[Axis Powers Hetalia] Red and Blue (FrUK Family)
Title: Red and Blue
Author/Artist: lenarix_klinde
Character(s) or Pairing(s): England/France, America, Canada, Seychelles
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Emotional abuse, self-injury, dysfunctional family, character death
Summary: England finds out Canada cuts. He does not take it well. Then things get worse. Written to deal with a real-life event that happened to me and for the “Anything Goes” prompt. Oneshot.
___
They sit side-by-side in the living room. Arthur thinks back to years ago, when they had to wrestle a laughing Alfred down next to his quiet, wide-eyed brother. He glances up. They’re sitting under that portrait now, in fact, dirt smeared on chubby cheekbones and smiles--Alfred’s a shout of white teeth, Matthew’s a whispered tug of lips.
He looks down again. Alfred bites his lip and fidgets with the carpet. Matthew’s hood is up over his head, his glasses dripping to the tip of his nose. “Matthew,” he says. No response. “Alfred, will you leave the carpet alone?”
Alfred stops scuffing, smiles and puts his feet together. “Ah--sorry, Dad. Um--um, can I go? I’ve got Trig to study for and--”
“You’ll stay where you are,” Arthur snaps. “If you sneak out again, I’m not letting you back in.”
“He hasn’t been sneaking out, Arthur.” And Arthur doesn’t even bother looking over as Francis trudges in, Leone on his hip, blue eyes sinking into the shadows around his eyelashes. “If you wouldn’t mind--”
“Shut up and sit down,” Arthur snaps. He doesn’t even glance at his husband. Doesn’t have to. Francis is wearing his band because otherwise Arthur would call him out on the perfume that lingers every day when he comes home, swirling around Francis’s shoulders like a shawl. “Don’t talk.”
“Well fu--”
Arthur turns his head at last, fixes Francis with a stare. At least he’s learned to cower. Arthur sees the thin bones of Francis’s wrists, thinks of pinning them to the bed as he fucks Francis face-down into his pillow, and bites back a smile. First things first. He’ll take his reward later.
“Well,” Arthur says. “Now that we’re here, Matthew, do you want to show them?”
Matthew doesn’t look up. “Matthew Kirkland-Bonnefoy,” he says again, a little louder and sharper. No response, and Arthur expects the scarecrow of Matthew to fall apart any second now, all down and pillows and sticks cobbled together to trick him.
“Matthew, look at me and remove your shirt, now.”
Arthur’s eyes snag on a motion. There. Trembling.
Arthur’s blood roars. “Will you man up?” he snaps, and reaches out, grabbing Matthew by the crown of his head, just beneath his hood. His son wails as he yanks him off the sofa, wrestling his fingers into Matthew’s sweater and wrestling.
Alfred starts to stand. All it takes is one well-placed glance from Arthur to freeze him in place. From the corner of his eye, Francis does nothing else but curl over a whimpering Leone. “Shut--her up,” Arthur growls at him, struggling, tugging at Matthew’s hoodie--
And then it comes free, and Matthew falls to the hardwood floor. The room goes quiet--they don’t stare at his polar bear t-shirt, his frayed jeans hanging down below his hipbones.
No--they look at his arms, at the long, angry rows of red carved down the sides. Some just slashes. Others, carved into patterns that are almost words if you squint. There’s even a tic-tac-toe on the upper part of his arm--what Arthur can tell, anyway.
Arthur’s blood boils with whispers. Selfish, it says, just a whisper in the wind. Selfish little boy.
“Dad,” Matthew whimpers.
“Have a seat, Matthew.”
“Dad.” Higher now. A little scared. Arthur narrows his eyes in response, presses his lips together.
“Don’t make me say it again, Matthew, or I’ll use my belt.”
“Matthew--”
Arthur turns on his heels, face-to-face with Francis. “You sit down, too,” Arthur says, his voice a low purr rippling in his blood.
Francis’s eyes narrow, enough so that the lamp-light flashes in his blue, blue eyes. “You get out of my way,” he says.
Arthur smirks. “Or what? Tell me, do you want more bruises, sweetheart?” he leans closer, his voice growing dark and smooth. “Does your lover get off on it, Francis, on those hot afternoons in the motels?”
More trembling. “There’s never been a lover, Arthur.” Weak. Arthur smirks, and Leone starts to wail.
“Go shut the brat up or I’ll do it instead--I have a way with kids, don’t you agree?”
Francis doesn’t. Doesn’t disagree--just turns on his heels and walks, numb, back to the loveseat, taking Leone into his arms. Good. That problem’s taken care of. So he turns back to his boys. To Alfred, on the other side of the sofa, avoiding his brother as though he’s diseased--
To Matthew himself, trying to turn into a small little pea. “So,” he asks, a smile and sugar tucked into his voice, “what brought this on?” Arthur kneels, looking up into Matthew’s vapid face. “Why did you cut?”
“T-test,” Matthew mumbles. His eyes are so far away, and it’s cute, how he thinks that can protect him. “F-f-fail--”
“Shh.” Arthur reaches up, and Matthew trembles even harder when he brushes fingertips over Matthew’s cheek. “It’s all right, Matthew. You never were a good student, were you?”
Tears. There are tears in his eyes.
“You never were selfless either, were you?” Arthur murmurs, and he rakes his fingernails down Matthew’s cheek, jaw, neck. “So selfish.”
“I’m sorry,” Matthew whispers. Arthur’s eyebrows furrow. His eyes narrow. The smile drops off his face.
“After your father and I searched hours for a therapist--”
“Arthur--”
“--gave you the best treatment out there--”
“I’m sorry I’m sorry--”
“--you go and pull THIS!” And here Arthur yanks Matthew’s arm out, digs his fingers into the wounds and feels the scabs come away. Leone’s giving him a fucking headache--along with Matthew’s sobs, his curled-over head.
“You didn’t even think about us, did you?” Arthur yells, standing up and raising his voice. “Just went ahead and chopped up your fucking arms, after all we’ve done to help you!” One hand grabs Matthew’s other arm. The other yanks him up by his hair and forces him to look at the scars.
“Bet the theater manager really enjoyed this, didn’t he?” Arthur snarls, and hears Alfred curling farther away, looking away from his fuck-up of a brother. “Bet he thought you were a prime employee! No wonder he called and told me you didn’t get the fucking job!”
Matthew’s breaths come in heaves and chokes now. “W-wore long s-s-sleeves--”
Arthur shoves his son away. The back of his head just misses the wall, lands on the pillows instead. “And you want an apartment, of all things! Why? Why should we help you pay for one? So you can suck that kiddy-diddler’s dick all day and cut? Does it turn him on?”
He doesn’t expect the hands on his chest shoving him away. “His name’s Nils and he’s my boyfriend!”
Arthur doesn’t respond. Just reaches up and touches the area on his chest, watching Matthew’s eyes go wide as he shrinks back into the couch. “I’m sorry,” he says, trembling voice and shaking hands. “I’m sorry, I--”
Leone’s wailing blends with Matthew’s when Arthur strikes his cheek. “You show me respect, boy,” Arthur snarls. “If I’d known that you’d grow up to be this, I’d have taken Alfred and left you behind to rot in that fucking orphanage like the garbage you are.”
Leone screams, and Arthur feels his temper break. “And will you shut her up, Francis?” he shouts, ignoring her wide-open little pink mouth and squinting eyes. Francis’s own face stays blank, save for the tear-trails, as he sweeps up Leone and walks out of the room.
“We’ll talk tonight, then,” Arthur shouts. And when he turns around again, Alfred’s standing, back tall, eyes ablaze behind his glasses.
“Fuck you,” Alfred snarls. “Fuck you, old man.”
At least Alfred trembles with rage. Arthur likes that. His smile is kinder to Alfred as he stands toe-to-toe with him. “I love you,” Arthur says back. “And that’s why Francis and I agreed that we’d pay for your college with what little money we can scrounge together. Would you rather live on the streets? You could meet kids less fortunate than yourself. See how they live, and realize how good you have it, how much we’ve sacrificed for you.”
Alfred’s shoulders tremble with the weight of his fists. “You wouldn’t hit me, would you?” Arthur asks, cocking his head. “I do love you, Alfred. I’ve never laid a hand on you.”
Alfred tenses. Shakes, shakes--
And deflates, walking out of the room with slumped shoulders and hands in pockets. Arthur lets him go.
He does not look at the pathetic failure on the couch. It doesn’t deserve his attention right now.
“Get your fucking act together,” Arthur snarls. “If we catch you again, I’ll have you evicted.”
And then Matthew sits alone, beneath the picture of him and his brother, pulled tight into himself as though he’s retreating back into the womb.
(And it turns out Arthur never does catch Matthew cutting again.
Because when he wakes the next morning, the other half of his bed is cold, and blood dries on the sheets. The children’s room carries no morning babbling, no too-loud radio. Instead, one window stands open, muslin curtains blowing in the breeze. The crib is empty, as are both beds.
A swearing, angry search about the house yields two notes--I’ve taken Leone. Don’t look for us, and Fuck you, old man, I’ll take life on the street.
And because it’s too early for this, because he’s angry and his head hurts, he goes to the basement to fish out a bottle of whiskey from beneath a pile of dirty laundry and dust bunnies.
And he finds one person left in the house.
Matthew swings from the rafters, head tilted. Arthur drops the bottle and stares into wide-blue eyes, fingers stiff with rigor mortis. Blue, so much blue, to contrast with the red along his arms.
___
Arthur’s a lot harsher than my dad was, but he still threatened to evict me if he found out I cut again and then took pot-shots at me when I told him I tried to call my therapist instead of him for help, true story. Because the BEST WAY to deal with a self-injurer is to abandon them when they need you most. Especially if you have a history of emotionally fucking up said self-injurer.
Anyway, this is a little old, but it will do while I work on something new that has the characters being slightly less scumbaggy for a change. This isn't connected to the WtHF-verse, but you’re free to draw your own conclusions. Thanks for reading.
Author/Artist: lenarix_klinde
Character(s) or Pairing(s): England/France, America, Canada, Seychelles
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Emotional abuse, self-injury, dysfunctional family, character death
Summary: England finds out Canada cuts. He does not take it well. Then things get worse. Written to deal with a real-life event that happened to me and for the “Anything Goes” prompt. Oneshot.
___
They sit side-by-side in the living room. Arthur thinks back to years ago, when they had to wrestle a laughing Alfred down next to his quiet, wide-eyed brother. He glances up. They’re sitting under that portrait now, in fact, dirt smeared on chubby cheekbones and smiles--Alfred’s a shout of white teeth, Matthew’s a whispered tug of lips.
He looks down again. Alfred bites his lip and fidgets with the carpet. Matthew’s hood is up over his head, his glasses dripping to the tip of his nose. “Matthew,” he says. No response. “Alfred, will you leave the carpet alone?”
Alfred stops scuffing, smiles and puts his feet together. “Ah--sorry, Dad. Um--um, can I go? I’ve got Trig to study for and--”
“You’ll stay where you are,” Arthur snaps. “If you sneak out again, I’m not letting you back in.”
“He hasn’t been sneaking out, Arthur.” And Arthur doesn’t even bother looking over as Francis trudges in, Leone on his hip, blue eyes sinking into the shadows around his eyelashes. “If you wouldn’t mind--”
“Shut up and sit down,” Arthur snaps. He doesn’t even glance at his husband. Doesn’t have to. Francis is wearing his band because otherwise Arthur would call him out on the perfume that lingers every day when he comes home, swirling around Francis’s shoulders like a shawl. “Don’t talk.”
“Well fu--”
Arthur turns his head at last, fixes Francis with a stare. At least he’s learned to cower. Arthur sees the thin bones of Francis’s wrists, thinks of pinning them to the bed as he fucks Francis face-down into his pillow, and bites back a smile. First things first. He’ll take his reward later.
“Well,” Arthur says. “Now that we’re here, Matthew, do you want to show them?”
Matthew doesn’t look up. “Matthew Kirkland-Bonnefoy,” he says again, a little louder and sharper. No response, and Arthur expects the scarecrow of Matthew to fall apart any second now, all down and pillows and sticks cobbled together to trick him.
“Matthew, look at me and remove your shirt, now.”
Arthur’s eyes snag on a motion. There. Trembling.
Arthur’s blood roars. “Will you man up?” he snaps, and reaches out, grabbing Matthew by the crown of his head, just beneath his hood. His son wails as he yanks him off the sofa, wrestling his fingers into Matthew’s sweater and wrestling.
Alfred starts to stand. All it takes is one well-placed glance from Arthur to freeze him in place. From the corner of his eye, Francis does nothing else but curl over a whimpering Leone. “Shut--her up,” Arthur growls at him, struggling, tugging at Matthew’s hoodie--
And then it comes free, and Matthew falls to the hardwood floor. The room goes quiet--they don’t stare at his polar bear t-shirt, his frayed jeans hanging down below his hipbones.
No--they look at his arms, at the long, angry rows of red carved down the sides. Some just slashes. Others, carved into patterns that are almost words if you squint. There’s even a tic-tac-toe on the upper part of his arm--what Arthur can tell, anyway.
Arthur’s blood boils with whispers. Selfish, it says, just a whisper in the wind. Selfish little boy.
“Dad,” Matthew whimpers.
“Have a seat, Matthew.”
“Dad.” Higher now. A little scared. Arthur narrows his eyes in response, presses his lips together.
“Don’t make me say it again, Matthew, or I’ll use my belt.”
“Matthew--”
Arthur turns on his heels, face-to-face with Francis. “You sit down, too,” Arthur says, his voice a low purr rippling in his blood.
Francis’s eyes narrow, enough so that the lamp-light flashes in his blue, blue eyes. “You get out of my way,” he says.
Arthur smirks. “Or what? Tell me, do you want more bruises, sweetheart?” he leans closer, his voice growing dark and smooth. “Does your lover get off on it, Francis, on those hot afternoons in the motels?”
More trembling. “There’s never been a lover, Arthur.” Weak. Arthur smirks, and Leone starts to wail.
“Go shut the brat up or I’ll do it instead--I have a way with kids, don’t you agree?”
Francis doesn’t. Doesn’t disagree--just turns on his heels and walks, numb, back to the loveseat, taking Leone into his arms. Good. That problem’s taken care of. So he turns back to his boys. To Alfred, on the other side of the sofa, avoiding his brother as though he’s diseased--
To Matthew himself, trying to turn into a small little pea. “So,” he asks, a smile and sugar tucked into his voice, “what brought this on?” Arthur kneels, looking up into Matthew’s vapid face. “Why did you cut?”
“T-test,” Matthew mumbles. His eyes are so far away, and it’s cute, how he thinks that can protect him. “F-f-fail--”
“Shh.” Arthur reaches up, and Matthew trembles even harder when he brushes fingertips over Matthew’s cheek. “It’s all right, Matthew. You never were a good student, were you?”
Tears. There are tears in his eyes.
“You never were selfless either, were you?” Arthur murmurs, and he rakes his fingernails down Matthew’s cheek, jaw, neck. “So selfish.”
“I’m sorry,” Matthew whispers. Arthur’s eyebrows furrow. His eyes narrow. The smile drops off his face.
“After your father and I searched hours for a therapist--”
“Arthur--”
“--gave you the best treatment out there--”
“I’m sorry I’m sorry--”
“--you go and pull THIS!” And here Arthur yanks Matthew’s arm out, digs his fingers into the wounds and feels the scabs come away. Leone’s giving him a fucking headache--along with Matthew’s sobs, his curled-over head.
“You didn’t even think about us, did you?” Arthur yells, standing up and raising his voice. “Just went ahead and chopped up your fucking arms, after all we’ve done to help you!” One hand grabs Matthew’s other arm. The other yanks him up by his hair and forces him to look at the scars.
“Bet the theater manager really enjoyed this, didn’t he?” Arthur snarls, and hears Alfred curling farther away, looking away from his fuck-up of a brother. “Bet he thought you were a prime employee! No wonder he called and told me you didn’t get the fucking job!”
Matthew’s breaths come in heaves and chokes now. “W-wore long s-s-sleeves--”
Arthur shoves his son away. The back of his head just misses the wall, lands on the pillows instead. “And you want an apartment, of all things! Why? Why should we help you pay for one? So you can suck that kiddy-diddler’s dick all day and cut? Does it turn him on?”
He doesn’t expect the hands on his chest shoving him away. “His name’s Nils and he’s my boyfriend!”
Arthur doesn’t respond. Just reaches up and touches the area on his chest, watching Matthew’s eyes go wide as he shrinks back into the couch. “I’m sorry,” he says, trembling voice and shaking hands. “I’m sorry, I--”
Leone’s wailing blends with Matthew’s when Arthur strikes his cheek. “You show me respect, boy,” Arthur snarls. “If I’d known that you’d grow up to be this, I’d have taken Alfred and left you behind to rot in that fucking orphanage like the garbage you are.”
Leone screams, and Arthur feels his temper break. “And will you shut her up, Francis?” he shouts, ignoring her wide-open little pink mouth and squinting eyes. Francis’s own face stays blank, save for the tear-trails, as he sweeps up Leone and walks out of the room.
“We’ll talk tonight, then,” Arthur shouts. And when he turns around again, Alfred’s standing, back tall, eyes ablaze behind his glasses.
“Fuck you,” Alfred snarls. “Fuck you, old man.”
At least Alfred trembles with rage. Arthur likes that. His smile is kinder to Alfred as he stands toe-to-toe with him. “I love you,” Arthur says back. “And that’s why Francis and I agreed that we’d pay for your college with what little money we can scrounge together. Would you rather live on the streets? You could meet kids less fortunate than yourself. See how they live, and realize how good you have it, how much we’ve sacrificed for you.”
Alfred’s shoulders tremble with the weight of his fists. “You wouldn’t hit me, would you?” Arthur asks, cocking his head. “I do love you, Alfred. I’ve never laid a hand on you.”
Alfred tenses. Shakes, shakes--
And deflates, walking out of the room with slumped shoulders and hands in pockets. Arthur lets him go.
He does not look at the pathetic failure on the couch. It doesn’t deserve his attention right now.
“Get your fucking act together,” Arthur snarls. “If we catch you again, I’ll have you evicted.”
And then Matthew sits alone, beneath the picture of him and his brother, pulled tight into himself as though he’s retreating back into the womb.
(And it turns out Arthur never does catch Matthew cutting again.
Because when he wakes the next morning, the other half of his bed is cold, and blood dries on the sheets. The children’s room carries no morning babbling, no too-loud radio. Instead, one window stands open, muslin curtains blowing in the breeze. The crib is empty, as are both beds.
A swearing, angry search about the house yields two notes--I’ve taken Leone. Don’t look for us, and Fuck you, old man, I’ll take life on the street.
And because it’s too early for this, because he’s angry and his head hurts, he goes to the basement to fish out a bottle of whiskey from beneath a pile of dirty laundry and dust bunnies.
And he finds one person left in the house.
Matthew swings from the rafters, head tilted. Arthur drops the bottle and stares into wide-blue eyes, fingers stiff with rigor mortis. Blue, so much blue, to contrast with the red along his arms.
___
Arthur’s a lot harsher than my dad was, but he still threatened to evict me if he found out I cut again and then took pot-shots at me when I told him I tried to call my therapist instead of him for help, true story. Because the BEST WAY to deal with a self-injurer is to abandon them when they need you most. Especially if you have a history of emotionally fucking up said self-injurer.
Anyway, this is a little old, but it will do while I work on something new that has the characters being slightly less scumbaggy for a change. This isn't connected to the WtHF-verse, but you’re free to draw your own conclusions. Thanks for reading.