The Selfish Sickness
by Positively

Warnings: eventual Alfred/Matthew, college AU, slash
Includes language, alcohol, romanticized obsession, poor parenting, frank discussion of depression & mental illness & suicide, allusion, philosophical conflict (both internal and external), existential crises, religion, and eventual sex.

There are currently five chapters of this living on my computer; it's probably going to end up around twenty in all.

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DISCLAIMER: The characters of Axis Powers Hetalia belong to Hidekaz Himaruya.

For my reviewers of The Whole World is Watching. I don't think I would have posted this without your encouragement~ HAVE SOME FIC

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"So there's this lunatic that I've moved in with."

"Oh really." Francis' voice over the phone is drawling and luxurious. If Matthew didn't know better, he might think his half-brother to be bored or sarcastic. Instead, because he knows him, Matthew suspects drunkenness. He accurately imagines a thin man, lounging in a thin chair, holding a cigarette in his right hand and a glass of red wine in the left. It can be safely estimated that this is the eighth glass of wine today. The drinking began within the first hour of consciousness, and will continue until the last.

"Yes. I have three suitemates this year. But one sticks out."

"Hm." Matthew imagines him taking a drag. Less of a drag, actually, and more of a greedy suck. For years Francis has sucked cigarettes determinedly, as though he smoked to die rather than to enjoy it. "Is he cute?"

"Not answering that. The two of us share a bathroom. Luckily the rooms are singles, but I fear for my hair products. He seems the pranking sort."

"Ah, yes. You do have such nice hair, mon frère. Like mine. Like Mama's. Do you remember much of Mama?"

"Yes, Francis. Of course I do." Here we go.

"That's good. Beautiful, wasn't she? I miss her. Every day. Every day, every day everyday."

I know, Matthew thinks. I wish you wouldn't.

Francis is a lot like their mother—stupidly romantic, in the worst and deepest of ways, and terribly self-absorbed. Matthew assumes that the grieving is some kind of expression of this. He hopes Francis will move past all the wallowing soon.

Crazy bastard.

There is an uncomfortable silence, since Matthew is unwilling to indulge in Francis' grief-mongering, and Francis is unwilling to partake in any conversation that does not revolve around their mother or himself. They both try to dismiss each other at the same time.

"I ought to—"

"You should—"

A pause.

"You should go make sure your lunatic suitemate has not destroyed anything. Peek at him in the shower for me, will you?"

Matthew almost smiles. There's the Francis he tolerates with difficulty.

"Sorry, Francis, they'd probably kick me out for that. I'll tell Angelique you said hello."

"Yes. Thank you, Matthew…for everything…" His voice trails off meaningfully, as Matthew is sure it is meant to.

"Of course, Francis. I'll talk to you later."

There is a click as the line disconnects.

Matthew reenters his dorm via the kitchen window.

As he is carefully backing through, right leg over the sill and left foot still brushing the roof, there is a noise from behind him that sounds like a mix between a gasp and choked-off laughter. Matthew hooks his other leg over the sill, overbalances, and barely manages to catch himself on the wall to prevent an embarrassing face-plant. He looks up to see one of his new suitemates staring at him, bent low, one arm holding open the refrigerator door.

"Oh look," drawls Gilbert, quickly turning back to the refrigerator to hide his face. "The philosophy major figured out how to climb up onto the roof. Staked out a good pondering spot yet?"

Matthew isn't sure how to respond, and is saved the trouble by way of Alfred intervention. The Crazy Suitemate exclaims, "We can get onto the roof? That's awesome!" His eyes are bright and enthusiastic in a childish way that Matthew hasn't felt since he was twelve. It makes him feel old and a little resentful. "I'm gonna go check it out. How steep?"

"Uh…not very." Matthew feels like he should explain that his cell phone doesn't get reception in his bedroom, so he went onto the roof to check it there, and it did, and then his brother in Canada called, and. But he waits too long to vocalize. With every passing second, the potential awkwardness of his explanation grows exponentially.

This is where most of Matthew's thoughts end up: trapped in his stupidly shy brain.

"Neeeeeeat!" Alfred gets a running start across the kitchen, brushing past Gilbert and then Matthew, and catapults himself out of the window.

Matthew and Gilbert stare after him for a few seconds.

They look at each other.

"Say. Hypothetically. If someone were to, right now, shut that window and flip the locks, would you know anything about it?"

"About what?" Matthew asks, turning around and quietly closing the still-open fridge door.

Gilbert laughs a little cruelly. "You're not so bad, uh…what was it again?"

Squeeeeeak.

"Matthew."

Snap snap.

"Right. You're not so bad for a philosophy major, Matthew."

Gilbert reopens the fridge, grabs a can of Heineken, and retreats to his room.

A few minutes later, Angelique knocks on the apartment door. It takes a few moments for Matthew to hear this over Alfred's frantic banging on the kitchen window. When Angie is let in, she immediately sheds her flip-flops and throws her gaze around the hall, searching for the source of the noise in some concern.

"We've locked Alfred up on the roof," Matthew explains.

"Ah." Angelique looks as though she doesn't quite care, so Matthew leads her into the kitchen. She takes a seat at the dining table as he crosses the room to open the window. Alfred tumbles through, a blur of brown leather and gold, and grasps Matthew's t-shirt for balance. "Which one of you jerks locked me out?" He glares up at Matthew, blue eyes blazing behind glasses, hand unconsciously tugging at the shirt in his fist.

"Not me." Matthew does his best to look innocent. He's pretty good at it.

"Don't look at me," Angelique shows the backs of her dark hands in some kind of gesture of blamelessness. "I just got here."

"Oh, nice to meet you! I'm Alfred F. Jones." Alfred abruptly recovers himself, dropping Matthew's t-shirt and giving a bright smile.

"This is my younger sister, Angelique."

"Angie, please," she sniffs, standing and brushing off her skirt.

"Yes, yes. She's a freshman this year, so her move-in day was last week."

She holds her hand out for Alfred to take. He shakes it, grinning, and calls out, "Gilbert, Eduard, come meet Matthew's cute little sister!"

Eduard emerges from his room bearing a martyred expression that slowly melts when he sees Angelique. "Nice to meet you."

"Wow, is your other suitemate also a blue-eyed blond with glasses?" She turns to Matthew with a delighted expression on her face. He assumes it's because Alfred called her cute—she is so easily flattered.

"Not quite," Gilbert purrs smugly as he saunters into the kitchen. "I have a bit more originality than that."

"Eduard actually has green eyes," Matthew tries to point out. But he is ignored.

"Ah, originality. That's a relief. I was starting to worry I'd stumbled upon some kind of Aryan nerd camp. Obviously I would not be welcomed."

"Excluding me, you pretty much have stumbled upon an Aryan nerd camp. You've got a philosophy major, a computer science major, and a—what are you?"

"Business," says Alfred.

"And a business major who owns eight volumes of D&D."

"Oh? And what about you?"

"Engineer. But not a nerdy one. An awesome one."

"I'm afraid I can't just take your word for it. I've known too many engineers."

"You'll find out, Matthew's little sister."

"Angie."

"Gilbert. Are you two blood-related?"

Eduard and Alfred look embarrassed. They obviously hadn't wanted to bring it up.

"I was adopted. Was it the accent that tipped you off?" Angie's lips are curved in a pleasant smile in her dark face, but her eyes are narrowed and hard. Whatever Eduard and Alfred think, Matthew knows she is not offended by bluntness; she sniffs a challenge in this platinum-haired terror who is almost as tough as she. "I was born in Seychelles, moved to the Congo area, was relocated to New York City and then again to Quebec. Quebec is where I became Matthew's sister."

"That means you're Canadian, Matthew," Alfred whispers as if it is a grand secret between the five of them.

"I was aware."

"I wasn't. That's really neat! Do you speak French?" Matthew is suddenly the subject of Alfred's very intense stare. In the coming year, he will be at its mercy many more times, and he will never completely grow accustomed. It's probably so shocking because Matthew has been ignored by everybody for his whole life, even by his mother and brother and sister. And especially by people as spastically, charismatically intense as Alfred.

"Yeah, and Greek and Latin and German. He's a linguist," Angie states proudly.

"Whoa. That's so cool." Alfred looks deeply impressed, in a wide-eyed seven-year-old sort of way.

"Nerd camp," Gilbert coughs not-so-discreetly.

"Right, well. I'm taking Matthew with me and my roommate for dinner. It was good meeting you all!"

"Same to you," murmurs Eduard politely. Alfred snorts when Gilbert asks, "Especially me, right?"

Matthew ushers her out the door before the brewing argument can get any worse ("I'm more awesome!" "No, I'm more awesome!"). Angie tries leaving her shoes behind, but he scoops them up and playfully smacks her over the head. "Shoes are good."

"Lies and slander."

"Actually, it can't be because slander is defamation—the spread of lies of a negative nature. If I said 'shoes are unfaithful' or 'shoes like child pornography' that would be slander. But since saying 'shoes are good' does not make an untrue claim that may give shoes a negative image—"

"Oh my god, shut up, Nerd Camp."

Matthew smacks her head again. Angie retaliates by trying to trip him at the top of the stairwell. And then, skipping down the stairs, proceeds to humiliate him like so:

ANGIE: So, your roommates are all really good-looking. [elbow-nudge eyebrow-wiggle]

MATTHEW: I guess so. [assumes defensive position]

ANGIE: Who do you think is the hottest? [smirk of darkest evil]

MATTHEW:…

ANGIE: You going to try to woo one of them? How about the tall one, Eduard? He seemed nice. Quiet. Your type, maybe?

MATTHEW: There will be no wooing.

ANGIE: Or Alfred? Mmm, he looks a lot like you. A bit masturbatory, that. Or maybe just narcissistic. Either way, you would be very hot together.

MATTHEW: There will be no wooing.

ANGIE: Matthew, you're pathetic. I mean, adorable shyness is one thing, but total social withdrawal is quite another. You'll never get a boyfriend if you don't even try.

MATTHEW: I'm not having this discussion, Angelique.

ANGIE: [attempts a second tripping]

A bit later, the two of them are outside Angie's dorm. She pauses before swiping her key card. "Oh, yeah. Something you should know about Kat, before you meet her? She's got huge…tracts of land."

Matthew wearily trudges up the stairs and down the hall to his dorm. Tries to insert the key. Fails, twice. Third try finds his key stuck in the lock, and he tries to jiggle it. Who made keys so complicated? Or, actually, the locking mechanism would be the problem here. If it's a pin-tumbler lock, maybe the driver pins and the key pins are sticking together…

The door suddenly opens inward, and Matthew jumps.

"Isn't this door annoying?"

Matthew's easily-shocked brain is still skipping uselessly on pin-tumbler lock design, so all he can think to respond is, "The lock's fault, actually." It sounds like a squeak.

"Yeah, man, it's sticky or something. Come in." Alfred stands aside. "Eduard went to hang out with a couple of his friends, Gilbert went out to the city, though he didn't say why. Just you and me! How was dinner with Angie?"

Despite Angie's Pythonesque warning, it had been utterly impossible not to stare at Katyusha's chest. Even for a gay man. They had to rest on the table, for Christ's sake. The waiter kept spilling their drinks because he was so distracted with trying not to stare.

"It was nice."

"That's good." Alfred hovers behind Matthew in the entryway of the kitchen. Matthew desperately tries to think of something clever to say, but all that comes to mind are shallow questions about class schedules and professors.

"Sooo…what's it like being a philosophy major?" Matthew can hear Alfred following him into the common room. His footsteps are loud, heavy, have presence. Matthew's are soft and quiet and unassuming; he is light; he is insubstantial. He ponders Alfred's question carefully, as philosophy majors are wont to do.

"Well, if you ask me—and only me, because philosophy majors sort of have to disagree about everything, it's a rule—there are two types of people that this major attracts. There are those who believe in god, and there are nihilists. I mean, they'll tell you that there are people like Epicureans and Realists, but any philosophy that denies the existence of an afterlife is implicitly nihilistic. That's personal opinion, by the way. But, like, Hedonism places emphasis on physical pleasure, and Aestheticism argues that meaning is found in beauty, but the transience of physical pleasure and beauty render both moot, if you ask me, so really there is no such thing as permanent meaning without religion…uh. Anyway. Philosophy classes are like the Forum, and every single debate comes down to the ever-controversial 'Is there an afterlife?', even though the professors hate that." Oh, jeez, he's rambling. Matthew risks a glance at Alfred's face, expecting to see dismissal or disinterest, but is pleasantly surprised to find serious consideration. And those intense eyes, focused all on Matthew. It gives him the shivers. He glances back down quickly.

"Why do they hate that? Isn't that, like, the ultimate question? What else could philosophy majors talk about?" Alfred flops gracelessly onto the couch. Matthew hesitates—are we having a conversation? am I expected to continue? should I sit down or stand awkwardly so I can escape sooner to my room?—before carefully seating himself a safe distance away.

"Ethics, logic, politics, epistemology…but everyone these days thinks of metaphysics when they think of philosophy. So the only people who are attracted to the major are those interested in metaphysics and those studying for seminary school."

"Ah. Bad combination, that."

"You're telling me."

"Okay, so which are you? Are you religious or a nihilist?"

Matthew hesitates not because he is uncertain of his answer, but because the atmosphere is all wrong, and he is romantic so these things matter. They've been having a relatively relaxed and detached conversation on a couch in front of a television (that's switched off, but it still has mood-destroying powers). This is an Everest of a question, one that is usually only scaled after two people are fast friends, because the answer is contentious and revealing besides. This is a sacred answer. You don't give those things away to acquaintances over living-room pleasantries.

Matthew tries to think of a way to phrase this without sounding like an utter lunatic.

"Uh, sorry, I know that's a really personal question."

It's the answer that's personal, Matthew wants to correct automatically. "Thanks." Now it's his turn to ask about Alfred's major, right? Human conversation is a reciprocal thing. Okay. He can do this.

Alfred beats him again. "This question is potentially even more offensive, but what are you going to do after college? I mean, I know you probably get asked that all the time by dicks who think philosophy is useless, but I'm honestly just curious."

It is sort of a touchy thing to ask, but if anyone could ask it with complete, nonjudgmental innocence it would be Spastic Jones.

This is safe, Matthew realizes in surprise. He is completely useless at small talk, as he has demonstrated with consistent social failure for his whole life. People make him nervous, and he never quite knows what to do with his hands, and his thought processes have always been tangential at best and completely random at worst. He is never quite sure what is interesting and relevant to other people on account of the fact that he finds everything interesting and relevant. Like poetry and pin-tumbler lock mechanics.

Alfred, however, seems able and willing to keep up. And not so vapid that any topic of substance must be avoided like the plague.

"I'm planning on going to grad school. After that…I don't really know. I'm okay with not knowing for now, you know?"

"Neat." And the weird thing is, he's sincere.

A pause. Matthew debates whether continuing the conversation after this pause would make Alfred think he only asks out of politeness instead of genuine interest. His neurotic shyness tries to convince him to flee. Matthew pushes past. "What about you?"

"Oh, you know. Taking over the family business. Very dull." Alfred's tone is a stop sign. Matthew has a very few seconds to ponder this before Alfred is abruptly enthusiastic again. "Hey, have you finished applying to grad school?"

"Psh, no. Have you finished applying to business school?"

"Ahaha, no. Good point. Say, want to watch Jeopardy?"

So this is what Angie means by "You give me conversational whiplash."

"Okay."

"I should warn you," Alfred says. "I'm going to kick your ass."

They tie.

At night, Matthew lies on his unfamiliar bed and stares up at his unfamiliar ceiling. He has done this every August for the past four years, and it still disorients him, this sudden change in ceiling-space. The ceiling over one's bed is the subject of much consideration, the visual equivalent of a soundtrack to late-night brainchildren. Matthew always looks forward to visiting Quebec on break, just for the flashbacks and insights provided by his childhood ceiling.

Time for a new ceiling to make its mark on his hippocampus.

He decides to send Angie a text. I forgot to tell you at dinner: Francis says hello.

The cell phone beeps gleefully: No reception, pitiful human!

There's nothing for it. Matthew will have to get reacquainted with the roof. Hopefully Gilbert won't return from the city and lock him out there for the whole night.

The roof overlooks a courtyard enclosed by three dorms and a dining hall, still and silent at this late hour. During the day, students will pass through on the gray stone walkway—and Matthew's cell phone spot will be in plain sight. Roof-running is explicitly punishable by expulsion. Does this count?

The phone buzzes as Matthew is tucking his knees up to his chest. how is he doing?

Same old same old. I'm sad, pity me.

i know he's annoyingly melodramatic about it, but he really is sad

Of course Matthew realizes this. Francis, after all, had a close relationship with Mama, one that had always made Matthew jealous. Did that give Francis extended grieving rights? Maybe. But the scope and extent of the grief isn't healthy, so Matthew refuses to acknowledge the wallowing. Just as good parents refuse to acknowledge a toddler's tantrum. You can't reinforce undesirable behavior.

I think he misses having you at home, Matthew replies.

call him more often this year, okay? i worry about him

That's not your job.

somebody's gotta do it. night, bro

Angie somehow always makes Matthew feel like the younger sibling.

He is tired, but the balmy August night is too pleasant for him to abandon just yet. He leans back to scan the sky for constellations—Sagittarius, the archer; Lyra, the harp. He wastes a lot of time searching for Perseus before remembering that he won't show up until December. A breeze stirs in his hair, curls tickle his cheeks. The shingles beneath his feet are rough and sturdy and warm, having retained the day's heat. It is dead quiet.

Eventually Matthew notices that he's about to fall asleep, which would lead to either humiliation, expulsion, or waking up in a full-body cast. Climbing back in through the kitchen window is just as awkward as before, but at least this time he doesn't have to worry about—

"Shit! A ghost!"

—an audience.

"D-don't move! I-I'll hit you with my frying pan!"

"Please don't."

A very sheepish silence.

"Oh, uh. Matthew. You were on the roof." Alfred sure does like stating the obvious. Matthew finishes wriggling into the kitchen and turns to face his suitemate.

And is struck dumb.

Alfred isn't wearing a shirt. Alfred isn't wearing a shirt. The refrigerator is cracked open, eerie light spilling onto the curves and dips of biceps, pectoral muscles, a perfect flat stomach. Alfred's smooth skin is practically glowing, ivory-pale in the darkness. The planes of his face are sharply defined beneath sleep-mussed hair. His eyes are wide and young without his glasses.

And he is staring straight at Matthew.

(Myopically, of course. But also very intensely.)

Alfred drops the frying pan onto the counter. "Uh, sorry. You just scared me." He is rubbing the back of his neck and smiling so hard his eyes squint. It's ridiculously charming.

Matthew wants to explain that his room gets absolutely no reception, reassure Alfred that he's not some weird roof-creeper, apologize for startling him. But he can't access his vocal chords. He can't even move his mouth.

Alfred is beautiful. And Matthew is screwed.

When Alfred wakes up the next morning, he doesn't know where he is. Unfamiliar bed: check. Unfamiliar ceiling: check. Unfamiliar bedmate? Uncheck. Ah well, a guy can wish.

He stumbles into the kitchen to find Matthew sitting at the table, cradling a mug of something. His adorable cherub-curls are pushed to one side of his head, and his eyes are droopy behind round glasses. Sleep hangs about him in a charming way.

"Morning," he whispers, looking down into his mug of whatever.

"Morning. You're up early." His own clumsy voice sounds like it doesn't belong next to Matthew's soft murmur.

"I've always been an early riser. I like watching the sun come up."

Alfred finds this enchanting. How many college students wake up at six in the morning just to see the sunrise? "Peaceful, yeah? I usually wake up with the sun, so. Seven in the summertime, eight in winter. Don't have a choice. What are you drinking?"

"Tea. You're welcome to have some, if you want. There's water in the kettle, but you'll have to heat it up." Alfred wordlessly declines and sits across from his enigmatic suitemate.

Alfred is used to open, straightforward people. His friendly personality has a way of pushing past shyness and unlocking mysterious personalities, so that there are very few acquaintances of his whom he feels like he doesn't know. But he hardly knows anything about Matthew Williams—he is so very difficult to read, and never seems to talk about himself. In fact, he hardly speaks at all, unless one asks the right questions.

There's something about him that makes Alfred want to figure out the right questions to ask, discover the subjects that will make him speak with the impassioned enthusiasm of a child. He wants to make him gesticulate wildly with those slim white hands, for the simple reason that he usually wouldn't. Matthew is a button labeled DO NOT PUSH, one that Alfred can't quite resist.

The sun climbs higher in the sky. Matthew continues to sip tea and read the newspaper and sit quietly. Alfred fidgets and hums and pretends not to watch him.

He makes room for a mental list of what makes Matthew Williams tick. So far, there is philosophy and Jeopardy.

He is determined to map this uncharted territory of Matthewland.

Author's Note: So it begins. Reviews are love, as I am nearly as insecure in my writing as Matthew is in his social skills. Poor dears that we are. Give us confidence!

Also, if you care: I'm very scatterbrained and sometimes pieces of the story sort of fall out of the main narrative and end up down here. Or, rather, not really parts of the story...I just get uselessly self-indulgent and like to talk about author intention and allusion and foreshadowing and stuff. Think of me as that stupid evil villain who likes to explain himself and his evil plans at inopportune moments. I'm told it ruins everything, but I have my reasons.