I hope to finish this fic by the end of this year. Can I do it? Probably not but there's hope. I mean, this chapter is the bull riding one so it's all kicking off now and after that there's only a tiny bit to go. Oh boy I'm so excited.

...

This wasn't happening.

This was a joke, a bad dream, his mind or theirs trying to trick him into thinking his worst nightmare was disgustingly real. If it was real then he'd be sick into his breakfast.

"You are kidding, right?"

Hunapo shook their head, giving a grimace and probably wishing they were anywhere else right now, maybe hidden away in their massive fucking mouth along with their foot. "I'm sorry. I thought you and Sam knew about this. But to be honest, I only found out about this yesterday, and I dare say Oscar is the more open of the two when it comes to their increasing mistakes." 'And my own', their face seemed to say.

"Indeed." Matthew glared into his breakfast, ignoring the hum of those busy chattering in the restaurant area, presumably about the upcoming event. The highlight of the rodeo. The event his dipshit little brother hadn't told him he was entering.

What had gone wrong? What had happened to make him change his mind when he'd been so firm about never entering? He suspected the little Cooper boy had something to do with it, but right now he was just trying his best to process this, and not faint.

"Why?" he asked, voice in shreds, "why would he do this to-" no, it wasn't about him, but he thought his world was about to crash down around him. Dread filled his veins and his heart sunk in his chest, but he couldn't quite believe it was real, not yet. He would, soon enough, but his body and mind was too scared to face it completely just yet, even when he himself tried. The quiet rage was there too though, bubbling away inside of him.

"What happened between them?" he asked instead.

Hunapo seemed visibly uncomfortable at the question. "It's not my place to say," came the simple reply. "I mean, I can tell you there was an argument, but I'm afraid you'll have to ask Michael and see what he's willing to tell you."

"I can't talk to him," Matthew whispered, "I'm so angry right now."

Hunapo nodded. "I understand, I really do, and you're probably not gonna like this advice, but I advise you do talk to him."

"How-"

"Just in case something happens." A wretched silence fell between the two for a moment. "I don't want to be a prophet of doom, but if- if he- would you really want the last thing you say to him be an argument?"

"No," admitted Matthew.

"He'll want his big brother there for him too," continued Hunapo with the smallest of smiles, "to give him advice and support."

"I'm afraid I can't give him all that much advice," Matthew grimaced. "Never entered this."

"What about Sam?"

Matthew nodded. "She'll know. Oh fucking hell they're both doing this stupid-" he stopped. His life was glass, everything on the verge of tumbling and smashing into shards that would destroy him. "I'm going to lose them..."

"Oh come now," Huna tried, "you must have more faith in them, right?"

"Sam? Sure, but even freak accidents can happen." He shook his head. "Mike? He's never ridden a real bull in his life. All the advice Sam and me have for him is not going to save him. He'll die, your boy will die and it will all be for nothing but a stupid fight."

Hunapo didn't say a word as they watched him stand up, leaving a half-eaten breakfast and a heavy silence in his wake. His legs were jelly and he was still going to be sick, if he didn't make his knuckles bleed from punching whatever inanimate objects were unfortunate enough to get in his way. Matthew ignored Hunapo and the rest of the room, stumbling outside and wondering where his idiot brother was hiding now, if he and Sam had already left for the arena and if he had a hope of tracking them down.

But, just this once, luck was on his side.

Matt caught his brother in the hallway outside his room, already in full gear and dwarfed by his protective vest. It didn't look right. Mike looked like a child dressing up as his hero for halloween, not the athlete he was and Matt wanted to cry at the sight.

But he didn't. He knew this wasn't the time, that he mustn't say or do anything to start an argument before this event. If Mike survived, of course, he'd get the bollocking of the century.

"If you're here to-" He didn't let Mike finish, pulling his brother into a hug to be met with only the weakest of protests. Mike wrapped one arm around him, clutching the back of his shirt like he used to as a kid, when he was little and frightened, and he couldn't blame the boy.

"Let's go talk to Sam, okay?" he muttered to his brother.

…

Natalya supposed she should've booked her tickets already, but there was no harm in booking at the airport. Anything to get away before the stupid bull riding started. She may not know a thing about rodeo, but she remembered that event all too well, and it was best for her to be well on the way to getting out of the country before it started or she'd be in a horrible place mentally.

"Are you going?"

She almost missed it, Matt's pathetic whisper.

"Obviously," she replied, a little colder than intended, but she was walking out the door with a monster of a suitcase. When she turned to face him, she saw Matt had tears in his eyes.

"I know," she sighed, "days like this..." days she'd never had to face since Alfred's death, as bad as things had been.

"Mike's entering," he told her, cutting off whatever else Natalya had planned to say. She soon forgot.

"Is he stupid?" she asked in a harsh voice, wrinkling her nose in disgust.

"That's not very-" Matt sighed, "probably. He's Alfred's brother alight."

"And he will go out like Alfred," Natalya finished for him; unsurprisingly, fresh tears squeezed out of Matt's eyes.

"Please stay," he breathed.

"Matt-"

"Not forever, just… just in case-" his face crumpled as he grabbed her blouse, "Mike's gonna die! He's gonna die like Alfred did! Please- I can't."

Natalya patted his back awkwardly. "I know, I know. ...There, there."

"Please- will you?"

"Fine."

…

Mike wondered if he should be panicking over the fact that none of Sam's advice stayed in his mind, practically driven out by nerves and anxiety, then realised it was panicking that made him forget all of Sam's advice in the first place and that he wasn't the smartest person by a long shot.

What he did know was that he'd never felt power like this, the pure muscle of the beast beneath him, nothing like the plastic he'd been practising on before. Maybe Sam had mentioned this; he couldn't quite recall. It felt like sitting on the engine of a monster truck, just the strength under him he knew could be used to kill him quite easily, like he was a bug. This was a terrible idea and he wanted to go home.

But that just wasn't an option, so it was time harden the fuck up and face this like a man, preferably without getting hospitalized or crapping his pants.

Gripping his rope just that bit tighter, he signalled to start and his arm was wrenched by what felt like a dropped anvil tied to his wrist, but between his grip and the rosin covering it, he somehow held on. He just had to hold on.

The arms weren't important anyway; it was all about the legs.

All his weight was on his feet, gripping the sides of the bull as if standing with it between his legs rather than sitting. He had to keep gripping, or his legs would go flying and he'd lose control.

Mike could do it. He rode every spin, every jump as the bull pulled and tossed him about, head snapping back and forth until he saw stars.

When Mike was thrown from his ride, it was split seconds after the buzzer announcing his time was up. Lucky there was all that padding on the ground, but it would be nice if the crowd would stop laughing so much. Alfred was there though, his beloved big brother, picking him up again with a smile. He even pulled out a hankie to mop up the tears. It was fine. He would protect Mike.

It was a rodeo clown that helped him up, snapping him back to the present as he wondered why a real bull was being ushered away.

Where was he anyway?

Mike's head throbbed, veins pulsing against his temple as he fought down a wave of sickness. Nothing felt real, his mind and ears blocked by static, despite how people seemed to be shouting all around him.

Alfred was here again, dead in the dirt, a lifeless hand reaching for him, glassy eyes and bleeding mouth blank as he stared past him, at nothing again. Mike tried to walk to him, but the ground flipped to its side and he was stuck on the floor again, this time his head throbbed and swam worse than before.

"Al..." he muttered as he was helped up again, but his brother was gone.

"Go sit down, kid," the rodeo clown told him, "you don't look so well."

Mike couldn't form a reply, given that he barely heard the statement in the first place, but he allowed himself to be pushed towards the edge of the arena, where Alfred and Matthew were waiting for him, concerned though he couldn't tell why. He stumbled into the iron railings as a brother- he couldn't tell which- pulled him over.

"Al, Matt-" His voice was thick, heavy and blurred.

"It's just me, sugar lump," came Matt's tender reply.

"No- no Al's right-" but the harder he focused, the closer his brothers became until he was staring up at Matt's frowning face. "Oh."

"You have concussion," Sam told him simply, finally joining her cousins on the scene.

Mike just stared at her blankly for a long moment. "Yo- you, fucking- have concussion."

"Honey, your nose is bleeding."

After another moment, Mike wiped a hand across his face, pulling it away to find a red mess. "So I am." He shrugged. "How well did I do?"

"You got an overall score of 66," Matt filled in, "they just announced it."

"Not the best," added Sam, "but not bad." Easy for her to say; she came second in her category. Or something like that.

"But it'll probably be more than Cooper so you can say you've won and leave it be," Matt told him with a hopeful smile.

"Are you kidding?" scoffed Mike, "I still have seven rounds to go."

"Have you taken a look at yourself?" Sam cried, "it's only been one go-round and you already have a pretty severe brain injury. You're bleeding for Christ's sake!"

"Another little knock to the head could be fatal," Matt told him, grabbing his shoulders as if the boy were about to jump back in the arena. Blood dribbled into Mike's mouth.

"That's a risk I'll have to take;" the slur in his voice was probably not helping his argument, but screw it, "I mean, how can I back down now?"

…

Well someone's being set up for a fall. Poor, stubborn idiot.

And yeah let's face it, shit's going tf down next chapter so I'll try not to go on hiatus anytime soon aha. Watch me eat my words.

Also, sorry if the concussion stuff wasn't realistic. As I've never had concussion [even after all my metal af headbanging- must be going at weenie speed]. My brother has, because people six feet tall are just not made for doing spider kicks, but I can't ask him what it feels like because we've had a sibling spat and aren't talking to each other.