Author's Note: Despite the legalization of same-sex marriage in the U.S., thirty-one states are still allowed to discriminate against the LGBT community in the workplace without legal ramifications. I think it's important to note these things, as political awareness is often the first step toward reform.

Alfred had never hated his father. Even when some quarrels got a tad out of hand, he'd never felt any real, lasting bitterness toward either of his parents. Disagreements weren't uncommon by any means, but they were always settled by the end of the day. In fact, Alfred would often have a long sleep and forget about the entire argument before the following morning's breakfast. As such, he spent far more time appreciating the presence of his parents rather than despising it.

The closest he came to malice was during his first soccer matches. It was then that he startled himself with how easy it was to hate.

Mostly, he stuck to warming benches. He dug the spikes of his cleats into the grass beneath his feet as the game unfolded without him. He watched the rest of his team run up and down the field with a hungry envy, hands stuffed into the pocket of his uniform sweatshirt.

He didn't want to feel jealous of them, but it couldn't be helped. Sixty minutes of ennui and mindless idling tickled his temper, and he was filled with unadulterated contempt for the other players. The youth board's regulations stated that each match should consist of two, thirty minute halves, but even that seemed like an absurdly long amount of time to be sitting on a bench. The boy's muscles often fell asleep, and his knee begged him to lie down while the rest of the team cheered upon scoring a goal.

While Alfred sulked on the sidelines, Arthur could often be found standing in front of the bleachers, offering tidbits of advice to some boys, despite Roderich's numerous insistences that he could very well manage coaching his team on his own. Still, this did not dissuade Arthur from making his own comments.

If there was a silver-lining to the disastrous soccer arrangements, it was that Arthur had kept up his end of the promise. Alfred did not see him touch a single cigarette during the matches, but to compensate for the extreme lack of nicotine, he pursued caffeine instead.

Alfred was pretty sure he'd never seen Arthur pick up a cup of coffee in his entire life before he'd joined the soccer team. The man often complained of what a disgusting choice of beverage it was—absolutely foul. How anyone could choose coffee over tea eluded him. It was the poor man's drink and no better than watered down dirt.

So, when Alfred saw his father voluntary swallow an entire thermos full of dark roast coffee, he was quite convinced that the world was ending. He'd finally done it—he'd somehow driven his father into madness, and he couldn't be cured. It was all downhill now, surely.

And though the boy was glad to see that his father had curbed his cigarette usage to five smokes a day, he hadn't intended for the man to pick up a new addiction to replace his old one.

Alfred had been studying his shoelaces when Arthur came up to him after half-time, sneaking his way over to the child's lonely bench. Apparently, they were tied at two goals each. Alfred had missed all of the action by brooding.

"A fine game, isn't it?" Arthur asked him as he seated himself beside his son, sipping the abominable coffee.

"Kirkland, get away from my bench!"

"Calm down, Edelstein! Pay more attention to your fragmented left flank."

Alfred rolled his eyes at the two and gave a snort of acknowledgment.

"Matthew has raw talent. He's made so many wonderful saves today."

Another snort.

Arthur shifted uncomfortably and unzipped his jacket half-way. It was chilly, but the ruthless winter was finally over, and the blossoming warmth of spring was welcome. "How is your leg feeling?"

No point in beating around the bush. "Bad."

"I've talked to Toris about—"

"Whatever," Alfred cut him off, rather sick of hearing the next treatment plan that his father had stumbled upon.

Arthur sent him a sharp look, all ruffled around the edges. "Don't give me that tone, young man."

"I'm tired. My leg hurts, and I'm tired. I don't want to hear what you have to say."

"That is not the way to speak to adults. If something is troubling you, then you can inform me of it in a civiland polite manner."

Alfred kicked up some grass and curled his fingers into the edge of the bench. "I'm quitting the team."

"You've only just started."

"Yeah, and I haven't played at all. I just sit here and watch the grass grow. I don't wanna do this anymore. I want to go home."

Arthur sighed in that exasperated way he often used on Alfred when he wanted to explain something to the boy but didn't know how to phrase it. "Lad, I'm doing everything I can to help you. Being on a team will help you to—"

"I'm not even on the team! Dad, I never play. You wouldn't even come to the matches if Mattie wasn't goalie."

"That's not true. I support both of you."

"It's true, and you know it. I'm quitting, and I'm going to tell Papa about it. He'll let me quit."

His father took a deep breath and the corner of his mouth twitched. Alfred could tell he wanted a cigarette but had already approached his limit for the day.

"I won't make you do something you don't want to do, Alfred. If you really want to leave the team, then you can, but please, think it over before you do."

Alfred made a hum of noise meant to appease his father, but it wasn't convincing. What was there to think over? They'd known this was a bad idea from the start.

Just five minutes of stoppage time left. Then, he could go home and play videogames for the rest of the night.

"Alfred, you're in!"

His eyes almost fell out of his head when he saw Roderich looking directly at him, stern and unrelenting.

"W-What?"

"You heard me! Get on the field! We need some fresh legs."

Alfred didn't even attempt to hide his dumbstruck expression. He turned to his father for confirmation, wondering if he was dreaming. He probably fell asleep on the bench and would be rudely awakened by an irritated Roderich at any moment.

He pinched himself to be sure… Ouch, definitely not a dream.

Arthur was already yanking his sweatshirt off to reveal his jersey. "Hurry along, now!"

"Dad, I'm not—"

He glanced at the scoreboard. They were still tied.

"Your team needs you, lad."

"Yeah, they need me to disappoint them," Alfred snapped, trudging to replace one of the forwards at the head of the field.

Chaos broke out as soon as the whistle went off. The other team took a shot, but the ball bounced off of a goalpost and was sent flying in the opposite direction. Their midfielder scooped up the blob of black and white and passed it to Alfred, who didn't need to think twice before taking off for the counterattack. The pain in his leg suddenly seemed insignificant, and he could hear the cheers of his teammates behind him.

The defenders couldn't keep up with his speed, so he easily crisscrossed past them. All he had to do now was line up the perfect shot. He took a deep breath, swung his leg back, and then…

Somehow, he found himself lying on the prickly grass. It took a few seconds for him to realize he'd been tripped by one of the defenders who had caught up. The boy had hooked their feet together and sent them both sliding down the field. The referee blew his whistle again and called a clear foul.

Another second passed, and a chorus of boos arose from the opposite team's bench as the boy who had tripped him was suspended from the game and given a red card.

"Alfred!"

Arthur and Roderich were hovering over him, checking to see if all of his bones were still whole.

And holy hell, he was afraid his knee had been pulverized into dust.

"That was quite a nasty fall. Are you injured?"

"My knee, Dad."

It was the last thing his father wanted to hear. With gentle hands, he turned Alfred onto his back so that he could get a good look at him and let his eyes scan the leg in question.

Judging by the hiss that escaped the lips of both men, he was done for. He was too scared to look at the damage himself.

"Am I bleeding? Is my leg going to get cut off? Mattie once said—"

"Shh. You're going to be all right," Arthur soothed him, rubbing his head with one hand. "You're not bleeding, but you've earned yourself a bruise."

"Do I have to go to the hospital?"

"We'll see."

He didn't like that ambiguous tone.

Roderich helped him sit up and clapped a hand against his back. "You did a good job. You got us a penalty kick and a chance to win the match."

"I want to take the shot," Alfred said quickly, lurching onto his feet.

"I don't think so. You have to rest your leg, and I can get someone else to—"

"No, it was supposed to be my goal, so I want to take the shot."

Roderich exchanged glances with Arthur and sighed. "Okay, kid. You have a deal."

Thus, Alfred scored his first goal. He'd aimed for upper left-hand side of the net, and even if he'd been a little off, it didn't matter because the goalie threw himself in the wrong direction. The ball breezed past the goal line, and his team's bench exploded with joy. They'd won.

Alfred and Matthew prattled on about the game for hours on end, and Alfred was so stuck in the magical glee that he insisted to Arthur that his knee didn't hurt nearly as much anymore. His father had been skeptical and suggested he get checked out by the doctor just to be safe, but Alfred begged him not to make him go. He just wanted to enjoy the fun and celebration.

Arthur didn't have the heart to break his spirit, so they went home. The twins told Francis all of what he'd missed, and Arthur allowed himself a smile at the revelation that he'd proven his husband wrong. Being on the team really was good for Alfred.

It felt amazing to be on the victorious side of the argument, and he spat Francis's words back with vengeance.

"I told you so."

Francis brushed off the blow as if he'd known it was too good to be true.

Alfred had gone above and beyond with hiding the extent of the damage done to his knee after the match, but not even he could force himself to stop limping and crying out in pain whenever he bent his leg too much. The knee itself was twice its original size, inflamed and purple with bruising. It hurt even when he was staying still, and when he could hide it no longer, he started crying in the middle of the night, unable to sleep. What if he'd injured himself beyond repair?

Matthew bore witness to scene. "What's wrong, Al?"

"Nothing. I had a bad nightmare."

"Want me to get Dad?"

"No, go to sleep."

But Matthew was stubborn, and when he saw that Alfred wasn't calming down his fit of tears anytime soon, he padded into their parents' room. Both men were sound asleep, and Francis had one arm flung across Arthur's midsection. Something about seeing them so unguarded around each other made Matthew inexplicably happy. His parents were in love, and they weren't discreet about it. He'd come to appreciate that about them someday.

The lighter sleeper of the two, Arthur woke up first, blinking through the darkness. "Matthew," he grumbled, voice an octave too low and groggy. "What is it, love?"

"Alfred's crying. He says he had a nightmare, but I think he's lying."

A proper investigation commenced, and it didn't take much prodding for Alfred to spill his secret. All Arthur had to do was sit on the edge of the boy's bed and tell him he'd feel much better if he talked about the problem with someone.

Then, he pushed back the covers of the bed to see Alfred's leg. He snuck one peek at it and shook Francis awake to let him know he was taking the child to the hospital.

It wasn't an enjoyable experience, to say in the least. At three o'clock in the morning, neither Arthur nor Alfred wanted to be sitting in a stuffy emergency room. They waited a full two hours just to meet with a doctor, and he didn't have anything particularly helpful to say. It was another hour until Alfred had an x-ray done, followed by a MRI. Fortunately, the boy slept through most of the waiting, understandably exhausted.

Arthur didn't share that privilege. He dozed off a few times in his chair for fifteen minute increments, but otherwise remained restless. He waited with thinning patience, realizing he either had to call in sick to work or come in late. Neither option seemed favorable, nor was Arthur going to let his students skip the quiz he'd planned for them.

"No, I'm not joking. The patient's urine is purple. Find out what he ate and get back to me," the doctor said as he entered the room, finishing up a conversation with the nurse. "Sorry about that. Now, let's talk about Alfred."

The boy had fallen into an uneasy sleep again, and Arthur offered to wake him, but the doctor assured him there was no need.

"You know, it's with injuries like these that I wish I could give you a simple answer or a sure-fire fix, but everything is so circumstantial that treatment varies. Your boy still has the same second-grade ligament injury to his ACL as before," the doctor began, skimming through the results of the scans in his folder. "Falling on it definitely didn't help the recovery, but thankfully, it didn't make it much worse either. The tear remains partial and won't need reconstructive surgery. That being said, it'd probably be a good idea to prolong the physical therapy and for him to stop playing all sports until the knee is functional enough that he isn't in any pain and doesn't feel any instability."

Arthur nodded to show that he understood, even though his sleepy mind barely kept up. Track and soccer would be a distant dream for the boy once more.

"I know he's not going to want to hear this news, but rest is the only thing besides physical therapy that can help him. Everyone recovers at their own pace, and injuries to ligaments are notorious for taking a very long time to heal. I'd keep him off his feet until most of the swelling goes down and give him a compression bandage to cushion the area. Other than that, the only treatment is time. Neither the x-ray nor MRI showed any significant change in the injury; he just irritated an already sensitive area. Have one of the nurses write up an absence note. He should skip school for the next two days."

Following the instructions to a T, Arthur made sure all of the paperwork was in order before waking Alfred to take him home. Naturally, he didn't take the update on his condition very well, and so, the bickering began. First, he blamed Arthur for putting him on the soccer team, then he realized he was being unfair and apologized. Minutes later, he placed the blame on himself. He was useless. He couldn't do anything right. His every attempt at progress had been shot down. Forget racing. He had to move on with his life and pick a different hobby—one that wouldn't end up with him unable to walk.

They were making their way down the hallway when Alfred's doctor overheard some of their conversation, and he abandoned the clipboard he'd previously had his attention focused on. He bounded over to the pair and set a hand on Alfred's shoulder.

"One second, Alfred. I want to talk to you, if that's all right?"

The boy stopped his tirade swallowed thickly. There was still time to hide behind Arthur.

"Your dad told me you're an awesome track star."

Alfred lowered his head in shame. "Not anymore."

"Mmm… I don't believe that. You don't just stop being a star. A star has that special something that makes them glow, and it doesn't go away when you get injured. If anything, it gets stronger. Who ever heard of a star who didn't have to go through hard times to become successful?"

"All of the people in track are faster than me."

The doctor twirled a pen in one hand and smiled. "But see, that's what makes you a star. You don't have to be the best. You just have to shine the brightest. You're the one who has to overcome the most obstacles to get to where you want to be, and it makes you special. That's why you can't give up, Alfred. You have to keep running to be someone else's star. They'll look up to you and know that no matter how hard things get, it's possible to go on."

Alfred's shoulders shook. "But what if I don't want to be a star?"

"Well, you don't get to choose that," the doctor murmured with a grin, patting Alfred's cheek. "Take good care of yourself. I want you to rest and listen to your body. If you treat it well, it might return the favor. You're not any less of a star just because you need to take a break, yeah?"

Alfred conceded a sigh. "Yeah."

"If you ever become famous, I'm reserving an autograph, got it?"

"It's gonna cost ya!"

They matched one another's grins, and for a small second, Alfred had hope.

"You once asked me why I was here, remember?"

Raivis split a chocolate-frosted doughnut with Francis. They'd earned a treat. "Yeah, Bad Cop. How could I forget? It's the million-dollar question."

The air in the coffee-shop was tense—that's the only way Raivis could describe it. The soft music thrumming against their ears did nothing to ease them, and there was always a certain point in the night when everyone became nervous and on edge. Maybe it was the darkness, or maybe it was the way the streets stood in the evening's stillness, waiting for life to return to them.

Francis laid his half of the doughnut on a napkin as he sat by the empty counter. "I did something I couldn't forgive myself for, and it made me quit my job."

Raivis sat back and stretched his legs, letting Francis talk without his usual interruptions or cheeky comebacks. He cherished the times when the older man confided in him.

"I killed a man… We were called to investigate a robbery. A man broke into an old widow's house and tried to get away with around twelve hundred dollars and some jewelry. We found him running away from the scene and started to chase him, until he stopped and pointed a gun at me. He said if I stepped any closer, he'd kill me. I could tell he was scared, and I don't think he would've pulled the trigger. It was obvious that he'd never robbed anyone before, so I tried to calm him. I said we could work things out if he put down the gun, but that just made him more upset. He said he needed the money for his daughter, who was very sick. I don't know what she had, as he never told me—it's possible he didn't have a daughter at all. No one was able to track her down the next day."

Francis brought a trembling hand up to his temple and sighed. "I could hear the other officers behind me growing impatient. I told the man that if he didn't put his gun down, I'd have to shoot him. It wasn't the best tactic up my sleeve, and the robber turned his gun on an officer to my right instead. One thing led to another, and the officer shot him in the leg. While the robber struggled to stay standing, he shot back at the officer, lodging a bullet into his chest. The officer wasn't hurt—he had a bulletproof vest on, but before I could think about what I was doing, I aimed my gun at the robber. Next thing I knew, he was lying on the ground—immobile."

Raivis pursed his lips but didn't comment.

"I was told later that I had used reasonable force, but I don't believe in such a thing. Force is never reasonable. It can't be justified. You can't really ever tell yourself that it's okay that you killed someone or that they deserved it. You have to live with the choice for the rest of your life, and you'll always think there was something else you could've done. Other officers told me it was a part of law enforcement, but I had a lot of anxiety after that night, and I stopped working altogether," Francis explained, leaning his elbows on the counter.

"Arthur was nonchalant about it, and I think that's what helped me cope. He never treated me any different, and he gave me the time I needed to sort things out. When the financial situation became an issue though, I had no choice but to go back to work, and that's how I ended up here with you—of all people."

Raivis allowed silence to hang over them for a minute before saying, "Thanks for telling me… I know it wasn't easy."

"That day with Mathieu… I saw your hand move toward your holster."

"Francis, I'd never—"

"You would. Everyone thinks they wouldn't but they would. The sooner you come to terms with it, the better."

"I couldn't shoot a kid."

"You didn't know he was a child at first," Francis reminded him. "I think it's better to be killed than to kill. At least when you're dead, you can't think about how things could've been different."

"I disagree. There are times when you have no choice, and it is justifiable."

Francis cocked his head to the side and broke off a piece of the doughnut. He'd said all which needed to be said.

Raivis thought it over and said, "Do you know how many cops would be dead if they didn't use self-defense?"

"How many civilians would still be alive?"

"Who wants a bunch of criminals to stay alive anyway?"

Francis frowned. "They are people too."

"Not in my book."

Francis closed his eyes, ran a hand through his hair, and said, "We're all the same. You'll see… Different faces, same stories."