#engcan

It was April, and the apple trees in the backyard of Arthur's house—their house, now—were blooming. Matthew sat at the picnic table beneath one of the trees, the drooping branches laden with heavenly white and fragrant little flowers.

There was a massive algebra textbook cracked open in front of him but he hadn't looked at it even once. Instead, he was watching Peter leaping about the wooden playground set, chasing some neighborhood girl wearing a pink jacket.

Despite being in charge of Peter while Arthur was away at work, he didn't need to watch the boy that closely—Peter was rambunctious but could mostly take care of himself as long as Matthew kept him from wandering off of the property. (And Peter did like to wander—he had an amazing amount of friends, all gained in miles-long treks across the town. Matthew had been horrified when he found out, and Arthur had sworn he had no idea Gilberte had been letting it go on.)

No, what kept his attention on the children at play wasn't concern but an emotion that was new and strange to Matthew, who hadn't been old enough to feel it before: nostalgia. Peter with his blonde hair and bright blue eyes and loud shrieking laughter reminded Matthew painfully of his own brother as a child.

It hadn't been that long ago that Matthew had played like that in Francis's backyard, following Alfred around like a lost duckling as his brother, always more adventurous, found some trouble to get them into. He missed those times. He missed being able to talk to his Papa every day, coming across him while he was humming or singing while dusting, or finding him standing at the stove stirring something while gossiping with Antonia or Aunt Chloé on the phone.

He missed Alfred banging on his bedroom door demanding he come out and watch a movie or log on to play Dead by Daylight with him. Matthew even missed when his brother would walk by and stop to tease him when he saw Matthew studying "like a nerd".

There was an ache in his chest for his family that faded sometimes but never quite went away. He'd get over being away from them eventually, right? It was a natural part of growing up, moving out and away. But Arthur's house was only a few miles from Francis's, and still Matthew hardly ever saw them. It wasn't for lack of trying on Francis's part, he texted Matthew every day and frequently invited him over to help him try a new recipe, or to "just catch up".

But things were weird between them now. Every time his Papa looked at him, no mattered how much he smiled at Matthew, there was a tension about his face, a sort of strange helplessness. As if he had spotted something frightening and was unable to do anything. Like when a train plowed through a car on the tracks or buzzards picked at a dead deer on the side of the road. Sickening, disturbing, but beyond one's capacity to do anything about.

If they might have been more comfortable interacting at Matthew's new home—where Francis would be able to see what a warm lovely place it was, and what a nice stepson Peter was (now that he'd adjusted), and how happy a family Arthur and Matthew and Peter were together—Matthew would never know. Because Arthur had forbidden it.

"I don't want him in my house, there is bad blood between the two of us. I love you Matthew, I truly do, but I never would have gotten involved with you if I'd known you were that bastard's son," Arthur had said.

Matthew had swallowed his anger at Papa being maligned only because he didn't know what had passed between them. He knew his papa was clever, handsome, and charming—but also mischievous, occasionally devious, a lover of drama, a person of deep but often fleeting passions. Francis had more past flames and foes than a soap opera heroine. Matthew would bide his time and be patient until he'd gotten the full story out of them.

For now he just sat there heartsick and watched the children play, innocent and free of the all the painful complexities adult life seemed to bring. He was so caught up in his thoughts and his misery that he didn’t notice the sound of the garden-gate swinging open and then closed.

A shadow fell over Matthew's shoulder, and he startled a little, and turned to look up. Arthur was standing behind him, entrancing green eyes flickering with mischief, mouth curved up in a smile as his hand descended towards Matthew's face.

Matthew blinked. Arthur's hand touched not Matthew's face, but delved under his curls, brushing the side of his head, reaching for his—ear?

Arthur deftly tucked something behind Matthew's ear. The sweet scent of apple blossoms hit him, cluing him in even before his own fingers reached up and stroked the silky petals.

"What—" Matthew started to ask.

Arthur cut him off with a kiss, a slow, tender, gentle one. Such tenderness, such intimacy had been rare when they'd first became involved, but had increased now that Matthew lives with him, spends every day with him.

Arthur's smiles had become more common too, while the angry knitting of his brows and horrid sound of his teeth grinding together became more rare. Arthur broke the kiss, still smiling at Matthew.

"Apple blossoms," Arthur said, "they mean 'I prefer you above all' in flower language."

It's such a strangely romantic notion, and so Arthur—always dreaming of the past, even while rooted firmly in the present—that it made Matthew melt. Thoughts of the family he'd left behind slipped from his mind, his focus taken up completely by Arthur.

Arthur sat next to him on the picnic table bench, and Matthew sighed and leaned against his steady solid warmth, the ache in his heart lessening a little. Arthur wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

They sat in comfortable silence for awhile, then Matthew asked, "How was work?"

"Good, it just needed you there," Arthur teased.

Matthew rolled his eyes, but Arthur wasn't joking. While it’s really for the best that Matthew doesn't transfer to the community college Arthur is working at now (he and Arthur may be in love but they're not insane), he does miss having Arthur for a professor, watching him in lecture mode at the front of a class. The passion that blazed in those green eyes when he got talking about one of his favorite eras, the way he'd forget he was even holding a piece of chalk and get the dust all over his jacket.

Not that that would be happening in Arthur's current classes—his beloved chalkboard was stored in the garage, the community college less accommodating of a professor's quirks.

"What about the smartboard?" Matthew asked, quirking an eyebrow. "Yesterday you were talking about fetching extra 'petrol' to set it on fire."

Arthur snorted. "I'll get used to it. It's worth it I think, to not have to put up with a classroom full of brats. You, my dear, are unusually mature for your age. Your peers, however..."

He didn't need to continue. Back when Arthur had still been employed at the university, Matthew had been present for enough of Arthur's rants about his lazy spoiled disrespectful good-for-nothing students ("Not you though, dear.").

Now half of Arthur's new students were middle-aged. Housewives finally getting the education they missed out on while raising their kids, older blue-collar men advancing their welding, automotive, and construction skills, world-weary nurses leveling up from LPN to RN. But Arthur found that his students who were teenagers there were more bearable too.

They were mostly the kids of lower-class parents, hoping to be the first one in their family to get a degree, and as such took it more seriously and worked harder than the largely middle-class student body at the university, who saw obtaining a degree as their God-given right even after four years of snoozing through half their classes.

"I should have made the switch years ago," was all Arthur said.

He knew he couldn't have done any differently though. The higher salary and prestige of the university was too tempting, and he'd never have given it up, no matter how miserable it made him, without being pushed out. What he had thought was his worst nightmare—being outed, being fired, Gilberte leaving him—had ended up being a blessing. He felt years younger teaching at the community college, and living with an other half who he loved and was loved by in kind, was...such an incredible experience he couldn't understand how he'd lived without it. Why he hadn't done something when that magic drained out of his marriage.

Not necessarily left, but at least tried to fix things. Marriage counseling, or loosening up a little and letting Gilberte have her way, stay out late drinking with her a few times even on a school night. It probably wouldn't have helped, they'd grown too far apart, but he should have made the effort. It was sickening to think of how many years he lived in a misery of his own making.

But Arthur didn't regret or mourn the lost time. He was so happy now, how could he begrudge that and feel entitled to more? Maybe though, he could take the mistakes he'd made in his first marriage and learn from them to do better in this—what he hoped would be his final and forever marriage.

"Matthew..." Arthur started.

"Yeah?" Matthew asked, leaning his head on Arthur's shoulder.

"Maybe you could invite Francis over for dinner some time. On a night when you're cooking of course. I've had enough of that frog bastard insulting my food for a lifetime," Arthur said.

"Wait, really?" Matthew asked, sitting up and studying Arthur's face.

There was such a painful light of hope in his violet eyes that Arthur couldn't crush that.

"Of course. I don't like seeing him but he's your family. I can put up with him—every great once in a while, mind you—for your sake," Arthur said.

Matthew threw his arms around Arthur, squeezing him so tight Arthur's ribs ached. Arthur wasn't happy about the prospect of seeing that filthy French bastard in his own house, but he knew he'd made the right decision.

"Thank you so much!" Matthew said, practically glowing with happiness.

Arthur preened a little inside—he really was so good to Matthew, wasn't he?—but said, "You don't need to thank me. It's only what's right."

"Well I appreciate it anyway," Matthew said, kissing Arthur's cheek.

"Matthew...you know you don't have to let me have my way, right? I know I can sometimes be...well, a stubborn arse, to be truthful, but I don't mean to be," Arthur said.

That was only half-true. He'd always thought a refusal to back down on one's stances was a good thing—meant one was really committed, not a pushover. But maybe being "infuriatingly pigheaded" as he'd been called so many times by Gilberte, wasn't the point of pride he'd taken it as.

"Of course I know I can disagree with you!" Matthew replied, "And you're not stubborn either. You're just strongly-opinionated."

"That's one way of putting it," Arthur said, "but—"

Whatever he was going to say was lost, as his ever-annoying son Peter bounded over yelling "Mattieeeee!".

"What is it?" Matthew asked him.

"Come look, come look!" was all Peter would say.

"Alright, I'll come over," Matthew said.

Peter ran off ahead of him, back to where his little friend was crouched by a hole in the fence.

Matthew stood. "I'll be right back," he said, "but until then—" he reached up over his head, long elegant fingers that Arthur admired so much twisting among the flower clusters, "keep these," he pulled free a handful of blossoms.

He held out the slender green stems with their silky little white flowers to Arthur. With a bemused look on his face, Arthur accepted the little bouquet.

"Means, 'I prefer you above all', remember?" Matthew asked.

"MATTIEEEEEE!" Peter shouted, and Matthew jogged towards the fence, where Arthur's son had what appeared to be a box turtle held high over his head.

Arthur could only stare at the strange sight. Then he laughed and shook his head. To think, this was where life had taken him. Still, something wasn't quite right with this image. It was a gorgeous spring day, idyllic as paradise. Arthur was happy with his job, happy with his relationship, and his son and fiancé were happy too if he was seeing the grins on their faces accurately from so far away.

So what was it that niggled at him? Finally he realized the strangeness in the picture was that he was all the way over beneath the trees, alone. It was telling that his son had begged Matthew to look at his discovery, but hadn't asked Arthur. Years of brushing the boy off had no doubt taught him not to bother.

The way that Arthur and Matthew's relationship was announced to the world happened in a way that neither had intended.

Matthew had pictured himself telling first his papa, then, once Papa had met Arthur and come around to their relationship, Matthew would tell Alfred. Then Matthew and Arthur would just be openly together in public from there on.

The way Arthur had pictured it was that it never happened. He had no intention of ever telling anyone he was involved with Matthew, and just hoped to string Matthew along until the boy graduated. Then Matthew would break things off, move away for work, and settle down with a nice man who wasn't in the closet and already married.

Arthur had dreaded, even had nightmares, about some of the ways word of his affair might get out. Gilberte finding lovebites from Matthew on his skin, Gilberte finding texts or nudes from Matt on his phone (he'd since switched anything incriminating to a second, burner phone), the college Dean using his master key on Arthur's office door and catching him balls-deep in Matthew.

But the revelation of Arthur's affair with Matthew didn't come from a furious Gilberte or a sanctimonious snooping college employee.

No, it was a betrayal from Arthur's own son, Kyle. Unlike Gilberte, Kyle had seen the signs and put two and two together. Worse, he'd spotted the burner phone and somehow snuck into it to sync all its contents up with an account of his own.

Then emailed the naughty texts and photos to all of Arthur's coworkers and the college dean. Emailed them to every relative and friend of Arthur and Gilberte. Which included one Francis Bonnefoy, still one of Gilberte's best friends, although Arthur despised the arrogant prick and avoided him.

Gilberte seemed angrier that he'd cheated with Francis's son than that he had cheated, period.

"You sick fuck," she'd fumed, "I held Mattie in my arms when he was a baby."

She was busy tossing shirts and pants into the suitcase on the bed, but wasn't too distracted to give him a tongue lashing while she packed. Arthur rubbed some sleep out of his eyes. He'd been awoken a few minutes before his alarm usually went off, by Gilberte cursing him out as a selfish cheating prick. He'd thought he was in one of his recurring nightmares at first, but the soft morning light and Gilberte's livid face proved all too real.

"How was I supposed to know Matthew is his son? His last name isn't Bonnefoy and there are three different Matthews in that class!" Arthur protested.

He didn't know why he was bothering to argue; he didn't care that Gilberte was angry. He was just acting on autopilot, his mouth moving of its own volition. He was still reeling, like a boxer who'd been on the bad end of a flurry of blows. Only the punches to the head were the incredulous and furious emails and texts from their friends, family, and some of Arthur's colleagues. He'd gotten a few outright calls, which he'd hung up on quickly when they immediately began shouting, and then silenced his phone.

"You know," Gilberte said, "I believe it. That you're stupid and selfish enough to stick your dick in my best friend's kid without even knowing who you're fucking. That you've been fucking him since—" she stopped to scroll on her phone, and Arthur burned knowing she was scrolling back to that first photo he'd taken of Matthew, the first evidence of their affair.

"Since almost the start of the semester, and you never thought to ask him about his family. So typical of you," she mocked.

"Gilly, I really am very sorry—" Arthur began (he wasn't, but it seemed the thing to say).

"Dude, I don't even care. I'm leaving. You can clean up this shitstorm on your own this time," Gilberte said.

"Where are you going?" Arthur asked, his voice high and desperate.

He prayed she'd say just to a motel for a few days to have some space, or to Antonia's house.

"To Monika's," Gilberte said.

She tossed a clear toiletry bag into the suitcase and then slammed it shut.

Arthur's heart skipped a beat. Monika was back living in Berlin; if Gilberte was going there, she probably wasn't coming back any time soon.

"When will you be back?" Arthur asked.

Gilberte grabbed her suitcase with one hand and headed for the door. Arthur followed her downstairs. She paused before the front door.

"Back to the states? Dunno. Back to you and this house? Never!" Gilberte laughed.

Then she flung the door open. Arthur stepped out onto the porch, still in his slippers.

"But what about the kids?" Arthur yelled.

Gilberte didn't give him so much as a backwards glance, just tossed her suitcase into the backseat of her car. Then she was backing out of the drive way. Then driving away. Then gone.

A small hand tugged on Arthur's sleeve. Arthur glanced down, seeing his youngest son standing beside him, still dressed in his anchor and lighthouse patterned pajamas.

"Where's mama going?" Peter asked.

Arthur put his hand to his head and began rubbing his forehead. He was getting a headache. He needed to get Peter ready for school and then go face the music at the university. And check on how Matthew was doing. If Francis hadn't woken up, Matthew might not even be aware yet what had happened. And it would be better for everyone if Francis heard the truth from Matthew, instead of finding out via filthy texts and photos of his son with cum dripping from his eyelashes.

He was pulled from his musings by Peter continuing to yank on his shirt and repeat himself louder and louder til he was shouting up at Arthur. Arthur gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to shout back.

"Listen, if you'll leave me be for five bloody minutes you can stay home from school and play with your Playstation or build Lego houses or whatever it is you do," Arthur told him.

Maybe it had been Kyle that liked Legos? Perhaps Gilberte was right and he really did need to spend more time with the kids. His youngest was too annoying though. And Kyle was a traitor. Leo, his eldest who was away at a university on the other side of the country, was the only member of the family he wasn't currently pissed off at.

"Really?" Peter asked, big blue eyes widening up at Arthur.

"Yes, really," Arthur said.

"Yay!" Peter yelled, jumping way too energetically for Arthur's nerves.

He turned and ran off, whooping, and Arthur was glad to be rid of him for the moment. Arthur couldn't very well go to the university while caring for a nine-year-old, so that was out. He needed to come up with a cover story, some excuse. Check if he was in any of the photos or if there was anything else proving it was truly him and not a malicious prank. Make sure Matthew was going to keep quiet and not spill the beans to any college officials. Talk to his union rep.

Arthur could kill Kyle for this. Fortunately for his son's continued survival, he'd decided to leak his poisonous little trove of texts and photos on a week he was staying out of town with friends.

Arthur tried to to warm Gilberte up a little, get her in the mood by kissing the back of her neck as she lay facing away from him in their bed, but she lay there stiff as a board, completely unresponsive.

Normally he'd just give up and let it go, but he was unusually horny these days despite having a lover on the side to satisfy him. Sure, he'd gotten a blowjob from Matthew this morning after class, but that was fifteen hours ago, he was more than ready to go again. Since starting his affair with Matt it was like sex was back on his brain and his libido had woken up from a long slumber.

So he slipped one hand under the old band t-shirt Gilberte slept in, feeling one small firm breast, rubbing over her pert little nipples. She still had great tits after all these years, he mused. And he might as well enjoy them. If she didn't want him touching her, she could tell him to stop.

It was when his fingers dipped into the mound inside her panties that she finally bestirred herself, grabbing his hand and shoving it away.

"Knock it off," Gilberte snapped.

"Oh, is it a crime for a man to want to have sex with his wife now?" Arthur replied.

He wasn't surprised by her rejection, or the flare of anger it sent through him, scorching his insides.

It was the disappointment that snuck up on him though. Arthur had thought he'd gotten over expecting this marriage to provide him with anything. Gilberte was a terrible spouse in every way. He should be pleased if anything, to have more proof that he'd done the right thing in giving into his desires with Matthew.

He would never be good enough for Gilberte and no matter what he did, no matter how skillfully he wooed her or tried to make it up to her, she wouldn't come around.

She was never going to let it go that he'd fucked her sister. That was over a year ago and both Arthur and Monika had been extremely drunk at the time. Yet Gilberte didn't blame Monika a bit and acted like it was all Arthur's fault!

'You should have known better you prick! She's barely older than your students!' had been what Gilberte had shouted at him.

As if alcohol affected an older brain any less—she was just looking for excuses to coddle her precious baby sister, the way she always did.

Now, the look she was giving him was the same one she'd given him then, just a little less livid.

"I'm trying to sleep asshole, can't you tell? I don't want to have you poking me with your little cock for five minutes tops then leaving my cunt a sticky mess," Gilberte told him, her red eyes alight with mockery and banked fury.

In the past Arthur might have sat up and taken the bait, traded insult for insult until they were yelling loudly enough to wake the kids and some of the neighbors.

But now Arthur just gritted his teeth and ignored her. He had Matthew now; if Gilberte wanted to give him even more reason to tune out of their relationship that was fine with him. <i>Matthew</i> never had a single complaint about his stamina or lovemaking abilities.

"Fine. Goodnight," Arthur muttered.

She turned back away from him and laid down once more, without saying a word back.

He lay there awake, watching as her breathing slowed and her form relaxed into sleep.

He wished what he'd told Matthew earlier was the truth. That he was planning to serve her divorce papers soon. It would be so sweet to say goodbye to the bitch for the last time and never have to hear her brash, arrogant voice again.

But Peter was only nine, and Arthur would never be the kind of deadbeat dad his own father had been. His kids would have a stable two-parent home, the kind of reassuring home life he'd never had as a kid. He’d been raised on a single mum's salary, stretched to provide for five boys. They never saw their dad again once he walked out and they saw her almost as rarely because she was always working.

He regretted marrying Gilberte—he'd been a rebellious punk as an undergrad when they married, and they'd been of two minds then, but he'd matured, grown up and grown out of the phase, while she stayed the same. It was probably why he had so much trouble with the administration and the other faculty—Gil was completely unsuited to be a professor's wife. She should be charming and well-mannered and help him network and keep abreast of faculty politics and things. But she couldn't even be bothered to shave her legs or pits before wearing a skirt, let alone drop "fuck" from her vocabulary when around university employees.

It's not like she had any real work to do, just cleaning the house and taking care of the kids (he did <i>not</i> consider her little business ventures with Antonia and Francis to be anything other than playing around.)

Maybe if Matthew had been a girl Arthur would plan on dropping Gilberte in a few years, replacing her with girl-Matt (Matilda?) once she was older and graduated and it wouldn't cause a scandal, just a little gossip.

But he'd never consider having a man as a permanent partner. Just, why? Why put up with all the extra drama and disadvantage of being known as a queer man in a gay marriage? Much as he might like fucking around with a guy sometimes (it added a little spice to his life now and then) he enjoyed being with women too so he didn't have to commit to the lifestyle.

Most of the students in Professor Kirkland’s History 101 class had tuned out his snippy British voice that went on and on about historical happenings they did not care about in the slightest. Those who were paying any attention at all glared at his turned back.

Matthew however, sitting in the front row leaning forward with his chin resting on his hand, staring raptly as Professor Kirkland scrawled dates and names on the board, was an exception. He found the grumpy little man absolutely enchanting. Other students might bitch about the chalkboard, claiming the dust was nasty and that it was an antique not suited for a modern classroom, but Matthew thought it was an adorable little quirk. This was a history class after all, so shouldn't they benefit from a few antiquarian touches?

It wasn’t just the oddities like the chalkboard that had the other students pissed off though. No, it was because despite this being an intro history class (intended as a broad, shallow, and above all <i>easy</i> survey of history appropriate for non-majors) the coursework was as difficult and ruthlessly graded as most of the senior level history classes. The only one more difficult was the senior thesis class for history majors.

Pity the student who dawdled in signing up for courses and got stuck in Arthur Kirkland’s history class!

Matthew hadn’t bothered to try and dodge certain professors who were rumored to be hardasses. He’d been an honors student in high school but had often been bored and underwhelmed by the classwork. Now, in his very first semester of college he was finally being challenged. Professor Kirkland didn’t let them slack or skate by and Matthew appreciated that. It felt good to be treated like an adult, an equal, instead of having a teacher go easy on them because “they’re just kids”.

If the students had no love or respect for Professor Kirkland, the feeling was mutual. Although Arthur never said it, he clearly communicated with his venomous glares and voice dripping with scorn, exactly what he thought of the imbeciles he had to teach. Served them right in Matthew’s opinion; this wasn’t high school and they shouldn’t be clowning about or neglecting their coursework. This was college; they should take it <i>seriously</i>.

In a mirror of Matthew's attitude, Arthur saw Matthew as a rare exception in a classroom full of brainless teenagers. The slim blonde teen that always sat in the first row might be meek and quiet but Arthur could tell from his essays and tests that he paid attention and actually put the work in to do the required reading. Arthur was never big on so-called classroom participation from students anyway; there was no benefit in letting them show off their ignorance, flaunt their juvenile and asinine “opinions”.

Many professors warmly advertised their office hours and invited students to drop-in for anything, even just a chat. Arthur didn’t.

But when Matthew finally worked up the courage to linger in the room after the class was dismissed, hovering next to Arthur’s desk, Arthur didn’t send him packing. It wasn’t out of some change of heart (the administration was constantly badgering him to be nicer to the students, but Arthur had taught at this particular institution for over fifteen years now, and there was no way he was going to kiss the idiot students’ arses just because everyone else was getting soft in this modern age). It was because Arthur thought there was a chance—however slim—that Matthew might not be a complete waste of his time.

Matthew, with his big awe-filled violet eyes, graceful manners, always surrounded by the soft scent of pinewood and maple sugar, was a lot easier to endure standing near than most of the stinking sweaty hungover students that Arthur dealt with. Maybe, Arthur thought, if most of his students were as pleasant as Matthew it wouldn’t be so difficult to smile at them. He didn’t have to make an effort with Matthew; talking with him, the corners of his mouth naturally lifted up as he listened to Matthew’s shy questioning about the end of term paper Arthur had assigned them.

He answered Matthew’s questions and even voluntarily pointed him towards some good sources for the subject they’d be writing about. Arthur lost track of time chatting with the young man about what they’d covered in class so far, only realizing he had to be at home for dinner in twenty minutes because his smartwatch went off. (He despised it; but it was a gift from Gilberte so he wore it anyway, while never passing up a chance to bitch about it to her.)

“Well I must be going now. If you have any other questions you can speak with me after next class.” Arthur said.

It was a high honor; he’d never yet in all his years implied to a student that any imposition on his time would be welcome.

“Thank you for your time Professor, I’ll see you next time.” Matthew said, giving a shy little wave as he headed for the door.

Despite the fact that he really needed to get going if he was to make it home in time for Gilberte to not throw a bitchfit, Arthur didn’t grab his things and make to leave. He felt strangely off. What was causing it? The conversation with Matthew, if an unusual occurrence, was not about anything out of the ordinary for a history professor and the student (even if it was highly unusual for <i>Arthur</i> and a student).

It took Arthur a moment to realize what it was. His teeth weren’t gritted tightly in his mouth. His fingernails weren't digging into the flesh of his palms. The overwhelming urge to bite someone or kick them out a window was absent... Instead of feeling aggravated, like conversations with people usually left him, Arthur felt refreshed. Invigorated. There was still a little lingering on his face and he didn't know why.

Arthur went hunting through his desk for the little index card he made all the students fill out at the beginning of term (he never paid any mind to them; it was purely a farce meant to appease the administration by showing he was making an effort to “connect with” the students.)

There, at the very back he found it—Williams, Matthew.

A freshman from Canada, whose hobbies included playing hockey and cooking. That explained his tight, fit body at least.

And there at the bottom–major: undeclared. Maybe Arthur could have a talk with the boy about his aptitude for the humanities. He was clearly a cut above the usual moronic students Arthur was surrounded by. The history department could only be enlivened by having an undergrad student who actually had a brain.

Not to mention, this would put Matthew in more of Arthur's classes, since the college only required this one history class as part of the general education requirements.

"I just feel bad about it, you know?" Matthew said, his voice hushed as he met his brother in the hallway outside the royal bedchamber.

The sun was rising outside, visible through the huge windows at the ends of the hall. The bright yellow rays turning everything in their path warm and golden, making the moment feel strangely poignant.

Alfred was paying little attention to the sunshine and even less to his brother's worries. If he didn't get his ass into that bedroom soon, then Arthur might get clued into their little game. Alfred had plenty of criticisms he could lay at the Queen's feet, but being stupid wasn't one of them. Arthur was dangerously sharp.

"That's great Mattie, I'll talk to you about it later," Alfred said absentmindedly, pushing past his brother and into the royal bedroom.

The door closed behind him. Matthew, now shut out alone in the hallway, sighed. Alfred had told him the same thing the last twelve times he'd brought it up. And kept conveniently forgetting to follow through.

****

It was deceitful. It was dishonest. It was scummy, sleazy, and outright wrong. There was no moral excuse for it. But it was damned convenient, Alfred thought.

Due to the little scheme they'd worked out, Alfred didn't have to sacrifice himself on the altar that was the royal marital bed, and his little brother Matthew got to ardently embrace the Queen he practically worshiped. And hey, even Arthur got something out of it—a good dicking.

It was a win-win all around.

And it might have gone on like that for a very long time, if not for one inconvenient stroke of fate.

****

War had been brewing between Diamonds' Kingdom and Hearts' Kingdom for ages now, and everyone in the four kingdoms knew the tension would be broken soon. The only question now on people's minds was, what would Spades Kingdom and Clubs Kingdom do? How much aid would they give, how many soldiers sent to the field?

It was an answer even the King and Queen of Spades couldn't answer. They'd been fighting bitterly about it for weeks.

"You want to sit back and do nothing while Diamonds' is ground to dust? And you call me cold?" Arthur hisses.

He's off his throne, pacing back and forth on the dais they usually make judgments from. The daily petitions are over, the only ones present now are the royal couple and Yao, the Jack of Spades.

Alfred rolls his eyes at the Queen. "I'm just saying, this is a chance for us to get ahead. We can make a killing off this war, without any risk, if we stick to selling supplies—"

"I personally promised Queen Lili our aid—we signed a mutual protection pact—" Arthur argues.

"None of that will mean anything once the dust settles," Alfred says, flapping a hand dismissively.

Arthur slaps him, the sound ringing out in the empty throne room. Yao gasps. It's not the first time the royal couple has gotten physical in front of him, but there's usually more provocation, more warning.

Alfred, who usually laughs off a slap or returns it, is holding his hand against his face. Blood is seeping out from under his fingers.

"You cut my face asshole!" Alfred snaps.

"I'm not sorry, you deserved it," Arthur says, although he feels a little bad.

Alfred had moved his face at the last moment, and the big wedding ring on Arthur's finger must have made contact with his flesh.

"You pissy little bitch—" Alfred starts.

"Stop fighting!" Yao orders, "You can discuss this tomorrow—like adults. But now His Majesty's face needs stitched up!"

Arthur harrumphs and walks away. The "tomorrows" in which to talk about this matter are rapidly running out, as is his patience.

****

Arthur walks through the hedge maze after that little dust up, trying to calm himself down. If steam were to spout from his ears, he'd be grateful—it would release some of the pressure from him.

There is no love lost between the King and Queen of Spades.

Arthur tolerates Alfred's annoying, domineering, infuriating ways, because the man can usually be brought into line on the important matters (even if it takes manipulative tactics or hours of Arthur nagging) but Arthur couldn't get him to budge on this matter.

And there were lives on the line, so many lives. Of those in Diamonds, in Clubs, and yes even in Spades, even if Alfred was too dumb to see the risk to them. Can Arthur stand by while so many die because his pigheaded husband won't lift a finger?

He can't. But there's only one surefire way to overcome the obstacle that is King Alfred. Arthur weighs and considers the benefits of Alfred's existence. Can he afford to throw him away? Arthur did rule perfectly well before the King was found and brought to the castle.

Arthur nods to himself, so lost in thought he doesn't even see the vibrant leafy green walls around him. The king <i>is</i> amazing in bed, that's another point in his favor. But that's his only use to Arthur. And Arthur can't betray his allies, sell out all those people, just for a good lay.

No matter how skillfully and worshipfully that blabbering mouth serviced his body...He can find a new lover when the King dies. Maybe the King's brother, Matthew. They can comfort each other in their shared grief. The thought brings a sardonic little smile to Arthur's face.

The next question for Arthur to consider then is: does he have what it takes to do what needs to be done? Will he dare do such a thing?

****

The method Arthur decides on is simple, elegant, painless. The King will have a heart-attack. How sad.

To keep the amount of mana residue in the air low, Arthur will do it when they're close. It'll make cleaning up the evidence of the spell easier.

It's easy enough to get close to King Alfred in a private place with no witnesses; no matter how badly the two fight, he joins Arthur at night to cuddle, fuck, and sleep.

In fact, perversely enough, the pattern is that the King is <I>more</i> physically affectionate and amorous in bed on days they're fighting. And he's usually mercifully silent in the dark. Arthur would have killed him much earlier in their marriage if the idiot brought their throne arguments into the bedroom, or did his usual nonstop running of his mouth, vomiting up every trivial thought in his moronic brain.

This night starts like any other. Arthur retires to bed earlier than Alfred, settling down onto their sinfully soft mattress and waiting for his husband. Alfred usually stays up for awhile longer, getting caught up chatting to some guard or hanging out with his brother, the Ace of Spades Matthew.

Arthur is dozing, half-asleep already when the door to the royal bedchamber cracks open, and Arthur blinks awake at the light shed on his face. Sees his husband's tall lanky body slip through the door and close it, plunging them into darkness once more.

The mattress dips under Alfred's weight, and soon enough he feels strong arms encircling his body, warm lips kissing his throat.

God, he will miss this. He sighs. Might as well enjoy this one last round. Alfred's mouth travels south, trailing kisses down Arthur's body as he moves down to his groin. Arthur's hands find his soft, silken hair and grasp it tight as Alfred takes him into his mouth.

When Arthur is gasping and close and can't take being inside the warmth of Alfred's mouth a moment longer without coming, he forces himself to push Alfred off of him.

After a moment to catch his breath and back off from the edge of orgasm, he takes Alfred by the shoulder and nudges him onto his back.

Pliant, submissive like he never is during daytime (oh, how their problems would be solved if he was like this all the time!), Alfred lets himself be pushed into place.

Arthur straddles him, searches for his cock in the darkness, and finds it, heavy and engorged with blood and pulsing under his fingers.

He lines himself up and slides down, unable to bite back a groan that breaches their careful unspoken agreement of silence—but then, panting and whining and moaning and even the occasional whimper is forgiven.

Arthur never wanted to hear Alfred run his mouth in the peaceful sanctity of their bedroom, but it had surprised Arthur that Alfred didn't want to hear him either—his husband had stilled and seemed oddly upset when Arthur had called out "God yes, Alfred!" during their first time. It hadn't offended Arthur though—he could hardly begrudge Alfred a break from his own voice when he wanted the same of Alfred.

Arthur found it fitting. In this room, they joined in primal acts that were older than human language, and so left aside all the high ideas and clashing of opinions that resulted from two people who did not like each other very much being forced to wed.

Maybe the tacit silence was what allowed their marriage to scrape by for so long.

But now, it's finally coming to an end.

Arthur rides his husband, the pleasure welling up in him as it always does, night after night. When he approaches the edge once more, he stops. He needs to maintain very close contact for a few minutes for this.

He won't be able to allow Alfred his usual pleasure, of pushing the spent Queen onto his back and pounding into him face to face until the king releases his seed.

Arthur leans forward, the king's cock still nestled inside him, and kisses him. Alfred kisses back, slow and gentle, and Arthur is always a little in awe that a buffoon like Alfred has such sweetness and consideration in him. It must be buried deeply, deeply inside, only coming out during these intimate moments.

Arthur's palms splay out on Alfred's broad chest, one directly over his heart. Carefully, he pours magic through his fingers and into Alfred's body.

This spell is tricky, it always is, but it's secretly Arthur's signature spell, and he's used it many times. Being able to stop time, even for a little bit, is too useful for Arthur to stay away from.

Arthur freezes Alfred's heart, and the part of his brain that lets him move his body. Now there is no way the king can thrash or hit Arthur or scream out for help. They both must lay here and count down the seconds until his brain, starved of oxygen, dies.

Waiting is boring, and it occurs to Arthur that he did want one last hurrah with his husband, one last bit of orgasmic bliss granted by the long thick glorious cock that Alfred doesn't deserve to have swinging between his legs at all.

And so he begins to move once more. Alfred is utterly still beneath him, but his cock is still hard and upright. It feels as wonderful inside him as ever as Arthur grinds himself down hard on Alfred's pelvis, moaning. He comes quickly, already so close to the edge, and ropes of semen splatter their bellies and chests, some getting on the hand he keeps locked over Alfred's heart.

He's proud that his hand didn't slip off even once, and the threads of his spell didn't slacken even a little. A few moments later, Alfred dies. Arthur can feel it in the life signature fading beneath him, and in the postmortem spurts of hot semen that erupt from Alfred's cock and bathe Arthur's inner walls.

The deed is done. It's over. Arthur slowly climbs off of Alfred. He won't hear his husband's annoying voice chattering at breakfast in the morning. He won't feel safe in his arms at night. They won't create any more children together, unless this last joining was fruitful.

Arthur doesn't feel remorse or guilt for what he's done, but he does feel sorrow. He wishes it hadn't had to come to this. Why did that idiot have to be so obstinate?

It occurs to him only now that with the timing, he's going to have to lay sleeping next to a corpse all night. Arthur sighs. It won't be the first time, and it may not be the last.

****

In the morning, Arthur makes himself cry and calls for the guards, for help, for anyone! When the first servant rushes in, he’s on his knees next to the bed, clutching the corpse’s icy cold hand and sobbing.

It's a shame he hadn’t take a moment to inspect the body before summoning everyone. Eyes blurry with tears miss a few key differences about the man laying in the bed, that would have prepared him for the upcoming shock—actual shock, not the play-pretend he's putting on for the palace employees.

Arthur freezes when King Alfred bursts through the door, his annoying, nasal crying out, "What's going? What happened to my brother?"

How can King Alfred be there? Arthur rubs the water from his eyes and looks, wide-eyed, at the man standing over the bed with his face twisted in horror.

Shocked sky-blue eyes. Shorter, spikier blonde hair. When Arthur manages to pull himself back to his feet using the bedpost, he looks down on the corpse laying there. Even with the marks of death on the body, Arthur can see the difference. Longer, wavier hair. Purple eyes, staring up at the ceiling now, just as they’d stared up at Arthur in the darkness as he died last night.

Arthur feels like the world is tilting beneath him, and he clings to the bedpost.

"What?" he asks weakly, to no one and everyone.

What the fuck is going on here? How did Matthew get in the bed? What trickery is this?

The healers are trying to revive Matthew, the glow of healing spells uncomfortably bright, but Arthur knows they won't meet with any success. Matthew's been dead for too long. Maybe—maybe if Arthur had summoned them last night.

If he'd known it was Matthew dead and cooling underneath him, he might have called them.

Arthur makes his way over to Alfred, and tugs on his sleeve to get his attention. Alfred's attention is riveted on his brother, watching as Matthew's body jolts as life energy spells are sent coursing through him. Alfred barely glances at Arthur.

"How did—how did Matthew get in our bed?" Arthur asks.

"I'll explain it all to you—later." Alfred mumbles.

There are tears pouring down his face, and Arthur supposes he'll just have to wait. He slips out of the room and heads to the kitchens to grab a bite to eat. It wouldn't look proper, would look too uncaring, if he were to settle down at the royal dining table for breakfast as usual. The King may not be dead, but the death of the courts' Ace, of Arthur's brother-in-law, should be something that ruffles him. He's mostly just confused. But he can nick some food and disappear into the gardens for now. Answers will come later—they always do.

****

They're in Arthur's study, Alfred in an armchair, Arthur on the loveseat adjacent to it.

"I've never slept with you, not even once." Alfred is saying, patient for once.

"But how can that be? We have two children together!" Arthur protests.

"No, you and Matthew have two children together," Alfred explains.

"This whole time you were swapping him into our bed at night?!" Arthur explodes, "You piece of shit—"

"Yeah, I know." Alfred says.

Arthur's never seen him look so defeated. There's none of the usual life, the bright enviable vitality, running through King Alfred now. He looks older than Arthur now, and Arthur is ten years his senior.

"So, all that time, it was Matthew—" Arthur can't help but let out a laugh, a disbelieving one, as if waiting for the true punchline to be revealed.

Matthew, the quiet and meek Court Ace who'd probably exchanged a dozen words with Arthur at the most, despite living in the castle for years.

It was Matthew who'd made tender love to him thousands of times and held him so sweetly in his embrace nearly every night.

Alfred just nods.

"That explains a lot, actually." Arthur murmurs.

What a waste, he thinks. All that time, such a loving and exquisite man existed right under his nose, and now Arthur had lost him because he didn't even know it.

Of course, sleeping with Arthur in such a manner was a rotten deception. Letting Arthur spread his legs for him thinking he was having lawful sex with his own husband, not consanguineous sex with his brother-in-law. But Arthur could forgive him, because he was dead, and because he'd made Arthur come many, many times.

It seemed the swap really had been for the best—until Arthur had stopped Matthew’s heart. Damn, if only Arthur had <i>known</i> the truth! He wouldn't have been that mad at Matthew, and he could have killed the stubborn dumbass he was intending to.

For the first time in his life, Arthur is regretting his ruthlessness.

What will they tell the children? They believed King Alfred to be their father. But they'd always loved dear Uncle Matthew, who doted on them more than their own dad...so many memories were being shifted now, the implications changing now that Arthur had the missing piece of the puzzle.

Of course Matthew had adored Arthur's children—they were his own.

****

"Pretty strange for a man so young to die of heart failure," Alfred says, his gaze cold enough to send chills through a lesser man.

"Yes, it's a shame. I suppose he always did seem a bit sickly though, frail in comparison to you," Arthur replies, unfazed.

When Alfred's intense, piercing stare doesn't ease up, Arthur shifts slightly and says, "Such a pity. I hope the same weakness isn't lurking in your heart too," there's a hard gleam in his emerald eyes.

Alfred holds his breath.

Arthur stands up. Just like that, the moment passes, the tension lessening to something less crushing but not completely gone.

"Come now, we must see Yao about the funeral arrangements. Such a man as Matthew deserves to be sent off in honor," Arthur says.

They leave the study together, united in purpose for once.