Ugly Love (4b/?)
anonymous
October 24 2010, 09:34:19 UTC
“Jesus, Arthur,” Francis cut him off before he could begin. He put his elbows on his knees letting his head fall into hands. He let his fingertips run over his forehead before running both hands through his hair. He turned towards Arthur, “Did you even warn him that this could happen? Did he even know about him?”
He felt the first tears in his eyes, sniffling as he shook his head, “No. No I didn’t tell him.” Guilt riddled his body further, how? How could he have told him? If he had told him, then-
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because he’d be scared of me!”
“What do you think he is now?” responded Francis, his eyes somber. He wasn’t yelling. That was the worst part of this all. His voice had no anger in it. Instead, it had disappointment. Disappointment in Arthur. Arthur opened his mouth to reply, trying to say that wasn’t true. Trying to find a voice to tell the lie he so painfully knew was true. But before he could, Arthur heard the words that crushed his heart further. “And frankly, Arthur, I’m scared of you too.”
“But… you know I’m working on it-” He was! He was… he had suppressed him longer this time. And now he knew what to look for. He was getting better… he was learning ways to control him.
“I don’t want you near Alfred, Matthew or I until you can make sure you’ve got it worked out,” And Arthur’s heart broke. He looked towards Francis. That… that frog drunken wine bastard trying to control his family. No. No he wasn’t trying to control him or the family. He took a heavy breath as the full understanding entered his mind. He collapsed onto the bed, burying his head into a pillow as he heard the command he didn’t need to hear. “I want you to make sure you’ve got the British Empire under control.”
“How the hell am I supposed to do that?” He turned his head towards Francis. But Francis couldn’t look at him. Francis knew if he did, he’d see those tearstained, lost eyes that he saw after the last time the British Empire surfaced and he’d go soft. He had to be strong. This man… this nation… he wasn’t safe. What if he let him go? Who would be next? Would he go after Alfred again? After himself? After Matthew? He would never know the answer to this question. He prayed he would never have to know the answer to that question. And the one way he could confirm that he would never have to know the answer was by putting a stop to this.
“You’re smart Arthur,” Francis replied- forcing himself to look at Arthur. But in all honesty, after he caught the man’s gaze, looking at him wasn’t that hard. What was hard though, was feeling Arthur’s growing shame and discomfort under the gaze. He could feel the heartbreak of a man realizing that he was losing everything, “Tell me when you figure it out.”
And after that, he turned- leaving Arthur curling on the bed, tears falling from his dead eyes.
Ugly Love (4c/?)
anonymous
October 24 2010, 09:39:14 UTC
Going Fetal
Matthew was used to taking care of his brother after he went off and hurt himself. A bruise here from getting into a fight with a bully on the playground when they were little, a cut there from falling off his bike when he was just learning, a broken arm for pretending to be superman and jumping off the shed- all of them were relatively easy fixes. He was a nation, his body would heal itself quickly and Alfred would grin and show off whatever wound it was. Because he was damn proud of it. But now, as Matthew tried as gently as he could to relocate his shoulder, he knew that this fix would be much, much harder- no matter how fast the physical wounds healed.
Every time his hand lightly flitted against Alfred’s skin, the man seemed to shy away, eyes closed, lips murmuring so quietly Matthew had to listen hard to catch it, it’s not Arthur… it’s Matthew… come on- you shouldn’t be this damn scared!. Then he would tear up. His tears rolling down his eyes and why am I fucking crying? And Matthew felt his heart break for his brother just a little more.
“It’s okay to be scared Alfred,” He said softly, “What happened… what happened would be traumatizing for anyone. Especially since it came from someone you trusted-”
“Heroes aren’t scared of anything Matthew,” he shot harshly as he tried to wipe the tears from his eyes with his forearm without hurting his wrist, “And they definitely don’t cry.”
“I don’t think that’s right Alfred-”
“What would you know about superheroes, Matthew?” Alfred cut him off. Matthew locked eyes with him, ready to snap back before he saw shame, humiliation in his brother’s eyes. A need for a change of subjects. Matthew bit back the retort, sighing. This discussion would be dropped for now, but they would return to it. Matthew would make sure they came back to it.
And this was why this fix would be much harder. It went deep. This problem went deep- Alfred’s spirit was suffering a fracture. Matthew held his breath at that. He hoped, he prayed, that Alfred’s spirit was just suffering a fracture. He had to make sure the fracture stayed a fracture… and didn’t end up broken. He looked down at his brother, the man’s head dropped in shame as bruises littered his body. The bruises would heal naturally. The drooping head… wasn’t guaranteed to go away. But now they had something else to focus on. Relocating the arm.
“Alfred, this is going to hurt for a little, okay? I’m just fixing your arm,” and Alfred nodded. “On three. One…” Alfred stiffened. “Two…” Alfred closed his eyes and Matthew quickly popped it back into place.
Alfred yelped in pain, growling a moment as he looked to Matthew, “You said three!”
“I lied,” Matthew shrugged. This. This was good. Alfred was bantering. Keep him doing that. Keep him acting normal.
“Jerk.” He turned from him, wanting to cross his arms. But as soon as he lifted his other arm, he let out a yelp of pain, his wrist hanging limp. Matthew’s attention was brought to it as he reached into the first aid kit and got out a splint and medical bandage. He started setting it, biting his lip as he watched the temporary light that had lit in Alfred’s eyes die out, “w-w-what happened?”
Ugly Love (4d/?)
anonymous
October 24 2010, 09:40:33 UTC
“What do you mean, Alfred?” Matthew asked. But he didn’t need to. He knew the answer. He started wrapping the medical bandages around his arm and the splint.
“Arthur turned on me…” his eyes got damp, but Alfred was quick to dry them again with an angry forearm, forcing out in a calmer voice: “why? What happened? Did I do something wrong?”
“Alfred, this isn’t your fault,” Matthew shook his head vigorously; this was not the right way for his brother to be thinking. This was dangerous for him to be thinking. This thought could contribute to the thoughts that could break him, “Not your fault at all.”
“Could I have prevented it though? Did Arthur hate me all along?” Alfred’s voice kept catching, he was breathing harder, and Matthew could tell he was in pain from the broken rib.
“He doesn’t hate you, he could never hate you,” but Matthew couldn’t provide an explanation. So he just wrapped his arms around Alfred, holding him close, “we will ask Francis what happened, okay? He can clear things up.”
And that’s when he heard a small, small choke from his brother. “It’s okay to cry,” Matthew said softly, rubbing his hand over the man’s back.
And Alfred didn’t stop crying. Instead, his body went heavy in Matthew’s grasp, his sleeve absorbing the salty tears as his back rose and fell with each ragged breath. But between the broken sobs, Alfred’s voice caught up with him just long enough for him to say, “Heroes don’t cry.”
- - - - - - - - - Two titles again. This time cause the parts are separate but not that separate... if that makes sense, haha. Titles for the story/chapters are song titles from the band Eels. Thanks for all the awesome encouragement, I really appreciate it ^^ P.S. I tend to be better at being cold and heartless rather than comforting, so I'm sorry if these next parts aren't as up to par ^^;; And I apologize for any typos or stupids I do >< Thanks again for the support though!
Re: Ugly Love (4d/?)
anonymous
October 24 2010, 17:01:27 UTC
Protective big brother!Francis will always be my favourite Francis, so I really liked that he confronted Arthur.
Even if I feel a bit bad for Arthur, he should accept that the British Empire is him too. I think that if he can't accept that, he won't be able to get rid of that part of him.
And Alfred, oh, Alfred. When he asked Matt what he did wrong... that part broke my heart.
Ugly Love (5a/?)
anonymous
October 27 2010, 06:33:32 UTC
Old Shit/New Shit Matthew didn’t know how long he had been there. His arms were wrapped around his brother’s shaking body as Alfred kept his tear streaked face buried in Matthew’s bunny hug- was he always this small? He always looked to be so big, so strong and powerful, but without the bomber jacket to help with his façade, he was small. Just like Matthew. Matthew’s eyes flickered to the clock, where was Francis? He had been gone a long time….
And then, as if summoned by the mere thought, the door opened and Francis walked in. He was happy to hear him enter, “We’re in the living room,” he called. But as the Frenchman turned the corner into the room and the light hit his face ever so, Matthew’s brows furrowed. His brother had shrunk and his papa had aged. Did he always have that many wrinkles? They were immortal. They weren’t supposed to have wrinkles. Were they just figments of Matthew’s imagination?
He wasn’t sure when he realized that his brother wasn’t clinging on to him anymore and was instead wiping the tears away furiously with his injured body. But he did hear the yelp of pain as he moved his arm too fast and his shoulder protested. Matthew wished there was more he could do, but Alfred’s body was already healing the best and quickest it could. It had started with his jaw, focusing the power there. They couldn’t take him to a hospital, it would risk far too much. So all they could do was wait for his body to do what his body was designed to do.
But he did decide he could give his brother the decency of looking away while he desperately tore the tears from his cheeks and dealt with the pain they were so helpless to relieve, and so instead he focused his attention towards Francis, “What happened?” was all he could find to ask, “why did Arthur do this?”
Francis sighed. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t avoid eye contact with the betrayed young man his son was taking care of. The hurt, the confusion, and yet if it had been anyone else Francis didn’t doubt he would see anger and hatred, a desire for revenge as well. But the absence of those strong emotions only added further reality to the situation. Even though it was the British Empire who had beat and raped Alfred, Alfred’s memories still showed Arthur- the man he trusted before anyone else- tying him to the fireplace.
The Frenchman sat down, looking to the North American brothers, the twins, their twins. They deserved to know. They deserved to know everything. “As you probably know… Arthur has many different spirits inside him. The Britannia Angel, his younger self, his pirate self, however they all remain dormant for most of the time.”
He looked for understanding in the young nations’ eyes, and when he was sure both at least understood the gist, he continued. “Alfred, what you saw and felt was the spirit of the British Empire. A ruthless bastard that Arthur’s been trying to suppress for a long time now. We first found out about him years ago. Arthur had claimed to have a headache and so I offered to care for him. But instead of him taking the offer, he took a kitchen knife,” he lifted his shirt ever so, showing the scar, “and stabbed me. He went to stab me again, and I’m sure the British Empire meant to take my life. But I fought back the best I could and managed to knock him out before he murdered me. When he woke he was Arthur again.
“I told him what had happened and he turned paler than any human being should ever be. That’s when he told me about him. About the British Empire,” Matthew was shocked, Alfred was looking down. “We found a spell, one that needs to be cast at the beginning of each and every week in order to keep the British Empire suppressed. But Arthur hasn’t been keeping up with it. I told him that he’s not allowed to see either of you until he’s gotten this under control.”
“Can we go to him?” The voice was quiet, oblivious to the shocked eyes on him before he returned the gaze, only with dead, quiet- so horribly out of character Matthew thought- eyes, “Please?”
Re: Ugly Love (5b/?)
anonymous
October 27 2010, 06:38:00 UTC
“No Alfred. No. You can’t just go back,” Francis shook his head. He was staying strong on his position. He had to make sure neither of the boys got hurt. That included Alfred, “He has to know the consequences of his actions. Promise me, you’re not going to return until I say it’s okay.”
Alfred was silent for a minute before nodding his head, “Alright. I won’t go back.” But Matthew was less than convinced. Alfred just gave in so easily… too easily.
“Thank you,” Francis said. He then stood up, “Well, I’m going to make you both something delicious seeing as how I’m one of the few nations who can actually cook!” He laughed, figuring that just because Arthur was having a difficult time didn’t mean the rest of them should be bogged down by it, “Just stay here, mon chers, and allow the scent of beautiful cooking fill your senses.”
And he left.
And Alfred was silent.
Suicide Life
That night, Alfred couldn’t sleep. He looked to his clock, the number reading 12:03. His body still ached, his arm was still in a makeshift sling, his rib was healing but slowly for a nation. He could move his shoulder, but not much. He couldn’t sleep on his back side and small bruises created a line on the back of his neck.
But there was one thing he wanted to know. Why didn’t Arthur tell him about this before? Maybe… maybe they would be able to go on like nothing happened? After all. It wasn’t Arthur who did that. He loved Arthur. Arthur would never hurt him.
So he slowly got out of the borrowed bed, putting some decent clothes on before sneaking out and down the hall, the scent of the meal that evening still lingering. He reached the door, his hand on the knob.
“Alfred?”
Alfred jumped, turning- his eyes akin to that of a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Matthew, I-“
“You’re going back, are you?” his eyes were wide with… disbelief? Concern? Horror? Frustration? A combination of all four?
“N-n-n-no….”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“But it wasn’t him….”
“Alfred. Do you want to risk yourself? Do you really want to do that?” Matthew shook his head furiously, turning towards the hall, “If you don’t… if you don’t go back to your room, I’m… I’m calling papa-”
“No Matthew!” He stepped in front of him, trying to block him, “First… first I’m not a child. Don’t treat me like one. Second, it’s Arthur! He won’t hurt me!”
“Arthur’s not right! If the British Empire attacked you, you wouldn’t be able to fight back!” Matthew shook his head, trying to clear the anger and frustration from his mind, “Why are you doing this to yourself? He raped you!”
“It wasn’t him-”
“He knew this could happen, and he didn’t take precautions- the man didn’t even tell you! Please Alfred. Don’t go. I love you. I don’t want to see you broken.”
“But, I can’t just leave it like this!” He felt tears threatening to fall and disguised them with determination, “I can’t!”
Matthew sighed, “Yes you can.”
“No. No I can’t!” for the duration of their argument, Alfred had been inching himself towards the door, and at this point, he was right in front of it. Matthew realized his brother’s moves too late, and could only watch as he opened the door, running into the night as fast as he could- which frankly, with his injuries, wasn’t that fast. But at that point Matthew was afraid to give chase. If he did and his brother lost his footing… Matthew didn’t even want to think about it. So he turned away, hoping that Alfred would slow down.
And while his brother moved towards Arthur’s home, Matthew made his way to his papa’s room, “Papa! PAPA!”
Ugly Love (5c/?)
anonymous
October 27 2010, 06:39:00 UTC
Dust of Ages
Arthur was stretched out, on his back and on his bed. He hadn’t left this spot since Francis had taken his children from him. His hand fell onto his forehead. How could he have done that? And to Alfred? He glanced over towards the drawer, the bloodied clothes crumpled on the ground. He had to get rid of them. He had to burn them. Throw them out. Do something with them. Do anything with them.
He sat up, pushing himself off of the bed and walking over to the crumpled pile before he took them up in his arms- averting his eyes from the mess and stains. He headed past one closet on his way to the trash bin- the closet he put everything from times of old.
The inanimate objects in his arms and on the ground were largely unimpressed by the force of which Arthur slammed the clothes into the metal trash bin. His body welled up with anger at himself- and it was spreading through his body. His mind full of should ofs, could ofs, and would ofs.
As he walked past the closet once more, he glanced over at the rickety old door- it was slightly ajar, a common occurrence with that closet. Sure, he updated his home with today’s technology, he fixed things that were broken, he replaced windows and doors. Except for that one. And no matter how old it got. No matter how strongly it refused to close all the time, he wouldn’t replace it. It would ruin the mood set by that particular closet. But that now, of all times it chose to place itself ajar? That angered him as well. Why couldn’t everything just stay perfect when he wanted everything to stay fucking perfect? He marched towards the door, opening the door with full intention of slamming it shut- he had to make it perfect.
But just before he slammed it, he caught sight of something from his pirate days. The cat-o-nine tails. He grinned sickly, taking it out. Oh. How he wished he could bring this over the back of the British Empire. That would chase him away. That would make sure he never came back.
He closed the door, still holding the whip. And at the time he didn’t notice it fully, too engrossed in his memory- flicking his wrist and feeling the rest of the whip follow he command, hitting nothing but air- to feel it coming on, but he was starting to get a headache.
- - - - - - - - - Titles for the story/chapters are song titles from the band Eels. Thanks for all the awesome encouragement, I really appreciate it ^^ And so I decided that I like being mean. Sorry for any errors, any crap, anything of the sorts, but here’s what I have….
Re: P.S. Author's note->
anonymous
October 27 2010, 07:01:49 UTC
Well that last scene wasn't horrifically ominous AT ALL! ... T_T
Huh, it's kind of ironic that Arthur has to both lock part of himself away but also take responsibility for it as part of himself, and Alfred's doing himself damage by completely separating the two in his own mind, as well. Not to mention the additional damage that is going to be done, however the next scene or two play out. T_T
Re: P.S. Author's note->
anonymous
October 27 2010, 11:19:06 UTC
Am intrigued and caught by the story-- plotting is very well done. Most of the reactions are on target for this sort of thing.
There are a few grammar/word issues, but the one that really bugs me enough to mention is 'Could of, would of, should of'. It should be 'Could have, would have, should have' I know a lot of people say it, or seem to say it the first way, (Contractions can change pronunciation 'Could've') but it doesn't really have any meaning. :)
Author!Anon
anonymous
October 27 2010, 15:07:08 UTC
Thanks for the help =03 yeah, that was more of a thinko than a typo, but thanks again! It's my first time kinda really writing something like this, so I get nervous T_T
He felt the first tears in his eyes, sniffling as he shook his head, “No. No I didn’t tell him.” Guilt riddled his body further, how? How could he have told him? If he had told him, then-
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because he’d be scared of me!”
“What do you think he is now?” responded Francis, his eyes somber. He wasn’t yelling. That was the worst part of this all. His voice had no anger in it. Instead, it had disappointment. Disappointment in Arthur. Arthur opened his mouth to reply, trying to say that wasn’t true. Trying to find a voice to tell the lie he so painfully knew was true. But before he could, Arthur heard the words that crushed his heart further. “And frankly, Arthur, I’m scared of you too.”
“But… you know I’m working on it-” He was! He was… he had suppressed him longer this time. And now he knew what to look for. He was getting better… he was learning ways to control him.
“I don’t want you near Alfred, Matthew or I until you can make sure you’ve got it worked out,” And Arthur’s heart broke. He looked towards Francis. That… that frog drunken wine bastard trying to control his family. No. No he wasn’t trying to control him or the family. He took a heavy breath as the full understanding entered his mind. He collapsed onto the bed, burying his head into a pillow as he heard the command he didn’t need to hear. “I want you to make sure you’ve got the British Empire under control.”
“How the hell am I supposed to do that?” He turned his head towards Francis. But Francis couldn’t look at him. Francis knew if he did, he’d see those tearstained, lost eyes that he saw after the last time the British Empire surfaced and he’d go soft. He had to be strong. This man… this nation… he wasn’t safe. What if he let him go? Who would be next? Would he go after Alfred again? After himself? After Matthew? He would never know the answer to this question. He prayed he would never have to know the answer to that question. And the one way he could confirm that he would never have to know the answer was by putting a stop to this.
“You’re smart Arthur,” Francis replied- forcing himself to look at Arthur. But in all honesty, after he caught the man’s gaze, looking at him wasn’t that hard. What was hard though, was feeling Arthur’s growing shame and discomfort under the gaze. He could feel the heartbreak of a man realizing that he was losing everything, “Tell me when you figure it out.”
And after that, he turned- leaving Arthur curling on the bed, tears falling from his dead eyes.
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Matthew was used to taking care of his brother after he went off and hurt himself. A bruise here from getting into a fight with a bully on the playground when they were little, a cut there from falling off his bike when he was just learning, a broken arm for pretending to be superman and jumping off the shed- all of them were relatively easy fixes. He was a nation, his body would heal itself quickly and Alfred would grin and show off whatever wound it was. Because he was damn proud of it. But now, as Matthew tried as gently as he could to relocate his shoulder, he knew that this fix would be much, much harder- no matter how fast the physical wounds healed.
Every time his hand lightly flitted against Alfred’s skin, the man seemed to shy away, eyes closed, lips murmuring so quietly Matthew had to listen hard to catch it, it’s not Arthur… it’s Matthew… come on- you shouldn’t be this damn scared!. Then he would tear up. His tears rolling down his eyes and why am I fucking crying? And Matthew felt his heart break for his brother just a little more.
“It’s okay to be scared Alfred,” He said softly, “What happened… what happened would be traumatizing for anyone. Especially since it came from someone you trusted-”
“Heroes aren’t scared of anything Matthew,” he shot harshly as he tried to wipe the tears from his eyes with his forearm without hurting his wrist, “And they definitely don’t cry.”
“I don’t think that’s right Alfred-”
“What would you know about superheroes, Matthew?” Alfred cut him off. Matthew locked eyes with him, ready to snap back before he saw shame, humiliation in his brother’s eyes. A need for a change of subjects. Matthew bit back the retort, sighing. This discussion would be dropped for now, but they would return to it. Matthew would make sure they came back to it.
And this was why this fix would be much harder. It went deep. This problem went deep- Alfred’s spirit was suffering a fracture. Matthew held his breath at that. He hoped, he prayed, that Alfred’s spirit was just suffering a fracture. He had to make sure the fracture stayed a fracture… and didn’t end up broken. He looked down at his brother, the man’s head dropped in shame as bruises littered his body. The bruises would heal naturally. The drooping head… wasn’t guaranteed to go away. But now they had something else to focus on. Relocating the arm.
“Alfred, this is going to hurt for a little, okay? I’m just fixing your arm,” and Alfred nodded. “On three. One…” Alfred stiffened. “Two…” Alfred closed his eyes and Matthew quickly popped it back into place.
Alfred yelped in pain, growling a moment as he looked to Matthew, “You said three!”
“I lied,” Matthew shrugged. This. This was good. Alfred was bantering. Keep him doing that. Keep him acting normal.
“Jerk.” He turned from him, wanting to cross his arms. But as soon as he lifted his other arm, he let out a yelp of pain, his wrist hanging limp. Matthew’s attention was brought to it as he reached into the first aid kit and got out a splint and medical bandage. He started setting it, biting his lip as he watched the temporary light that had lit in Alfred’s eyes die out, “w-w-what happened?”
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“Arthur turned on me…” his eyes got damp, but Alfred was quick to dry them again with an angry forearm, forcing out in a calmer voice: “why? What happened? Did I do something wrong?”
“Alfred, this isn’t your fault,” Matthew shook his head vigorously; this was not the right way for his brother to be thinking. This was dangerous for him to be thinking. This thought could contribute to the thoughts that could break him, “Not your fault at all.”
“Could I have prevented it though? Did Arthur hate me all along?” Alfred’s voice kept catching, he was breathing harder, and Matthew could tell he was in pain from the broken rib.
“He doesn’t hate you, he could never hate you,” but Matthew couldn’t provide an explanation. So he just wrapped his arms around Alfred, holding him close, “we will ask Francis what happened, okay? He can clear things up.”
And that’s when he heard a small, small choke from his brother. “It’s okay to cry,” Matthew said softly, rubbing his hand over the man’s back.
And Alfred didn’t stop crying. Instead, his body went heavy in Matthew’s grasp, his sleeve absorbing the salty tears as his back rose and fell with each ragged breath. But between the broken sobs, Alfred’s voice caught up with him just long enough for him to say, “Heroes don’t cry.”
- - - - - - - - -
Two titles again. This time cause the parts are separate but not that separate... if that makes sense, haha.
Titles for the story/chapters are song titles from the band Eels.
Thanks for all the awesome encouragement, I really appreciate it ^^
P.S. I tend to be better at being cold and heartless rather than comforting, so I'm sorry if these next parts aren't as up to par ^^;; And I apologize for any typos or stupids I do ><
Thanks again for the support though!
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I love Francis stepping up and protecting the twins. And Arthur's denial....I love Francis insisting Arthur take responsibility too.
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Even if I feel a bit bad for Arthur, he should accept that the British Empire is him too. I think that if he can't accept that, he won't be able to get rid of that part of him.
And Alfred, oh, Alfred. When he asked Matt what he did wrong... that part broke my heart.
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Matthew didn’t know how long he had been there. His arms were wrapped around his brother’s shaking body as Alfred kept his tear streaked face buried in Matthew’s bunny hug- was he always this small? He always looked to be so big, so strong and powerful, but without the bomber jacket to help with his façade, he was small. Just like Matthew. Matthew’s eyes flickered to the clock, where was Francis? He had been gone a long time….
And then, as if summoned by the mere thought, the door opened and Francis walked in. He was happy to hear him enter, “We’re in the living room,” he called. But as the Frenchman turned the corner into the room and the light hit his face ever so, Matthew’s brows furrowed. His brother had shrunk and his papa had aged. Did he always have that many wrinkles? They were immortal. They weren’t supposed to have wrinkles. Were they just figments of Matthew’s imagination?
He wasn’t sure when he realized that his brother wasn’t clinging on to him anymore and was instead wiping the tears away furiously with his injured body. But he did hear the yelp of pain as he moved his arm too fast and his shoulder protested. Matthew wished there was more he could do, but Alfred’s body was already healing the best and quickest it could. It had started with his jaw, focusing the power there. They couldn’t take him to a hospital, it would risk far too much. So all they could do was wait for his body to do what his body was designed to do.
But he did decide he could give his brother the decency of looking away while he desperately tore the tears from his cheeks and dealt with the pain they were so helpless to relieve, and so instead he focused his attention towards Francis, “What happened?” was all he could find to ask, “why did Arthur do this?”
Francis sighed. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t avoid eye contact with the betrayed young man his son was taking care of. The hurt, the confusion, and yet if it had been anyone else Francis didn’t doubt he would see anger and hatred, a desire for revenge as well. But the absence of those strong emotions only added further reality to the situation. Even though it was the British Empire who had beat and raped Alfred, Alfred’s memories still showed Arthur- the man he trusted before anyone else- tying him to the fireplace.
The Frenchman sat down, looking to the North American brothers, the twins, their twins. They deserved to know. They deserved to know everything. “As you probably know… Arthur has many different spirits inside him. The Britannia Angel, his younger self, his pirate self, however they all remain dormant for most of the time.”
He looked for understanding in the young nations’ eyes, and when he was sure both at least understood the gist, he continued. “Alfred, what you saw and felt was the spirit of the British Empire. A ruthless bastard that Arthur’s been trying to suppress for a long time now. We first found out about him years ago. Arthur had claimed to have a headache and so I offered to care for him. But instead of him taking the offer, he took a kitchen knife,” he lifted his shirt ever so, showing the scar, “and stabbed me. He went to stab me again, and I’m sure the British Empire meant to take my life. But I fought back the best I could and managed to knock him out before he murdered me. When he woke he was Arthur again.
“I told him what had happened and he turned paler than any human being should ever be. That’s when he told me about him. About the British Empire,” Matthew was shocked, Alfred was looking down. “We found a spell, one that needs to be cast at the beginning of each and every week in order to keep the British Empire suppressed. But Arthur hasn’t been keeping up with it. I told him that he’s not allowed to see either of you until he’s gotten this under control.”
“Can we go to him?” The voice was quiet, oblivious to the shocked eyes on him before he returned the gaze, only with dead, quiet- so horribly out of character Matthew thought- eyes, “Please?”
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Alfred was silent for a minute before nodding his head, “Alright. I won’t go back.” But Matthew was less than convinced. Alfred just gave in so easily… too easily.
“Thank you,” Francis said. He then stood up, “Well, I’m going to make you both something delicious seeing as how I’m one of the few nations who can actually cook!” He laughed, figuring that just because Arthur was having a difficult time didn’t mean the rest of them should be bogged down by it, “Just stay here, mon chers, and allow the scent of beautiful cooking fill your senses.”
And he left.
And Alfred was silent.
Suicide Life
That night, Alfred couldn’t sleep. He looked to his clock, the number reading 12:03. His body still ached, his arm was still in a makeshift sling, his rib was healing but slowly for a nation. He could move his shoulder, but not much. He couldn’t sleep on his back side and small bruises created a line on the back of his neck.
But there was one thing he wanted to know. Why didn’t Arthur tell him about this before? Maybe… maybe they would be able to go on like nothing happened? After all. It wasn’t Arthur who did that. He loved Arthur. Arthur would never hurt him.
So he slowly got out of the borrowed bed, putting some decent clothes on before sneaking out and down the hall, the scent of the meal that evening still lingering. He reached the door, his hand on the knob.
“Alfred?”
Alfred jumped, turning- his eyes akin to that of a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Matthew, I-“
“You’re going back, are you?” his eyes were wide with… disbelief? Concern? Horror? Frustration? A combination of all four?
“N-n-n-no….”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“But it wasn’t him….”
“Alfred. Do you want to risk yourself? Do you really want to do that?” Matthew shook his head furiously, turning towards the hall, “If you don’t… if you don’t go back to your room, I’m… I’m calling papa-”
“No Matthew!” He stepped in front of him, trying to block him, “First… first I’m not a child. Don’t treat me like one. Second, it’s Arthur! He won’t hurt me!”
“Arthur’s not right! If the British Empire attacked you, you wouldn’t be able to fight back!” Matthew shook his head, trying to clear the anger and frustration from his mind, “Why are you doing this to yourself? He raped you!”
“It wasn’t him-”
“He knew this could happen, and he didn’t take precautions- the man didn’t even tell you! Please Alfred. Don’t go. I love you. I don’t want to see you broken.”
“But, I can’t just leave it like this!” He felt tears threatening to fall and disguised them with determination, “I can’t!”
Matthew sighed, “Yes you can.”
“No. No I can’t!” for the duration of their argument, Alfred had been inching himself towards the door, and at this point, he was right in front of it. Matthew realized his brother’s moves too late, and could only watch as he opened the door, running into the night as fast as he could- which frankly, with his injuries, wasn’t that fast. But at that point Matthew was afraid to give chase. If he did and his brother lost his footing… Matthew didn’t even want to think about it. So he turned away, hoping that Alfred would slow down.
And while his brother moved towards Arthur’s home, Matthew made his way to his papa’s room, “Papa! PAPA!”
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Arthur was stretched out, on his back and on his bed. He hadn’t left this spot since Francis had taken his children from him. His hand fell onto his forehead. How could he have done that? And to Alfred? He glanced over towards the drawer, the bloodied clothes crumpled on the ground. He had to get rid of them. He had to burn them. Throw them out. Do something with them. Do anything with them.
He sat up, pushing himself off of the bed and walking over to the crumpled pile before he took them up in his arms- averting his eyes from the mess and stains. He headed past one closet on his way to the trash bin- the closet he put everything from times of old.
The inanimate objects in his arms and on the ground were largely unimpressed by the force of which Arthur slammed the clothes into the metal trash bin. His body welled up with anger at himself- and it was spreading through his body. His mind full of should ofs, could ofs, and would ofs.
As he walked past the closet once more, he glanced over at the rickety old door- it was slightly ajar, a common occurrence with that closet. Sure, he updated his home with today’s technology, he fixed things that were broken, he replaced windows and doors. Except for that one. And no matter how old it got. No matter how strongly it refused to close all the time, he wouldn’t replace it. It would ruin the mood set by that particular closet. But that now, of all times it chose to place itself ajar? That angered him as well. Why couldn’t everything just stay perfect when he wanted everything to stay fucking perfect? He marched towards the door, opening the door with full intention of slamming it shut- he had to make it perfect.
But just before he slammed it, he caught sight of something from his pirate days. The cat-o-nine tails. He grinned sickly, taking it out. Oh. How he wished he could bring this over the back of the British Empire. That would chase him away. That would make sure he never came back.
He closed the door, still holding the whip. And at the time he didn’t notice it fully, too engrossed in his memory- flicking his wrist and feeling the rest of the whip follow he command, hitting nothing but air- to feel it coming on, but he was starting to get a headache.
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Titles for the story/chapters are song titles from the band Eels.
Thanks for all the awesome encouragement, I really appreciate it ^^
And so I decided that I like being mean. Sorry for any errors, any crap, anything of the sorts, but here’s what I have….
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Huh, it's kind of ironic that Arthur has to both lock part of himself away but also take responsibility for it as part of himself, and Alfred's doing himself damage by completely separating the two in his own mind, as well. Not to mention the additional damage that is going to be done, however the next scene or two play out. T_T
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There are a few grammar/word issues, but the one that really bugs me enough to mention is 'Could of, would of, should of'. It should be 'Could have, would have, should have' I know a lot of people say it, or seem to say it the first way, (Contractions can change pronunciation 'Could've') but it doesn't really have any meaning. :)
Anyhow. I am looking forward to the next bits. :)
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Also ? so sad ;A; I love but am saddened by this
captcha- lateIvan john...whhat?
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