Past-Part Fills Post 1 -- CLOSED
Thanks to anon's suggestions we are now enforcing a past-part fills post
Fresh past-part fills post HERE
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Matthew snaps up from his sleep, hunched in on himself and muscles taut as he takes in deep, greedy gulps of air.
Behind his tightly closed eyes he can still see Alfred’s body, the final jerk that snaps his spine forward before he falls back and just stops moving, the arc of red that spills from his punctured chest through the air -each drop as separate and gleaming as a ruby- to be absorbed into Arthur’s equally vibrant coat and mingle with the mud as if it had never been spilled.
In the darkness of Matthew’s room, Alfred’s shocked eyes stare at his ridged body, right as the bullet tears through him, and the disbelief, the denial that his brother, the one who shares his landmass, could ever really harm him, is painfully obvious. Then, as his back arches and his knees buckle and give way to unconsciousness, his eyelashes flutter and slide over his irises like clouds slide over the moon, and the part of Matthew that hasn’t frozen over and gone impossibly numb wonders distantly if those clouds will snuff out the light of those boundless skies forever.
Sprawled out on the battlefield of Matthew’s inner-mind like a shattered china doll, Alfred’s usually tan skin looks horrifically white against the mud soaking through his clothes, through Matthew’s boots and pants, through the gloves on Arthur’s hands as he presses them against the ground to steady himself as he stands. Arthur’s leather boot nudging Alfred’s side yields no response from the body it touches, though Matthew can feel himself flinch, can hear the remains of Alfred’s army -awakening from the deadened shock that had swept over the crowd as the young man, the golden-haired child they had fought so passionately for fell back, not with the glory or spirit of something grand or ethereal, but like any other soldier who had fallen for his country- shouting and screaming in protest, in disgust, in accusation.
Don’t touch him! the voices hiss at him in his head, and Matthew fights back the bile rising in his throat as he remembers the rage rippling through the mass of blue coats, the insults slung at him, the stones tossed by the few capable of moving after the crushing blow to their spirit, their soul. It hurt the part of him that wasn’t twistedly thrilled, elated at the realization that he won, that Canada, ever-invisible, forgotten Matthew had taken down his brother. Not the British soldiers. Not Arthur. Him.
Two weeks ago, Arthur, somehow managing to cradle the taller, defeated colony -yes, colony, still a colony, not a country; still British America, just like Matthew- in his arms, places a hand on Matthew’s still-broadening shoulder, looks at him -looks up at him, up, because he’s grown too, just as much as Alfred- and smiles the smile of a father looking at his accomplished, favored son.
“I’m proud of you, Matthew,” coupled with the gentle curve of lips unheard of on a man who had just watched a brother, a son fall bleeding to meet the muddy ground.
Grasping the chamber pot tightly enough to make his knuckles gleam white as bone, Matthew vomits, his room painted in the muted, fuzzy grays of early dawn.
I promise Alfred will show up in the next part! Thank you all for your kind comments.~ Also, while I think about it, would anyone mind Matthew/Alfred as a pairing? I’m still debating whether or not I will, so I figured I’d see what people think about it (and, of course, the OP).
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It's been my theory that England would be quite hard on America if he had lost the Revolution (Rebellion), because he would have to make an example of him so that none of the other British colonies would rebel. Also, England would be even more pressed for money, so the colonies' taxes could all increase. I thought the combination might have made Canada more likely to start rebelling as well. But, that's all just speculation on my part. Regardless, I look forward to seeing where you go with your fill!
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Random note I thought you might find interesting: there are some people who argue that the cost of acquiring Canada, and the subsequent rise of taxes, is what made England lose America. In short - since he got Canada, he lost America. (in our timeline). Always made me wonder if Al felt like he was being replaced by Canada.
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Regarding the pairing, OP admits to loving Alfred on the bottom. XD She also has a soft spot for Matthew/Alfred and can see it easily in this circumstance so why YES, that would be delicious!
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And I'm very relieved that you like Matthew topping Alfred, cuz that is this writernon's preference X3 :loves Alfred on the bottom more than she probably should:
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I do love Matthew/Alfred as a pairing, though I wonder.
The American Revolution is a symbol of hope to many other countries, that a colony can defeat an empire. So if Alfred failed, that hope would less possible unless he tries again and succeeds.
I'm just ranting.
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I definitely do not mind Matthew/Alfred, and can not wait to see more.
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By the time Matthew has managed to stop his hands from shaking long enough to prepare breakfast the sun has long since broken over the horizon, chasing away the gray of early morning to be replaced with the oranges and reds of dawn.
Matthew’s stomach clenches; the change is not much of an improvement, the rays of light bleeding along his arm as he extends his hand to his cutlery. The intensity of the red-orange light almost makes it look as though his right arm -the arm responsible for pulling the trigger, something as chilling as the winter breeze rattling the windowpanes whispers in the back of his mind- has been set aflame.
Pushing his chair back with a squeak, Matthew rises to his feet. Maybe eating isn’t the best idea right now.
Saving his own food for a time when his innards aren’t slithering inside his torso like serpents, Matthew grabs up the tray bearing his brother’s meal: a simple bowl of porridge and a glass of water, as per Arthur’s directions. If he can’t bear eating, he might as well give something to Alfred.
Perhaps his twin will actually eat something today.
Furiously, Matthew beats down the spike of guilt born from the thought of his brother, growing thinner with every passing day. It isn’t his fault Alfred’s decided to be stubborn, he tells himself, even as images of his once-strong-turned-skeletal twin flash behind his eyelids every time he blinks.
Thin fingers, gaunt cheeks, ribs rippling prominently underneath paling, bruised skin.
No, not even slightly. Matthew provides him with food every day. He isn’t responsible for the fact that Alfred refuses to eat any of it. Just because Alfred looks at him with those accusing pools of limpid blue doesn’t make him the one at fault.
Alfred’s wrong.
It’s his own fault.
“Alfred, I’ve got food for you,” Matthew calls through the wood of the door before him, rapping upon it sharply with his knuckles.
Unlocking and opening the door to Alfred’s room -Cell, that frosty voice corrects him coolly. What room has no windows and only locks from the outside?- Matthew backs in cautiously, noting as he closes the door with his foot that the candle must have burned out sometime during the night. The room -not cell; it has a bed with blankets and pillows, luxuries few, if any, prisoners receive- is pitch as a pool of spilled ink, the darkness consuming everything but a sliver-thin slat that has managed to slip in from underneath the door.
’Mmf, Alfred, what’re ya doin’ in m’bed?’
Silence, then, breathed out, barely a whisper,
’I hate the dark.’
Groping blindly in the darkness to his right, Matthew’s fingertips brush one of the spare candlesticks stored for just this occasion. “Alfred, are you up?” he calls, hating the way his voice progressively trails away to a mere ghost of itself. He fishes inside of his pocket for a match to distract himself from the silence he receives.
Of course, after over two weeks of nothing but violent, angry tirades punctuated by days of complete, icy silence, Matthew has come to expect such responses. That doesn’t make it hurt any less, though.
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Light blossoms as a pale orange glow, dissolving the immediate darkness surrounding him. Matthew cannot help but let his blue-violet eyes linger on the shadows dancing just outside of the circle of light as they sweep the room’s perimeter. From the corner of his eye they almost look alive, ready to strike him down with claws and fangs laced with bitter, angry poison.
The room-not a cell, not a cell, Arthur would never put one of his little brother’s in a cell, no matter what they did to him- is relatively small, so little more than the corners are not encompassed by the fluttering light of the candle flame. It is easy to make out the four walls of peeling white, the disturbing absence of windows, the desk to the right of the only door bearing the remaining stub of what used to be a candle.
The single bed pressed against the middle of the back wall.
Beneath virgin-white sheets, hands bound together by strips of cloth -Matthew quickly learned that using rope would only lead to Alfred rubbing his wrists raw, to torn skin and bleeding and infection- and tied to the headboard -an implement commanded by Arthur after Alfred had nearly escaped when Matthew came to deliver a meal only to get his head smashed into the doorframe by familiar, work-calloused hands- Alfred resembles a corpse more than he does Matthew’s brother. If not for the familiar summer blue glaring at him from sunken sockets smudged purple set in a thin, ashen face, Matthew may not have even recognized him.
Of course you would have, the presence hiding in the black recesses of his mind scoffs derisively. After all, you let it happen.
And Matthew hates that he cannot deny the truth of those words, almost as much as he hates the ice behind the fire of his brother’s eyes, the coolness of his regard nothing like the passionate brother he grew up with.
It isn’t the look an angry twin gives their other half.
It isn’t the look one gives to a betrayer of their trust.
It’s the look a prisoner of war gives their jailer.
Gosh, I’m sorry. Alfred didn’t even talk or anything and I’m just really unsure about this section in general, but I really have to go to bed… Um, also, I probably won’t be updating again until at least Saturday, but when I do, definite confrontation between Mattie and Alfred. ^^’ If it’s any consolation, I have a basic idea of what I want to happen up to the end of this, and Matthew/Alfred is pretty much assured~
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For several seconds Canada is frozen stiff, unused to such a piercing, impersonal gaze being directed at him from his brother. A large lump seems to be stuck in his throat, making it hard to swallow, not that it matters much when his tongue feels so heavy and cumbersome in his mouth.
Then he closes his eyes and reminds himself that Alfred is just bitter he had lost, like when they were little and Matthew had managed to beat him back home from the creek or had convinced Arthur to let him keep Kumajirou in the house when he had barred Alfred from keeping his rabbit. Besides, he had been weathering through these same leers for the past two weeks, and if he looks closely enough and squints just the right degree, doesn’t it look like the tundra hidden behind all the blue looks a little softer today? And…And so what if he’s glaring? Alfred’s glared at Matthew every time his brother disagreed with him since the time they were both just young children.
This isn’t any different. He’ll come around, just like he has in the past, and just like he will in the future.
Matthew forces down the strange protrusion in his throat and tries his best to smile. “G-Good morning, Alfred.” He places the tray down on the desk, and sits on the wooden chair beside Alfred’s bed, leaning over to undo the knots keeping his twin’s thinning arms suspended. “I’m going to untie your arms so you can sit up and eat, but if you try to escape again, I’m going to have to tie you back up.”
Matthew tries his best to forget that it really doesn’t matter anymore, that from the look of things, Alfred wouldn’t be able to stand, let alone run away.
Alfred’s arms fall onto his chest, limp and listless from being kept above him for so many hours. That doesn’t stop him from shoving Matthew away -sloppy and struggling for even the small amount of force he applies to the push- when he attempts to place his arms underneath Alfred’s body to lift him into a sitting position.
“Don’t touch me, Loyalist bastard,” Alfred hisses, voice rough from several days of disuse and not enough water, dust and gravel against Matthew’s ears.
Ah. So it’s going to be one of those days today.
As Matthew turns to retrieve the tray, he wonders how sad it is that days like these, days when Alfred is all insults and anger and bitterness, are the days Matthew looks forward to the most. At least when he’s cursing Arthur and Matthew’s names till he’s blue in the face he looks alive doing it. If he tries hard enough Matthew can even pretend that he’s just mad about something petty, that he doesn’t really mean it.
If only, he wishes silently as he returns to his seat.
From his position on his back, Alfred tries futilely to push himself up, and something inside of Matthew abruptly becomes so taut he feels as though it is only seconds away from snapping. It becomes hard to swallow again. Alfred’s arms, still lashed together at the wrists, are useless, and the sheets don’t allow nearly enough traction for his brother’s legs to force himself up. Arched inward, face almost as white as his sheets but for the flush gathering at his cheeks, his strain is painfully obvious.
“Al!” Matthew hurriedly scrambles to place the food down and loop an arm underneath his brother’s back, his other grasping Alfred’s opposite shoulder. “Stop it! You’re going to aggravate your wound if you keep doing such stupid things.”
“What does it matter to you?” he growls out through snarling lips as his twin begins to straighten his back against the headboard. The wood is flecked with stains of blood, from before Matthew learned that ropes wore through the skin of the stubborn like sandpaper does rough, resilient wood. “You gave it to me, didn’t you?”
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