AN: Apologies for the wait – I had some stuff happening in my life that was quite distressing, as well as a massive workload (caught up in internals and projects, as well as Choir regionals and just general sickness). Thanks to all those who have followed and favourited, and a special thank you to the reviewers – I was really touched to see the thought put into what you wrote!

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Hetalia. Any views expressed by characters in my story are not necessarily my own views, nor the views of Hidekaz Himaruya.

Chapter Two

" … When we were little, Alfred had this little toy rocket ship. He said he wanted to go to the stars, and it used to annoy me because he would run around and knock over things and then tell me h'de claimed my Legos in the name of America. Then I'd remind him that we lived in Canada and Alfred would cry – he wasn't upset, but if he cried, Dad would buy him something, and then Papa would buy me something after accusing Dad of favouritism. We'd only been with Papa and Dad for a year then, and Dad was terrified that he'd do something wrong.

They both were.

It all worked out for Al, I guess. It always does. We did end up going to America and Papa even took us to the Smithsonian. Too bad by then he'd grown out of astronauts – But even now he's always getting excited at people on TV talking about sending rovers to Mars or meteorites passing Earth. I'm pretty sure he still has that stuffed alien plush toy from that trip hidden somewhere amongst his sheets.

I wonder what happened to that rocket?"

Monday was a bitch of a day, thought Alfred. But today was going to be (like Uncle Gil always said) awesome.

The day had already gotten off to a better start – Dad hadn't screamed at him to get up, and Mattie hadn't nagged at him, and holy shit he had smashed in Mr. Braginsky's car window with a baseball bat.

Tyler always had the best ideas. At least, the ones that didn't include getting like, no sleep. Too bad Tyler's second idea had been 'sneak out at 2am and back into it at 4:30". At least he'd remembered to close the window to Matt's room this time, and to take some blackmail pictures in case he decided to tattle.

Alfred grinned, suppressing a yawn, as he walked through the door of first period art. He wasn't sure how he was going to look Mr. Braginsky in the eye, but what the hell.

Matt trailed in behind him, and split quickly. Alfred turned back and waved at Matt, whilst simultaneously glaring at his seat mate.

Jóse glared back. Alfred's eyes were drawn to the splint on his nose and for some stupid reason, he felt the tiniest twinge of guilt. Not that the guy's broken nose was his fault.

Art was always boring. Alfred spent most of his time in the class staring out the window while pretending to listen to whichever cheerleader was sitting next to him, or flirting with the super hot student teacher. Matt said he was being creepy and pathetic – but, dude, he was totally getting somewhere. Like, just look at the way she glared at him – Alfred had watched enough TV to know that when a girl looked at you that it, it totally meant they secretly wanted you.

Alfred's eyes felt heavy as he sat down. Neither of the two teachers responsible for this art class ever made it to the classroom before their students, so Alfred figured he'd have time to just catch like five minutes of sleep.

He was rudely awoken about a minute later, by an exasperated sigh. He opened one blue eye lazily.

"Sup."

"Get up Bonnefoy-Kirkland. This is not kindergarten naptime."

"A little sleep never hurt anyone."

"And learning something wouldn't hurt you, or must you be reminded of your less than adequate grade in this class?"

Opening both eyes properly, Alfred yawned, before breaking out his brightest smile.

"It's super hard to concentrate with you here. You're pretty distracting, ya know."

Natalya rolled her eyes, but Alfred swore he could see the hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

"Blaming others for your own shortcomings will not get you far in life."

"But I'd much rather talk to you than do work, Nat."

"Don't call me-"

"Is Alfred bothering you, Ms. Arlovskaya?"

Alfred scowled at the voice. He'd been so busy talking that he hadn't noticed Mr. B walk in the room at all. Stupid ninja Russians.

Mr. Braginsky was scowling back at him. Alfred would never admit it, but the guy was kind of terrifying when he was angry – well, more terrifying than usual. Though normally quite a calm guy, and a well respected teacher (or, perhaps well feared) Alfred thought there was something off about him. But Mr. Braginsky had never screamed and yelled at the class like some of the other teachers did. He didn't lose his temper, because he simply didn't need to. The art teacher radiated authority – and when he was angry, it was this cold, passive anger that seeped its way into your bones and made you feel like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over your head.

At almost six feet tall, the art teacher and hockey coach looked like he could bench press a truck. Alfred had heard a rumour once that, in his very first year of teaching, Mr. B had smashed a desk in half with one blow in a fit of rage. Alfred hadn't ever seen anything more than a few snapped-in-half pencils, but he didn't really want to aggravate his teacher to that point.

Though at this rate, considering what he'd done to the guy's car window, he wouldn't be surprised if some things other than desks were going to get smashed.

Turning his attention away from Alfred – after shooting Natalya what looked suspiciously like a judging elder brother look – Mr. B cleared his throat.

"Good morning class. It is nice to see most of you have the mental capacity to remain awake this early in the day."

A giggle spread quickly through the class, but it was quickly overshadowed by Alfred's own far-too enthusiastic laugh. Mr. Braginsky waited for the laughter to die down, before continuing.

"I regret to inform you that this morning that there has been a serious incident of vandalism on the school grounds. Last night, somebody decided to play a little joke and break the windshield of a car that was parked in my parking space."

Alfred put on his best surprised look. He could practically feel Matt's glare from across the room, so he did the best that he could to ignore it.

"Fortunately for myself, the car in question was not mine. Unfortunately for the perpetrator, the car did belong to the Deputy Police Chief of Riverview, who was meeting with one of the teachers here last night, and had borrowed my carpark as I went home early."

For a second Alfred felt his heart stop.

Well, fucking shit.

But at least they didn't know who it was, right?

"Deputy Police Chief Zwingli is extremely angry about this, and has sworn to personally arrest whoever it was that vandalized his property. He has asked all teachers to inform their classes of this, in hopes that someone owns up before the results of fingerprinting from the baseball bat found in the dumpster next to the school arrive, as well as the blood test results from where the perpetrator cut himself on the broken glass. Though it was not necessarily a student here at Riverview, the baseball bat was in fact marked with our school logo. Mr. Zwingli has stated that if it is, that student will be reprimanded swiftly, so if it was one of you, I would advise you to confess."

Mr. Braginsky's pale eyes were focused on him.

How the fuck did he know? How did they get the bat? Tyler had said –

Oh. Wait. Tyler had said he'd get rid of it.

And now Alfred was going to go to jail or get deported or get screamed at by his Dad and Papa for weeks – if the scary-ass weapon-obsessed revenge-seeking Deputy Police Chief didn't kill him first.

Matthew wanted to scream in frustration, or bang his head against the wall, or just strangle something.

Alfred was an idiot.

Such.

An.

Idiot.

Agreeing with Tyler's dumbass plan in the first place was stupid. Managing to get the wrong car?

Even stupider.

And then, on top of that, leaving his own blood on the car and not even getting rid of the weapon?

With all that TV Al watched, you'd have thought he'd picked up something about crime scenes.

Matt lifted his head up from his desk, where he'd slumped down in frustration. Mei glanced at him from across the room, eyes darting from him to Alfred and back to him with a questioning look. Matt returned an almost imperceptible nod.

Out of all of the cars to smash up in the world, Alfred had managed to pick the worst.

Deputy Police Chief Zwingli was the elder brother of one of the sophomores. Matthew had seen him around after school, sometimes coming by to pick up his little sister. The guy wasn't the most menacing, or tough looking – in fact, he was quite lean, and not that tall, and his hair cut was kind of girly – but the constant scowl and giant gun were pretty helpful in maintaining a threatening air. He was pretty young for his position, but notorious for his fantastic organization skills, and hair-trigger temper, as well as being the main reason little Lili Zwingli had never, ever been picked on.

Matthew remembered that Papa had mentioned crime rates dropping drastically as Zwingli had moved up in the law enforcement ranks. He also remembered Uncle Gilbert complaining about going up against the guy after particularly difficult court cases. Apparently, he wasn't exactly the easiest witness to cross-examine.

Great choice Alfred. Really.

After what had to have been the most intense 5 second silence of Matthew's life, Mr. Braginsky dropped the topic and moved on to the lesson. Matthew released a breath he hadn't known he was holding, and heard Alfred do the same.

He felt a sympathetic pat on his back from Jóse.

"Amigo, I'm sorry your brother has no brain."

"I'm sorry too. So sorry."

Through the rest of the lesson, Matthew found himself avoiding Alfred at all costs, out of some paranoid irrational fear that if they so much as looked at each other, it'd be enough for Mr. Braginsky to call Zwingli and have him arrested on the spot – and as guilty as he felt knowing that his brother had done it, he knew that if he turned him in, he'd feel even guiltier.

Damn guilt complexes.

He didn't look in Alfred's direction once. Knowing him, Al was probably doing the same.

It felt like the period would never end, so when the bell rang, Matthew practically bolted for the door, only to be called out to.

"Matthew. Could you please remain behind for a minute?"

The announcement, which normally would have been met with the standard mocking 'oooooohs' from the rest of the class, was received in silence. Everyone (including Ms. Arlovskaya, for some reason) seemed to have had the same idea as him – get out of art as fast as possible.

Matthew froze on the spot, and didn't turn to face Mr. Braginsky until the classroom was empty.

"Calm down Matthew. You look like a baby deer caught in the headlights of a truck. You are not in trouble."

Matthew suppressed the urge to blush in embarrassment – you know, because being told you resemble an adorable woodland creature was kind of a blow to the masculinity.

"I want to speak to you about your brother."

Oh fuck. This was it. Mr. Braginsky was going to make him turn on Alfred! Of course he knew, Mr. B knew everything that went on in his classroom an-

"Please return at lunchtime. I don't want to keep you from your next class."

"P-pardon?"

"Go to second period, Matthew."

With that, Mr. Braginsky waved his hand and started to focus very intently on the stack of assignments on his desk, which Matthew recognized as the universal teacher sign for 'piss off, we're finished'.

Matthew left the classroom quickly, flinging the door open and almost running into Mei, who was waiting for him.

"Mei! Sorry!"

"It's fine! What did he want? Did he know it was Alfred? It was Alfred, right? Why would Alfred smash-"

"He was trying to get at Mr. Braginsky."

"Oh."

"He wants to see me at lunch."

"…and?"

"It's about Alfred."

"…and?"

"What else do you want me to say?"

"Um…"

Mei shrugged.

"I think you just answered all my questions." Mei smiled, linking her arm through Matthew's. "Except, one."

Matthew raised an eyebrow as the two began to leave the art department.

"And that would be?"

"Are you going to turn him in?"

As Francis walked out of Conference Room 4A of the Fournier Corporation headquarters an hour later than expected, he found himself in a rather unhappy mood.

To say negotiations had not gone well would be an understatement. It had taken all of his self control for Francis not to smack the smug smile off Jean Paul Fournier's stupid face as tensions had risen and risen in the small boardroom – self control, and of course, the probable law suit that would follow if the Bonnefoy heir had started a brawl with the Fournier heir during the midst of supposedly peaceful negations in front of at least four witnesses. Not to say he couldn't probably win any ensuing lawsuits, what with a Harvard-alumna lawyer for a best friend, as well as the family lawyers, of course, but all the negative publicity would lead to some angry phone calls from his dear Papa.

"We will inform you of our decision later today."

Magni-fucking-fique.

That meant he would certainly not be catching a plane back to Riverview in few hours time, like he'd expected. It'd be a miracle if he could get back by the end of the week – airlines were always so fussy about last minute cancellations and bookings.

Stepping outside of Fournier Corporations into a waiting town car, Francis made a note to call home.

The question lingered in the back of his mind through third and fourth period. It repeated on a loop, getting a little louder with every snippet of conversation he heard concerning Deputy Police Chief Zwingli's car. The news of the vandalism had become the prime gossip of the school, worming its way through heads of students and becoming more and more twisted with each retelling, as gossip always did.

Some were of the belief that the true intent of the crime was a warning to Mr. Braginsky from ex-KGB officers. Others were sure that the Lili Zwingli herself had committed the crime, in an act of rebellion against her big brother.

And then, there was the truth, which seemed to be pretty widespread in its knowledge. Whispers – both admiring and ashamed - circulated that Alfred had done it, that Alfred was going to get caught, and the school's golden boy was going to jail.

However, the whispers were little more than speculations – though scarily accurate ones.

"Are you going to turn him in?"

The corridors in the art department weren't always this empty. Towards the end of the year, art students would rush in and out, paintbrushes and pastels clutched desperately in hand, overly large portfolios tucked haphazardly under arm. You could tell each individual's level of stress by the amount of paint streaks on the bridge of their nose, or the subtle eye twitch of too many energy drinks and late nights.

At this time of year though, it was a ghost town. Teachers weren't often known to linger in their classrooms, except to mark assignments or, for a special one or two, to indulge in art of their own.

Matthew's footsteps seemed to echo in the narrow space, the sound bouncing off of walls and closed doors. It seemed to him that the only sounds that existed here right now were ones created by him – and the ever present voice in his head.

As he neared Mr. Braginsky's classroom, the sound of voices reached his ears, gradually growing with each step he took. He recognised the harsh, biting tones of an argument.

"… not a child, Vanya. I can deal with myself."

"Don't lead him on."

"I have been nothing but cold to him. Or are your eyes seeing something mine cannot, dear big brother?"

The line was sickly sweet, so overly cloying in its delivery that Matthew winced hearing it. Reaching the closed door of the art room, he hesitated. Maybe it would be best to come back later?

"Yet he seems to believe otherwise."

A deadpan reply, followed by a delicate snort.

"Mere delusions."

"That boy, he is trouble, Natasha. Do not speak to-"

"And who are you to advise me on student teacher relations?"

"Natash-"

Inside the art room, something clattered to the ground, before the door flung open to reveal a decidedly angry looking Ms. Arlovskaya. She glanced at him, barely acknowledging his presence before brushing past him. Mr Braginsky followed, scowl etched into his features.

"Oh. Matthew. Please, wait inside." he barked, before shouting down the corridor in what Matthew assumed was Russian, and storming after the click-clack of Ms. Arlovskaya's heels.

Matthew nodded instinctually, but the response was greeted by thin air where Mr. Braginsky had been. It took him a second to process what the art teacher had actually said.

Leaving any the tiny snippet of argument he had heard behind him, Matthew stepped into the empty art room. He narrowly avoided stepping on the fallen easel that lay sprawled about a metre in front of the doorway.

He stooped down, picking the easel carefully, and looked around to see where it had come from. It looked like that class that had been in the room before lunch had put away most of the art equipment, aside from a few paints and brushes that lay on top of Mr Braginsky's desk. It seemed he had been about to begin painting.

It wasn't unusual for Mr. Braginsky to be painting. In fact, it was a rare day that the art teacher didn't have a work-in-progress set up at the back of the classroom, free for any students to look at and critique.

Matthew set the easel up next to Mr. Braginsky's desk, before scanning the floor for whatever painting, if any, had been knocked off it. It took him about a minute of searching to find it – the painting had half slid under a cabinet stacked with piles of coloured paper. He picked it up, placing it back on the easel.

Huh. That was weird.

Matthew didn't know much about art, but he supposed Mr. Braginsky was a pretty good painter. He liked to decorate Art Room 4 with a variety of artworks, both student-work and his own, and Matthew had always been able to tell the difference. The art teacher seemed to be a fan of abstract art, thick choppy brushstrokes of red and browns and blacks that fought sharp angles across canvases. Always raw, always rough – never the quick sketched landscapes and portraits that he would demonstrate to his class.

The painting he had picked up was not Mr. Braginsky's. There was no way. For one thing, it wasn't a thick canvas, but delicate, almost translucent paper. For another, it definitely wasn't that morning's bright yellow and orange half-finished sunburst thing that was at the back of the –

Oh.

Matthew glanced towards the back of the classroom. Mr. Braginsky's regular easel was right where it normally was, sunshine explosion still sitting there.

The painting that he had placed on this easel was deceptively simple - a delicate watercolour painting of a bear on all fours, head tilted in an almost curious manner. The brushstrokes were thin and intricate, flowing one into another in a way that Matthew deemed impossible. It was as if the artist had just never lifted brush from paper, but just done the whole thing in one long, twisting movement.

At first glance, the crisp black-on-white painting seemed completely finished. Upon a closer inspection, Matthew noticed what appeared to be the bear reaching for something in the bottom the corner, the beginning lines of which curved delicately in a yellow so pale it was barely noticeable.

The painting certainly wasn't Mr. Braginsky's. Absolutely no way.

"It's amazing..." Matthew said absentmindedly to himself.

"It is beautiful."

He almost jumped. Mr. Braginsky had silently made his way back into the classroom, with his uncanny grace.

"I'm sorry!" he apologised, suddenly panicked. "I didn't mean to…"

"Thank you for picking it up, Matthew." Mr. B waved off his apologies, all the while eyeing the painting. "Ms. Arlovskaya tripped and knocked it over on the way out, and unfortunately did not have a chance to pick it up."

"Right…"

So that had been the crashing sound from earlier.

"Whose painting is it?" Matthew asked. For a second, Mr. Braginsky seemed hesitant, before answering.

"I mean, they didn't sign-"

"It was left behind by an old student. They never got a chance to finish it."

"Oh. They were really good."

"One of the best."

Mr. Braginsky continued to stare at the paint, eyes narrowed. Matthew stood, awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He was pretty sure Mr. Braginsky hadn't called him here to look at old paintings. In fact, he wasn't really sure why he was looking at old paintings, even if they were-

"Ah, Matthew." The art teacher said suddenly, like he was just remembering Matthew's presence. "I'm sorry. Thank you for coming in during your lunch."

"Um. Oh! That's okay."

"I am afraid that I do not have good news for you. Please, sit down."

With that, Mr. Braginsky moved to sit behind his desk. Matthew grabbed a chair from the nearest table, and pulled it up to the desk. He sat, crossing his legs awkwardly in an attempt to look calm as Mr. Braginsky pulled out a few papers from a drawer inside his desk.

Are you going to turn him in?

"Let me get straight to the point. I've called you in here today because of the behaviour of your brother. Alfred is your younger brother, yes?"

"We're twins. But yeah, he's younger."

"Would you say you and Alfred are close?"

"Well…" Matthew stopped. His first instinct was to reply with a resounding yes – but to tell the truth…

"I see." Mr. Braginsky continued to sort through his papers, before pulling out two and placing them in front of Matthew.

"In front of you, Matthew, are Alfred's assignment marks from last year, and the grades he has received in the last month and a half that you have been back at school. As you can see, there has been a significant drop. Recently, your brother has also begun acting strangely. Have you been aware of this, Matthew?"

"Um, yes, but you know, it could be just starting school, and pressure from universities, or all the sports Al has been doing or ..."

Matthew's jumbled attempt at reasoning trailed off under Mr. Braginsky's questioning gaze.

"He's been different lately." Matthew shrugged. "But like, it's not-"

"Alfred's teachers, including myself, have become quite concerned about him. I've called you in here today to ask if Alfred is alright. Have there been any problems at home? Anything that happened in the last few months that may be affecting him this way?"

"I don't really know."

Mr. Braginsky raised an eyebrow, but Matthew didn't say any more. He didn't know what he could say, exactly. Sure, there had been Dad and Papa's increasing arguments, but it wasn't like they were affecting Al. Alfred had barely been around the last two months, spending most of his time with his new friends.

After sitting in tense silence for 30 seconds, Mr. Braginsky sighed, and pulled something else out of his desk drawer. He handed the envelope to Matthew.

"Here's a letter. Please deliver this to your parents, and inform them that they should be expecting a call from one of Alfred's teachers soon. I would have given this to Alfred, but… well, he is not exactly reliable."

Mr. Braginsky stood up, signalling for Matthew to do the same. Matthew looked down at the letter in his hands. It was a standard white envelope, with Mr. Bonnefoy & Mr. Kirkland written in elegant blue script in the middle. He looked back up, to see that Mr. Braginsky was halfway out of the classroom.

"But what about the car?"

Mr. B turned around sharply.

"The what, Matthew?"

"The… never mind. Sorry."

So this wasn't about the car. Maybe he'd been worried about nothing?

"Very well. Go enjoy the rest of your lunch break."

With that, the art teacher left the room, leaving Matthew alone with an envelope in hand and the ever present question of "are you going to turn him in?" echoing in his head.

"Are you absolutely sure I should fly back without you?" asked Jeanne's voice down the phone, straining to be heard over the noise of the airport. "We still have an hour before departure."

"There is no way I will make it."

"I could stay behind and you could take my ticket?"

"Non, Jeanne, though it is kind of you to offer. I need to stay and sort this out. Go catch your plane."

"Mr. Bonnefoy-"

"Francis."

"Francis, would you like me to book you a new flight once I get back?"

"I can do it myself. Merci, Jeanne."

"Fr-"

Francis hung up before Jeanne could protest. Yes, it was rude, but if he didn't, Jeanne (bless her heart) would probably miss her own flight. He checked the time – 6pm.

Four hours and those Fournier bastards still hadn't called.

The house wasn't normally this loud on Tuesday afternoons – by the time Matthew got home after guitar, Alfred was usually off at baseball practice, and both his parents were still at work, leaving Matthew alone in the calm quiet. Today though, Matthew arrived to the sound gunshots and swearing from the living room.

Alfred was sprawled on his stomach on the living room carpet, X-Box controller gripped tightly in both hands, a packet of Doritos and a dozen empty soda cans in front of him. He didn't look up as Matthew entered and sat next to him, his eyes fixed on the television screen.

"Fuckin' commies." Alfred said, after the character he was playing died for what seemed to Matthew like the 27th time.

"You're not even using the right controller. That's why you keep dying." Matthew reached forward behind the Dorito bag and picked up the second controller, which, unlike the one in Alfred's possession, was turned on.

"Oh."

Alfred looked down at the powerless controller in his hands, and threw lightly it on the floor.

"How did you even start the game with the wrong one?" Matthew asked, as he stood up and turned the console off.

His brother shrugged, before sitting up. The action knocked over a few of the cans, sending them rolling across the room. Matthew went after them, picking them up and dumping them in Alfred's lap.

"Maaaaaaattie." Alfred whined. "Throw them away for me?"

"No." he rolled his eyes, and sat back down next to Alfred. "Do it yourself."

"You suck."

"No, you suck."

"Your mom sucks."

"We don't have a mom, dumbass."

"Then, your dad sucks."

"We're brothers."

The familiar banter caused Matthew to feel a smile creep into his face. It'd been too long since they'd actually joked around. It was just a shame that Alfred only ever seemed to be his old self when he was…

Matthew furrowed his eyebrows and sniffed. The air smelt of mint.

He felt the smile desert his face.

"We need to talk."

"Oh my god, you're breaking up with me." Alfred deadpanned, before bursting into laughter.

"This isn't a joke."

"It better be! You promised we'd be together forev-"

Alfred stopped laughing at Matthew's grim expression."What's up, bro?"

"Mr. Braginsky called me in at lunchtime today."

Alfred's eyes narrowed. He stood up. Cans clattered to the floor, but he made no attempt to pick them up.

Matthew stood too. He gathered a few cans up while Alfred babbled at him.

"What? But you never get in trouble! If that bastard is out to get you then-"

"No! This was about you."

"Oh, shit he knows about the car doesn't he? I'm going to die, Matt! I'm too pretty for prison!" Alfred grabbed at Matthew's shoulders and he dropped the rubbish he was holding.

"Oh shut up, Al! He was talking about grades and stuff."

"That's all?"

Alfred relaxed visibly and let go. He almost smiled.

"Did you know you were failing?" Matthew raised an eyebrow. That… had not been what he was expecting.

"Well… yeah." Alfred nodded. "Duh."

"Mr. Braginsky gave me this letter to give to Dad and Papa."

"Don't give it to them!" Alfred's eyebrows shot up.

"Well, you weren't going to tell them, were you?"

"They don't need to know!"

"Why are you acting like you care, Al?" Matthew retorted. "You clearly don't give a fuck about your grades."

"Doesn't mean our parents don't!"

"Which is why they need to know!"

Their argument had become a full-blown fight, as Alfred launched himself clumsily at Matthew, not quite tripping over his feet. Matthew dodged, side-stepping to the right and narrowly avoided colliding with the couch.

"Gimme the letter!"

Alfred grabbed at his arm and Matthew twisted left, slipping out of the heavy fabric. Alfred, fists clenched on empty sleeves, dropped the jacket on the floor, kicking it. It didn't travel far, but did send aluminium careening towards the edges of the room.

"Hell no!" Matthew scowled, putting his hand in his pocket and clutching the letter tightly.

"Just give it to me!" His brother scowled, jumping at him again. This time, he was more successful, and Matthew found himself caught.

"Get your drunk ass off me!"

Matthew shoved, and Alfred shoved back. They grappled, the momentum propelling the two of them sideways, crashing and falling into and over the couch, all the while yelling in each others' faces.

With each traded blow and shouted insult, Matthew felt a burning feeling boiling hotter and hotter in the pit of his stomach. Resentment, rage, frustration, churning into a familiar white-hot horrible feeling that Alfred usually had the misfortune to experience

Matthew wasn't, by nature, one for fighting. Since he could remember, when Matthew and Alfred had fought, as brothers are wont to do, there had always been a clear pattern to the few disagreements. The arguments were begun by Alfred, continued by Alfred, and ended by Alfred. As a child, Matthew had been the passive of the two. Alfred was the spitfire, the loud one, the one that would fight and fight and fight forever. So Matthew gave in – it was simply easier than trying to keep up.

The frequency of fights had increased as they grew older, and Matthew and Alfred grew slightly further apart. Though to many who were briefly acquainted with them, Matthew was still Alfred's shadow, those that knew them saw differently. Adolescence had been Matthew's discovery of his natural sporting talent (something he'd been sure had only been possessed by Alfred), and of a little something called independence.

Yes, Matthew wasn't one for fighting – but, now, at least, he wasn't one for losing either.

"Hand it over, Matthew!"

"Oh, go play with your meathead friends!"

"At least my friends aren't losers!"

"My friends? They used to be your friends too! And not losers? Try saying that when they all die of alcohol poisoning and liver disease!"

"Shut up! They like me!"

"They like your money and your fake id and your letterman jacket – not you!"

"Go die, Matthew! I have fun with them! They don't yell at me, or judge me, or any of this shit! I don't need your fucking approval – not if you're just going to keep screaming at me because I hear enough of that from our fucking parents!"

And with that, the fight stopped. Alfred's arm loosened around Matthew's neck, and Matthew removed his elbow from Alfred's gut. Alfred took a small step back, removing his grip around Matthew, only to hear the crinkle of foil and the crunch of something indelible being crushed into the carpet. Matthew heard Alfred's ragged breaths hitch in his throat, and felt his own do the same.

"Oh fuck." whispered Alfred, who had dropped his arms limply to his sides, as he carefully moved his right foot. They both turned slowly, and stared at the crushed corn chip powder that had bloomed in horrendous neon glory under Alfred's foot.

"…That was new carpet." Matthew said quietly, eyes wide in horror. "Papa is going to kill you."

"Not if Dad does first."

The two stared in stunned silence at the orange blotch. Matthew couldn't help but think how ridiculous this was. Alfred had vandalised a car – a cop's car – and was failing practically every class, and then they'd fought and now… and now they were worrying about a fucking Dorito stain.

He started to laugh. It wasn't long before Alfred joined in, though whether or not they were laughing at the same thing, Matthew didn't know.

"How are we going to clean that shit?" asked Alfred after their laughter had died down.

Matthew eyed the stain.

"Sodium bicarbonate?" he suggested. "You can clean with that, right?"

"What?"

"Baking soda."

"You can't use baking soda on carpet. Carpet isn't a food."

"…"

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Matt?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm… yeah. You know…" said Alfred awkwardly, scratching the side of his head.

"Yeah, me too." Matthew replied, the corner of his lip curving upwards into a lopsided smile, before looking at his brother. Alfred looked vaguely uncomfortable, face somewhere halfway between a grimace and a frown.

"I… I won't give it to them, okay Al?" said Matthew uncertainly.

"Really?" Alfred's face lit up brighter than on Christmas and his birthday combined. "You promise, Mattie?"

"One condition."

"What?" Alfred narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

"Deputy Zwingli's car. That was you, wasn't it?"

"It wasn't meant for him." said Alfred defensively.

"You're a fucking idiot."

"Yep."

Matthew sighed.

"Seriously Al. I can't hide that from them. If they catch you, you own up. Okay?"

"Fine. All in the name of justice, or whatever. So you won't give them the letter?"

"Shouldn't you be more worried about, you know, getting arrested?"

"Eh. Everything works out for me in the end. They won't get me. Now, the letter?"

Alfred F.J. Bonnefoy-Kirkland. As nonchalant as ever. Matthew fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"I promise I won't give it to them. But this is the last time. I'm not covering for you again, so you're going to have to stop being an ass."

"I swear on the manliness of Lincoln's beard that I will own up to my actions if caught, clean up my act and become a contributing member of our American society." Alfred placed his hand on his heart, and put on his best 'dignified' face.

"No, seriously Alfred."

"I am serious. This is the last time." Alfred beamed at him. "I promise."

Matthew glared for about a minute, before sighing again.

"I believe you."

"I love you, bro. You rock."

Matthew looked at the room around them. The couch had been knocked backwards by about a metre. There was rubbish everywhere, and what appeared to be a broken X-Box game case, that must have been trodden on at some point. He looked back at Alfred. His brother was starting to look a bit green. It seemed that the negative effects of however many drinks he had had were starting to kick in – all that movement had most certainly not been good for him.

"I can tidy this up, Al. You look like you're going to throw up."

Alfred nodded in gratitude, without saying a word. It always amazed Matthew how quickly his brother could switch moods at the drop of a hat.

Or maybe he just really didn't want to open his mouth.

"Just… go take a shower or something before Dad gets home. You smell like someone poured a bucket of Listerine over your head, and I don't really think it's going to fool him."

"It's not like he's ever noticed before." Alfred said quietly, before trudging out of the living room. Matthew watched him go, before glancing over the trashed room once again. Fuck. He hated cleaning, but if Dad got back before –

A sudden knock at the door sent Matthew's hopes of actually tidying the room up fleeing out the window. As he made his way to the front door, he cursed whatever god it was up there that had made his dad decide to leave work and come home two hours earlier than expected.

Sorry again for the wait, guys and for the fact that I am presenting to you ¾ of what was intended to be one chapter (with a rather abrupt ending) - I figured that it had actually been far too long since the last update, and I was starting to feel really guilty. Just so you know, I'm always contactable through my tumblr (link on profile) – feel free to say hi, or ask me any questions you might have :)
Until next time! - Tina