"Tel père, tel fils" - 5/?"
anonymous
October 2 2009, 13:40:13 UTC
(note: brief delay in posting. will be out of town until late saturday night. >: will attempt posting then. )
Apparently that was all Matthew could get out. He stayed posed like that, staring at the linoleum so intently Francis wondered if he was trying to count the little flecks in the paintjob. He couldn’t see the boy’s eyes at all - blond hair hung in a curtain around his face, hiding whatever expression might be beneath. France waited, patient as any good parent, until he saw Matthew’s shoulders heave. What..was he crying now?
“Mathieu.”
“He forgot me today,” Canada said, voice wavering, close to breaking. “Out of everybody, I never really thought Al could just..just forget about me. He didn’t come pick me up and..and he isn’t coming to dinner. He’s forgetting me just like them, papa.”
Now he was really shaking, shoulders moving with the force of restrained sobs. And that poor coffee mug, Francis had to pry that thing out of the boy’s iron grip before he cracked it and sprayed coffee everywhere. There was no resistance when he went to pull the skinny body against his own again - there never had been, not with Matt. He had always been the kinder, more considerate of the North American brothers.
“He has not forgotten you, Mathieu. He may become distracted with the others, but he will never forget you are here. He cares greatly for you, though he may be an inept bastard about showing it.”
Matthew inherited his compassion; Alfred, his raw, wild passion. Which one of them benefited in the end? Matthew, with his constant internal war to build a wall around himself and all his sensitivity? Hardly.
“But he has! He does it all the time, papa. At the meeting, he looked right through me, the same way everyone else always does. I don’t care so much when they do it, but he’s my brother! How can he not recognize his…his..”
The bony body gave one great shudder, and there went all of Matt’s composure, all over the front of Francis’ rather expensive shirt. And then wetting the side of his neck when the younger nation turned his face against stubbled skin. The frames of his glasses dug uncomfortably into Francis’ skin, but this..wasn’t all that awkward. Matthew was upset, clearly, and needed consoling, but with the boy flush up against him, all those angles he’d been admiring earlier were within reach. Their bodies held remarkable similarities. The flat, taut planes of that stomach hitched with sobs against an equally slender midsection, though Francis’ was decorated with scars both old and new. The natural wave in their hair; the faint dimple that appeared in one cheek when smiling; even the shapes of their hands were terribly alike. But Francis’ shoulders were broader, muscles just a bit thicker, and the subtle definition of his face much stronger than Matthew’s own sharper angles. What he wondered about was the skin covering all this. Pale, moreso than his own, but where were Matthew’s scars? The most intimate parts of his body lay just beneath the gentle brush of his hands, warm and trembling, secrets breathed out in unsteady exhales.
Every time Matthew whispered something against his neck, inaudible, and finished it up with ‘papa’, something cold chased its way down Frances’ spine, completely contrasting the flush of heat rising towards his head. God help him, but he wanted to hear that broken little voice saying that, wanted to reach down and take Matthew’s glasses, cup his face between his hands, and lick the moisture from his cheeks until his lips were salty with it.
Apparently that was all Matthew could get out. He stayed posed like that, staring at the linoleum so intently Francis wondered if he was trying to count the little flecks in the paintjob. He couldn’t see the boy’s eyes at all - blond hair hung in a curtain around his face, hiding whatever expression might be beneath. France waited, patient as any good parent, until he saw Matthew’s shoulders heave. What..was he crying now?
“Mathieu.”
“He forgot me today,” Canada said, voice wavering, close to breaking. “Out of everybody, I never really thought Al could just..just forget about me. He didn’t come pick me up and..and he isn’t coming to dinner. He’s forgetting me just like them, papa.”
Now he was really shaking, shoulders moving with the force of restrained sobs. And that poor coffee mug, Francis had to pry that thing out of the boy’s iron grip before he cracked it and sprayed coffee everywhere. There was no resistance when he went to pull the skinny body against his own again - there never had been, not with Matt. He had always been the kinder, more considerate of the North American brothers.
“He has not forgotten you, Mathieu. He may become distracted with the others, but he will never forget you are here. He cares greatly for you, though he may be an inept bastard about showing it.”
Matthew inherited his compassion; Alfred, his raw, wild passion. Which one of them benefited in the end? Matthew, with his constant internal war to build a wall around himself and all his sensitivity? Hardly.
“But he has! He does it all the time, papa. At the meeting, he looked right through me, the same way everyone else always does. I don’t care so much when they do it, but he’s my brother! How can he not recognize his…his..”
The bony body gave one great shudder, and there went all of Matt’s composure, all over the front of Francis’ rather expensive shirt. And then wetting the side of his neck when the younger nation turned his face against stubbled skin. The frames of his glasses dug uncomfortably into Francis’ skin, but this..wasn’t all that awkward. Matthew was upset, clearly, and needed consoling, but with the boy flush up against him, all those angles he’d been admiring earlier were within reach. Their bodies held remarkable similarities. The flat, taut planes of that stomach hitched with sobs against an equally slender midsection, though Francis’ was decorated with scars both old and new. The natural wave in their hair; the faint dimple that appeared in one cheek when smiling; even the shapes of their hands were terribly alike. But Francis’ shoulders were broader, muscles just a bit thicker, and the subtle definition of his face much stronger than Matthew’s own sharper angles. What he wondered about was the skin covering all this. Pale, moreso than his own, but where were Matthew’s scars? The most intimate parts of his body lay just beneath the gentle brush of his hands, warm and trembling, secrets breathed out in unsteady exhales.
Every time Matthew whispered something against his neck, inaudible, and finished it up with ‘papa’, something cold chased its way down Frances’ spine, completely contrasting the flush of heat rising towards his head. God help him, but he wanted to hear that broken little voice saying that, wanted to reach down and take Matthew’s glasses, cup his face between his hands, and lick the moisture from his cheeks until his lips were salty with it.
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I can't wait for more!
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