ficlets100 - number seven.
001. Guilt
002. New
003.Solitude
004. Content
005. Tale
006. Distort
007. Luxury
008. Listen
009. Party
010. Scent
011. Storm
012. Lessons
013.Apology
014. Relief
015. Breeze
016.Fading
017. Passion
018. Stay
019.Rain
020. Within
021.Dread
022.Revenge
023.Time
024.Perfect
025.Eyes
026.Bloom
027.Beginning
028. Bath
029. Object
030. Lost
031.Pride
032. Death
033 ( Read more... )
Nights were the worst. Elie Wiesel came to mind, but Matt wasn't sure who Elie was, an artist or an author or a film producer or a horror maker, and so he thought how nights were the worst and thought only on that. They were the worst because they were the best, because they varied so much, because they meant so much. Everything would happen in the rising or dead of night.
There were the days the lights would go out, when each of them would crawl into their respective beds. These were the nights that the shadows would crawl, too, the nights were the full moon was its brightest and the silence was content. Where eyes could stare for ages and grow too tired to fall asleep, where time could pass unheeded.
There were the days when the lights would stay on, when Matt would be in his twin-sized bed and face the wall, because the floor was being paced upon. Shadows had no place then, because mumblings filled the air, tightened and restricted movement. The moon was waning away, outside, and Canada wouldn't move when America sat on the edge of his small mattress, would sit and look at him and frown at him. Or at himself. Matt didn't look. Matt wouldn't know.
There were the days when the lights would again go out, when the moon was waxing and Alfred would be up late, doing paperwork or reading paper or overseeing work, Matthew did not know. He did know that his brother would always come in late, would walk by his bed and ruffle his hair, mumble something sleepily and retreat. These nights, Matt could be the one found crawling into Alfred's larger bed, hunching down in the thick comforters, be tense awake but completely relaxed when asleep. He'd been afraid, when he'd first fallen asleep in America's nice, nice bed, but he would wake up with an arm draped over him, a tired face in front of his, drooling on a pillow or mumbling something about food, and Matt could smile.
There were the nights when the lights would stay off. These were the true nights, when there was no moon, when Alfred would retire early and demand everyone else did the same, when America would crawl into Canada's bed, crowd in with fear or desperation or rage, and hold the French Nation tight enough to break something. Sometimes, he did break things-- Matt would always be limping, the day after these nights, would keep his eyes down and try not to make a noise.
After these nights, at breakfast, Alfred would always, always stop him before he left- would grab his arm, keep him still even as he trembled, look him in the face and ask what happened?
And that night, the moon would again wax.
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