I owe very tongue-in-cheek take on this prompt completely to my husband. I couldn't for the life of me figure out how to work with this lyric ("the altar is my hips even if it's a false god" in its entirety) and I mentioned it to him offhand. It took him less than two minutes to come up with this idea. Just shows what can happen when you're approaching something from a totally different angle.

Anyway, all that being said, I still struggled a lot with this one and am glad to have it behind me. Nevertheless, I hope it amuses you!

It all starts when Alfred comes for dinner one night in May.

"You know, Arthur," he says around a mouthful of salad, "You'd probably be less tired if you got more exercise."

He's been on a health kick for the past year. He drinks something like four kale smoothies a day and has deleted all his social media.

"Body and mind," he says in an insufferably sage tone that makes Arthur groan and Matthew roll his eyes.

And so Arthur hates to admit it, but Alfred might be right about this. No amount of sleep seems to alleviate the circles under his eyes or the fog in his brain. Something else must be done.

Unable to bear the thought of running for no reason, however, and wildly intimidated by the prospect of all the weights and machines at the gym, he decides to join a local rec soccer league. He hasn't played in—well, it's been a long time, but he's got semi-high hopes that soccer is enough like the proverbial bike for him to get by.

It turns out that he's even rustier than he thought. He's never been a particularly graceful or coordinated man, but having a ball between his feet again is humbling to say the least. Fortunately, however, most of his teammates are more talented than he is, and they do fairly well for themselves.

"What he means by that," Matthew, rolling his eyes, explains to Alfred in mid-October, "Is that they're going to play in the state tournament."

Alfred whoops loudly and pounds Arthur on the back. The older man makes a pained face, and Alfred shoves his hands in his pockets and walks away.

"Arthur!" Matthew hisses.

Sometimes Arthur misses the days when Matthew tiptoed around his and Alfred's relationship, instead of calling them out on their bullshit. But then again—

"I'm sorry, Alfred," he calls gruffly. "I—I know you're just excited."

The tension in the room doesn't go away—it never does—but Alfred shrugs awkwardly and asks, "When's the first game?" and they move on. And Arthur can't help the smile that creeps across his face as he regales his boys with the story of their qualifying win.

. . .

A week later, however, Arthur is neither smiling nor talking much at all. Knocked flat by flu season, he finds himself texting Alfred desperately the day before his team's first playoff game.

Please just consider it Alfred. They need a man to fill out the roster, or we'll forfeit.

He knows Alfred hasn't played soccer since middle school—just one more stupid bit of tension in their complicated history—but his foster son is the only athletic person he knows who isn't already on the team. Besides that, he's also competitive and prone to severe bouts of heroism. Banking heavily on these two tendencies, Arthur sends the text.

. . .

He spends the following day on tenterhooks, but he doesn't even have enough energy to be properly agitated. So he dozes fitfully with his phone clutched in his hand, waiting for any news of the match. At his urging, and with strict instructions to provide regular updates, Matthew went to watch the game, but half an hour after kickoff, Arthur suspects those updates may not be forthcoming.

In fact, there is absolutely no word from anybody. Around what should be halftime, Arthur is finally too tired to even be anxious; the phone slips from his hand onto the floor, and he falls into a heavy sleep.

. . .

He awakes to an ungodly caterwauling from beneath him. Dazed and slightly concerned, he clutches his dressing gown around his shivering frame and makes his way downstairs.

The boys are in the kitchen, chanting loudly and unintelligibly. Matthew has Alfred on his shoulders, and Alfred pumps one fist repeatedly in the air while waving a foaming bottle of IPA in the other.

"Well I suppose you won, then," Arthur rasps as soon as they notice him.

"Don't get too excited." Matthew's reply is dry and slightly exasperated, but Alfred, for once, is unbothered by Arthur's underwhelming enthusiasm.

"You know it!" he crows, taking a swig of beer. "Congrats on picking the right substitute player."

Arthur cocks an eyebrow and lowers himself onto a kitchen chair. "And a humble one, too."

"I am the epitome of modesty," Alfred declares.

"It's not arrogant if it's true," Matthew—who has almost certainly had some of Alfred's beer—chimes in with a grin.

"I was unstoppable, a force of nature," Alfred intones, drama oozing from every syllable. "No, supernatural, even."

Matthew, definitely tipsy, begins to laugh.

"Yup," he gets out between chuckles, "Quads from the gods."

Alfred, still sitting on Matthew's shoulders, jabs his heel into his brother's ribs. "Shut up, Matt."

Matthew, who is now giggling uncontrollably, ignores him.

"Thighs from on high!"

"Shut up!"

"Wait, is there a word for 'god' that rhymes with butt—ouch!"

. . .

Alfred scored the game-winning goal, Arthur finally learns from a teammate later that night. All anyone knows for sure is that, in the last five minutes of the game, Alfred was the last person to touch the ball on that corner kick. What seems to be up for debate is whether it was a controlled hip-check, or a lucky bounce.

Arthur can really see it going either way, but he knows which one he prefers to believe.