Matthew is Mine

Arthur was still asleep when Francis led Alfred in past the bedroom door. Alfred struggled the entire way, finally shaking himself loose and swinging in preparation to hit Francis when the older boy blocked him, rapidly twisting his arm behind his back in one quick motion.

“You gonna run?”

Francis hissed at his ear from behind,

“You wanna pretend to be a man, so fucking be a man.”

“Go to hell,”

Came the reply, Alfred easily pulling away, and, hair disheveled, Francis glared at him, blocking the doorway.

“But you’re not. Are you. You come in here at night when you think I’m asleep, America, you coward.”

Alfred’s eyes narrowed, and, whispering loudly, Francis continued,

“You’re just a little boy, he’ll never see you as anything more than that.”

That hit hard, and Alfred found himself stiffening as his hands tightened into fists.

“Let me through,”

he whispered in anger.

Francis didn’t budge.

“You finish what you started,”

he hissed, eyes glowing with malicious fire,

“Or are you only man enough when you think no one’s watching.”

Francis stepped very close to Alfred, secure in himself, gaze unwavering and intense,

“Are you only man enough with your baby brother?”

“You son of a bitch…!”

Alfred seethed, now swinging to hit him again, and Arthur sat up in bed, confused and disoriented, eyes wide with alarm as he gazed at them both.

“Alfred…!”

He called out,

“What in the hell is going on…!”

“Nothing at all,” Francis replied coolly, and then, turning to Alfred again, “You think you can satisfy him? You go ahead and try.”

Whatever Alfred was going to say next remained silently lodged at the back of his throat as he watched Francis depart, closing the door behind him.

Sitting in place, Arthur stared silently at the other boy.

“What’s all this, then?” he asked when at last he found his voice.

Hands still tightly clenched, Alfred turned slowly around, eyes burning fire with the word Francis had said.

Just a little boy, am I, he thought, feeling the shackles of restraint now more than ever.

He was prepared to open the door and leave, but now he felt a curious and very pressing urge to prove himself to Arthur.

I’m not a little boy, he murmured as he paced closer to the bed.

Matthew stood quietly outside his bedroom door, hair disheveled and eyes weary with sleep.

“Papa,”

he said very softly to Francis, “Papa, qu'est ce qui ce passe?"

Papa, what’s going on?

Francis stopped slowly, turning then to face Matthew. He walked quietly toward him, smiling as his long fingers raked with somber affection through the boy’s yellow hair.

“Il semble que les choses vont changer par ici,” he said, gently leaning in to kiss Matthew’s forehead.

It seems things are going to change around here.

“Ton frère essaie de tenir tête à Arthur.”

Your brother’s asserting himself to Arthur.

Asserting himself…Matthew thought, understanding better than he ever wanted just what Francis had meant.

“Allez,” the older boy said gently, come on, “Qu'est ce que tu dirai que je te fasse à déjeuner?"

Why don’t I fix you some breakfast?

“Hey, hey…!” Arthur cried out in surprise when Alfred climbed up onto the bed, “j…just what are you—”

Alfred glared back with childlike fury.

“I’m not a little boy…!”

He informed his counterpart.

Arthur blinked.

“Coulda fooled me…”

he mumbled aside.

Ignoring the insult, Alfred sat down at Arthur’s side, quietly murmuring,

“What’s the waiter outfit?”

Arthur blinked, feeling his cheeks go hot.

“W…what?!”

Playing with a loose strand at the bottom of his sock, Alfred turned to gaze at Arthur through stray wisps of hair.

“Matthew heard Francis say that to you a while back.”

Arthur laughed nervously, looking aside as he scratched at the back of his neck.

“Oh…oh he did, did he….that perverted wine bastard…”

There was silence for a few moments then.

“So, what is it?”

Alfred asked, and Arthur turned around, irritated as he replied,

“That’s nothing for you to know about…!”

Alfred frowned.

“Huh? And why not?”

“Because…!” Arthur blushed even deeper, making a mental note to kick Francis’ ass harder than usual later that day. “Because that’s—!”

“Because you think I’m just a little kid and I can’t know about stuff like that.”

“Well I—”

Arthur grew quiet.

“Can I see the waiter outfit?” Alfred asked, blue eyes piercing as he gazed at the other boy.

“What—! No! Absolutely not…! …no!”

“God damn it…!” Alfred seethed, fists strong as they hit down on the mattress, “When will you—when will you finally acknowledge me…?!”

“H…hey…! I don’t like your tone right now, America…!”

Hands crossed, Alfred gazed aside.

“Francis kissed me, you know.”

Arthur’s head whipped around all at once.

“…what…?!”

Pleased that finally he managed to catch his interest, Alfred went on,

“That’s right. This morning, before—before we came in here. In the kitchen.”

“Why I ought to—”

Arthur jumped partway off the bed before Alfred caught his wrist.

“No, don’t—”

His grasp was very strong. Alfred gazed downward.

“He knows about me coming in here last night.”

Arthur froze, having hoped to deny that moment for the remainder of his existence.

“I knew it,” he sighed with discontentment, “I knew eventually that pervert’s influence would rub off on the two of you…”

“This isn’t his influence,” Alfred replied, offended. “I came in here of my own accord.”

Arthur gazed up.

“Why, then?”

Alfred gazed back intensely for a long time before finally speaking up, his voice coming quiet and hoarse.

“I think you know why.”

There came a long silence after that, the both of them gazing intently at one another.

“I won’t be your little boy forever,” Alfred hissed, lip quivering with determination.

Dumbfounded, Arthur merely stared back. His eyebrows came down and he laughed bitterly,

“America, you’ll always be my little boy.”

It was he who kissed Alfred then, slender hands coming on either side of his face, pressing him tightly to himself as he seized his mouth.

To be continued…