"Arthur, I'm not Alfred."
Mathew finds himself saying those words more and more these days, and more and more often he has to block Arthur's advances. Everytime, Mathew can see Arthur shrink, and a little bit of light die in his eyes as he responds, always in the same low tone that Mathew knows is a mixture of disappointment, regret and longing, and probably even more emotions he can't pinpoint.
"Of course, you're Mathew. I know that."
Mathew knows that Arthur is lying.
Matthew's eyes snap open. He knew Arthur was lying, he was just saying that so Mathew wouldn't feel bad, Mathew knows that, and yet... what if he wasn't? He mees Alfred's clear blue eyes in a shock, searching for confirmation. For a moment, Alfred makes a complicated face, as though he can't decide what expression to make, and Mathew begins to thing that maybe he's wrong after all, that it's all wishful thinking. Then, miraculously, Alfred's face changes into a sloppy grin, edging ever so slightly on a smirk, and Mathew finds the answer he's looking for. Alfred says it out loud anyways.
"I toldya, didn't I? Arthur loves you , Mattie."
And suddenly Mathew remembers something that Arthur had said, something he'd brushed off and tried to ignore.
Mathew, I love you."
Mathew knows that Arthur means what he's saying, from the bottom of his heart. He also knows that Arthur doesn't mean the same kind of "love" that Mathew feels. It's guilt, Mathew knows, that's prompted the words to fall from Arthur's lips, words Arthur would never say when he's sober. Arthur isn't oblivious to his own favoritism, the difference in devotion between how he treats Alfred and how he treats Mathew. That's why Mathew accepts the words, knowing they're sincere, but with a bitter taste in his mouth.
"Thanks."
He feels his lips move in response, but he feels strangely disconnected as he hears his own reply.
I love you too, Arthur."
Mathew wishes that Arthur meant the same thing as Mathew does.
And Mathew begins to understand, feeling blood rush to his cheeks, turning his whole face red, even to the tips of his ears, and he barely notices the funny look Alfred is giving him because he's so caught up in his revelation. Arthur hadn't thought he was Alfred. He'd come onto Mathew on purpose. And Mathew had -unknowingly- rejected Arthur. The understanding slips out in a strained gasp.
"Oh."
It's only a word, no, it's barely is a word, but Mathew can't seem to say anything else. His feelings of elation and horror feel like they're battling against each other in him, and the world seems to spin in his veiw. Alfred's face changes from satisfied amusement to concern as Mathew sways a little in his chair, and he leans across the table to grab arm to steady him.
"Mattie, are you okay?"
But Mathew can't answer. His tiredness from moments ago has now been completely chased away by adrenaline, and though the world is still unfocused, Mathew feels restless. One memory brings with it another, and another, like a string of lights, and Mathew's overwhelmed with his newly discovered clarity.
"How's Arthur been recently?"
"I don't know."
"You haven't spoken to him?"
There's a thousand versions of Arthur in Matthew's memories. Arthur, his new older brother, who took care of him when Francis gave up on him. Arthur who makes dry scones and obsesses over tea. Arthur who pretends to hate Francis, but is actually good friends with him. Arthur who chases after Alfred and refuses to let go. Arthur who commands Mathew to follow. Arthur who breaks down when he fails to bring Alfred back. Arthur who looks at Mathew with a somewhat hopeless expression even as he confesses. Arthur, who meets Matthew's eyes through a glaze of tears and tells him to make his own choices.
"Mathew, my boy, isn't it about time you stopped doing what you were told, and start doing what you want?"
There's a thousand versions of Arthur in his memory, all of them different, yet all of them are Arthur, but the memory that Mathew focuses on is the most recent one. Arthur has said to do what he wanted. What did he want? Alfred's earlier question echoes in his head.
"You don't want to be with Arthur?"
It's such a simple and childish question, no deeper meanings or intentions other than confusion and curiosity. It's a question that any child could have asked. Is a question that Mathew hadn't been able to answer. Mathew thinks he can answer it now.
"Hello Mathew, my name is Arthur. I'm going to be your new older brother."
"How is it? Probably not as good as that Frog's, but still, I have pride in my scones, you know."
"Mathew! Do sit neatly or you'll spill your tea!"
"I can't stand Francis! I swear that one day I'll - oh, Mathew! ...That is.. I just meant... Well, ahem, nevermind that."
"Mathew, come. We're going to bring Alfred back!"
"Why? Why did he leave me? Why couldn't I -"
"Thank you, Mathew. For staying."
"Good job, Lad!"
"What about your love, Mathew?"
He's laughably late, coming to a conclusion even an animal could have come to quicker, but finally, Mathew knows what he wants. The world snaps back into focus, and he meets Alfred's somewhat worried face with more than confidence than he can remember having for years, and Alfred's eyes widen. Then a grin spreads across Alfred's face, and the worry lines smooth out as Mathew speaks. It's only one sentence, but it carries with it years of emotions and struggles and hopes for the future, and Mathew says it clearly.
"I want to see Arthur."
Alfred responds with a smirk, relaxing back against the back of his chair.
"What's stopping you?"
Nothing.
Mathew doesn't need to answer the question. Alfred doesn't seem to expect him too. Instead, Mathew shoots out of his seat, murmuring an apology neither brother is actually listening too, and Alfred waves him off, and Mathew is moving before he even knows what he's doing, where he's going, but for the first time in forever, it finally feels like he's doing something right.
He's almost halfway to Arthur's before he realizes Arthur might not be home, and he calls his number instead, too pumped up on adrenaline to hesitate, and it's Arthur who sounds hesitant when he answers.
"Hello?"
Mathew doesn't introduce himself. He knows he doesn't need too. His number is saved in Arthur's phone, and he knows Arthur knows who called. Instead, Mathew presses to the heart of the issue.
"Arthur, are you home?"
The response is flustered.
"I-wha-, yes. Yes, I'm home."
The sound of the familiar British accent stumbling over his answer makes Mathew smile, welling up from his subconsciousness, and Mathew thinks he can hear a change in his own voice because of that as he reveals his reason for calling.
"I want to see you."
Arthur goes silent for a moment on the other end of the line, and when he does speak, his voice is grim and solemn.
"Very well."
Mathew knows where Arthur keeps his spare key. He doesn't need to retrieve it. Instead, he pressed the bell with his expiring adrenaline, his last bit of courage disapating as the door swings open and Arthur greets him. It's a version of Arthur similar to one of his memories, smelling slightly of alcohol, eyes rimmed with red and bloodshot, normally newt clothes and hair a mess, but at the same time, Matthew's struck with the difference between the Arthur after Alfred left and the Arthur before him.
Arthur stands with his shoulders throw back, his eyes, though red, are looking straight at Mathew, and though he smells of alcohol, his eyes are clear and Mathew knows he's sober. It's both new and familiar to Mathew. The Arthur that first breaks down and cries is definitely the same Arthur that later gets back up and fights. But this time, Arthur's not like this because of Alfred, or at least not just because of Alfred, and Mathew feels both guilty and a little proud of this fact.
Part of him is elated that finally, he's gotten Arthur's attention, that finally, it was him that Arthur was stressing out about and worrying over. But another part of him wants to retreat. Years of self-brainwashing are engrained into his heart, and that part of him whispers that he's not good enough, that he can't make Arthur happy, that he'll never be enough. Mathew falters.
Arthur is still standing, looking at him through his swollen red eyes, still waiting for Mathew to speak, but suddenly, Mathew can't say the words, and the reason that he came running to Arthur's door feels like nothing but a delusion. He feels both stupid, for ever thinking just for a moment that Arthur could like him, and also terrified of meeting Arthur's open gaze. There's millions of reasons in his head why Arthur can't like him, and with each his heart sinks.
"I don't stand out like Alfred.
I don't speak up for myself.
I'm not strong.
I-"
It's Arthur who cuts off Matthew's intrusive thoughts with an unexpected move. It's all in a moment, then Mathew finds Arthur's arms around his neck, pulling his head down to meet Arthur's shoulder, and Arthur's voice shakes with emotion as he speaks in a scolding tone.
"You bloody idiot."
And Matthew's previous concerns are chased out by all new ones as he tries to think what he did, why Arthur is calling him an idiot. Arthur doesn't wait for him to figure it out, and continues in a thick voice.
"Even now, why are you still comparing yourself to Alfred?"
