When did it come to this?

When did the light-hearted bickering and senseless arguments at the kitchen table turn to a stiff tense silence, even simple requests like to pass the salt replace with a head jerk or a hand signal? When did even that disappear completely?

When did the bustle of Alfred getting ready for practice, Arthur's brisk walk to gather his supplies for work, Mathew's pleas to hurry out of the bathroom in the morning so he could get in, when did it all turn to emptiness, the hallways that once seemed too small now seeming overbearingly large?

Mathew takes a drag of his joint, leaning over the rail on the back porch and waiting for the drug to set in and turn everything to "better." Or, at the very least, numb everything. His hood is down, his hair blowing in the wind, he's not even trying to hide it anymore. There's no tucking his hair up into his worn ratty hoodie he only uses when he sneaks out for a joint, no rush to the bathroom to wash away the smell before Arthur gets home.

There's no point. There's no need to hide anything anymore, there's no one to hide it from. Arthur is never home, not anymore, and when he is he either makes a beeline for the liquor cabinet and locks himself in his study, or takes some of his little white pills and collapses unconscious on his bed until tomorrow hits and its time to leave again and repeat the process.

Mathew isn't actually sure that Arthur remembers Mathew still lives here. Arthur still pays the bills, still runs the laundry through the wash, but more and more often Mathew has found himself buying the groceries to refill the fridge, and himself sweeping and dusting and doing all the cleaning that used to be split between three. More than once he's opened the washer and found a wash of musty clothes that ran a day or two ago, that Arthur had forgotten to dry, and had to rewash the load to get the smell out, sometimes multiple times.

He doesn't mind, really. Arthur pays for the house, and even though he has a part-time job he doesn't have any real hobbies to spend his money on, he doesn't mind using his paycheques to buy groceries, he's glad to do the cleaning in his spare time, to focus on something other than the emptiness. It's just...

On days when Mathew comes home late, or forgets to restock the fridge, when he heads to the kitchen with a grumbling stomach he'll suddenly find nothing to eat, the only sign the kitchen's ever been used is the single teacup, saucer and spoon in the drying rack next to the sink, and the table will be coated with a fine layer of dust. It makes Mathew anxious.

It makes him feel like Arthur won't eat if Mathew doesn't make him toast and jam and bring it to him with his tea in the evening, before Arthur gets too drunk before the sleeping pills kick in. Like if Mathew doesn't have some sort of quick and easy breakfast ready on the counter for Arthur when he wakes up in the morning Arthur will just continue on to work without ever eating. Mathew is almost certain Arthur doesn't eat lunch. Mathew's pretty sure that if he wasn't there, the only thing Arthur would consume is his tea. It's one of the reasons that Mathew almost religiously gets up early each morning and heads to the kitchen to cook Arthur breakfast and pack him a snack in his workbag before he leaves.

He remembers when the kitchen would be a mess, daily, the lingering smell of something burnt, a misshapen and barely identifiable casserole, or chicken, or cake, or whatever Arthur was making, usually just a little too bland, as though the only spices Arthur believed in was salt, pepper, and flour. Mathew and Alfred had always eaten it happily and told him how good it was.

That was back before Alfred left, the same way Francis had left Mathew in Arthur's care all those years ago. God, Mathew misses Alfred. He misses having to listen to Alfred's nonsensical rants, misses arguing with Alfred, he even misses Arthur mistaking him for Alfred and scolding Mathew in Alfred's place. He misses Alfred, but more than that, he misses being seen.

Mathew's always done his best to appease others, help when he could, not start arguments and get involved in fights, he always tried to be the "nice" one, the good boy. So why does he feel like he was the one left behind? First Francis, then Alfred, now Arthur? It makes Mathew wonder if there's something inherently wrong with him that broke his family apart. Rationally, he knows it's not his fault Alfred left, that Arthur and Alfred drove each other apart, it wasn't his fault. But then, why had Francis left him? Maybe it was his fault.

There's the sound of a door opening and closing, and perhaps because of the drugs, Mathew suddenly is determined to face Arthur. To stand in front of him, obviously high as a kite and smelling like weed, to force a reaction, no matter how negative, from him. Maybe Arthur will remember him then. He strides from the back porch, as well as he can, confidently through the kitchen and past the bathroom to the front door, ready to face Arthur-

But the hall is empty, the door is still tightly shut, there's no Arthur in the hallway taking off his shoes, putting down his laptop bag with a tired sigh as he rubs his eyes. There's no one. Across the street, a door slams, and Mathew realizes with a sinking heart it was never his door that opened, but a neighbour's. Arthur hadn't come home.

Suddenly he's angry. Why can't Arthur just come home, why can't he deal with his anger and grief normally, or go see a therapist, why does he insist on using alcohol and pills? Mathew fights the temptation to turn and unlock the liquor cabinet, to pour all the liquor down the drain, to dump Arthur's pills down the toilet. Mathew's rational side, though fogged by the pot, wins over.

What good would that do? Who's to say it wouldn't make things worse? Mathew certainly hasn't made anything better, and it's probably his fault the arguments got progressively worse instead of better. He sinks to his heels in the entrance. It's better if Mathew doesn't do anything.

His phone buzzes, and he wrestles with it in his pocket, not daring to hope for family, genuinely confused about who it is. He unlocks it. A text from a friend.

Carlos

8:30 pm

want 2 hang out?

He does. Mathew remembers when he used to hang out with his friends just to avoid going home, to forget about the cold atmosphere and arguments flying overhead all the time. His phone buzzes with another text.

Carlos

8:31 pm

We can go 2 mcD

Mathew feels sick at the thought. MacDonald's is Alfred's thing, a place where Alfred hangs out with people he cares about, a place he used to drag Mathew to time and time again, back when they got along. Mathew hasn't been there since Alfred left. Mathew starts to type a response, then stops. Carlos seems to sense his hesitation, and changes the location.

Carlos

8:33

Or mybe Tims?

It's such a small thing, changing the place, but to Mathew, it's a lifeline. Proof that Carlos still sees him. Sometimes it feels like he's the only one who does. Still, Mathew can't let himself agree to go out. He feels bad to blow off Carlos like this, not for the first time, or even the second or third time, but there's a worry gnawing at the pit of his stomach, a fear of what might happen if Arthur comes home to an empty house, and Mathew's not there to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid. Mathew chews his bottom lip as he types a non-committal response.

8:35

Can i get back to you on this a little later?

The text still feels painfully dismissive, but Carlos' response doesn't seem to bear any resentment.

Carlos

8:35

K

Txt me when u find out

Mathew doesn't respond.