It didn't take Arthur long to figure out something was wrong, and what exactly it was. Of course, Alfred's desperate attempts to distract Arthur from the issue, and his refusal to give any concrete answer about his injuries definitely helped. Mathew saw the moment Arthur clued in, his eyes suddenly darting from where Mathew stood stiif and uncomfortable, hugging himself, on the opposite side of the room, to the bandages covering Alfred. Then, Mathew saw the light in his eyes die, and his face harden. Mathew would have smiled, if he could.
Arthur was always the smartest, after all.
"Alfred." Arthur cut of Alfred's pointless ramble about nothing specific enough to make sense with a sudden sharp tone.
Alfred quailed.
Arthur leveled him with the Look that meant he wouldn't take any more bullshit, so Alfred had better not try him.
"I can't help unless you tell me exactly what happened. Every single detail." Arthur looked pointedly at the bandages on Alfred's neck. "And I mean all of them."
Any chance Alfred could have avoided the subject by some miracle disappeared when Mathew felt a sudden overpowering flash of anger, and half lurched forwards toward Alfred, half snarling. "Al."
The most warning Mathew could give before he lost it, and Alfred reacted with the efficiency of someone who'd had this happen way too many times before, times Alfred hadn't been so fast. Alfred half threw something to Mathew, and Mathew didn't even register what it was before he devoured it, flinching at the snarling sound he was making. And when it was over, all too fast - no, that's me! - the shame set in. Mathew turned his tired eyes meekly towards Arthur, sick at his own actions, at the smell of raw meat in the juices soaking his hands, and begged for the help he desperately needed.
"Artie..."
And Arthur had tears clinging to the corners of his eyes, and when Mathew made eye contact, they began to fall, soundlessly.
"No." Arthur breathed like denying it would change the facts. "No, this can't- you can't - this can't be happening!"
"It's just a hiccup!" Alfred tried to defend, a bit too desperately to sound like he believed his own words, "He's getting better!"
Arthur's glassy eyes were still trained on Mathew, and Mathew shook his head, almost inperceptively.
No, it's not getting better.
It's getting worse.
Mathew curled his fingers till they cut into his palms, resisting the urge to tear into Arthur's neck, drink the blood - still warm, still hot- to chew and devour the fresh meat and -
NO! Stop it! That's not me! I don't want this!
Mathew wanted to cry. Maybe, when Alfred first brought him back, he could have. Not anymore. Instead, Mathew begged for help while he still had enough sanity left to ask.
"Please."
He didn't specify what he was asking, and Arthur didn't ask, but the heavy way his big brother swallowed, the way the tears began to fall faster, pulling the air from Arthur's lungs and leaving Arthur gasping, told Mathew Arthur understood. And Alfred too, finally began to understand, swiveling his head between Mathew and Arthur's meltdown, and, like back when they were young, Alfred began to cry too.
"You-You can't! I'm gonna fix him, he'll get better! "
Alfred was so distressed, he didn't even realize that he'd admitted he'd lied earlier. Mathew wasn't getting better. And Alfred knew it.
Arthur moved like he wanted to reach out to Mathew and hug him again, but Mathew shrank back. He didn't want to hurt Arthur. Mathew was tired of hurting his own blood. Arthur barely hesitated, and reached instead for Alfred, pulling him into a tight hug. He didn't offer and encouraging words. There were none he could give.
And all Mathew could do was watch his two older brothers cling to eachother and cry like their hearts were breaking, and know it was all his fault.
Once again, his eyes drifted to the kitchen window, and the grave he knew rested beyond. He was tired. His heart did a wierd skip in his chest. It wouldn't be long now till he could rest.