mattie is screaming internally at himself, wishing he could take it back. Arthur is going to give Al enough of a hard time without Mattie reminding him of it. Admittedly, he's not sure exactly what Arthur will say, but he's not looking forward to it. And—he would hazard a guess—Al isn't either. Because whatever Arthur says, Mattie is pretty sure it won't be that by spring they can save up the money Al's going to need to play baseball. But he's said enough, so he keeps this doubt to himself and tries to look encouraging and sympathetic. He doesn't really think it'll work, but Al seems to relax a fraction.

"Okay, for real now, I've gotta go shower."

"Okay."

Al disappears into the hallway, and Mattie tries to return to pre-algebra, but he can't concentrate on numbers anymore, so he gives in and pulls out Tom Sawyer. He'll finish his math problems later. For now, he pours himself some of the tea he made for Arthur, takes the cup and his book into the sitting room and curls up on the couch. He takes a sip of tea, opens to page one, takes a deep breath, and begins to read.

If sports are Alfred's gift, then Mattie's is the ability to completely disappear from reality the minute he opens a book. He's blocked out countless things: fire alarms, Al and and Arthur's fights, annoying teachers, loud music and Al's incessant drumming in the sixth grade. Very few things can get past the wall that goes up around him; layers upon layers of words protect him from the world outside. It's gotten to the point where the wall never really comes down all the way, even when there isn't a book in sight. The stories saturate the air around him, ready to form tight ranks the minute the world threatens; the words flow through his veins, only a sharp word or loud sound or frightening thought away from being the only thing in his mind. And so from the moment Mattie's gaze falls upon the first word, baseball, soccer, Al, Arthur, and everything else disappear, if only for a few precious moments. It's longer than that, of course, but it doesn't feel that way when Mattie looks up again to see Arthur in the doorway, obviously waiting for a response. He blinks.

"Sorry, what?"

Arthur jerks his head towards the kitchen. "It's time for dinner."

Mattie blinks once more, clearing away the remaining traces of nineteenth century Missouri from his eyes and tucking them away in the back of his mind. He places a bookmark carefully between the pages of his book, then drinks what remains of his tea. The last drops are cold as they hit his tongue and he makes a face. Then he follows Arthur into the kitchen, where there are hot bowls of soup and fresh-baked biscuits steaming fragrantly on the table, just as vivid to him now as Tom and Sid and Aunt Polly were to him only minutes ago. Al is already at the table, fiddling with his napkin and twirling his spoon through his fingers, waiting. He catches Mattie's eye and grimaces, and at first Mattie thinks it's just because he's impatient for dinner, but then their earlier conversation returns along with the rest of reality, and Mattie wonders if maybe Al could stand to wait a little longer for everybody to sit and begin eating. With Arthur so busy, and now with school starting again, the evening meal will really be the only time for catching up and sharing their days. Whatever is going to come out is about to come out now.

Mattie's instincts are, unfortunately, correct. Almost as soon as they sit down, the first words out of Arthur's mouth are, "So how did soccer tryouts go today, Alfred?"

Time seems to slow down. Either that or Al really does take that long to open his mouth in reply. Either way, for a long moment there's nothing to focus on but the food in front of him, and as Mattie puts the first spoonful to his lips, there's something undeniably metallic about the taste of the soup. It came from a can. And underneath the steaming surface, the broth at the center of the bowl is still cold. It's microwaved soup from a can. Mattie snatches up a biscuit as inconspicuously as he can and takes a bite. It's soft and buttery and melts in his mouth, and there's no way it's anything but one of those biscuits you get pre-made in a cardboard tube. There's no way Arthur made it—it tastes so good. And yet it's just as hard to swallow as the dry, lumpy scone Mattie tried to stomach this morning. He can't manage another bite, and he so he resumes half-heartedly stirring his soup, hoping to even out the temperature. He doesn't know why it bother him so much; it's not like they've never had an easy, thrown-together dinner before. But tonight it's just one more thing wrong on a day that he vaguely remembers used to be exciting. Arthur used to pick them up after the first day of school—they wouldn't take the bus home—and then he'd take them out for ice cream, or cook a special dinner. Now they're eating canned soup and biscuits from a tube, and Al is opening his mouth to speak and Mattie almost can't bear to watch what happens next…

"Good," Al says, "I made the team."

Mattie's spoon hits the table with a tinny clatter. Arthur looks over in surprise and Mattie thinks maybe he asks if something's wrong, but all he can focus on is Al, sitting on the other side of Arthur and mouthing "be cool" across the table at him—the "or else" implied by the fierce intensity of his expression. So Mattie finds himself dazedly shaking his head while Arthur mops up the spilled soup with a napkin. Once the table is clean, Arthur crumples up the soiled paper and leans away from Mattie, eagerly facing his other charge.

"That's great, Alfred! Did you make first or second string?"

"Umm…" Is it Mattie's imagination, or does Al flash him a desperate look? "Second string for now."

Arthur puts a spoonful of soup in his mouth and nods thoughtfully. He swallows. "For now?"

"Well, you know—" Al always babbles when he's uncomfortable, and now his words are falling all over each other. "The coach said that if I keep improving, I could probably make first string, you know, like if I work really hard and stuff, I could probably be a starter. Which would be cool, I guess, but for now I'm second string so yeah…"

He trails off, and Arthur blinks at him, bemused.

"Okay," he says, "Fair enough. When's your first game?"

It's unmistakable; there's definitely a light of panic in Al's eyes now. Mattie doesn't know how Arthur's missing it. He himself is caught wildly somewhere between wanting to throw up and wanting to break into hysterical laughter, somewhere between wanting to rescue Al and wanting the whole lie to fall apart right now. It doesn't. Al regains enough sense to come up with what Mattie would say was actually a clever reply—if he were in the habit of judging such things.

"I don't know," Al says, "I wasn't paying attention when they told us that." He doesn't even need to fake embarrassment; there's certainly no way he's faking the splotchy blush rising on his face.

Arthur sighs and shakes his head, but he's smiling a bit. "Well make sure to tell me when you find out. I want to be there."

Al nods cheerfully. His shoulders fall back into their relaxed slump, and he gives Mattie a lopsided grin and a look that speaks volumes of awkward relief before digging at last into his lukewarm dinner. Mattie looks down at his own, barely touched food, somehow less hungry than he was before, and he doesn't even know how that's possible. He makes a few more half-hearted stabs at the soup while giving noncommittal answers to Arthur's questions about his first day and finishes his biscuit, just so it looks like he ate something, then excuses himself on the pretext of finishing his math homework. Arthur frowns but doesn't press the issue, so Mattie puts his dishes in the sink, then disappears upstairs with his backpack.

He's only just sat down and opened his books when Al comes into the room, shutting the door behind him and slumping against it.

"Dude," he says reproachfully, pushing himself off the door, climbing onto his bed and flopping face-first into the pillow, "Did you have to leave me alone down there?"

Mattie gapes for a second. "Um, dude." His voice is a high, strangled parody of his brother's. "Did you have to lie to Arthur?"

Al sighs and flips onto his back, studying the ceiling with affected indifference. "I just didn't want to tell him about the baseball yet."

"Oh my gosh—" the tremble in Mattie's voice gives way to a slightly crazed laugh—"Al, you could've said you didn't make the team. You could have said you didn't go. You could have said literally anything. Why on earth did you tell him you made the team? What were you thinking that you thought this could possibly be a good idea?"

Al remains silent.

"He's gonna want to come to your games. He's gonna ask you how practice was every day. And then he's gonna show up at a game one day and you're not gonna be there and then what do you think is gonna happen? Oh my gosh, Al," he repeats, "What was your plan?"

Mattie's heart is pounding in his ribcage and echoing his ears. He doesn't think he's ever shouted at Al like this. Ever. Apparently, Al doesn't think so either, because he's staring at Mattie with something like shock—maybe even nervousness. But when he opens his mouth to speak, it's not an apology that comes out.

"Dude," he says slowly, "Are you okay?"

"Dude?" Mattie shrills, "Dude! No, I'm not okay! You just lied to Arthur and it's like you don't even care!"

"Matt, chill," Al sounds slightly frightened now, but not by his own actions, "I'll tell him the truth eventually."

"Eventually? Eventually. Oh, that's just great."

"Dude—"

"Oh. My gosh. Stop calling me 'dude!'""

"Okay! Okay. Matt—"

"And that's another thing! What's with calling me 'Matt' all of a sudden? Because if this is some cool, new high school thing—"

"Mattie."

Suddenly Al is in front of him, hands on both his shoulders, holding him steady, looking him in the eye. Mattie's own voice is still echoing in his ears and he suddenly realizes how he sounded. He blinks a couple times and shakes his head.

"I'm sorry, Al. I don't know what—I just—" he casts around for some excuse for his behavior. Al's hands are warm and strong; suddenly the cold, empty space that's been beside him since he got up this morning is filled, and he relaxes into his brother's embrace. "I just hate that we're not at school together this year."

Al laughs quietly and lets Mattie lean against him a little bit longer before he steps back again.

"I hate it too," he says, and scrunches up his face, "High school sucks. They make you learn a foreign language."

Mattie swipes at his nose and clears his throat. "Really? What are you learning?"

"I don't need to start this year, so I haven't decided yet. But I was thinking maybe French?"

"No!" Mattie blurts out before he can help himself. "I mean. I've heard Spanish is easier."

But Al is looking oddly at him and there are half-remembered words from his childhood echoing in his head, and Mattie knows exactly why he doesn't want Al to learn French.

No, No. Like this: 'Je suis Mathieu.' Try again. Good. Now try this one: 'Je t'aime.' Good!

But Papa, what does it mean?

It means 'I love you.' Je t'aime, Mathieu. Je t'aime.

Je t'aime, Papa.

He can't bear the thought of Al poring over his textbooks at night, muttering little phrases that Mattie learned when he was young, walking around repeating 'Je suis Alfred,' ad nauseam for days at a time, trying to get Mattie to do it too because it's pretty easy once you get the hang of it, come on! No. Al can't take French.

"Mattie? You okay?"

Mattie blinks. He's been doing that a lot today, floating between worlds, trying to keep them all straight in his head. Now he is here, with Al, in their bedroom, and he has math homework he needs to finish.

"Yeah," he says. "I'm fine."

Al's face softens. "I'm gonna tell Arthur the truth, you know."

Mattie sighs and rubs his temples. "I know."

"Just," Al yawns and stretches, "Not tonight. I had to get up at six-thirty this morning and there is nothing coming between me and my bed right now."

"Homework?" Mattie suggests, as Al climbs back up onto his bed.

"Shut up, nerd," Al replies, tossing a sock at him—lord knows where he found it—"What do you think boring classes are for, anyway?" Seeing Mattie's look of disapproval, however, he relents, "Most of my teachers didn't assign real homework. Just some 'get familiar with the text' BS. I figure I can wing that."

Mattie rolls his eyes and returns to his own studies. In what seems an impossibly short amount of time, Al's snores are filling the room, and Mattie wonders how he can just fall asleep like that. If he ever lied to Arthur, it would keep him awake all night. He takes a deep breath and stops himself there. He needs to finish his homework and then he needs to go to bed. Whether or not Al keeps his word to tell the truth is a problem for tomorrow.

. . .

And tomorrow, it turns out, has problems enough.

First of all, Mattie's pre-algebra teacher isn't happy that he didn't show all his work, and gives him a stink-eye when he promises her he didn't use a calculator. He didn't even use Al for anything but that one multiplication problem. To be honest, he's not even sure what more work he was supposed to show, but he lets his teacher's criticism wash over him as he makes a mental note to write down every single step he does on his homework tonight.

Second of all, the only thing there was to pack for lunch was leftover soup, and it doesn't taste any better today than it did last night. Mattie manages to eat it all because, once again, he didn't have much in the way of breakfast, but it leaves him feeling sick for the rest of the afternoon, and the fact that he has gym on Thursdays really doesn't help with that.

Third of all, he misses Al. From the moment he wakes up and sees Al's bed already empty to the moment Al finally strides through the front door, sweaty and stained red with dirt, his brother's absence is like a huge, empty cold spot, and he's standing right in the middle of it. And with the looming prospect of Al's confession to Arthur, even his arrival can't quite shake the feeling of dread that hangs in Mattie's air.

"Hey, Mattie," Al says, dropping his gym bag on the floor and going to the sink to get a glass of water, "How was school?"

Mattie makes a face. "Meh. My pre-algebra teacher hates me."

"Pfft, nah. Nobody hates you, Matt."

"Except my pre-algebra teacher."

Al rolls his eyes. "Whatever." He stands next to Mattie, squinting at the numbers on the homework page. "You need help?"

"I'm good. She yelled at me for not showing all my work, so I'm making sure not to take any shortcuts this time."

Now it's Al's turn to make a face. "She sounds like a witch. I'm sorry."

"It's fine. These first few lessons are easy, anyway." Mattie looks up from the problem he's been working on. "How was, um, 'soccer?'"

"Really good." Al's eyes are shining, and his whole face with them. "So good, Mattie. I always knew I'd be great at baseball."

"So are you, uh, gonna talk to Arthur?"

Al cringes slightly and glances towards the hallway. "Is he in his office?" he asks, avoiding the actual question.

"I guess so," Mattie shrugs, "I haven't seen him since I've been home."

The kitchen was clean and there was a bowl with bits of chicken and noodle in the sink when Mattie got home, so he figured Arthur had managed to eat lunch, and he sat down to do his homework right away. Arthur hasn't been down since then, but it's only—Mattie checks the clock—a little after four, so he's not worried. Maybe he should've gone upstairs to say hello, but he didn't want to bother Arthur is he was working, or sleeping like he was yesterday.

"Okay," Al replies, still eyeing the kitchen doorway, as though he expects Arthur to step through at any moment. "Well, I'll go take a shower now."

"And then?" Mattie prompts.

Al sighs. "And then I'll talk to him. I promise. Okay?"

Mattie nods, satisfied, and returns to his homework. Al picks up his gym bag and trudges out of the kitchen; Mattie can half-hear him clumping up the stairs. He waits for the sounds of the bathroom door shutting and the shower beginning to run, but they never come. What he does hear, with sudden, perfect, heart-stopping clarity, is the sound of of Arthur's voice, ringing through the house.

"Alfred!"

Mattie closes his eyes as the feeling of nausea returns—this time, not from the soup.

"What happened to your shirt? Your shorts? Your—What happened?"

Why does Arthur need to shout? Mattie doesn't want to hear this fight. But he doesn't want to not hear it either. And ("Why were you playing baseball? Didn't you have soccer practice?") he certainly doesn't want to just hear Arthur's half of it. So, against his better judgement, he tiptoes out of the kitchen and stands at the bottom of the stairs. Listening.

"Don't be mad," Al is saying—pleading, almost—"It wasn't like I planned it. I just saw the flyers and decided to go for it. It's not like I had anything to lose."

"Except a place on the soccer team." Arthur's words are sharp and cold, and even though he was expecting this, Mattie is still taken aback by how harsh they sound. "What were you thinking?"

"Look." Al has snapped; Mattie can hear it in his voice. Street-dweller Al—defiant Al, adult Al—is here. And there will be no backing down. "I. Don't. Like. Soccer. I never have. But you wanted me to play. So I did. And it was fine, whatever. But now I have a chance to do something I've always wanted to do, and I'm gonna take it."

There's a long pause, then Arthur's voice again, low, defeated. "But you were so good."

"Yeah." Now Al's voice is the cold one. "I'm good at sports. Doesn't mean I like all of them."

An even longer pause. Mattie can feel the silence reverberating in his bones and he doesn't even know why he's still standing here. Why did he ever think he wanted to hear this? Why did he ever think he might want to know what Arthur's most broken sigh would sound like?

"Why didn't you just tell me the truth?" There is no anger in Arthur's voice now—not even disappointment—only a quiet plea to understand.

Whatever Al says in reply is too quiet for Mattie to hear, no matter how he strains his ears, but he can make a pretty good guess when he hears Arthur's response.

"Alfred." Arthur sighs. "Am I a little disappointed that you don't want to play soccer? Yes. But I'm more disappointed that you lied to me."

"Oh my god." Al sounds almost like he's trying not to laugh, and Mattie can't for the life of him see what's funny about this. "You're 'disappointed.' You're disappointed? Oh my god, Arthur, who do you think you are? My dad?"

Dead silence reigns in the house, like no silence Mattie has ever heard before. Here it is. The real struggle, at last, out in the open: that Al has never had a father, and will never think of Arthur as one. They've been skirting around it for years, since before Mattie came to them, and now, suddenly, they can't ignore it any longer. Because of the littlest thing. Because Al decided to play baseball instead of soccer.

No, Mattie reminds himself, not because Al decided. Because Al lied. Lies break everything. Little lies, like what Al did after school yesterday. And big lies. Like 'forever.' The former just fell apart, and in this moment, Mattie knows the latter is just about to.

Arthur's reply cuts through the silence, and though his words are confident, his voice is brittle.

"No, Alfred, I am not your father. But I am your legal guardian, and until you leave my house, I am responsible for you and you will answer to me."

Mattie can't see Al, but he can imagine the cold contempt on his face as he speaks the next two words.

"Watch me."

It doesn't make logical sense, but Mattie is in no doubt what Al means, and he thinks Arthur probably isn't either. If Al stays—'until you leave my house' still echoes threateningly in Mattie's ears—gone are the days when his defiances could be dismissed as isolated instances of rebellion. The thinly veiled power struggle is over, and now it's open season on authority. And maybe Arthur can live with that. Mattie can't.

At long last, the bathroom door slams shut and the shower starts running. Mattie creeps back to his seat at the kitchen table, and when Arthur comes downstairs to stand at the sink and gulp down two aspirin, he tries to look as though he's very focused on drawing a number line.

"Matthew…"

"What?" Mattie tries his hardest not too look up too fast or sound too agitated.

Arthur seems to hesitate. Then: "How was school today?"

"Oh, it was good." Mattie's trying not to babble, but he can't quite help itself. "I got a 100 on my English quiz and a ninety on my math homework, and my team won at dodge ball during gym—"

"Alfred and I are fine, Matthew," Arthur cuts in, and he sounds almost irritated.

Mattie purses his lips. "I didn't say anything about you and Al."

"Did you know?"

"I told him he had to tell you the truth."

"Was he planning this?"

Mattie stares. "No! He told you that!"

Arthur, to his credit, doesn't ask Mattie how he knows what Al said. Mattie plows ahead, not sure where the words are coming from.

"It's not like this was some big scheme that I was in on, like 'Oh, let's trick Arthur, haha.' He saw the flyer, he went to the practice. He told me yesterday; I told him he had to tell you the truth. That's all. And even if it was a plan, and even if I had known about it, I wouldn't tell you. I've never taken sides in your fights, and I'm not starting now!"

Arthur turns away, and Mattie thinks they're done, but then he hears Arthur say something, so quietly he almost misses it.

"Yes you have."

"What?"

"You've always taken sides," Arthur says, turning back and looking him dead in the eye, "You've always been on Alfred's side."

And all of a sudden, Mattie knows what it's like to be Al. Not to be good at sports and make friends easily—not that part—but to stand up and speak for himself and be treated like an adult. He's always been a child in Arthur's eyes. He's never had a serious conversation with him without his guardian bending down so they were on the same level. He's never had Arthur stand above him and talk to him like he's tall enough to look him in the eye. And he's not sure how he got here now, but he might as well play the part. He stands. He doesn't speak. He turns his back on Arthur and makes for the kitchen doorway, where the marks on the wood stop at "Alfred, 12 yr" and "Matthew, 11 yr."

"Where are you going?" Arthur demands.

"Out."

Mattie doesn't turn back, doesn't ask for permission. He's never used his most frigid tone when talking to Arthur—he's rarely even used it when talking to Al—but he uses it now, and Arthur doesn't call after him, doesn't follow him as he opens the front door and steps out onto the street.

In early September, the afternoon is still oppressively warm, but the fierce heat only feeds the new fierceness burning inside him, and so instead of wavering on the front step, Mattie marches down the sidewalk, not sure where he's going but that's okay. He's pretty sure he won't fit in the little playhouse at the park anymore, but—to his surprise—he finds he doesn't want to hide. He just wants to get away, and think. The park, however, is still a convenient place: quiet, relatively abandoned, and supplied with abundant swings in the shade of an oak tree. It's on one of these swings that Mattie makes his refuge. He pushes off the ground and into the air, pumping his legs and swinging higher and higher, faster and faster, until all he can hear is the wind in his ears and he can't even keep his eyes open, and he loses himself.

Slowly, eventually, he opens his eyes and comes back to earth. His feet are solidly on the ground, and he recalls where he is and where he came from. Of course, it helps that Al is standing right in front of him. He's not saying anything. He's just watching him. Waiting. Mattie bites his lip and looks at the ground; the fierceness is returning, and he can feel it urging him to let it loose on his brother. He clenches his fists until the chains of the swing dig into his palm and swallows hard.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, with as much indifference as he can manage.

"Arthur sent me. Can I—?" Al gestures at the swing next to Mattie's.

Mattie says nothing, but Al takes his silence as permission.

"What happened?"

"Nothing." One word answers have always been Mattie's armor of choice, and despite the anger still curling in his chest, he can feel his defenses going up.

"That's crap, Mattie, and we both know it. How much did you hear?"

The anger is giving way to tears, and Mattie hates himself for it. "Everything," he whispers, because he doesn't trust his normal voice not to break.

"Damn, Matt." Arthur runs his hands through his hair, and it's strange how much, in this of all moments, he looks like Arthur. "You know we didn't really meant any of it—"

"Yes you did," Mattie cuts him off forcefully, "You meant all of it."

Al is silent. Mattie is right, and they both know it. He and Arthur may not have meant to say the things they did, but they weren't empty words. They were words that had been hiding beneath the surface for years now, just waiting for an opportunity to breach. And they found their opportunity. Over such a little thing it almost makes Mattie want to laugh. Such a little thing is about to destroy their whole world. Their forever. Mattie never quite believed in that forever, of course, but maybe—just maybe—he had begun to hope.

"I can't stay," he says suddenly.

"What?" Al looks up, and for the first time in this whole mess, there is real fear in his eyes.

"I can't stay, Al. Not like this. Not with all this—this—shit," Al looks slightly shocked, but Mattie ignores him, "out in the open. I can't live here knowing that you're one more fight away from leaving. Or being kicked out. I can't do it." Al tries to interrupt, but Mattie presses on. "I don't know where I'll go, or what I'll do, but I can't stay. I'm gonna go, Al, for real this time. You can come, if you want to."

The silence extends for several long moments, both boys studying the ground intently, until finally Mattie dares to look over at where Al sits, very rigidly, on the swing beside him. His jaw is working furiously and his eyes shine with what might be tears and what might be anger. Mattie's money is on both, but he figures Al just needs a minute to collect his thoughts, and then he'll speak.

"I apologized to Arthur."

Mattie starts. "What?"

"I apologized to Arthur," Al repeats, digging his new blue and white sneakers into the dirt, "I told him I was sorry I skipped soccer tryouts and that I lied to him. I told him—" Here Al pauses and grits his teeth together. "I told him that it was a mistake, and that I knew baseball was expensive and I shouldn't have given up soccer to play it. I told him that it wouldn't be right to even think of asking him for the money to play baseball after all this, and that I would give it up right now. He's—It's—We're okay now."

Mattie looks away as Al brushes surreptitiously at his eyes, pretending not to notice the twin damp spots in the dusty earth by his feet. He wants to cry too. He wants to cry so badly, but he screws his eyes shut and bites his bottom lip until he thinks he can taste blood. It's not his right to cry now. It's Al who made the sacrifice, Al who swallowed his pride, Al who gave up his dream to make peace. Al who could have packed his bags and run, who could have picked one last fight and been sent away, but instead is being sent to bring Mattie home. Mattie, who, next to Al, suddenly feels cowardly and selfish.

"Why?" he asks, and it's as much an accusation as it is a question. Why are you here to bring me back when we both could run? Why are you here to make me feel guilty when you're the one who lied and fought? Why, after all this, does Arthur still trust you to bring me home? Why do you suddenly get to be the hero? Why are you so strong and good, and I'm not?

"Why what? Why did I apologize?" Mattie doesn't say anything, but Al sighs and keeps talking anyway. "I wasn't going to. I honestly wasn't. I was so mad—"

He cuts himself off abruptly and takes a deep breath, and Mattie knows that, whatever Al may say, he is still angry; somewhere beneath the calm, the storm is still seething.

"But Mattie," he continues after a moment, "What else could I do? Where else could I go?"

At this, Mattie looks up. This was not something he expected to hear.

"Al," he says with disbelief, "You lived on the streets when you were five."

Al looks away, studying something on the horizon. "Yeah. I was five. That was a long time ago, Mattie. I haven't lived on the streets in almost ten years. Well, more like nine, but that's not the point. Sure, Arthur's can be a jerk, but I've lived with him almost as long as I can remember. And he's not a bad foster parent. I just don't always get along with him. I can live with that. Mattie," At this point, he gets up off the swing and stands in front of Mattie, hands on his shoulders, like he did last night. "I promise I will not leave this house until I turn eighteen. That's when I can get out of the system, and I'll get out right then and not a moment later. But not a moment sooner, either. I will be right here, with you, until then."

Mattie shoots up off of his swing and straight into his brother's arms before he even really knows what he's doing. And as he feels the worn softness of Al's gray hoody under his cheek, he lets himself cry. First silent tears, then violent sobs that shake them both as they stand alone in the middle of the abandoned playground.

"I—" Mattie tries to get out between sobs, "I just—I—I don't know what I'd do—what I'd do—if you left. I can't—can't even go to school without—without missing you and I—I just—"

"Shhh," Al soothes, rubbing his back, "I know. I could never leave without you, either." He holds Mattie at arms' length and smiles. "Hey. Hey. Look at me, Mattie. Hey. You're my brother. We gotta stick together."

Almost accidentally, Mattie laughs, although is comes out somewhere more between a snort and a choking noise. Al laughs too.

"What?"

"Oh nothing," Mattie says, wiping his eyes, "Just something Arthur said."

A shadow seems to cross Al's face momentarily, but it's gone before Mattie can be sure. "Why," he asks with a crooked smile, "What did Arthur say?"

"He said—Well, first I said that I had never picked sides. You know, in your fights. But he told me no, that I've always been on your side."

Al frowns. "Why is that funny."

"It's not really. It's just—I got mad at him, but he was right. I have always been on your side."

Al laughs again and reaches out to ruffle Mattie's hair. "Good to know. Let's go home. I'm starving."

Mattie scrubs his eyes once more and the two boys head back across the street, side by side.

It's really the only side to be on.

. . .

That night, Mattie sets his alarm for six-thirty. He gets ready and eats breakfast with Al and walks him to the bus stop. Then he walks back to the house. He packs up his books, setting Tom Sawyer carefully on top, then pours a cup of tea and picks up a scone that Arthur baked fresh last night. Leaving his bag at the kitchen table, he makes his way upstairs to Arthur's office, where he lets himself in and sets the cup and scone on Arthur's desk without a word. Arthur smiles. Then he stands and wraps Mattie in a tight hug.

"I love you, Matthew," he whispers in his ear before giving him one more squeeze and letting him go.

And Mattie wants to say it back, he really does, but the words catch in his throat a moment too long, and then the school bus' croaking horn is sounding at the corner of Washington and Maple. So he settles for "Goodbye," before racing down the stairs and out the door. He runs all the way to the bus stop, barely making it before the doors start to close.

"Mattie boy," the bus driver says, shaking her head, "One of these days I'm gonna leave your ass behind."


So. That happened. I'm emotionally exhausted from writing this chapter, so I don't have too much to say. Just that I hope you enjoyed it, and that if you have any comments, thoughts, critiques, etc. please send a review my way. I love you all. Especially, as always, Immortal x Snow, my strength and inspiration, who puts up with me sending her angsty teasers almost every day.

Cheers,

Vic