Work Text:
Inhale
One
Matthew takes a breath. He keeps it in his lungs until his chest starts to burn.
Everyone has their part to play. Everyone has a script. That’s how it goes in the traditional family. Despite it all, Matthew has a traditional family too. Sure, his parents are gay, and yes, he and Alfred were adopted from a teen mom who ran away to live in a commune somewhere in the Yukon, but they’re quite traditional.
Dad is the gruff, strict, unemotional patriarch, the breadwinner, the one who looks after them. Papa is the bored, lonely housewife, devoted to her husband and kids. Alfred is the golden child, the one who gets into trouble but gets out of it with his charming grins, the star quarterback, the boy you’re lucky to parent.
And Matthew is there.
He watches. He knows.
He knows, for instance, that Dad has been coming home late, not because he’s caught up with work but because he’s been drinking. Matthew’s awake when he shouldn’t be, so he hears Dad stumble in, drop his phone and wallet and keys, drunkenly cuss at the audacity of inanimate objects to slip through his fingers. Dad brushes his teeth and drowns himself in Listerine before he goes to bed. Matthew knows, because Dad’s been making trips to buy more Listerine. They’ve been running out of it quite quickly this year.
Matthew also knows that Papa’s devotion has run its course. That he has a wandering eye and a Tinder profile. Sometimes, when Papa thinks he’s home alone, he invites them over, and Matthew, who hasn’t left his room all day, can hear the swift footsteps up the stairs, the whispered voices, the loud giggling that melts into groans. Afterwards, Papa will whip up lavish dinners and pepper Dad with kisses and affection at the table, and they’ll both smile and laugh but they’ll sleep in separate beds.
Matthew knows Alfred best, though. He knows that Alfred throws up at night, gets into fights at school, that he skives off classes and talks about running away. Alfred talks a lot, about all the things he’s going to do once he gets out. He’s going to be a pilot, he’s going to sing on Broadway, he’s going to become a rockstar. But at best, if he’s lucky, Matthew knows he’ll just become a suburban dad with a job he hates. That’s what everyone becomes. There’s no way to be happy in this kind of world. The dreamers are particularly vulnerable. Matthew keeps his mouth shut, though. When Alfred rattles off about his big dreams, he just smiles and jokes and agrees. Then he lets Alfred copy from his exam papers.
What Matthew knows most of all is that road trips are dangerous. Not because of the oncoming traffic or the threat of death, but because their family is an explosive chemical trapped in a tinderbox for six hours. And Matthew cannot let the spark ignite.
So he drums his fingers nervously against the window as Alfred talks about how much fun he’s going to have at college, all the friends he’ll make and all the clubs he’s going to join. The car drives over a speed bump and their suitcases rattle in the trunk. Matthew holds his breath. Papa lights a cigarette and Dad makes a comment about lung cancer. The wind blows the ash straight into Matthew’s eyes.
Two
Did you know they’re gonna get a divorce?
The text comes from Alfred, sitting right beside him in the back seat. They’re slowing at a toll queue. Matthew glances at his brother, who is staring at him with an expression that is curious and resigned. Not a trace of dramatic tears. It’s like they’re talking about high school gossip.
I didn’t, but that doesn’t surprise me, Matthew replies.
-Yeah well, I heard them talking last night. I couldn’t sleep so I went downstairs, and I heard them arguing in the kitchen.
-Basically that once we’re at college they’re gonna start on the divorce process or smth.
-Like that way, we’re “out of the way” so we won’t be “affected”
-LOL
Alfred is the king of text-exchange literature. He’ll punctuate his messages with surprising emojis or a well-placed LOL and rip Matthew in the gut. They stare at each other, the LOL between them, and Matthew can’t help but think that Alfred has a point. Yeah, it is kind of funny. Their family is a joke.
So he replies, yeah, lmao, and puts his phone away. Hugs himself. His long sweatshirt sleeves rub against the band-aids. It itches. It hurts. He sighs into the stinging sensation and stares out of the window. A large hand gently pats his back.
Alfred thinks he’s about to cry. It couldn’t be further from the truth. Matthew hasn’t cried in three years. Not even in his room. Not even in the dark. Not even when their dog died. Crying will not help, and nobody’s going to wipe his tears anyway. It’s a waste of water, and god knows the world is drying up enough.
Matthew smiles reassuringly at Alfred, and they end up stuck to the opposite windows, hugging themselves, identical grim expressions on their lips. In front, Dad gets into an argument with the toll collector and Papa pointlessly tries to shush him.
“Just bloody shut up for a second, Francis!” Dad snaps, which makes Papa’s nostrils flare.
“Fine. I will simply not talk.”
“That’ll be the day.”
Matthew and Alfred glance at each other again. In the tense silence that follows, Alfred opens Spotify on his phone and starts singing Disney songs at the top of his voice. Matthew joins in.
Three
Alfred’s breaths are short and tense. He’s anxious. How could he not be, trapped in a car like this?
Mattie thinks he’s so good at hiding it. Does he think he’s some kind of sleeper agent, walking down the sidewalk with his dark secret? Alfred knows. How could he not? He knows everything about Matthew. He’s known since the beginning because Alfred bought an expensive new razor and it disappeared. He found it only when he was taking out the garbage the next day and the bag broke open from the bottom, scattering trash across the yard. Alfred had to run around picking it all up at 6 am, and he found the razor in two pieces, the blade freed from the plastic. Matthew had wrapped the blade in tissues but the blood had seeped to the surface anyway.
Alfred tried to talk to Matthew, but he couldn’t find the words. It’s crazy. He always knows the right thing to say except when it actually matters. He notices that Matthew only wears long sleeves, that he hasn’t gone swimming in a year, that he hates being touched, especially on the forearm, that there are always boxes of band-aids in his room. Alfred wants to blame someone. He wants to blame Dad and Papa. He wants to blame Matthew. He wants to blame himself, too.
In the end when words fail he does what he can. He applies to all the same colleges that Matthew applies to, so that even if they’re in different programmes, they’ll be there together. He wants to be there when Matthew tips over the edge. It’s unthinkable, what could happen to Matthew alone.
But maybe he needs it, too. Maybe he needs the company. Alfred is just so sick of being the reason his family stays together. He needs someone on his team too. He can’t do this alone.
They stop on the way for lunch. Matthew watches Dad and Papa from the corner of his eye, the unforgivable afternoon sun making them all sweat. Papa reads the menu like it’s a novel, page by page, commenting on each item, wondering what it’ll all taste like. Dad wants fish and chips. When the waitress comes over, he gives their order without waiting for Papa to decide. “Fish and chips,” he says, “and a cup of tea. My husband will have the salad.”
Papa lowers the menu. “Actually,” he says archly, “I haven’t decided yet.”
“We’d be sitting here all week waiting for you to decide.”
The waitress shoots Alfred and Matthew a nervous smile, her eyes widening slightly, the poorly-suppressed alarm written all over her face. Papa scowls, ready to fire back, but Alfred quickly cuts in, “Can I have a pizza? Hey, Mattie, you wanna share a pepperoni with me?”
“Sure,” Matthew says vaguely, his eyes flicking to the bathroom door. “Get me a Coke, too.” Then he excuses himself, and takes his backpack with him. When the waitress leaves, Alfred sits between his parents and their acrimonious silence, hands gripping the edge of the table, dumb smile plastered to his face. And that’s what they’ll say. Alfred, you’re so dumb. Alfred, you’re so stupid. Alfred, your grades are terrible, are you a blithering idiot?
But they’re the foolish ones. Their son is in the restroom cutting himself, and Alfred’s sitting here diffusing an argument about salad. He’ll lean into the idiot persona if he has to. He’s the only one keeping the family together. They just need to get to the end of this drive, say their goodbyes, and then it’s over. Just a few hours more. Then they can all go their separate ways.
“The art on the wall is so funny,” Alfred says. It’s a cartoon poster of a man stuffing a giant burger in his mouth. Papa glances at it, frowning.
“Glorifies overeating,” he mutters. When the Cokes come, Alfred has lost what little appetite he had.
Four
There’s a vague kind of nausea bubbling in the pit of his belly. Alfred feels this way sometimes, when he doesn’t eat enough. It’s a combination of hunger and motion sickness. He knows he won’t throw up—he barely ate a slice of pizza, there’s nothing to reject—but he swallows some water anyway. Later, when he’s alone, he can satisfy his cravings with snacks. He’s aware that he binges sometimes, but it’s completely under control.
Matthew nudges his shoulder. Alfred glances up from his phone. The sunlight streaming in from Matthew’s window, coupled with the trees racing by as the car crosses a 100, makes Alfred feel a little dizzy. Matthew pushes a chocolate bar towards him. He clearly has snacks in his backpack.
“Oh, thanks,” Alfred says, ripping the bar open. He offers Mattie a bite out of solidarity, but Matthew shakes his head. One of these days, Alfred is going to confront him on his long sleeves and silences. He wished he’d followed Matthew into the bathroom, back at the restaurant. Catch his brother in the act, so to speak. But then where would they be? Hissing at each other about blades and blood in a diner on their way to college? There will be time for those fights. Eventually.
Nobody has spoken for nearly half an hour. Alfred digs through his mind for meaningless words. Those are the safest words. Babble on about something nobody cares about, and it keeps the passions low. “Did you guys watch that new movie? It came out on Netflix last week? About the alien lawyer? It was so funny.”
“Alien lawyer?” Matthew raises an eyebrow. Alfred’s not sure if he’s curious or if he’s playing along, but they’re both very good at this game. Alfred is the dancing monkey and Matthew claps to the tune, so that other people recognise they’re supposed to clap too.
“Yeah, so, like, there’s this alien who crashes onto earth, and he gets found by this down-on-his luck lawyer. And the alien, his name is Tonylep-2ex5, yeah, that’s his name, and the lawyer, Anthony something, they end up working together to bust this big-ass corporation that’s doing a lot of illegal shit.”
“Don’t swear, Alfred,” Dad warns.
Matthew rolls his eyes, but it’s only for Alfred to see. Infusing his voice with excitement, he says, “Is the movie called Tony and Tony?”
“No, stupid,” Alfred grins, “It’s called Legal Alien. Get it, like Illegal—”
Matthew laughs, loud and affected, and says, “We gotta watch that.”
“You two plan on studying at college, too, right?” Papa asks, but he’s smiling at them in the rearview mirror. Then he notices Alfred taking a bite of chocolate. “Honestly, Al, your diet…”
Alfred lowers the chocolate bar.
Matthew scowls. “Actually, Papa, it’s a protein bar, it’s full of antioxidants and fibre. I gave it to him.”
“Well, that’s okay, then,” Papa mutters, glancing out of the window. “It looked like chocolate from the mirror.”
“It’s not,” Matthew insists coldly. Alfred shoots him a grateful smile, and finishes the rest of the chocolate in two big bites. He won’t let Matthew’s protectiveness go to waste, after all.
Five
Matthew is dozing off, Alfred’s already asleep, and they’re both woken up by the sounds of raised voices. Matthew starts awake a second before Alfred, his heart already racing. He doesn’t understand what’s happened, only that Dad and Papa are screaming at each other, red-faced. Papa’s cheeks are glistening. Dad has taken his eyes off the road, and one hand off the steering wheel. He shouts the word, “Whore,” and then he says the word, “Slut,” and Papa calls him an, “ugly drunk.”
Alfred leans forward between them. “Guys, guys, guys—”
But Matthew stares at the windscreen, what he can see of it between all three of their heads. He watches. He knows. He can see the Mack truck barrelling down the opposite side of the road.
He has a vision of it. The truck losing control. Dad and Papa screaming at each other. Alfred caught between them, because he’s always caught between them. The truck crashing into them, its wheels bigger than their entire vehicle, crushing it. Flattening their bodies. The blood and glass and twisted metal. The last thing they’ll hear is the screaming and the roar of gasoline fire.
“STOP SHOUTING!” Alfred yells.
There’s a screech of tyres that feels like the end of the road, and suddenly, the car is stationary. Dad has pulled up on the side of the highway. The truck passes them by. They’re not dead yet.
But the jig might be up. Dad unlocks the door, takes his wallet, and storms off.
“Arthur!” Papa yells, following after him. Alfred curses loudly, opening his door, but before he can jump out, Matthew puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t,” he says, as he watches them from the window. They’re both standing by the trees, next to an old beer can and takeout boxes, and screaming. It’s hard to hear what they’re saying but it’s nothing Matthew wants to know. He’s sick of knowing.
Alfred sinks back into the seat and shuts the door. Then he shuts his eyes. They sit, shoulder to shoulder, and Matthew hears a crack that could be the sound of glass breaking. But really, it’s Alfred. He’s sobbing. His glasses on his lap, fists in his eyes, his shoulders shake as loud, breathless tears leave his body.
“Alfred…” Matthew sighs. “Hey, come here.” He takes Alfred by the shoulder and hugs him. And Alfred wraps his arms around Matthew, burying his face in his collarbone. Matthew’s fingers rake his hair. “Let it out,” he says, “You’ve done enough. Just let it out…”
“What the fuck is wrong with them?” Alfred weeps. “Can’t they be normal? For once?”
“I know,” Matthew agrees, holding his brother tighter. “I hate them.”
“I hate you, too,” Alfred confesses, looking up and wiping his eyes. “I know what secrets you keep.”
Matthew can honestly admit that he’s startled. He didn’t think Alfred noticed these things. He doesn’t know what to say.
Alfred inhales deeply, and takes a drink of water. Above the rumble of passing cars, they can still hear their parents fighting. Their voices are faraway.
“You don’t cry anymore,” Alfred says when he’s calmed. “I can’t remember the last time you cried. You didn’t even cry when Kuma died and you loved that dog.”
Kuma had been so old. Matthew had been a wreck about it. But Alfred was right. He hadn’t been able to cry. The pain built and built under his skin and he learnt to let it out in other ways. It’s called bloodletting, isn’t it? Draining the miasma from your heart? The Ancient Greeks did it to heal physical problems. But in Matthew’s opinion, there’s not much difference between the physical and the emotional.
“You need to stop,” Alfred goes on. “You need to fucking stop before you hurt yourself super badly.”
“It’s under control,” Matthew says finally. His voice is cracked, whisperlike.
“Yeah,” Alfred sneers, “like these two,” and he jerks a thumb in the vague direction of their parents, “are under control. Mattie, you have to stop. Promise me you’re going to stop.”
Matthew hugs himself. Jostles the wounds accidentally. Bites back a grimace. “I don’t know if I can promise that. Besides, I’m not the only one with fucked up coping mechanisms,” he adds. “I know you binge. I’ve heard you throw up.”
Predictably, Alfred has no response to that. He sniffs back some tears. Watches the passing cars. Then he asks, “Am I fat? I feel fat.”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters to Papa.”
“Who gives a fuck about him?”
Alfred covers his face and starts crying again, deep, heaving breaths that come from someplace dark, a part of his heart that is nothing but shadows knotting into shadows. This time, when Matthew tries to hold him, Alfred pushes him away. He shoves hard enough that Matthew feels the blinding flash of pain under his skin that tells him he’s irritated one of his wounds. Sure enough, blood sprouts on his sleeve.
Matthew can’t do anything about that. He can’t roll up his sleeves. He can’t plaster on any more bandages. He can’t do anything but sit still and pretend it doesn’t hurt. Because Alfred’s crying next to him and his parents are right outside.
“Sorry,” Alfred murmurs when he raises his head next. His eyes are stuck to the tiny spots of blood on Matthew’s hoodie. “That looks bad. Can I…see it?”
No, Matthew wants to say, but Alfred takes his wrists gently in his saltwater-stained palms, and Matthew finds that he can’t stop him. Doesn’t want to. He wants to know what it is to have feelings again. He wants to cry like Alfred can. Fight like Alfred can.
Alfred gently rolls up the stained sleeve. Matthew expects a grimace or a hiss or some kind of remark to shame him, but Alfred is kind enough to say nothing. Matthew, for his part, decides not to stare at the wounds. He looks out, instead, at the placid trees and allows Alfred to open his backpack. There’s snacks in there, but there’s also antiseptics and band-aids and rolls of cotton. They’re silent while Alfred cleans the wounds. Matthew doesn’t flinch even though it hurts when Alfred changes the dressings.
“Sorry,” Matthew mutters at last.
“Don’t say sorry,” Alfred replies, stuffing bloodied cotton balls into some tissue and tossing it out of the window. He wipes his hands down with sanitiser from the glove compartment. “Matt, we have to survive this.”
Does he mean life? Nobody survives life.
He feels the urge to say that they could be worse off. Their parents could be abusive. Their parents could be dead. Their parents are just assholes. They’re not even the worst assholes they could be. But he parts his lips to defend them and no words come out.
Finally, he asks, “What does survival look like? What do you mean when you say that?”
He expects some optimistic, impassioned, Alfredesque diatribe about life and freedom and charting one's own course. But Alfred just slumps back against the seat and shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“We’re going to get late for orientation at this rate.”
Alfred checks his watch. Cranes his neck. Dad and Papa are still fighting. Matthew can see their hands moving about. Dad’s practically purple in the face. Alfred turns to him. They both know what they have to do, because they’ve done it a thousand times before.
They get out of the car. The sun is starting to set. The sky is a little pink already. There’s another hour to go before they reach their university. “Dad,” Alfred interrupts, the same time Matthew puts a hand on Papa’s back. It’s like they’re so wrapped in their argument they’ve forgotten about their sons. Dad starts, Papa blinks away his tears. They don’t even try to make an excuse for themselves. They just stare at each other.
Alfred says, “Dad, I think you should have some water.”
Matthew says, “Papa, I got this bottle of green tea from the vending machine when we stopped for lunch.” They lead their parents back to the car, talking about beverages. They won’t talk about the fight. That’s not for them to sort out.
Exhale
Three months later Alfred’s noticed Matthew’s become more confident about wearing half-sleeve t-shirts, though he carries a jacket with him all the time anyway. It’s baby steps. Alfred’s doing okay, too. He works at a campus restaurant and he gets to eat without anyone telling him not to. It’s not like he feels all cured or anything. But the wounds have stopped reopening, so they’re finally starting to settle. Alfred wants to be okay. He’s determined to be okay.
He finds Matthew hanging out with his friends from class and approaches, taking out his phone. Matthew excuses himself and walks with Alfred. “What’s up?” he asks, a little worried, because he knows what’s up.
Alfred shows him the text.
Divorce papers signed.
Matthew’s brows pinch together. “Trust Dad to send something like that in a text and not a phone call.”
“I’m glad he didn’t call.” Alfred runs a hand through his hair. “I’m thinking of going no-contact with them. Both of them. But I guess they’re still helping us pay for college, huh?” He shrugs. “I just know I don’t want to see them for Christmas.”
“Fuck that. What kind of Christmas will it even be?” Matthew agrees. “Katya invited me to her place for Christmas, anyway,” he adds.
“Oh?” Alfred smirks. Lately it’s all been Katya-this and Katya-that with Matthew.
Predictably, Matthew blushes, but then he adds, “You should come. She’s invited you. I’ve been telling her about the stuff that’s been going on at home, and yeah…she and Ivan said their family want to host us this year. They seem like nice people. And there’ll be snow. Katya said we can go skiing if we want…they have extra skis and everything.” Matthew places a hand on Alfred’s arm. “Please?” he adds.
Alfred also doesn’t know what it looks like to survive. That’s a big question. He thinks about it often, that conversation in the car, and what he was demanding of Matthew at the time. The truth is, he doesn’t have the answers. He just wants a minute to breathe.
Maybe they can do that over the holidays. Breathe a bit. So he grins and pats Matthew’s back. “Hell yeah. Sounds like fun.”
Matthew lets out a breath and smiles.