When I started this one I thought I was going to hate it. But I kind of love it?

Have some grown up Matthew and Alfred!

Matthew Kirkland is sitting in his apartment on Christmas Eve, a hot toddy in one hand and his e-reader in the other. It's a perk of nearing thirty, he has realized recently, that a new security in oneself begins to render certain pretensions—such as only reading Russian literature in hardback—unimportant. So he can enjoy his drink while it's hot instead of forgetting about it while trying to keep an unwieldy tome in a constant, comfortable position.

Of course, the universe always has other co-conspirators for distracting him from his tea. A short knock at the front door forces him to set down his mug and his tablet, and gooseflesh prickles across his back as he leaves the warmth of the loveseat. One thing nearing thirty has not brought is a salary high enough to keep the apartment as warm as he would like.

There's one more rap from the hallway before he opens the door, and then Alfred storms in, shaking snow all over the dingy beige carpet. It's hard to tell whether the red in his cheeks is from cold or from anger, but it's obvious that he's furious anyway. And to Matthew, who can see the fault lines in his brother's soul just as easily as words on a page, it's also obvious what he's angry about.

"What has Arthur done now?" he asks, at the same time that Al spits, "He's really done it now, that old bastard!"

The coincidence seems to dampen Alfred's rage for the moment, and he looks bemused—sheepish, even.

Matthew quirks an eyebrow. "Good to see you too, Al. Can I get you anything?"

Still somewhat nonplussed, Al casts around for something to look at besides his younger brother's pleasant expression. His eyes catch on the sideboard, which is currently occupied by the toddy fixings.

"Whiskey?"

"Certainly. Neat?"

"Please."

Matthew pours a couple fingers and hands the chipped tumbler to Al, who sits heavily in the spot his brother only recently vacated. He takes a long sip, then sets the glass beside Matthew's mug and sighs.

"Arthur doesn't want me to bring Natalia tomorrow."

Matthew suppresses a groan, and tries to keep his expression neutral. "I thought you broke up with her last month."

"Well I was going to," Alfred blusters, "But it was Thanksgiving!"

"Why not after?"

"Well by then it's practically Christmas! God, Matt..."

"Better be quick then, or it'll be Valentine's Day before you know it," says Matthew dryly, before he can help himself.

Al glowers.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. What exactly did Arthur say?"

"Well he didn't really say anything," Al mutters, "But it's just—I mean you know how he is."

Matthew pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. "You always do this, Al. Why can't you just give him the benefit of the doubt?"

"We both know he doesn't like her!"

"You don't like her!"

"Well she's my girlfriend, not his!"

They both stop. Matthew lifts one eyebrow and Al blinks owlishly.

"You know what I mean," Al mumbles after a moment.

And Matthew does. Just like his heating bill, the turf war between his brother and his father has not resolved with time. The territorial squabbles settle in their bones like a hard frost, permeating everything until, some days, they can't even bear to agree with each other. Matthew walks to the sideboard and pours another glass of whiskey.

"I don't know what to tell you, Al," he says at last, perching on the other side of the couch, elbows on his knees, glass dangling from his fingers between them. "If Arthur hasn't actually said one way or the other… Either bring her or don't bring her, you know?"

He was expecting a sarcastic response to that, but Al only picks up his whiskey again and sighs. "Yeah. I know. I just—"

There's a long silence, but Matthew doesn't push it.

"—I hate disappointing him, you know?"

And Matthew does.