DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya

BROTHERLY LOVE

NINE

NEW YORK CITY

SUMMER 2013

Al and Matt managed to keep their illicit relationship a secret from everyone—except for a young New Zealander eighty-nine thousand miles away—for seven months. Then, less cautious and too invested in each other, they began to get cocky. They took advantage of the empty house whenever their parents were gone; they stole quick kisses when their friends weren't looking; and Al's car became nothing less than a bedroom-on-wheels. The forbidden aspect of their relationship lent spice to the fun; it got both of their hearts pounding and made every touch and kiss special because they never knew when they'd get another chance. It kept the novelty of the relationship alive, and the possibility of getting caught—while terrifying—was exciting. Or, that's what Al had always thought.

Al and Matt had a joint party for their seventeenth birthday (Matt's idea, which Al begrudgingly agreed to). They invited their friends to the Long Beach house and lit a huge bonfire by the water (special permission required). It was a night to be remembered, though few of them could. Al spent the first half of the night swimming and shouting and laughing and drinking, and the second half goading Matt into the boathouse: "C'mon, babe. Nobody's going to know. They won't even notice that we're gone," he insisted, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. The beach was loud and littered with empty cans; the bonfire was roaring—Mikkel took a running start and jumped over it, landing in a summersault on the other side to several cheers; Antonio was waist-deep in water with Lovino on his shoulders, who was trying to knock Tino off of Berwald's shoulders; Eliza and Laura were swinging their hips in time to the blaring music, while Feliciano tired to get Ludwig's attention, but Ludwig, Gil, and Lars were invested in a beer-chugging contest. Satisfied that he had made his point, Al pulled Matt into the boathouse and closed the door.

"Mm, Al," Matt moaned into Al's lips. They had each other half-undressed—Al straddling Matt in the back of Arthur's very expensive, very high-performance speedboat—when a big shadow suddenly fell over them.

"What the fuck are you doing?!"

Al's stomach jumped into his throat; his blood went cold. Oh fuck! He would've recognized that thick brogue anywhere. White-faced, but feigning bravery, he looked up and saw: "Uncle Scottie. What're you doing here?"

Dumbfounded, Allistor stared at his nephews in horror. Al wiped a small string of saliva from his chin."Are you mad?!" the Scotsman shouted. "What are you—?" He reached forward to pull them apart, but stopped, fearing proximity. He flexed his fingers, ran a hand through his red hair, and inhaled. "I don't know what you're doing, but—"

"Please don't tell our parents!" Matt interrupted. "I know it looks weird, but it's not a bad thing. We're just—"

"Fucking each other?!"

Both boys flinched. "Scottie, not so loud!" Al snapped, casting a nervous glance at the door. He could feel Matt's palpitating heartbeat; could feel the rapid rise-and-fall of his chest as he breathed. Clumsily Al climbed off of Matt and leapt out of the boat, wearing only his swim-trunks and a ripe hickey. He raised his hands, as if approaching a wild animal, and said: "Mattie and I are, well... we're not related by blood, so it's okay. And I love him."

Allistor was staring at Al as if he was a two-headed alien. "How long?" he choked out.

Al glanced at Matt. Quietly Matt said: "Since New Year's." Pause. "Please, Scottie. Don't tell anyone. Dad and Papa aren't ready to know. We'll tell them eventually," he promised, climbing to his knees. "Just not yet."

"It's fucking weird," Allistor said, exhaling deeply. He glared at his nephews, as if they had committed a great crime; for keeping such a thing secret from him. But, with a little coaxing and a lot of begging, he finally consented to keep their secret. Al and Matt were his only nephews, after all, and he loved them more than he wanted to admit (love stretched to include a magnitude of abnormalities). "Fine," he grumbled unhappily. "It's your business, not my secret to tell. But you'd better tell your Da soon and hope he doesn't have a fucking heart-attack," he said, looking at them: half-naked and scared, but determined. "I hope you know what you're doing.

"By the way," he added, pausing at the door. "The next time you want to fuck each other in the boathouse, don't turn on the fucking light. It might not be me who catches you next time." Al saw the ghost of a smile tug at Allistor's lips before the Scotsman flicked off the light, leaving the boys in darkness.

Matt awoke early the next morning and was about to make a pot of coffee, when he saw Lars standing outside on the balcony, smoking a cigarette in solitude. Stretching his arms overhead, he joined him; the morning air was crisp, but it felt good. "My head's killing me," he said in greeting, leaning against the railing.

"Uh huh, I bet," said Lars stoically. He lifted the cigarette and inhaled deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs for a long time before blowing it out. He kept his sage-green eyes on the horizon, without looking at Matt as he talked. Finally, after a period of silence that—for whatever reason—made Matt uncomfortable, Lars said "Matt" in a way that drew Matt's attention. Is he mad about something? he wondered. The Dutchman took a drag, and then stubbed out the cigarette on the balcony railing. "I'm only going to ask you this once and I don't want you to lie." Deliberately Lars looked at Matt, and said: "It's Al, isn't it? The guy you're in love with is Al."

Momentarily stunned, Matt stared at Lars' impassive face. "I—" Glancing behind him, he closed the doors so that nobody else could hear; it was just he and Lars on the balcony, without secrets. "Yes. But please don't tell anyone. I know it's a little strange"—Lars exhaled in derision: "pah!"—"but yes, it's true. How did you know?"

"I suspected, but I also thought I was mad for thinking so." He shrugged. "Then I saw you two sneak off last night. Actually, you're lucky I'm the only one who saw you. A secret, huh?"

Matt sighed. "Yeah, drunk and horny aren't great secret-keepers," he admitted. "We just got carried away."

Lars nodded. He pulled another cigarette from the pack in his pocket, lit it, and sucked in deeply, facing the water. Matt folded his arms over the railing, keeping a space between he and Lars, feeling awkward. From the corner of his eye he could see his friend—his best friend, besides Al—and hated the hurt look on the Dutchman's face. But he was also selfishly glad that Lars knew now; he disliked keeping secrets from his friend. "You know," he said hesitantly, "in the beginning I didn't want to feel this way. I tried really hard not to, to make it stop. I thought that if I kept away from Al the feeling would go away, but..."

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder," Lars quoted, taking a drag. He glanced at Matt.

Matt nodded. "Something like that." He swallowed, unsure if he should admit: "I wanted to want you." That got Lars' attention. "I knew that you liked me, and I liked you too. You're smart, athletic, good-looking, and we always have so much fun together; we like so many of the same things. And I wouldn't have felt guilty for wanting you, Lars."

"But—?"

Coyly, Matt shrugged. "It's always been Al," he said simply. "It wouldn't have been right to lie to you. I know it's strange, maybe wrong, but Al's the one I love. I can't help it," he smiled nervously. "I don't think it was coincidence that we became brothers, I think we belong together. I'm sorry."

Lars blew-out smoke. He studied Matt's face, searching for falsities. "Are you happy, Mattie?"

"Yes."

"Then don't be sorry." Lars gave him a rare smile and wrapped an arm around Matt's shoulders fraternally. "The heart wants what the heart wants, right? You're my friend, Mattie. Before anything else, I want you to be happy."

Matt smiled, feeling like a weight he hadn't known he was carrying had finally been lifted. "You're just full of wisdom today, aren't you?" he teased.

"It's the hangover."

Matt wasn't going to tell Al about Lars. He didn't want to worry his brother—first Allistor, now Lars—but decided that Al had a right to know. He just hoped Al would take the news kindly, and not use it to fuel his one-sided rivalry with the Dutchman. Al was in the kitchen, half-buried in the refrigerator. "Sup?" he asked, standing up; a strawberry pop-tart clenched between his teeth.

"Let's go for a walk," Matt suggested.

As they walked along the shoreline, seagulls wheeling overhead, Matt told Al about Lars' confession; that he had seen them together last night. "But he's not a gossip, I know he won't tell anyone," Matt promised.

Al snorted. "Of course he won't tell. The object of his affection is fucking his own brother; would you hurry to tell anyone that?" Matt chose to ignore the subtle jab at his friend. Arguing with Al wouldn't make the unflattering remark any less true. "Honestly, I don't care," Al continued, hooking his thumbs casually into his belt-loops. "The way you two carry on, whispering to each other like girls, I'm surprised he doesn't know the size of my dick." He grinned sideways at Matt, who frowned.

"Al, don't be a jerk," said Matt defensively. "I haven't told Lars anything about us. He saw us last night, just like Scottie did. I told you we shouldn't have snuck off to the boathouse, but—"

"Yeah whatever," Al dismissed. He was acting surprisingly cavalier about the whole ordeal, which made Matt nervous. "Actually, I've been thinking"—here it comes, Matt braced himself—"If people are starting to suspect us, why not just tell everyone now? I'm mean, fuck it— Let's just tell Dad and Papa tonight and get it over with, then it doesn't matter who else knows, right?"

Matt grabbed Al's shoulder, stopping him. "Are you mad?!" he snapped suddenly; too harshly, but Al quickly recovered. "We're lucky it's Scottie and Lars and not someone with a bigger mouth, because this isn't something I'm ready to share yet. Dad and Papa are going to totally flip-shit when they find out! That's why I want to wait—"

"For what?" asked Al seriously. "Do you think that lying to them for a few more months is going to make a difference? Matt, their sons are fucking each other," he shrugged, matter-of-fact. "I really don't think waiting is going to make it any less horrifying. C'mon, babe," he said, taking Matt's waist in his hands. "I don't want to hide anymore. I don't care if it's weird for everyone else. Scottie and Lars survived; Dad and Papa will too. I don't care who knows about us." He leaned in to kiss Matt, but Matt turned his face away. Al pressed his lips to Matt's neck. "Mattie?"

"Stop it," Matt said, pushing Al off. He felt guilty—Al looked hurt—but he was afraid they would be seen. And that was exactly the problem: "It's the way they look at us when they find out," he admitted. "Like we've disappointed them, or like we're terrible people who've done something wrong. I hate that judgmental look, Al. Like they're all so fucking perfect, like they've never made a mistake—" He stopped, looking quickly at Al. "That came out wrong. You're not a mistake, Al. That's not what I meant. It's just that— fuck," he cursed, biting his lip. "I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm trying to say." Frustrated, he raked a hand through his curls, letting his shoulders sink. He felt Al's body against his, back-to-chest; felt Al's chin on his shoulder. Matt swallowed. "I love you, Al. That won't ever change. But I'm not ready to tell anyone. I can't just say: Fuck it and not care what Dad and Papa will think. I'm sorry."

Al sighed; Matt felt his hot breath. "You care too much about what everyone else thinks," he said. "Ever since we were kids, you were always so shy; so afraid of saying the wrong thing, so you didn't speak at all. It's why everyone forgot about you, why they never remembered your name."

Matt frowned. "Reminding me of how timid and forgettable I used to be, maybe still am? What a weird way to kick me when I'm down," he said sarcastically.

"I always remembered you, Matt. I always included you," Al said, as if Matt hadn't spoken. "So why won't you acknowledge me now?" Rather abruptly, he pulled away; circled Matt to face him. "It's been fun, but I don't want to sneak around anymore. It feels like we're doing something we shouldn't, and I don't like that. I want to be like Eliza and Roderick and go out on real dates. I want to kiss you in public and not care who's fucking watching, like Feliciano does with Ludwig. I'm not ashamed of us, Matt. I want to tell and I don't want you to be afraid."

Matt stiffened. "I'm not afraid," he said, folding his arms.

Al cocked his head. "You're doubtful. You need to stop worrying and just get it over with. Just do it—"

"And you need to stop pushing me," Matt said, avoiding Al's touch. "I would never force you to do something you were this uncomfortable with."

"Wrong," Al countered, growing impatient. "That's exactly what you're doing now, wanting to keep secrets. You know how bad a fucking secret-keeper I am! Do you know how hard it is not to gloat about this? Do you have any idea how badly I want to brag that you're mine, especially to fucking Gil? See, Mattie, it's easy for you. You go off to an all-boys school for months at a time where relationships are kept secret, while I stay here watching everyone else flirt; listening to everyone else's stories about dating and break-ups and falling in love. And I know that I should be happy for my friends, and I am for the most part. But it kills me that I can't tell them— like you wanted to tell Lars. I know it's stupid and selfish, but, while everyone else is yammering on about their relationships, I'm the only one who's not allowed to say: Hey, I've got the best fucking guy in the world!" Al sighed, as if he had been nervous to voice it, but felt better now that he had. "I don't want anything to ruin this," he said, more softly. "I'm not trying to pressure you, I just wish you'd realize that what everyone else thinks doesn't matter because I love you."

"I know you do," Matt relented. He wrapped his arms around Al's middle, squeezing gently, and laid his head against Al's chest; Al held him, resting his chin on Matt's head. "I'm not trying to hurt you, but please just leave it for a little while longer. As soon as we tell everyone, it'll change things whether you want it to or not. I like that it's just us right now; our secret. Please Al, let it be just us for a little longer."

Several days later, Al and Matt were lounging in the sunshine on the beach-house's balcony, Al's head resting sleepily in Matt's lap. Arthur and Francis were bickering inside, disagreeing on cooking methods—"Salt's not the only damned ingredient!" Francis yelled—when Matt's cell-phone buzzed. "It's Gil," Al said, handing it to Matt.

"Salut, comment allez-vous?" said Matt, then habitually held the phone at arm's length. Al heard Gil's angry reply: "You know I don't speak fucking French, Mattie!" Matt laughed. "Yeah, I know. What's up, Gil?" Al rolled over and closed his eyes. He hugged Matt's waist, burrowing his nose into his brother's stomach and grabbing at his ribs, knowing that Matt was ticklish. Matt swatted at him. "Tonight? Sure, let me just— Al, fuck off!" he snapped. "Hold on, Gil, I'll ask. Al, everyone's going uptown tonight, bar-hopping. Do you want to go?"

"Yeah, sure," said Al, grinning. "Sounds like fun."

They told their parents they were going to the Beilschmidt house for the night; Arthur and Francis pretended to believe them—pretended not to notice the forty Al stole from Arthur's liquor cabinet—and off they went. They took the subway to Union Station. It was a crowded Friday night and every train-car was filled-to-bursting. Al held onto the overhead bar to keep his balance, and Matt stuck his hands in Al's pockets, leaning into him when the car swayed. They met their friends at Union Station—Gil, Ludwig, Feliciano, Lovino, Antonio, Eliza and Roderick (both Van den Berg's had to work)—and proceeded to survey the bars they knew would serve them underage. With Gil and Antonio's help, the high-schoolers were admitted to a racy, underground scene with black-lights and two-dollar shots. It was a loud place crowded with sweaty, gyrating bodies and cigarette smoke. They had only been there fifteen minutes when Feliciano was hounded by a big, tattooed stranger and dragged off the dance floor.

Ah! Germany—!" he shouted, looking scared. Al had never seen Ludwig's face change so quickly from happily buzzed to blatant rage. He forced his way through the throng and grabbed the stranger's shoulder, turning him. There was a brief moment of indecision before the stranger swung his fist up to deck Ludwig in the face, but Gil caught the blow, wine-red eyes alight with maniacal glee. Alright! Al thought, watching the spectacle, fight! However, faced with the two angry-looking Germans, the stranger released Feliciano and slunk off. Feliciano dove into Ludwig's arms and hugged him; Ludwig suggested they get a shot. Gil looked almost as disappointed as he was, Al thought. Oh, wait—

Lovino was yelling at a dark-skinned bouncer, effectively aggravating him, while Antonio tried to relax him. Feeling fueled, Gil swooped in to defend his friends—readying for a fight—but Antonio succeeded in speaking logic to Lovino and drew both he and Gil away. This is a really seedy joint, Al thought, watching Eliza throw her drink on a middle-aged woman (old cougar), who was flirting with Roderick. As he scanned his friends, he suddenly realized: "We're really possessive of each other, aren't we?" He looked from left-to-right, but Matt wasn't beside him. "Mattie?"

"Your friend is there," said a stranger with a Russian accent. "That is him, da?" He pointed to the bar, where Matt and Gil were trying to get served. "He is cute," he said, lighting a cigarette. Inconsiderately he blew-out smoke into Al's face. "Is he with you?" His eyes sized-up Al, raking him lustily from head to toe, and touched the cigarette to his lips. "You are cute too. Want to get your friend and come with me?"

Al gaped at the Russian's casualness. "Go with you, like—?"

"To have sex," he spelled-out, blowing smoke.

"Uh, no thanks," Al said awkwardly, feeling somehow already violated. "I'm going to go over there now—"

The big, pale Russian grabbed his bicep; his grasp was like iron. "I hate you Americans. You are all teases," he said. Dropping the cigarette, he crushed it under his boot. "So flighty."

"Hey, what the fuck?! Let go!" Al snapped, trying to tug himself free. "This is fucking harassment, dude!"

The Russian laughed, a low, growling sound. "Americans," he repeated, "so quick to overreact."

"Excuse me, is there a problem?"

Al recognized Matt's voice—usually soft—shouting over the music's din. He and Gil were glaring suspiciously at the Russian; Gil cracked his knuckles in anticipation. "Al, are you alright?"

Al yanked himself free. He didn't like the lecherous look on the Russian's smiling face, now focused on Matt. Deliberately he stepped between the Russian and his brother, playing hero. He wasn't expecting the Russian to make a rude gesture and say:

"Let me fuck both you Americans. You"—his eyes flickered to Al—"look like you could use a good, hard fuck."

Angrily, Al was about to retort, when Matt's fist flew past him like a whip and cracked the Russian in the jaw. He stumbled back, stunned. Al and Gil stood shocked as well. "That was uncalled for," Matt said, seething offensively. "Apologise to my brother."

Al sucked in his breath: Mattie, what are you doing— this guy's fucking insane!

The big Russian was staring hard at Matt, challenging him; his ice-cold violet eyes were glaring lethally at— ice-cold violet eyes, Al realized in shock. They've got the same eyes. Except that Matt's were usually non-threatening. Not right now. The Russian was terrifying. Intimidated, Al stepped back in reflex, but Matt didn't move. Coldly, he repeated: "Apologise— now."

The Russia grinned, rubbing his jaw. He said: "Sorry." Then he slipped another cigarette between his teeth and stalked off, casting an amused glance over his shoulder.

Matt relaxed, his shoulders visibly sinking. Al took his hand and dragged him through the back exit, into an adjacent ally. "Mattie—" he started, then noticed that Gil had followed them out.

"Okay, what was that?" he asked, pointing between them. "Is there something going on between you two?" Al and Matt started talking at once, trying to explain, but Gil held up his hands. "Let's try that again," he said, eyeing the teenagers. He pointed at Matt: "That wasn't a you-insulted-my-bruder punch, that was an I'm-defending-my-lover punch. I know. I've seen my little bruder punch enough people for Feliciano, even before they started dating. I know what it looks like. So— what the fuck?"

Again, both Kirkland-Bonnefoi brothers started talking at once:

"It just sort of happened. We're not blood related, and it's not like we were expecting to—"

"Yes, we've been together for a while, but please don't tell anyone—"

And again Gil silenced them: "Alright, never-mind. I guess it makes sense," he feigned a sigh of defeat, "why you could resist the awesome me for so long. I can't say I agree with your taste," he smirked at Matt, "but don't worry. You can wipe those scared looks off your faces. It's weird as fuck—you two being together—but I won't tell anyone. I'm not a fucking gossip," he said, flicking Al's forehead good-naturedly. Then added: "But if you want to keep it a secret I'd steer clear of Antonio and Lovino for a while."

Al frowned, but said: "Thanks, Gil."

"Yeah, yeah." Gil rolled his eyes, folding his arms behind his head. "What would you kids do without me?"

The summer ended—too soon as always—and, after a heartfelt goodbye, Matt found himself driving back to Ottawa with Arthur. He kicked his feet up on the dashboard, playing with the radio dials until Arthur got annoyed: "Stop that, and put your feet down," he said, re-tuning the satellite radio, searching for a station that wasn't in French. "Bloody git," he complained, "he's erased all of the channels I had saved." Satisfied with an Oldies station playing British rock, he glanced at Matt. "Something on your mind, love?"

Matt shrugged. It was the first time in three years that the backseat was empty. Lars had graduated from high-school in June and, as Matt was driving back to Ottawa, he was flying to the Netherlands to spend the year working on his family's farm to earn some money before applying to University. It would be strange returning to school this year without Lars, walking into a dorm full of strangers. Matt was the youngest of his schoolmates, and now, entering twelfth grade, he was the only one left. He would see them all during breaks, of course—most of them were attending University in the New England states—but he knew this year at boarding-school would be lonely without them. Al had promised to take Matt's calls no matter what time it was: "As long as you're not calling for a 2AM pick-up," he joked, then added soberly: "But seriously, I'll always answer."

"Dad," Matt asked, tying his hoodie-strings into intricate knots. "How did you and Papa"—he wasn't exactly sure how to breach the sensitive topic—"get together?"

Arthur blinked, casting him a sideways glance. "What's this all of a sudden? You know the story, Mathew. I'm sure Francis has told you before: It was at a concert, before you were born— and that's the end of it," he added, eyeing Matt defensively. Al and Matt (and Francis) had teased Arthur enough times about his "band".

"No. That's not what I..." Pause. "I just meant..."

"Mathew? What is it you're asking, love?"

Matt shifted, tying knots. "Well, Uncle Scottie told us that you and Papa were together for a long time before you told anyone, right? I guess I just want to know why."

"Oh, well... because we weren't ready to tell. It's hard to explain," he tried, licking his lips. "I suppose we didn't want to tell anyone until we were certain of it ourselves, and that took us rather a long time. It's hard to know if what you're feeling really is love, and not just—"

"Lust?" Matt guessed.

Arthur cleared his throat, feeling uncomfortable. "Yes, exactly. But why the sudden curiosity, Mathew? Why ask me all this now?" Matt shrugged; he didn't want to lie. "Are you—?" Arthur glanced quickly between Matt and the highway. "Is there someone I should know about?"

Matt almost laughed out loud; instead, it came out as a snort. "No. I was just curious. That's all."

Arthur narrowed his forest-green eyes. "Uh huh. I'll pretend I believe you. Oh— there's the Tim Horton's. Do you want an ice-coffee?"

OTTAWA

SEPTEMBER 2013

As luck would have it, Matt's new roommate was not a stranger, as he had feared, but young Sigurour Thomassen— Bjørn's thirteen-year-old half-brother. An exceptionally bright boy, he had graduated middle-school a year early and was now attending the same boarding-school his older brother had. He wasn't the friendliest of boys; his demeanour was rather cold and isolated, but he was polite. Honestly, Matt saw an uncanny resemblance between him and Bjørn, which he didn't mention. Especially since Bjørn and Berwald were there as well, helping Sigurour move-in.

"School doesn't start for us until next week," Bjørn explained, habitually re-tying Sigurour's uniform tie. The later looked quite put-off by the babying, but he didn't move to complain. "Come on, let's get your ID," Bjørn said, and together they left, Sigurour avoiding Bjørn's fraternal touch: "Stop it, I'm not a baby!"

Matt left to talk to the Resident Advisor—he really wanted a coffee-maker in his room this year. When he returned to the dorm-room, defeated in his attempt, Berwald was unpacking a box of Sigurour's school supplies. The Swede had always been quiet, but Matt knew not to take his social-awkwardness as a sign of dislike. Berwald glanced up briefly and pointed to Matt's desk, where his cell-phone was lying. "Your boyfriend called," he said nonchalantly.

Matt froze. "My— what?!" Berwald waved to the cell-phone, which Matt lunged to grab. He looked at the list of MISSED CALLS and realized that the most recent had come from Al. "You mean my brother?" he corrected.

Berwald unpacked a desk-lamp, unconcerned. "Isn't it the same thing?"

Matt swallowed; clenched his fist around the cell-phone. "You know," he said, trying to keep the panic and anger from his voice, "that jab is getting really old. Yeah, Al and I spend a lot of time together— it's really funny," he said humourlessly. "It's a great joke, isn't it? But could you please stop?"

Berwald blinked at him. "What joke? Oh!"—realization lit his stoic face—"Is it supposed to be a secret? I'm sorry, Matt. I didn't know."

"What—? No! There's nothing to know. I just—" Matt's felt himself blush guiltily. Alarmed by Matt's reaction, Berwald stood up. But not knowing what to do, he just stared. "Who else have you told?" Matt asked. It was too late to deny it, he realized. "And how long are you known?" Did Lars tell him?! he worried, feeling momentarily betrayed.

Berwald shook his head. "Why would I tell anyone? I didn't know it was such a big deal." He shrugged. "I've known since... I don't know, probably first year?"

The confession shocked Matt. "What?!" he snapped, unintentionally loud. "I didn't even know in first year! How the bloody-hell could you have known?!"

"I'm sorry, Matt," said the Swede, taken off-guard; he had never seen Matt so worked-up outside the hockey rink. "I didn't mean to upset you. Is something wrong?" he asked, cocking his blonde head.

"Is something—? I'm in love with my brother, what do you think?!" Matt's heart was pounding, but he didn't know why. Why am I getting so worked-up? Is it because everyone knows? It was exactly what Matt had been afraid of, everyone uncovering his and Al's secret, and— What? Scottie, Lars, Gil, they all promised to keep it secret, and it's not like they're chastising us. Lars had always been Matt's confidant, and—despite his loud-mouthed tendencies—Gil had actually covered for Al and Matt when Antonio enquired where they had gone. And Berwald has known for three years, but he hasn't said anything. Maybe I am making a bigger deal out of this than it is. Cautiously he looked at Berwald, and said: "I'm sorry, I'm just not myself right now. I've got a lot on my mind."

"It's okay," Berwald shrugged. "Love is complicated."

Matt smiled in agreement. "Yeah, tell me about it. I just wish that Al and I weren't brothers."

"No you don't," said Berwald, surprising Matt. His tone was matter-of-fact: "If that was true then you would have to give up your childhood together, all the memories; your whole family. You're only focusing on the bad and forgetting all of the wonderful things about your relationship. You're lucky, Matt. You've fallen in love with your best friend. People dream of doing that, and it happened so naturally for you." He paused, staring intently at Matt. "Do you think we get to choose who we fall in love with? Do you think I would have chosen my own roommate?" he said, using he and Tino as an example.

Matt sighed. "It still seems a lot more convenient than your brother."

"No," Berwald denied. "You're wrong. It's the hardest thing to do— and I know you understand what I mean. Wanting to hug and kiss and touch him, but being unable to do so because you don't want to scare him; because you don't want to ruin the friendship; feeling terrified that he'll somehow find out and reject you, maybe hate you?" He shook his head. "Falling in love with your best friend is really hard; I didn't say it was easy. But it is worth it."

"And everyone else?" Matt asked. He couldn't help it, the doubt was eating at him. "What do you do about everyone who disapproves? How do you cushion the blow?"

"You don't," Berwald said simply. "You tell them you're in love, that's all you can do. You can't stop feeling what you feel, right? Who cares what everyone else thinks? You shouldn't ever be ashamed of what you love, Matt; it's like being ashamed of who you are. And, trust me, the more you like yourself the less you're like anyone else; that's what makes each of us unique. That's where happiness comes from. The people who really love you aren't going to care— heck, they might even be happy for you," he smiled. "But you have to give them a chance to prove it."

Matt returned Berwald's smile with a hesitant grin. He had been worrying about his relationship for months, and—even though countless people had tried to reassure him; Al most often—nobody had ever phrased it in such a simple, straightforward way before. Suddenly, looking at the Swede's open face, everything made sense. "Thanks," he said gratefully. "Really, I— I wish I could see things the way you do. You're really observant, Berwald."

"No," Berwald said, returning to Sigurour's boxes. "I'm just honest."

Matt took his cell-phone into the empty common-room and dialed Al's number. He waited briefly, feeling confident for the first time in months. Al picked up on the first ring: "Mattie? I called earlier but you weren't—"

"Al, I'm ready to tell Dad and Papa," he interrupted. "I'm sorry it took so long, but I want us to be official," he laughed; he hadn't realized he was smiling. "When I come home for Christmas, let's tell them together. Everyone."

"Mattie, I— yeah, sounds great!" Al celebrated. "What made you finally change your mind?"

Matt felt foolish now for feeling afraid: I love Al, that's what matters! He thought of Berwald's honest face, and the shameless, unconditional love he had for Tino; their relationship really was inspiring. And he thought of Arthur's subliminal advice: Before you commit, be sure that it's really love, not lust. Be sure it can last. His parents; he should have looked to them sooner—there was no stranger couple, but, somehow, they were perfect together. "I'm sorry I didn't realize it sooner," he repeated. "But I get it now. I've talked to the right people."

"Okay," said Al, sounding confused but happy. "Does this epiphany of yours also include what we're actually going to say to Dad and Papa? You know, so they don't go into cardiac-arrest?"

"No, I have no idea," Matt replied. "But we've got four months to think about it. You want to be an actor, Al. Start scripting a monologue."