CHAPTER EIGHT.

Yawning as he exited the courthouse, black suit jacket slung over his shoulder, Alfred trotted down over the front steps, placing a cigarette to his mouth as he went. The sky overhead was a piercing shade of robin's egg blue, wispy white clouds stretched like cotton across the entire expanse of it. Not a flake of snow had fallen since he had left Arthur's place several days ago; all the city had seen since then were days like this, especially this one in particular. A sigh of content left him; he could handle cold winds if it came with bright skies and the promise of sun. It helped push away the shadows that clung to a monotonous life and made it easier to get out of bed when he saw a slither of blue along the horizon as the sun rose.

For a brief moment he re-angled the cigarette he was keeping clenched between his teeth, pushing his glasses up to the bridge of his nose with the pad of his thumb at the same time. He let the white stick dangle there for a moment as he fished out his lighter. Once he managed to get it out, after a brief struggle with that and his wallet getting caught in his pants pocket, he took a grateful drag on the nicotine and tobacco, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment before opening again. He could just feel the immediate relaxing effects of the drug as it entered his system, the sudden releasing of tension that came with it.

Shit, he needed that smoke even more than he had thought.

He was, however, not alone outside; several of the bailiffs and court sheriffs were stood outside as well, smoking their own cigarettes and chatting casually amongst the members of their little 'clique', but Alfred kept away from them, not wanting to actually talk with them right now. Distance needed to be maintained at all times. He sniffed, and then ran a hand through his hair, glaring at nothing in particular (the side walk just so happened to offend him, alright?). While he loved his job, he couldn't help but despise the majority of the people he worked with on a regular basis - especially the court officers; they were such jackasses at times it was ridiculous. They put him to shame and that was all he would say on the matter.

Turning on the spot, he craned his neck back and looked up to the court house, scanning the large, stately building with a bored gaze as he took another puff of the cancerous smoke, letting it fill and sear his lungs before exhaling through his nose. The smoke curled in wispy tendrils, pale gray in colour, creating an ill halo about his head. It was an old building, with four floors, five court rooms and plenty of offices, as well as its own small library, meant only for the lawyers that worked there on a regular basis, such as Alfred and several of his friends. It was the place where the blonde standing on the steps in front of the Church of American Justice spent most of his time, next to one of the dance clubs in Manhattan that he was a regular at, and his own apartment. He watched with slight tunnel vision as the last session for the year got out, people streaming down over the stairs, followed by a lawyer he knew quite well - they exchanged weary nods and smiles - and contemplated whether or not he himself should leave. After a pathetic internal debate, he decided he would remain for a little while longer.

Not that he had an actual case to attend to for the day - the day being December 22nd - but he had some readings to catch up on, and a meeting with the District Attorney for the entire state of New York. Something like that only happened once a year, and this time around it was at the end of the year. Call it a year-end review of his performance and the judicial state of his area, if you will. Each lawyer received one, whether they were a defence attorney, or a district attorney for just a small area or an entire county; they all had to meet with the DA of the state at some point.

Although he was supposed to pay full attention to the man's dissertation, he just could not bring neither himself nor his cranium to listen to the elderly man droning on and on and on about the increase in violence in the backstreets of New York and the spike in drug-related crimes committed by youth and adults alike. Within a four month period, from what he could remember the older man saying, the rate had jolted upwards by nearly thirty per cent; over half of the crimes being committed were at the hands of youth alone, which Alfred found disheartening.

And then there had been that odd shoulder-pat when the DA said that Alfred was doing a commendable job in convicting these 'hooligans' for their crimes against the city, and that he was proud that Mr. Jones was the DA for Manhattan, and that he was doing an excellent job and blah blah blah de fucking blah and that he should be expecting a raise in pay within the next few months - and oh wow, that caught his attention.

But still, talk about awkward.

The man was so old and so damn creepy, and Alfred kind of wondered how he had yet to keel over. The dude had to be going on a hundred and fifty. Why the fuck did the state want a geezer like him to run the court systems?

Things like that were just beyond his grasp of understanding.

Crouching down on the stone steps of the courthouse, he sighed, taking a lengthy drag on his cigarette as he felt the cold winter wind pierce through the material of his dress shirt, black tie fluttering in the icy breeze. Boy was it ever freezing outside. Bumps rose on his flesh and he shivered, wrapping a strong arm around his middle as he took another long drag on his smoke, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment, re-opening them as he exhaled through his nose. The last few media stragglers were just leaving the court house now, cameras on their shoulders and microphones in their hands as they chatted amongst themselves and the judge that had been working on the case, an older man that looked like, if he were to smile, the apocalypse looked like it might have been brought about prematurely.

Dropping his partially-smoked cigarette to the concrete, using the heel of his dress shoe to grind it out, he trotted up over the stairs and squeezed past them without a word, keeping his face ducked and away from the cameras and their operators; last thing he needed was a spot on television with a healing, somewhat faded, black eye.

Although Matthew had said it was an accident, and had spent five minutes apologizing profusely to the point that he was almost reduced to tears of personal humiliation (as he had listened to the younger man beg for forgiveness for nearly breaking his admirer's face, Alfred could a) tell that he was quite Canadian indeed and b) it made him wonder if it was just his eternally polite way of saying 'that's what fucking happens when you get in my way, bitch'), the American couldn't help but wonder if it had happened on purpose.

It had been several days since it happened - two days after the omelette fiasco involving a gun and him nearly wetting his pants - and they had not spoken since the incident, which was probably for the betterment of society as a whole. Or at least just their little corner of the universe which was probably going to undergo some epic implosion - at least on Matthew's end of the spectrum - at any point in the very near future. What had happened though was the epitome of sheer humiliation; he had gotten 'accidentally' elbowed in the face when he had been helping Matthew move something or other. It was just so unimportant that he couldn't even remember what the hell they had been doing at the time. All he could remember was getting whacked in the face.

'Accidentally' of course.

Despite the five minutes of self-demeaning and the frantic rush to get him an ice pack for his eye that was then turning a lovely shade of royal blue mingled with charcoal, Alfred could have sworn he saw a smug, dirty smirk surface on his face when Matthew thought he hadn't been looking.

An accident, though? 'Bull-fucking-shit!' said he the Superhero. That was like saying the September 11th Terrorist Attacks had simply been a miscalculation of the landing gears and supposed altitude of the plane and the location to land the goddamn thing. A harmless little accident that had absolutely null effect on the rest of the world entire for years to come.

He paused for a moment and considered his thoughts. Okay, so maybe saying that was a teensy bit on the side of extreme, but still. It illustrates the very same idea: neither of the separate incidents previously outlined were accidental in nature, at all.

Quickly trotting up over the flight of stone steps, Alfred ran a hand through his hair, tentatively fingering the tender flesh around his bruised eye with a sort of embarrassment. The last time he had gotten a shiner like this one had been when he played for the Harvard Varsity Football team, where he played as a quarterback for the first year of his being in the school. Then, however, he wore it as a badge of pride. This? This was humiliation; he had gotten a black eye at the hands (or the elbow, really) of an adorable little scrap of humanity that had a chip on his shoulder that rivalled the Berlin Wall.

Well, he surmised pleasantly as he entered his office, shutting the door behind him and locking it before going to sit down at his desk, at least Matthew was the one to turn around this time and ask him to hang out. Despite the fact that it was probably out of some obscene sense of guilt, Alfred felt absolutely elated. It was like Arthur had said; progress came in all sorts of different forms, right? Maybe this was a start to it, as hesitant and faltering as it was; maybe it was a start to something good. He felt delight swell in his chest and as he crossed the room with a bounce in his step - he was not skipping, dammit, little girls skipped not fully-grown male lawyers! - he restrained the urge to spin around and giggle like a child. They had no plans set out in stone just yet, but maybe Alfred would get Matthew to go over to his place and they could just chill out and play video games for a while. It was going to be another week before they got to do anything, based on the fact that Matthew already had plans for Saturday night - considering it was Christmas Eve - but he'd live. He'd have to, really. But goddammit he was way too fucking excited.

Flopping down at his desk and setting his feet down on the surface of it as he picked up a newspaper Arthur had photocopied for him, he started flicking through the inky pages, absently reading a few of the columns that were there before throwing the black and white print back down on the desk with a groan of exasperation. His eyes were burning already and he hadn't even looked at the newspaper for more than two minutes. Another groan, this one louder, left his lips and he flailed his arms spitefully before slumping back, panting, eyes sliding shut as he removed his feet from the desk.

He had been at this for hours now; he had arrived at seven am after his routine morning lines had worn off, and it was now six o'clock in the evening. It accounted for almost twelve hours of steady reading and note-taking, with the exception of two pee-breaks and that one smoke break.

This was not Sparta; this was a sober prostate exam with a scalding hot pitchfork.

(Sparta, on the other hand, is very temperate this time of year and December is a highly recommended time for vacationing. Don't forget to bring the children!)

Thump.

Alfred let his forehead collide with the top of his desk as he groaned yet again, this time with pain.

He was actually going to consider hanging himself in a little bit if he was left any longer to go over the remaining three years worth of newspapers he had covering every available surface in his wide, corner office.

Letting his cheek rest on the papers covering the surface of his mahogany desk, blue eyes fluttered shut and he masked a lazy yawn, rubbing his fingertips against his eye lids, wiping away the tears that had formed there.

Sitting back upright after a few moments of dozing in and out of sleep, he ran a hand through his hair and flicked his desk lamp back on, tossing the July 7th, 2004 edition of the local newspaper on the floor in the pile of 'already read it' papers while he leant over to the other side of the desk and picked up the issue for the eighth of that month. Adjusting his glasses, he removed his iPod from beneath the pile of papers and stuck in one of the ear buds, turning the device on as he poised a highlighter over the column he was currently focusing on. Or, at least trying to focus on; Lady GaGa was currently far more appealing than continuing his binge-reading before the trial started back up in another five to six months.

Something seemed to break with his attention span and sanity the moment he realized there was still half a year left to wait for the start of the retrial. He dropped the papers back on the desk and settled down, placing his feet back on the desk as he lazily highlighted bits and pieces of text every ten minutes or so.

At around seven thirty, there was a sharp rap at his door, and Alfred's head shot up, the ear bud falling from his ear as he did so, a frown creasing his lips and turning them downwards. Who the hell was still around at this hour, other than the other lawyers and the security guards? Most normal people were at home having dinner and watching television with their families by now, not sticking around the courthouse like he was, slaving his guts out for a case that still had least a half of a year before it would get back into even just the jury selection process of it all.

Not bothering with pausing the music, he stood and capped the yellow pen, setting it down on the line he had been previously as to keep from losing his spot; he crossed his office, stepping over a teetering pile of newspapers from the spring and summer of 2006. Jiggling the old brass knob, he unlocked the door, and grinned at the woman stood there, who in turn was glaring at the lawyer as though he carried the Bubonic Plague and the Spanish Flu at the same time. Yes! He had completely forgotten that he had sent his secretary on a Rotten Ronnie's run.

Oh, bless her cotton socks; he could positively kiss her for it.

"Two Big Macs, no pickles and with cheese, one super-sized fries and a freshly baked apple pie," the woman said in a flat voice, scowling slightly. "And a large Cola, via your request, Mr. Jones. Will that be all?"

"You," he said as he took the bag of McDonalds from her, "are an angel of the highest rankings amongst God or whatever the fuck it is up there. And yeah, that's it. You can go on home now, Audrey. I appreciate you coming in to help me with this on your day off."

Audrey, who happened to be the lawyer's personal secretary, smiled, her gaze softening. "It's no problem," she said with a shrug. "I get paid for it either way, so it doesn't bother me. Anyway, I couldn't leave you here all defenceless amongst that mess you have in there without sorting and categorizing it all for you."

"You could have," Alfred said with a laugh, peering into the bag and grinning. "You just happen to be incredibly anal about disorganization and I am the level seventy master of organized chaos."

"It's called OCD, you twit," she said, the scowl returning as Alfred leaned over and gave her a firm peck on the cheek. Sharp brown eyes roamed over him, taking in his appearance as a frown formed on her narrow, dark-skinned face. "You look pretty run down, hun. Have you eaten yet today? Did you get much sleep last night?"

Shaking his head 'no' on both accounts, Alfred plucked two fries out of the big, the deep fried pieces of potato still scalding hot, and chomped down on them before tipping the bag in her direction as an offering. The woman patted her flat stomach. "Diet," she said wryly. Alfred rolled his eyes, scoffing, and before he could say anything against her needing to be on a diet, she interjected, "Hey, you're worse than me; when you work seventeen hours a day your diet consists of coffee, cigarettes and cocaine. So don't bitch at me when you're even worse off than me in the long run."

"Yeah yeah, whatever," the American muttered, flickering his eyes away as his secretary hit a little too close to home for his comfort. He shifted awkwardly and peered back down in the bag for somewhere to look, trying not to giggle and grin when he saw a kid's toy in there. What a sweetheart; she had gotten him a Hot Wheels car. An absolute doll.

Audrey seemed to realize this, for she, too, looked away and sighed. "Don't stay here too late, alright?" she asked in a soft voice, hand coming out to firmly squeeze his upper arm in a tender, friendly gesture. They finally locked eyes again, and Alfred gave a singular nod of agreement. "Make sure you're out of here by at least nine o'clock tonight. I don't want to come in here tomorrow morning and find you asleep at your desk like I did last week." She received another firm peck on the cheek before she turned to leave, letting Alfred return to his work for the evening.

After he devoured his burgers, of course. They were top priority.

The man shut the door with a sigh and turned to lean against it, sliding down the length of the wood as he set his McDonalds down on the floor, removing a burger from the confines of the bag as his stomach growled with something that could only be called sheer anticipation; he was absolutely famished. It had been over a day since he had consumed anything, like she had said, other than cigarettes, Starbuck's coffee and cocaine - the Three C's that got him through the day, as sad as it was.

Chomping down on the Big Mac, he gave a moan of what could only be called total pleasure. Best first meal of the day, hands down. If it weren't for the fact that he knew he would get obscenely fat, he would gladly live off of McDonalds and Burger King for the rest of his life.

As he gazed around his office, slowly taking in his surroundings - the thick velvet draperies, the old furniture, the book cases filled with texts, volumes of encyclopaedias, and books on the law and American Constitution - Alfred decided that he was after spending more than enough time in his office for that day; it had been a week since he had been to the gym, and he had been holed up in his office for over twelve hours by this point. It was the perfect formula for losing all of his muscle mass and risking it turning into flab and other disgusting, unmentionable things. He shuddered at the mere thought of it.

Enough was enough; sure he was dedicated to the case and all, but fuck man, he had to draw the line somewhere. And where better than at the thirteenth hour marker?

Wolfing down the second burger and finishing off his fries within a matter of ten minutes, the American got up and stretched lazily, taking the bag and empty containers, dumping them in the garbage bin by his door. He was about ready to lock the door behind him when he remembered the iPod he had left running on his desk. There was no way he was leaving to go to the gym without having his own music to listen to instead of the overplayed shit on the radio, which was for sure. Scooting back across the room, jumping over a stack of organized newspapers courtesy of Audrey, he snatched it up off the desk and then turned to leave, just so happening to glance at one of the newspapers spread open on the floor.

He did a double-take of the contents on the front page.

And then Alfred froze, eyes widening behind his glasses as he read the headline from the paper dated to October 12th, 2006: "Senior Attending Bishop Ford Central Suspended for a Week for 'Artistic Expression': Justifiable or Ridiculous?" He stooped down and quickly picked it up, staring at it with wide-eyes and a slack jaw.

It couldn't be.

There was no fucking way it could be.

Beneath the headline was the picture that had captured Alfred's attention: a youth was stood in front of a wall that had been painted from one end to the other, depicting something that appeared to be a mixture of Russian and American history alike - everything from the start of the Cold War right up to the fall of the Berlin Wall, and how America and Russia tied into all of it. There was a rather demented-looking Uncle Sam poised in one corner of the picture, a frenzied look on his face as he pointed to the expanse of the picture with a musket that looked as though it had been dated to the Revolutionary war, a speech bubble by the icon's mouth, but he couldn't make out what the words were saying. Stalin, Kruschev, Truman and Kennedy were off in the far corner, looking smug as they more or less sneered at whoever walked by the painting. The four leaders looked just as twisted as Uncle Sam did. Such a brilliant execution of ideas that were both politically incorrect on the Americain side of the border and correct at the same time that it was nauseating; someone knew what they were doing and who it was they were aiming to piss off - besides everyone that was offended by socialism and/or Marxism, which was probably well over half of the United States of America.

It was not the painting, however, but the youth that had grabbed him so quickly by the throat in the way it had. It was the individual that had painted the masterpiece featured on the front page. He had curly blonde hair and a heart-shaped face, stunningly dewy indigo eyes and a confident, bright smile as he leant against the wall behind him, a paint brush in one hand and a can of spray paint in the other. All he wore was a simple white t-shirt that read 'Free Iran' in red and green text, and a pair of dark denim jeans, torn at the knees, both of the articles of clothing covered in copious amounts of paint. Even his sneakers were covered in the colourful splatters. Despite being so tall and lanky, he appeared tiny, slight beneath what he was wearing.

And above all he looked utterly defiant, as though daring whoever was taking the picture to say anything against him, to tell him he was wrong and wasn't allowed to speak his mind through whichever medium he so chose to speak. There was a challenge written on his pale, delicate face, and if Alfred had run into him during that time period, he would have turned tail and let the youth have his way first.

Matthew.

Holy heroin addicts in Detroit, Batman.

That was fucking Matthew on the cover of the newspaper in front of the mural.

As he glanced at the caption beneath it, he realized that he was looking at a seventeen-year-old Matthew Williams, the very man he had been trying to win the affection of. 'Matthew Williams, seventeen and the artist of this controversial mural, a student at the private catholic school Bishop Ford Central is facing a week-long suspension and a $1000 fine on account of his 'defacing' the school with anti-capitalism propaganda, which he says was for an art project.' He dropped the paper on his desk and sat on the floor, running a hand through his hair. The article accompanying it he could read later because his mind was just not producing logical thoughts anymore.

This was strange, to say the least. In that picture, Matthew looked so happy, so healthy, full of life, like he had a desire to live and if anyone said otherwise, they'd just get a big 'fuck you!' in response. The Matthew he knew now, however, was the complete opposite of this. He was frail, sickly-looking at times with his pale skin, thin face and shadowed eyes. The Matthew he knew didn't seem to have as much of a zest for life like he used to, apparently.

Such a terrifying contrast between the two individuals, and all Alfred could wonder was what the hell had happened to the boy in the picture to make him who he was now.


Seated in his bedroom, sketchbook in hand, Matthew was perched on the window seat that overlooked a nearby park, one leg swinging lazily as he pushed his curly blonde hair back out of his face. He hummed pleasantly, leaning down to scratch at his ankle on occasion, not once tearing his gaze from the paper in his hands. He was attempting to sketch the couple seated on the park bench, but found himself growing bored of it; they were plain and dull, just sitting there holding hands and giggling like a couple of morons and goddamnit, did he ever hate drawing people that were plain and dull.

Not to mention he felt like a bit of a creeper for just sitting there, watching and drawing them without their knowledge, but whatever, he could totally overlook that.

But he wanted excitement in his art, and for the love of fuck and all things holy, he was not getting excitement in this art by drawing some stupid, lovey-dovey college students.

Maybe, he decided, it was time to put it away for the day. Anyway, it was far too nice to be inside drawing the day away when he could go for a walk in the park or something. The breeze drifted in through his partially open window, causing the curtains to flutter slightly, and the smell of a sweet summer wind to permeate his room, freshening it up as it did so.

Yawning and stretching, he took his sketchbook and tossed it onto his bed as he meandered slowly over to his desk, taking his laptop and propping it up in his lap as he placed his feet on the surface, crossing them and hooking his legs at the ankles as he browsed down through his Facebook page. Before he went anywhere, he had a few things to take care of, such as replying to a wall post from Jeanne asking him if he wanted to come to her party, one from his friend Miguel asking him if he had a copy of the Resident Evil movie that he could borrow for the weekend, and an invitation to come over and stay the night at Gilbert's house. No, yes, God yes. Easy answers, thankfully. Nothing he had to spend too much time thinking about.

Anyway, anything Jeanne asked him would be either ignored outright or denied; the chick was a bitch, and there was no way that he, a fifteen-year-old, was going to even consider hanging out with a snotty little girl that was two years younger than him and still, as the rumours stated, played with Barbie dolls. He was a sophomore that was in a relationship, and she wasn't even a freshman yet. That was just eww on so many different levels that it was unreal. Someone had to draw the line somewhere, and when the Barbie dolls came into light, that would be where it was formed. Think Great Wall of China with the reinforcements of the Berlin Wall.

He was about to log onto MSN, to see if Gilbert was on in order to ask him when he wanted to hang out and when he could stay over for a night, when he heard Jason, his mother's husband and his newly christened step-father, screech out for him in a voice that sounded less-than-pleased. The man had a grating voice as it was, but when he yelled, it became a thousand times worse.

Just think about the sound a cat would make when getting run over by an eighteen-wheeler, and then getting backed up over before it had a chance to die, and you more or less have what it sounded like to Matthew.

Standing hesitantly, feeling his gut twist into a knot that made him positively stomach sick, Matthew slipped his cell phone into his pocket and left his room. He poked his head around the corner of the stairs after padding silently down the hall. The man was nowhere to be seen, but that didn't mean he wasn't down there waiting for him in the same way a shark waited for that one, unsuspecting idiot to fall overboard and become his next meal. He swallowed hard and ran a trembling hand through his hair. "Y-Yes?" Shit. He squeaked.

"Get down here. Now."

Fuck shit damn.

He hesitated, feet feeling as though they had been rooted to the spot.

"I said now, Matthew."

The man was practically snarling.

Oh God, he was totally fucked.

Trotting down over the stairs, he paused on the last step, trying to hold back the bile that was starting to rise in his throat as he made his way into the living room. Jason, his step-father of seven months, stood at the foot of them, arms folded across his chest as he glared daggers at the boy. He couldn't even bring himself to say anything to his step-father; the anxiety-driven nausea was so strong. There was a palpable tension between the fifteen-year-old and the forty-three-year-old, as the former shied away while the latter looked positively murderous.

"Yes, sir?" he asked meekly, voice a mere whisper as he tried to edge his way back upstairs.

"It's your turn to do the dishes and laundry," the man snapped in reply, eyes narrowed and positively arctic. He held himself with a sort of arrogance, an attitude that screamed 'I am holier than thou now suck it'. Chestnut brown hair that was starting to go gray at the sides, dark eyes and he had the slightest scruff on his cheeks and neck; the man had not bothered to shave for the day and if anything, it made him look all that much more worse in the Canadian's eyes.

When his step-father said this, Matthew positively deflated with relief, shoulders sagging and his knees nearly buckling in the process. Dish duty. He could handle that. God, could he ever handle that. "Of course!" he said with a soft smile, indigo eyes crinkling gently at the corners as he hopped down the last few steps and made his way to the kitchen, a slight bounce in his step as he went.

"Who said I was done with you just yet, Brat?"

He froze in place and shut his eyes, rubbing at them behind the frames. Turning after a moment, he smiled warily at his step-father, observing him from a distance, a small No Man's Land in between them, the Danger Tree the front door and the barbed wire the sofa. There was space between them, which was what mattered. A quick glance about the room and he saw that Jason was blocking his way to both the phone and the front door. He swore in his head, using ever cuss word he knew and had learned from Miguel and Gilbert. He did a rear inventory. The back door was bolted shut, and with the two dead bolts and chain, it would prove to be too much of a struggle in case he needed to use that one. Fuck.

Turning his gaze back to Jason, the two men locked eyes. Even from this distance he could tell the man had been drinking, and heavily at that; he could smell the booze off of him, and the bastard was stood on the other side of the room with no means of ventilation to blow the stench of liquor in his direction. That, and a quick glance to the kitchen counter and he knew he would find an empty bottle of Jack Daniels there. Of course his mother had to marry an alcoholic that had issues with insecurity in thinking his new wife happened to love her son more than he. Of course.

Because something like that made everything better when he thought things couldn't get worse than what they already were.

"D-Do you know where m-mom is?" Matt asked in a tiny voice, edging back into the kitchen. Jason caught the movement and snarled, successfully stopping the minute movements dead in their tracks.

"Stop stuttering, for fuck sakes. And she's gone out of town for the weekend," Jason growled. "So I'm stuck babysitting your sorry ass."

Matthew refrained from rolling his eyes and tried not to sigh too loud. Just like his mother, to run off with some of her friends for the weekend to some spa in the Upper East Side, leaving him there with that tyrant he was supposed to call his father. Since they had gotten married, so much had changed, and there were times the boy wondered if his mother was still the same person.

"I apologize for the difficulties I present in being your step-son," he said, feeling a smirk trying to tug the corners of his mouth upwards. He kept them tense and flat though, something he had grown quite practiced in over the past couple of months; apparently Jason didn't quite like it when he smiled, and he had ended up with more than one black eye because of it.

He yelped when something glass was unexpectedly flung in his direction, arms flying up over his head in a protective manner as he screwed his eyes shut. The trinket shattering against the wall, shards tinkling to the floor in a pile of sharp shrapnel. "Don't you dare take that fuckin' tone with me, you little brat," was the snarl he received in reply to his somewhat sarcastic reply. "I'll beat the shit out of you if you do. Now go do those dishes, right now." Well now shit. Jason was drunker than he had previously thought; if he looked close enough, he could see that the man was swaying slightly on the spot.

Muttering a quiet, venomous 'asshole' beneath his breath, Matthew pivoted on his heel, stalking out into the kitchen as his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. Suddenly and very unexpectedly, a large hand tightly gripped his upper arm and jerked him backwards. It felt as though his arm was being yanked clean out of its socket; pain shot up in agonizing jolts as he was ripped to the side. A strangled yelp escaped his throat as he was slammed up against the wall, and he felt his stomach churn as the smell of whiskey and rum assaulted his senses; his step-father had him pinned to the wall of the kitchen, and had bent down to his level. They were practically nose-to-nose. Immediately he jerked his head to the side in an attempt to get the man's breath out of his face, but this only succeeded in having his step-father roughly pinch his cheek and turning his face so that they could look at one another directly.

"What did you just call me, you little bitch?" Jason snarled, feral in the way he drunkenly bared his teeth and glared.

"I didn't say anything," Matthew said quietly, lower lip trembling as he tried to press himself closer against the wall. God, if only he could turn invisible or something and just slip out of the house altogether. Maybe he'd start believing in God again if he could just do that much.

A palm connected with his cheek, and he could feel his baby-soft skin stinging painfully from the open-hand slap he received. So, this was going to be just like any other day. How dreadfully routine of it all. But it still didn't stop him from being any less terrified of the angry man in front of him, a man that resented his existence. He bit down on his lip so hard that he could taste the coppery liquid the skin expelled from the force with which his teeth dug into the inside of his mouth, white enamel becoming slicked with crimson in the process.

"I asked you a question," his step-father growled, the hand on his arm tightening so hard he could feel his flesh bruising. Any harder and his arm would probably break. A whimper escaped his lips, much to his humiliation. "When I ask you a question I expect an answer, and an honest one at that. So what did you just call me?" He spoke in a sickly sweet voice, smiling pleasantly, dangerously. Matthew watched him with a distinct sense disgust growing in his chest, wondering how his mother could remain oblivious to all of this. Perhaps it was the lies he told, both Jason and Matt himself, which kept her oblivious. But something just had to give. Something. Anything.

"I said nothing," he reiterated stubbornly.

Another slap, this one harder than before. Matthew could taste more blood in his mouth and his cheek was positively burning from the force with which he had been struck. Tears threatened at the backs of eyes, and something akin to a sob sounded in his throat.

After another slap to the face, one that made him see stars and made his knees go weak from the pain, Matthew shrieked an 'I called you a fucking asshole, you bastard!' instead of going with the smooth lie that wasn't being bought by the older man. This was obviously a mistake as it earned him an elbow to the jaw instead of just an open-palm slap to the face. Pain flared along his jaw, and this time he actually did let out a strangled cry, hand going up to the stricken spot as he reeled away, staggering and nearly crashing into the doorframe.

Dropping down onto his knees and crawling away from his step-father, Matthew spat out the blood that had been pooling in his mouth, under his tongue, in the back of his throat, out and onto the floor, fighting back the tears of pain that were threatening to spill over and down his cheeks. Although he did not visibly cry, he dry-sobbed, hiccoughing and trying not to gag from the force behind it. When Jason made a lunge for him, he scrambled to his feet with a startled shout, his eyes going wide and staggering out into the living room, nearly crashing into and knocking over a table with a vase on it. Just a little something to add to the mess.

Jason followed him with lazy steps, knowing full well that he was able to out-muscle and corner the lithe fifteen-year-old. He walked with a confident swagger, approaching the shaking teen with a hateful smirk on his lean, pale face. The boy managed to evade him several times, once even managing to cause the lunging man to almost slam drunkenly into the wall himself as he vaulted his agile body over the back of the sofa. Finally catching him, grabbing Matthew by the shoulder, he shoved him at the wall, holding him there by a hand placed loosely around his throat, stooping down and glaring at the trembling boy. There was a cold smirk on his face.

"Listen here and listen good," he hissed, dark eyes narrowing as he sneered at his step-son. Again, the smell of liquor bathed over his skin and all the boy wanted to do was vomit. "The only reason I'm putting up with you is because of how much your mother loves you. Otherwise, you'd be gone for good; I'd have you shipped off the fucking continent so fast your dead grandmother would feel it."

A calloused hand was resting on his hip now, and Matthew suddenly went rigid, feeling his blood run cold as the hand moved up from his thin hip to rest on his side, Jason's thumb drawing small circles on his pale, smooth skin. His eyes were now impossible wide and a small whimper escaped him. The man's lips quirked in a smirk, even colder than the last one. This was different, and very unwanted. The hand on his side ran up further, taking the material of his shirt with it.

That was the final straw for the boy.

Without even thinking what he was doing and about to do though, the Canadian slugged his step-father square in the jaw, feeling his knuckles crack painfully as he did so, an agonizing jolt shooting up as far as his elbow.

And then the next thing Matthew knew, he was being thrown backwards against the fireplace with a yell escaping his lips. The back of his head hit the brick mantle with a sickening crack and he slumped down as his eyes rolled up in his skull, motionless, against the red brick of the old ingle. Blood slicked the beige part of the mantle, where Matthew's skull had made contact with the concrete, and was beginning to pool on the floor, where he currently lay, unmoving yet still conscious. His eyes fluttered, and with every slight noise he heard in the room, he flinched as though he had been struck by yet another unseen blow.

After a moment, he dragged himself upright, the room around him spinning violently, like a madman's merry-go-round. Focus. He couldn't focus, on anything, anything at all. He just couldn't. Jason was stood a little ways away from him, eyes wide, an astonished look on his face as though he hadn't actually intended for his step-son to crash against the hearth and bash his skull open the way he had. A peculiar look of sobriety registered on the older man's face. Then the youth suddenly retched, doubling over but swallowing the vomit that had risen in his throat. Last thing he needed to do was puke on the floor; he'd get more than shoved into a fireplace that was for sure.

In a raspy voice, one that was weaker and had lost the venom it had before held, Jason spoke up, pointing to the door, eyes shut and a hand on the side of his head. "Get out," he hissed. "Just get the fuck out and don't come back until Sunday night, when your mother gets back, do you understand me?"

Matthew was up and on his feet, not even taking a change of clothing, out the door in a matter of seconds as the world careened around him, the ground coming up to try and meet with his face.

Blood still dripped down the back of his neck, staining his purple t-shirt a brownish-red. His hair was matted with the substance, and he knew his face was more than likely in a state of disarray as well. Everything around his was being viewed in tunnel vision, and he had absolutely no idea as to how he was still standing upright; there was no fucking way it was perseverance. He felt like a piece of humanoid shit, to be frank. This wasn't the first time this had happened, either, sadly enough; Jason had beaten him black and blue more than once, and now that it was summer, he was going to be pressed for excuses about why he had bruises on his arm and face. He wouldn't be able to use volleyball practice or taking a fall during cross-country as an excuse anymore, not since school had gotten out two weeks ago.

Looked to him like it was high time to put his notorious creativity to good use once more.

He made it to the end of the block before he collapsed against a stairwell leading up to a fancy apartment, identical to the one he lived in, dizziness and blood loss finally amounting to more than what his tiny, young body could handle. His head lolled briefly before it came to rest on the rock behind him. The moment his head made contact with the sun-heated concrete, he hissed with pain, feeling his stomach turn violently from the agonizing pounding in his head that made even the most vicious migraine look absolutely tame. Tears rolled steadily, freely, down his cheeks, the sun overhead beat down without a shred of mercy, and as he took out his phone, he immediately knew who he was going to go to.

A simple text message was sent: Come get me. Corner.

That text message, he knew, would be the one that saved him; he had sent it more than once to the first person on his speed-dial.

And within twenty minutes a car pulled up alongside him, and out of it bounded a pale-faced, worried eighteen-year-old with a shock of white-blonde hair. Gilbert Beilschmidt, a senior at his school who also just so happened to be his boyfriend (and part-time guardian angel).

Running around the front of the car, he vaulted himself over the hood of another as he approached the semi-alert Matthew, who was reclined with his back against the solid concrete rail of the steps, head resting backwards, eyes slit-like in his ghastly white face. Blood was smeared against the steps, and the back of his entire t-shirt was stained with the substance. He looked like a war zone.

"Mattie?" he asked weakly, crouching down beside the teen, greeting him with a gentle kiss to his temple, letting his spindly fingers gently caress the soft, bruised cheek.

Hazed-over eyes fluttered open and he was given a tentative smile. "Hey, Gil," he whispered, voice cracking. He licked his lips; they were parched. "C-Could I stay at your place for the weekend? Ju-Just till my mom gets back, I promise."

"Oh, God, of course you can, Birdie. You don't even have to ask that." Sitting on the steps beside Matthew, Gilbert sighed, pulling the limp teen close to his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around the thin frame, burying his face in amongst his blonde curls as the younger started to sob openly into his chest. Delicate, bird-like hands fisted into the material of his Morrissey t-shirt and he breathed in deeply, eyes fluttering.

"Fuck," Gilbert snarled, somehow pulling the sobbing, battered youth even closer to his chest, "that fuck face is after doing quite the number on you this time around, hasn't he." Not a question, simply a statement. There was a moment of silence punctured by soft crying before the American spoke again, "You know I could get my dad to go all angry 'Nam vet on his ass, right?"

"That's what scares me," came the soft mumble from Gilbert's shirt, followed by a watery giggle.

Laughing softly as though he were glad to see his boyfriend's sense of humour was still intact, he carded his fingers through the blood-dampened locks, stopping only when there was a hiss of what was no doubt pain. Then, it seemed as though the German-American finally pieced together the reaction and the copious amounts of blood. If it was possible, his face went even whiter than before. He scrambled for words to apologize with. "Ah, fuck shit damn, sorry Birdie, I-I didn't mean to h-hurt you," he said in a frantic rush, peering down to the boy that quivered against his chest.

Matthew shook his head 'no', slowly sitting upright despite how dangerously his head spun. Nausea swelled once more and he swallowed the vomit that rose in his throat. He gave a long, exaggerated blink before leaning forward, pressing his lips against Gilbert's freshly shaved cheek. His skin, soft beneath his lips, smelt and felt amazing. "S'okay," he murmured, forehead coming to rest on the other's shoulder. "You're not the one that hurt me."

He didn't comment on how he felt the German-American's hands clench into fists at the base of his spine. All he knew was that it made him feel a world safer despite the threat he knew it posed when directed against someone he didn't know or trust, or someone he hated; like the boy's step-father for instance.

Pressing his lips to the other's neck, Matt sighed softly. Exhaustion, driven by the deadly concussion and blood loss combined, was beginning to overtake him. "'M so tired."

Without another word, Gilbert hefted up the slight teen, keeping him pressed firmly to his chest as he took slow, measured steps to his car, a candy apple red 1973 Mustang Mach 1 he had painstakingly restored to its former glory alongside his brother and his father. Being as incoherent as he was, Matthew barely realized he had been placed in the car, only noticing it when he felt the momentum it had picked up, causing the backseat to vibrate.

"Gil?" he whispered, hoping his voice was loud enough for the other to hear. He swallowed the lump in his throat, trying not to puke. A small part of his brain screamed at him for getting blood in Gilbert's car.

"Yeah, Birdie?"

"I'm sorry."

There was a long moment before Gilbert replied, but when he did, his voice was like ice. "You don't need to be apologizin'," he said, somewhat harsh-sounding. Matthew, however, was not bothered by it; from the strained sound of his boyfriend's voice, he could tell that he was suppressing the majority of it. "I already told you that before, you have nothing to apologize for, alright?"

"Okay." A brief pause, and then, "Gil?"

Ever the patient man, Gilbert replied in the same manner as before, voice equally soft and tender.

"I'm going to go to sleep now, okay?"

He was surprised by the car coming to a stop, and the driver turning around to face the lying down passenger, a look of concern in his pale blue eyes. "No, don't go to sleep," he said rapidly. "You can't go to sleep when you're after taking a blow to the head like that." Calloused fingertips so much more gentle than Jason's, slid across his cheek and down over his lips where they remained for a brief moment. Matthew kissed them, giving a small, shy smile.

"But Gilbert," he murmured, eyes fluttering shut. He grumbled when his boyfriend shook him awake. "I'll be fine. I just want to take … a little nap, s'all."

Again, Gilbert shook his head 'no'. "You can't, Matthew," he said firmly. "You got to stay awake for me, please." He sounded absolutely desperate; he looked it, too, with how he chewed on his lower lip and fidgeted in the driver's seat, eyes flickering about as though he were looking for someone to help him. "Let me see those gorgeous eyes of yours."

"That's not possible, silly," Matthew said with a soft giggle, the sound only getting louder as he saw his boyfriend's eyes soften and a blush creep into his cheeks. "You have to keep your eyes … on the road … not me …"

His eyes fluttered shut and he sighed, burying himself into the leather material of the back seat, loving the smell of freshly cleaned leather, motor oil and something that was distinctly Gilbert. He felt the hand leave his cheek, and after that, it felt as though he had lost all the sensations in his body.

After a brief moment he opened his eyes, starting when he found himself not in the backseat of a Mustang, but in the Beilschmidt's living room, stretched off on the sofa with a thick blanket covering his form. Across from him, in the nearby dining room, Gilbert and his younger brother, Ludwig, a junior at their school, played cards, the two of them smoking cigarettes in a nonchalant manner as their father, a tall, blonde, full-blooded German man sat in the kitchen, fiddling with his laptop as he drank some water. There was something thick on the back of his pulsating head, making it heavier than what was necessary. Slowly, after a long moment, he glanced beneath the blanket and saw that he was wearing some of Gilbert's clothing in place of his own- his gray cargo shorts and a Sex Pistols t-shirt that read "GOD SAVE THE QUEEN". The teen grinned wryly, feeling lightly humorous.

There was no way in hell his boyfriend was getting this shirt back.

Rolling off of the sofa and to his knees on the floor, Matthew used the low coffee table to his advantage for standing, keeping the blanket wrapped tightly around his thin shoulders. A quick glance to the window and he saw that the sky beyond the glass was pitch black. How late was it? And how long had he been out cold for? All he knew was that he had a brutal headache and it felt like someone had taken a pick-axe to his skull…

Then he remembered.

Jason. Fireplace. Hitting his head. Texting Gilbert. The car ride.

Fuck.

Sighing, he approached the two brothers with slow steps as the vertigo passed, sinking down onto a chair beside his boyfriend and resting his head on his shoulder, watching the two brother's playing with a dull fascination.

"Hey," Gilbert said softly, peering down at the bleary-eyed Canadian beside him, a tender look on his face that mingled in with concern. "How you feelin', Birdie?"

"Gross," came the flat reply.

And then: "You're getting your ass kicked by Ludwig, aren't you?"

The eighteen-year-old simply grumbled and removed Matthew's face from his shoulder as his brother snorted, grinning at the boy that was only a year younger than him. Gilbert started scowling even further as his father cackled from the kitchen, clapping his hands with an ill-placed sort of mirth. Need it be said that Mr. Beilschmidt liked Matthew?

Glancing around the dining room, the blonde-haired Canadian frowned. "Where's your mom?" he asked politely, putting his head down on the table, cheek pressed firmly against the cool wood as he stared up at his boyfriend.

The older teen took a lazy drag on his cigarette, exhaling out his nose before answering. "She's in Boston on business," he said. "Some company meeting; dad'll be going out there later on the week. Right old man?"

"Shut your trap, you little punk-ass shit," Mr. Beilschmidt said with a gruff chuckle as he got up from the kitchen table with a groan, hand going to his lower back as he made an attempt to straighten up; despite being only in his late fifties, the shrapnel he had taken to the leg and bullet to the stomach when he was twenty had left him with a permanent limp and stiff body. With his free hand he shut his laptop as he hobbled his way out into the dining room, leaning on a wooden cane for support. Pale blue eyes, similar to Gilbert's, swept across the three teenagers in the room. The war veteran took a seat at the head of the table, adjusting his chair so that he was seated on either side of his sons. He smiled slightly.

"Nice to see you're avake, Matthew," he said, his English harshly accented from years of speaking only German. "That vas quite the mess you had on the back of your head. I'm not at all surprised you remained unconscious the entire time I cleaned you up. Vould you care to tell us vhat happened?"

Shifting awkwardly, he sighed. "I got in a fight with Jason again," he muttered, "but this time I actually fought back and he shoved me into the fireplace." A pale hand went up to touch the back of his skull, where the wound had been, only to have his fingers brush across a thick pad of bandages. That explained the weight. Fixing his chin-length curly hair, he styled it so that it fell over the covering without showing off too much of it. Being inconspicuous was the key. A small murmur of displeasure left him and he rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand.

A look of unspoken rage flitted across Dietrich Beilschmidt's face, and the German shook his head slowly, muttering in rapidly in his home dialect while his son's eyes went wide with shock. Matthew shrunk down in his chair, averting his own eyes as he felt his cheeks heat up; even though he didn't understand a lick of the language, save for the endearments Gilbert used when they were together, he suspected that the business man was probably cursing out his step-father with the vilest words he knew. And if it was something that shocked Gilbert, it had to be pretty vile.

"Let me tell you this now: an excuse oft a man like him vould have been used as Guerrilla bait back in Vietnam," he snarled venomously, a large beefy hand clenching into a fist as he set it down firmly on the thick wood table. "I don't know vhy you don't just get him hauled up on charges of child abuse, Matthew. You'll do yourself a vorld oft good by doing so; it's either that or I go down there vith one oft my guns und blast him back to Alcatraz."

Common knowledge stated that Dietrich Beilschmidt owned an arsenal of illegal weapons, including semi-automatic submachine guns, three Russian AK-47s, and if he tried hard enough, he could probably turn Central Park into a WWII-era mine field.

"My mom loves him," he whispered, eyes fluttering shut as tears threatened to spill down over his cheeks. Saying that felt like a punch in the gut; while yes, he was more than happy that his mother had finally found someone after being alone for so long, it killed him that the man she married had more issues than what the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition would have put out on the shelves. "She loves him, and she doesn't know anything about this happening. I don't want to ruin her life any more." At this, Gilbert's face fell and the older youth sighed, brushing his fingertips across his boyfriend's knuckles, leaning over and pressing a gentle kiss to his temple. A ghost of a smile crossed Matthew's pallid face and he took Gilbert's hand in his, squeezing it lightly before letting go once more.

Despite this, Mr. Beilschmidt simply smiled his own little smile, saying nothing to his son or his son's boyfriend.

For a long while they sat in silence, the two brothers still smoking their cigarettes and playing cards, Matthew watching them with a muted amusement as they would cast each other sly, cunning looks. Their father spent the duration of the game alternating between watching his sons playing and the Canadian seated across from him.

And then, as the game came to an end, Ludwig slapped his hand down on the table, looking smug as he ground out his cigarette in the crystal ash tray the two teenagers were sharing. "Royal flush," he said with a grin. "You have dish duty for the next month, brother. Enjoy."

Gilbert tossed his cards onto the table and sighed, slumping down in his chair, grumbling. "You'd make me do that?" he whined, squirming on the spot, pouting deeply, trying to look every bit the kicked puppy he more than likely felt. At this, Matthew had to stifle his giggle lest he offend his lover.

"Yes, yes I would," Ludwig said simply, still looking smug as he stood, stretching lazily. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going out for a little while. I should be back by about one." He gave Matthew a firm squeeze on the shoulder as he left the dining room, grabbing his sweater from the back of an arm chair as he went. The back of it was emblazoned with their school's coat of arms, his last name and his jersey number - the teenager, who had the build of a human Soviet tank, was a quarterback on their school's football team.

"I guess that means I have to drive you. Ah, Scheiße," their father muttered darkly. "Might as vell." Mr. Beilschmidt stood with a grunt, tousling the youngest in the room's hair as he went, grabbing the keys and following his youngest son out the door, calling back over his shoulder that he would return later and for them to refrain from burning down the house or poisoning the neighbour's cats. And, of course, he was followed out the door by the family dog, a heavy-set German Shepherd that just so happened to think it was the ultimate lapdog, not a fully grown male animal the weighed almost a hundred pounds.

And so the two of them, Matthew and Gilbert, sat in silence for a little while longer, the former staring at the table and the latter at the wall. Neither of them wanted to break the fragile quiet that had formed, the two content to be sat in the presence of the other, knowing full well that they did not require words. So all they did was occasionally brush their fingers across the other's hand, glance at one another and smile, remaining silent the entire while.

There were times that the Canadian found himself wondering why Gilbert, the handsome eighteen-year-old that he was - exuberant, loud, obnoxious and 'awesome', as he would declare boldly for all to hear - took interest in a fifteen-year-old that was too shy and introverted for his own good. Sure the guy had been Matthew's first friend when he had been enrolled in the private, catholic school, but just friends and dating were two completely different concepts. They both knew that there were plenty of girls and even a few guys that wanted to date him, and the youth found it somewhat mind-boggling that, nine months ago when he was still just fourteen and he seventeen, Gilbert had shown up at his doorstep, stumbling over the words he had spent three hours choosing to use to ask him out with. And what had been even more amazing was the fact that the semi-albino teen seemed to be more than willing to take all the baggage he came with, and then some.

Baggage such as an incredibly livid Canadian mother when she found out that her son was dating a guy that was three years older than him. It was the guy part that had done it for her, though.

Taking him by the hand with a sigh, Gilbert stood, hauling Matthew up slowly as if to keep him from getting too dizzy and stooped somewhat to bring their lips together in a soft, gentle kiss, his blue eyes hazy as he pulled back only a little bit. He looked sad despite the tiny smile that played across his pale lips. "You had me worried when you fell asleep there earlier," he murmured against the other's mouth, eyes heavily lidded. He brought their lips together in another kiss, this one a little more heated than the first one and when they pulled apart a pleasant shiver travelled through the Canadian's body and he licked his tingling lips.

Wrapping his arms around the German's middle and still managing to keep the blanket wrapped firmly around his frame, Matt buried his nose in his boyfriend's neck, shutting his eyes and making an apologetic humming noise. Strong arms wrapped around him, keeping his body pressed tight to the one he was resting against. Whatever it was that had driven Gilbert to ask him out despite their age difference, he was damn well thankful for it; he would have considered offing himself several months ago if it weren't for the German's stubborn resilience in taking care of the younger when things got a little too rough for him to handle; in making the younger talk despite not wanting to; despite when he thought it was stupid and pointless.

A guardian angel indeed.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, a bark of startled laughter leaving him as he was scooped up into the other's arms, being cradled in a way so that his arms were draped over his shoulders, legs at the German-American's waist. "I would have tried to stay awake, but at the moment sleeping just seemed like such a better option."

A soft kiss, a mumbled 'alright', and he was carried into his boyfriend's bedroom. After being placed on the bed despite the grumbled 'I can do that myself, Gilbert; I'm not an invalid', the blankets were tucked firmly around him. Stretching lazily and ruffling his hair as he crossed the room, Gilbert toed his bedroom door shut, revealing a poster of a popular Salvador Dali painting: the one with the melting clocks whose name Matthew couldn't remember for the life of him.

His boyfriend flopped down onto the carpet with a yawn, stretching as he reclined backwards onto his elbows, skimming a finger across the spines of his movie collection. "Wanna watch a movie?" Gil asked, looking up at his boyfriend, the tiny youth curled up on his bed, from his spot on the floor. He grinned. "I just picked up a copy of Fahrenheit 9/11 the other day if you want to check that shit out. I would so bend over for Michael Moore, by the way."

Matthew laughed loudly at that and nodded, propping himself up somewhat - at least his head didn't spin as badly with each movement he made. "Sounds good to me," he murmured, watching as Gilbert hauled off his shirt and pants, reaching for a pair of lounge pants and hauling them on before he popped the DVD into the player, turning on the television as he did so. A dull blush formed on his cheeks as he tried not to stare at the toned expanse of the other's bare, pale chest. Of course, he failed. Miserably. White-blue eyes met with his and they shared a smile. "You want something to eat or drink, Birdie?"

"Sure," Matthew said with a small yawn, stretching lazily. "Doesn't matter what it is; I'm hungry enough to eat anything right about now."

At this, a coy, lewd smile appeared on Gilbert's face. "Anything?" he purred gently, winking at the blonde that squeaked and had turned a delicious shade of red. Laughter bubbled out of him and he turned to leave the room. "I'll get us some chips and popcorn. Is Pepsi alright?"

The teen curled in the bed chirped a pleasant 'yes' once he felt his cheeks cool off - Gilbert always managed to have that effect on him, for the love of crap, despite having done plenty of unmentionable things with him (and in some of the oddest places, at that) - and did his best to stay awake until he returned with what would be more than enough food to feed a small army. And it was a hard task, considering how good the older teen's bed smelt (like Old Spice, cigarettes, and the peppermint candies the German-American favoured), and how comfortable it was against his stiff body. He snuggled down deep into the blankets, a dumb smile on his face, barely noticing it when Gilbert pressed play on the movie and got into the bed as well. He only truly noticed it when noise from the television filled the room and Gilbert squirmed slightly, moving himself so that he could mould his body against the younger's back, feathering gentle kisses along the nape of his neck lovingly, protectively. After a moment he was urged to turn over, fingers tickling the base of his spine being the ultimate cue.

With a sigh and a slight giggle as his back arched from the tickling, Matthew rolled over in order to face the television, resting his head on Gilbert's bare chest as they started munching on the popcorn. If only he could stay here all the time, he pondered quietly, somehow managing to curl in even closer to his boyfriend, blushing when he heard the other chuckle slightly, a broad hand going to rest on his hip and doodling absent-minded spirals on his hipbone. His fingertips were grazing the toned muscles of his flat stomach.

If only he could stay there all the time, then maybe things would be normal.

As McKnight listened to Matthew speak, the younger man stationed in the window, unmoving during the entire half an hour of steady speaking, the psychiatrist didn't quite know how to react to what was told to him; all of it was new information, and frankly he couldn't help but feel as though his mind had been a little bit blown by some of it.

He didn't know that Matthew had been beaten by his step-father as a teen.

He didn't know that Matthew's step-father had been an alcoholic.

He didn't know that Matthew had been molested several times by said alcoholic step-father (when the man had found this out he had nearly had a hernia, much to his patient's wry amusement and slight concern).

And he most certainly did not know that Matthew was bisexual (but for some reason that didn't come across as that much of a surprise).

Rubbing his face, he watched the now-stoic blonde perched on the window seat. The young man had his head resting on the cold window, eyes vacant as he absently cleaned his glasses. There was a pained look on his delicate face, and it was streaked with tears; there had been several times throughout his monologue that he had broken down in tears and had to stop, getting up to pace the office, occasionally studying the spines of books, touching them tentatively as if to familiarize himself with the present to keep from fully regressing back into the past.

To top all that off, McKnight hadn't even expected Matthew to talk about his past in such an in-depth manner, or without having to even be prompted about it. Normally their sessions encompassed sitting there for an hour and discussing idle things, dabbling cautiously around the edges of Matthew's precarious existence as a teenager.

This day, however, the Canadian had simply sat on the edge of his desk and stared at the wall for a few moments before looking at his psychiatrist with an odd expression, something off in his tired eyes. "I need to talk," was what he had said, voice wavering in a way he had never before heard, and he gave his patient the berth and then some to do so.

And here they were, two hours later, and all McKnight could say was, "Oh, my."

Matthew chuckled weakly, letting his head rest back against the book case as he looked over to his psychiatrist, a small smile on his lips. "You can say that again," he said in a low voice, running a hand through his hair. "I still have the scar there and everything, despite Mr. Beilschmidt cleaning up the wound for me and bandaging it; I should have gotten stitches for it, really. But that would have been a whole new mess."

"Did you ever go to the hospital for any of your injuries?" McKnight inquired tersely, all the while wanting to meet this Jason so he could batter so that he resembled a rainbow. If only Gilbert's father could have beaten him to it - hah, that's a pun - and brutalized the shit clean out of the bastard. It had been quite some time since he had been subject to such vengeful, vindictive thoughts, but the psychiatrist decided that there was no time like the present than to have them, and this particular present seemed to very appropriate for them.

"Only twice," Matthew said with an odd sort of embarrassment, "and Gilbert had to sort of force me the initial time. First time was because he broke my arm so I really had no choice, and the second time was when he pushed me down a flight of stairs. Actually, now that I think of it, I didn't have much of a choice there, either..."

"He did what?"

Matthew cringed. "It wasn't too serious," he said lamely, running a hand through his hair, pulling on the ends and letting the curls bounce with a look of what could be considered amusement in his haunted eyes. "I only broke my collar bone, my shoulder and my ankle…" He quailed beneath the scalding hot look he was given. "Yeah, Gilbert nearly blew a gasket when he heard about it, too; he was attending Penn State at the time, and this was after we had broken up, but he still left partway through the semester to come and stay with me at the hospital for a week. I told my mom and the doctors that I simply slipped on some water on the stairs. They bought it, too."

Despite knowing he had to keep it utterly professional (and to an hour time limit, but the hell with that now), McKnight sighed, slumping down in his desk, tipping his head backwards in order to stare at the ceiling. "I'd ask you more about your step-father," he said darkly, "but for one, I don't want to learn any more about him for today, to be honest. I think I might just blow a gasket myself. So, I'll just ask you a question or two about Gilbert. Do you mind terribly?"

"I don't mind at all," the Canadian said demurely with a slight nod.

"How long did you two date for?"

Swinging one of his legs, he was silent for a minute. And then, Matt spoke: "Ah, almost a year and a half. It was about a month after my sixteenth birthday when we broke up, and the only reason we did was because Gilbert got accepted into a medical program at Penn State, and he didn't want to put me through a long-distance relationship at such a young age." The speaker shrugged in a nonchalant manner. "I was willing to stay dating him, but for some reason he knew me better than I did myself, so I accepted it. He left for Pennsylvania at the end of August, so we had been separated for a month by that time. And, well, he was right; it made splitting up a lot easier."

McKnight nodded slowly, thinking 'smart kid' with a sort of approval. "So, I take it you two still remained on good terms, even through that month?"

"Oh, definitely," Matthew said with a grin. "We still hung out all the time, we just didn't have anything, well, binding us together, I guess you could say. No commitments. I know I didn't date anyone until he left, and I think he was there for about two semesters before he tried going out with anyone. It was kind of cute, actually; we were talking over MSN, I think it was, and it was like he sort of asked my permission to go out with this chick. Funniest thing ever, but adorable."

Unable to help the chuckle that left him, McKnight found himself smiling. "Are you two together now?"

There was a pause as Matthew seemed to debate how to answer this. Then, finally, he shook his head 'no'. "We're not interested in each other like that anymore," he said softly. "He's my best friend, and frankly, I wouldn't have it any other way, as fucking cheesy as that sounds. However, there are times when we, ah, well … y'know. Do … stuff." As he spoke, his cheeks started to turn a very interesting shade of red and he squirmed, laughing awkwardly.

McKnight felt his own cheeks turn red, and he snorted, rubbing at his brow. "You two still sleep together?" he asked bluntly, causing his patient to splutter with embarrassment.

"Yeah yeah, you could say that," came the mumble that made the psychiatrist laugh out-right. "It's not very often, though; we're both busy. I have my two and a half jobs, he has a job and he's in his final year of art school."

A frown creased McKnight's aging face and he edged forward in his desk, peering at the young man with a sort of curiosity. "I thought you said he was going to med school when you two broke up?"

"You're right; he was," Matthew said, nodding. "But then he got bored and decided having to do autopsies and put up with gouts of blood day in and day out was distinctly 'unawesome' so he dropped out - much to his father's rage - and enrolled in art school. He's doing photography, visual art and filming. And he's actually working on a documentary right now, and the crazy bastard is hellbent on getting it into one of those film festivals."

Sighing and stretching, the fifty-seven-year-old man nodded slowly. "You two sound like you would make excellent partners in crime," he said with a tiny bit of amusement, grinning wryly at the Canadian curled up on the window seat.

Laughter that was soft. "We were excellent partners in crime, indeed," Matthew said quietly. "Still are, actually. It's not a party without Gilbo, that's for sure."

After that there was a lag in their conversation, Matthew staring out the window, mouth shut and McKnight seated at his desk, scribbling down some notes on his patient's current progress. It was finally starting to look positive again, which he found to be quite the relief, although he would not say that out loud to the boy.

Glancing up and over, he sighed. "Well, we've been here well over two hours now," McKnight said as he glanced at the clock on the wall. "So I think this will make for a good end to our session for the day. What do you think?"

"That's fine by me," Matthew said as stood, stretching lazily, yawning as he did. "Sorry to have taken up so much of your time, Doc."

He shook his head. "Don't apologize; we've made quite the bit of progress today. When something like that happens, I don't really want to stop you mid-sentence and push you out of my office."

A scowl formed on the younger's face. "That makes me feel like a mercurial science experiment or something."

"Ah, but you're my favourite mercurial science experiment," Ian McKnight said fondly, patting the boy on the shoulder as he stood and accompanied him to the door of his office. The other snorted, still scowling lightly but with far less severity than originally. "Are you still coming over for Christmas Day and Boxing Day?"

"Course I am," Matthew chuckled. "I might be a little hung-over though; Gilbert, his dorm mate and I are getting together Christmas Eve, playing video games and jamming for most of the evening."

Chuckles. "I'll tell my wife to have her hangover cure at the ready, just to be on the safe side."

Matthew gave him another smile as he left the office, pulling his sweater down over his head, knocking his glasses askew as he did. He saluted his doctor.

"That's the best thing you've ever come up with, Sir. Best thing ever."


So… that was … um … long. I promise I will not write another chapter that is over 13k words unless I have a very good reason to do so, because Jesus H. Christ that was actually painful. My fingertips are crying and I actually feel slightly bad about having to write a scene like that with Matthew. So many creative liberties, too. Baw. I can't believe I got that out in a week, either. This is madness, children.

Madnesssss.

Anyway, for all of those who guessed, the cop was, indeed, Switzerland! But because I'm a sucker and if you're reading this it meant you just sat through that entire fucking soap opera I spewed out, so you all can have some goddamn brownies. -hearts- Just don't ask about that random part at the beginning with Alfred. It has absolutely no place being there, but it gives me a bit of a basis for the next chapter - WHICH IS ALSO THE CHRISTMAS EVE CHAPTER YAAAY EVERYBODY DAAANCE~

(I would have put a warning at the beginning of the chapter for the, ah, content, but I'm a DICK and I'm against censorship and therefore that means you have to suffer through EVERYTHIIIING I write without knowing what's going to happen in advance, like you would an actual novel. Har de fucking har. I love you guys forgive meeeee ;_; I'm also a sucker for Prucan, in case you couldn't tell, herpderp)

Thank you so so so much for all those reviews and all the faves/alerts/whatever. They mean tons to me. -hearts- Until next time!