The roar of the crowd in the E Komo Mai Arena was a distant hum in Alphonse’s ears. Sidelined with a tail injury from an accidental stomp during a previous game, the big rat could join in on the warmups and help his teammates with a few practice drills, but once the tip happened he’d be stuck on a bench, forced to watch. It was a rough blow for Alfie; he’d turned into one of the team’s best performers, with a starting spot and gaining momentum going into the voting season for the All Star Weekend, and now he was out.

None of that mattered, though, because Alphonse had something else on his mind. Tonight, they were playing Winnipeg, and that meant one thing: Antonio Garza would be there.

Helping Scoonie Barrett, the tattooed otter with whom Alfie had struck up an odd semi-friendship, with a couple free throws to get the big lutrine primed up, his attention was once again diverted by the tall grasshopper jogging about on the far end of the court. A ball to the chest retrieved his focus, as well as coach Richard Berk snapping at him.

“Norwich! Pay attention! I’m sorry ya can’t play, but if you’re gonna be on the court you gotta keep alert!” the badger barked at him, not cross so much as insistent.

“Er… sorry coach,” Alfie hollered back, in a rare display of humility. He tossed the ball back to Scoonie and walked up to him, clapping the otter on the shoulder. “Back in a tick, mate. Jus’ gotta say good luck t’ the sorry sods stuck playin’ you lot!”

Scoonie was skeptical, not unreasonably so given Alfie’s track record when it came to being a good sport with the opponents, but nodded all the same. “Sure thing, Alfie,” he said simply, shrugging at coach Berk and going back to his shots. 

Though not mandatory or even an expected gesture, often times before games players from opposing teams shook hands, exchanged friendly words, and otherwise just let each other know that there were no hard feelings even while they tried to humiliate one another on the court. A few of the Kahunas had met the Voyageurs in the middle of the Punchbowl to bump fists and say hello, but seeing Alphonse making his way toward the opponent made a lot of tails go bushy. 

Then, to the surprise of all (including the announcers up in the booth), Alphonse proceeded to be downright amiable with the others. He shook hands, exchanged pleasantries with the others, and otherwise did his damnedest to be exactly what no one expected him to be.

Until he got to Antonio.

The lanky insect had seen Alfie coming and subconsciously had tried to avoid him, not even making eye contact with the grungy rat, but to no avail. Tony was Alphonse’s target, the others had just been cover to make it look like he was just working on being less threatening after the season’s earlier PR disasters. Off to the side, Vesk and Roon watched with arms crossed, curious if they were going to have to dive in. No one suspected that the rat would have any reason to go after Antonio.

Antonio knew.

Rat and grasshopper met, clasping hands and bumping chests briefly. For all the world it just looked like two athletes having a show of good sportsmanship, but the tension between them was thick on the air. It made it difficult for Tony to breath. His seven foot frame was tense, braced for impact, whatever it might be. If he was going to get beat up by this rat in front of the world, there was little he could do about it. 

Alphonse pulled Tony down so he could get his muzzle to the side of the insect’s head, and whispered, harshly, “You an’ I’s gonna ‘ave a li’l jaw afta the game, mate.” Then, with that, he went back to his side of the court, while Tony stood, dumbfounded.

As the game progressed, it was clear that Antonio Garza was unable to focus. Each attempt he had was unsuccessful. The only time he was able to get the ball in the net was at the free throw line, and even that was just barely, with one of his shots rolling around the rim before finally sinking in. Every time he made his way along the court, his attention was stolen by the glaring rat on the bench, staring at him, eyes burning through him.

Alfie didn’t care about the game. He didn’t care who won or who lost. He couldn’t even see the game. In the rat’s eyes, the rest of the world was a haze around Antonio Garza, the grasshopper alone on the court. He didn’t even know what to think, what to say. It had to be that bug’s fault. He’d gotten all this in Terry’s head. Everything was fine until the two of them took that lunch together back last autumn. If they’d never met, none of this would have happened.

At the same time, wouldn’t that also mean Terry was still living in secret? Alone? Without Antonio, wouldn’t his brother be stuck back in Liverpool, thinking there was no one else like him, no one that he could share his feelings with? He’d seen what happened to Liam, he thought that was going to be him. Fucking hell, Terry thought that was going to be him.

…And you know what, they never did figure out who that other bloke was. Could it…

Alphonse shook his head and closed his eyes, taking in a hard breath through his teeth and letting it out through his nose. He’d worked so hard for this. To get out of the slum of Toxteth, where the only people who knew his name outside the Alley borders were other Scousers who spat at the mention of Alley rats. To rise up and show them, to show the world, that his kind could rise up and be greater than that, greater than any of them.

Now, he had to deal with this. His brother, a blanker. Not only that, but he’d been shagging up with another player. Not only THAT, but a fucking buzzer? And to top it all off, now he was stuck on the bench, just watching that god damned bug dancing up and down the court while he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. A couple elbows, a shoulder here or there. That was okay, though. They’d have their moment to talk.

When the final buzz sounded, the score was 116 to 109, with Hawaii being the losing side. If it hadn’t been for the howls of anger from the crowd around him, Alfie wouldn’t have known whether his team had won or lost. He turned to look at the scoreboard and his lip curled. They could have won if he’d been out there. He could have rubbed that victory right in that goddamn bug’s face. 

After the game was a standard affair. Hands were shaken again with limp offerings of “good game, man” passed between players. In a lot of ways, it was no different than the old grade school leagues, with the teams encouraged to show good sportsmanship and assure that there were no hard feelings. It didn’t really work, but then again it never worked back when they were little, either. 

Antonio was nervous. One of the reasons he’d grown so enamoured with Alphonse’s younger brother was the stark contrast between them. Where Terrence was soft spoken, Alphonse was loud and brash. Where Terrence was gentle, Alphonse was explosive. Where Terrence was understanding, Alphonse was anything but.

All Tony knew for sure was that if Alfie came at him for a “talk”, it meant that Terrence had mustered up the courage to come out. That made him happy, at least. Terrence had stood up and been honest not only with himself, but with his brother. On the other hand, he had a feeling that Alfie might be understanding when it came to family, but that didn’t mean he had any loyalty toward Terry’s paramour. He also had a feeling that this “chat” he was slated to have with Alphonse wasn’t going to have quite so many words. 

What an ironic position to be in. He finds a nice guy, and ends up getting bloodied up anyway. 

Tony stood in the hallway between locker rooms, pacing. He could have gone into the locker room and hid. He could have stuck with his team and left the Punchbowl arena with them, avoiding Alphonse. As unpredictable as the rat was, according to his brother, there was at least a small sense of security staying with the team. The odds of him starting a fight right in the middle of everyone were not good. At the same time, he could have told one of them that he was going to have a talk with Alphonse. He could have had backup. But that might just set Alfie off more. Either way, it seemed best to just bite the bullet and see what Alfie wanted to talk about. Maybe it was just a talk…

The clomp of heavy boots signaled Alfie’s arrival, and Tony’s antennae immediately swiveled toward him. He knew the rat hadn’t taken the time to shower, but rather just threw his boots and clothes on and headed out. Antonio had heard that Alfie never showered with the rest of the team, and whether that meant he did it at home or not at all was up for debate. The smell was the least of Tony’s concerns, though.

Swallowing hard, Antonio attempted to defuse the situation early. “Listen, Alphonse,” he began, both hands raised with palms out defensively. “I just want you to kn-“

But he didn’t get a chance to finish. Instantly, Alfie grabbed Tony by the shirt and slammed him hard into the concrete wall, the rat’s bulk even more substantial than it appeared. Up close, all those scars and small patches of missing fur, the notched ears, it all painted a worrisome picture. Tony didn’t need to know the exact stories behind each one to know that Alfie’s reputation was likely well-earned. 

“Shut it, buzza,” Alphonse spat through clenched teeth, his voice low but sharp.

“Al… Alfie,” Antonio attempted to interject, only to get pulled away and shoved into the hard wall once again.

“I said shut it! Now you fuckin’ listen, y’ lanky cunt,” the British rat seethed. They were close enough that Tony could feel Alphonse’s breath on his face, the slender grasshopper doing everything in his power to sink into the concrete.

Alphonse continued. “I know all about you ’n me brotha. I know you’re th’ reason ‘e, fuckin’… came out t’ me. An’ I fuckin’ well know what y’ was doin’ when ‘e told th’ fam ‘at he was comin’ out t’ see me.”

Antonio’s breathing was haggard, uneven. He could tell Alphonse was more than just angry: he was confused, hurt even. That was even more worrisome. It meant he might act irrationally, and irrationally for Alphonse was a time bomb with a malfunctioning timer. He stayed silent, not wanting to set the rat off.

Alfie leaned forward, pushing his weight into Antonio, making it hard for him to take in a breath. “Terry’s me… he’s me blood. An’ so ‘elp me, if you do anything, ANYTHING,” he said with a hard shake at Tony’s shirt, “t’ hurt ‘im… I will bury you beneath this fuckin’ arena. Now you nod y’ head if y’ undastand me.”

His jaw tight, almost quivering, his whole body braced for impact, Tony nodded. Alphonse nodded in return and let go of Tony’s shirt, slowly, then turned quickly on his heels (giving Antonio a hard push with his shoulder in the process), and walked toward the rear exit of the stadium, leaving a confused, if relieved, grasshopper in his wake. 

Tony stood, leaning back against the wall a few seconds, resting his head back, and took a deep breath, then quietly walked to the team’s locker room. When asked where he was, Tony just told them he was taking a phone call.

———————

Nicholas Norwich was on the hunt.

Puberty had hit the fifteen year old rat with a vengeance, and it meant that he frequently had a hard time finding clothes that fit properly. Finding new clothing was always a headache, as local shops needed time to get sizes in stock, so that meant either venturing out into the swamp beyond the Alley to look for something, or get hand me downs from friends and family.

In Nick’s case, it meant raiding his older brothers’ wardrobes.

The family had two big dressers, one in each bedroom, that held their clothing. Two dressers for a score plus of rats would normally have been woefully inadequate, but the Norwich family didn’t have a lot of outfits to begin with, and the men of the house tended to throw their clothing in the corner, so the drawers were rarely full. Nick squatted down and rummaged through the lower drawers where the jeans were.

“Come th’ fuck on, lads. Gotta be ONE pair ‘ere…” he muttered to himself. He used to be able to take Grahamory’s clothing, but he grew too tall. Then he took Pip’s, but he wasn’t quite that slender framed. Thus, the hunt began for some of Terry’s clothing.

With a grunt, Nick sat back on his heels and put his hands on his hips. No luck. He knew Terry’s trousers, and none of them were in here. He stood up and scratched at the back of his neck, looking around. There were a few pairs tossed into the corner by the closet, maybe one was in there. He squatted again and dug around, finally finding one pair and lifting it up. He shook the denim, leaned in to sniff at it and, only finding the scent of booze from a post-concert party, decided they were good enough.

Then something fell out of the pocket. Something paper.

“Oi, what are you, then?” Nick asked to himself as he bent down to pick it up. It looked like a letter. He unfolded it and looked at it a moment, head tilted. He read.

“Dear… Terry…” the young rat began, then snorted. “Mus’ be one o’ his girlie fans. Wonda which one.”

Then his eyes went down to the signature.

“…Tony?”

Nick walked over to the doorway quick, looking around, and crept his way down the stairs, waving at the family and telling them all he was heading out to go see his mates. As soon as he was out the door, though, he scurried off to the Leaky Pipe, reading the letter as he went.

“Fuck me, ‘at name sounds familiar…” Nick muttered to himself as he went over the text. “Tony… wasn’t ‘at the…”

He stopped.

It flickered and sputtered at first, but finally the little light in Nicholas Norwich’s head clicked on.

“Tony’s ‘at nonnie, th’ one Alfie was talkin’ about!”

The young Norwich picked up the pace toward the pub. He knew a few rats who might want to know about this.

——————————

The Leaky Pipe wasn’t packed like it would be in a few hours, but there were still a number of rats hanging out. The day after a Bastards show was never as busy as the day before, with most of the locals staying home to recover, but a few had crawled their way in to get some greasy food and a drink to stave off the hangover. A half dozen or so of the Biters were gathered in their usual corner, a round of drinks in front of them and a basket of chips to help soak up some alcohol.

Along with a folded up letter.

“I fuckin’ knew it, lads,” spat one of them, shaking his head and putting his beer down with a heavy thunk.

“Oh piss off, Sol, you didn’t know fuck all,” said another.

“Oh yeh?” Sol answered, the gangly rat looking over at his friend. “Which of us took one o’ Alfie’s big mitts to the mug after ‘e suggested Mista Terrence Norwich didn’t fancy girls so much, eh?”

The other rat’s face screwed up. “Wasn’t it ‘at ol’ sod Owen?”

Sol grunted. “Well, yeh. It was. But I’s right with ‘im, mate! I knew ‘ere was sumthin’ up with ‘at Terry. Never looked right. Y’ ever talked t’ one o’ the girls he shagged up with?”

A round of silence met him. “My fuckin’ point! Was a bird in ‘ere not that long ago talkin’ about Terry an’ how ‘e turned ‘er inside out, but ‘en I talked to ‘er friends and y’know what? Talkin’ out ‘er arse! Was tryin’ t’ get in ‘is trousers an’ he just bought ‘er a drink an’ went home!”

Another took a drink of his beer, looking unsure. “Well ‘at don’t mean nuthin’, Solly. Just ‘at lass wasn’t tellin’ facts. An’ anyway I ain’t so sure ‘bout ‘is letta.”

Sol rolled his eyes and snatched the paper up from the table, holding it up and coughing dramatically before reading. “I’ve been thinking about you too, Terrence. That day was special, and I look forward to more with you.” He shook the paper at the others. “Th’ fuck d’ye think ‘at means, eh Gary?”

The rat shrugged his shoulders, holding his beer with both hands. “Yeh… y’ prolly right, mate. Just ‘ard t’ believe, ain’t it? I mean, we knew ‘at lad when ‘e was knee high, saw ‘im ‘at first night with th’ Bastards, rememba that?”

A chorus of nods and chuckles came from the rest of the group, taking an aside to exchange stories about that day. Sol, a few years Alphonse’s senior and one of the rats who’d pushed to bring the Norwich boys into the Biters in the first place, had gotten Terry’s letter from one of the younger Biters after Nick had found his friends and shown it to them. It hadn’t taken long before word spread through the ranks, and now a handful of Biter Boys were sitting in the Leaky Pipe, mulling over what to do.

“Well we gotta tell th’ Buckleys,” one spoke up.

“Yeh? You volunteerin’?” another responded with a laugh. He rubbed at his face, “Fuck me sideways. ‘At bloke was up on ‘at stage night afta night, playin’ our songs, flyin’ our flag, actin’ like ‘e was one of us, an’ all ‘at time…”

Sol sneered, taking another big gulp of his beer. “Y’ got ‘at right, mate. Makes me sick t’ me stomach, eh? Just thinkin’ about ‘at filthy blanka… bet when ‘e was in th’ pit durin’ a show ‘e was tryin’ to cop a feel of us, put ‘at in a basket.” 

More groans from the rest. The thought of some blanker grinding up against them while a band played about rat unity made them shudder. The swishy little bender rubbing into them, trying to get his dirty little thrills while the rest just wanted to enjoy the music. And for it to be hidden so long, no less.

“An’ poor Alfie! While ‘e’s off in America tryin’ t’ help elevate us poor rats, ‘is brotha is ‘ere ruinin’ us! One step forward an’ three steps back, eh?”

“True an’ honest, mate, true an’ honest. I see ‘at li’l… mouse, aye ‘e ain’t a rat no more if y’ ask me, an’ I’ll make sure it’s th’ last time any of us see ‘im,” Sol said gravely, claws digging at the worn wood of the table in front of them.

The conversation trailed off from there, idle observations about Terrence and crude jokes about him being a little girl begging for a cock from his big bad basketball boyfriend, that disgusting buzza, the crew derisively taking bets on how many times the team had taken him into the locker room and passed him around like a whiskey bottle. 

The familiar sound of the heavy door swinging open caught a few ears, but little attention. That was, until one of the rats tilted his head and nodded toward it.

“Oi, Sol. Speak o’ the fuckin’ devil.”

Sol turned his head to look, and there he was. Terrence had strolled in, like nothing was wrong, and sat at the bar. Sol watched, his face tightening as Terry laughed and clasped hands with the owner behind the bar, Alan, and joked about their big pay for the concert the night before. Seeing that faggot fraternize with the old man infuriated Sol all the more, that he had the balls to pretend he was just one of the Alley rats. He shook his head.

The furious rat picked up his pint, as well as the letter, and made his way over to the bar. He and Terrence Norwich were going to have a little heart to heart.