He's breaking like glass but oh, are the transparent, pretty little pieces like shattered mirrors so beautiful.
Alfred's always been an odd child, strange and unwanted by most families. He likes the way he controls people like puppets, he can make them hurt, he can make them cry, he can make them wish they've never even been brought into this darkness they called the 'world'. Yet it seems as if he's only reflecting himself and what he's seen in the twisted life of his, and sometimes- it feels as if he's the one being controlled, his life isn't his anymore, everyone's watching him- oh god, was it terrifying!
He lives with his emotions and character acting like enemies on each side of the battlefield.
When he first found out of his ability- he loved it, he loved the way he could sneak into the kitchen and grab a cookie without anyone caring, or the way he could make another kid become his friend, and especially the way he could win arguments and humiliate the other as easy as that, but blessings from the Devil eventually become curses, and when you finally realize that, it's too late, and you are now only everything you shouldn't be. Not happy at all, depressed, upset, but never able to cry, and how much you want to. How much you want to just let everything lash out, telling much more than screams and tantrums could ever even try.
He can't tell if the people around him are geniune anymore. He cannot control his ability like he thought he could. He was the one to play with fire, but never expected to get burnt, and that made him a fool.
Fools are foolish, but they could see ways others couldn't even try.
He's currently in high school, but he doesn't go to it sometimes for months, and the people there don't bat an eye. He was sitting in a cafe, drinking his iced black coffee happily- he used to hate the bitter, almost sour aftertaste, but he's grown to love it, especially with a brownie on the side, as he played his music peacefully, others chuckling at how cute the American looked, dazed in thought, tapping his feet to the tune of the songs he was playing.
What caught his eye was a French man, with pretty eyes that looked like an afternoon sky in Washington, that just-a-bit-below-shoulder lengthed blonde hair only a bit lighter than his own in a ponytail with a black hair band, and a simple shirt with jeans that looked good on him, but it didn't look like something the man would wear, seeing how fidgety he looked in it. He was eating and drinking the same thing as him.
When the man looked at him, Alfred could feel a blush form on his face.
Was this love? It was so different than what they said. It was not knee-weakening, or anything like that, but a feeling in his chest, sort of like how it feels when you cry, but much happier. And when he smiled- oh lord.
Now that could be knee-weakening.
p
They exchanged phone numbers four months ago, and they got into a proper relationship three months ago, and Alfred was still as giddy as the first day they met, squealing when he was alone, blushing when Francis (what a beautiful name for a beautiful man) would hold his hand, or kiss him passionately in public, though the onlookers paid no mind, just sighing happily at them, saying, "Love is so precious."
It really was.
Alfred was dressed in a comfortable, though a bit oversized (he's always liked oversized sweaters, but he doesn't wear them in front of others much, at least not until Francis told him he looked cute that way) olive-green sweater, and black jeans, as he knocked on his boyfriend's apartment door. No answer, which was odd, as Francis always answered the door, with a large hug. They would sit down and chat for hours and hours until Alfred told him he needed to go, but Francis would just pout at him until Alfred gave in, and Francis would lead them to the bed- not to have sex (they occasionally did that, though), but to cuddle and enjoy each other's warmth.
Alfred frowned and placed his hand on the doorknob, surprised to see it was unlocked- Francis was so paranoid when he was alone. So, he walked in, dropping some of his stuff on the chair, as he looked around. Where was his boyfriend?
An odd sound caught his ear, something like groaning.
Eyes flashing in worry, Alfred immediately dashed to where Francis's bedroom door was, and opened it- catching one of the worst sights a lover could ask for. The room was all red and pretty, like always, but the blankets and pillows where on the ground, and a woman- damn her!- naked as the day she was born, on her back, moaning and hips rocking, with his boyfriend holding her waist. He had a look of pleasure on his face, and Alfred couldn't feel more hurt.
Was it because he was a male? Just seeing the female's face, she was so much better looking than him. With almond-shaped amber eyes (that were such a pretty and unique color), a sharp nose, and plump lips.
"Francis." He choked out, "Francis." He said, because what were you supposed to say when you catch the person you love most cheating on you? He was not dramatic enough to make a scene, or slap him and run off, because it's one of those situations where you're horribly upset with someone, but you care about them too much to do anything harmful to them.
Francis looked at him, a look of confusion in his eyes, "Who- anyways. Sasha, you should go right now, I need to clear some things up with this man." He gave a glare to Alfred, and that was such a wound to his already broken heart.
"De A-accorn." The woman said, in a hilariously fake french accent. Alfred could tell Francis was trying not to embarrass her about her pronounciation, but he stopped when the woman went by him and out the door, after putting on a few clothes at least, and Francis sat up on the bed, giving him a blank look.
"Who are you?" He asked, not missing the shocked look on Alfred's face at all.
Alfred almost screamed, but kept his voice calm as he could, "I'm your boyfriend. You can't forget me that easily!" He gave a nervous giggle at the end, hoping this was all a prank, a joke, anything but reality.
"I don't have a boyfriend, though you are rather mignon."
That's when Alfred realized- that thing that he thought was 'knee-weaking' when they first met, or the way he'd blush and feel dizzy when he was near Francis, was because he was using his ability, his ability to manipulate a human mind. Yet during the years of the love he had, he's grown able to control it- and in that moment, if a knife stabbed through his body a million times, he would thank the blade and the wielder.
Who knew it hurt so much when a person you love asks who you are?
p
Alfred was wiping his puffy red eyes. Francis thought Alfred was just someone he knew trying to prank him, and ignored him afterwards. He was standing on the edge of the cliff, determination running through his veins, a sick smile on his face, but the emotionless look in his eyes with a hint of a storm-cloud-grey dancing in the corner, as he balled his fists up until they paled.
He jumped, and nothing's ever felt so nice, but the touch of a certain French man's fingers tapping on his sides. Cold, but so addictingly warm.
What a pathetic way to die for a pathetic man like him.
p
Years later, a French man in his late thirties (thought still looked great for his age) was sitting on a balcony of a fancy mansion, going through his thoughts like any old man should do (even if he wasn't that old).
He remembers a face, so clear but so blurry, with brown... No blonde hair, and a little cowlick, and the brightest blue eyes on the Earth. Was it one of his lovers? He thinks so, because he remembers a small laugh, that had a bit of a crack in the center, and a blush that looked like cherries to him, and yet even if he could not remember the person clearly.
He remembers he loved them with his heart, and if they were somewhere, he wanted to go there to them.