SHE LIVES! Yes, SmurfyFriend IS alive! Just buried under work, and school, and life, and blah! :P
Yes, I know I've already done something similar to this before :P It's just, IDK, recently I've been slowly reverting back to a Mattie-like state, ya know? Plus this is something I've kinda been working on for a couple of months now. Since like, June even. And took breaks in between because of reasons xD
OH, and just so ya know, this is based off the song "Invisible" by Hunter Hayes. friggin amazing song. Go look it up. Do it. damn it. xD
TRIGGER WARNINGS: Yaoi, suicide, mentions of drug use, mentions of self-harm, bad language, and bullying. Don't like, Don't read, and all that jazz :P
I don't own Hetalia, If I did there would be more FrUK and GerIta and GiriPan XD
Matthew was invisible.
Matthew was invisible.
Matthew preferred when he was invisible.
Matthew would've given anything to be invisible again.
His life had become a living hell in the four months previous. It's amazing, Matthew mused to himself, scrolling through his Facebook News Feed, his violet eyes scanning pleadingly for some status update or reposted meme, or anything that didn't consist of his name or face and the words "fag," "queer", "fruit," or other derogatory terms. It's amazing how fast people jump on the bully bandwagon.
One leaked photograph of the quiet blonde and "that freaky albino kid" from a different school in mid liplock was all it took for Matthew's comfortably quiet life to become a hell on earth.
The teenager's already friendless existence had become even more friendless. Even Carlos, his one 'Best friend' had abandoned him. Not that Matthew blamed him. He probably thought that he'd be tormented as well for sticking around with the "faggot freak". People that once smiled politely at him in the hall now only offered him hateful stares, or nothing at all. Like he was a detestable insect, or vermin, or worse- nothing at all. A ghost, a specter, just a breath of air. That scared and hurt Matthew more than any of the other glares he received. Even more than his own brother- his own twin brother, who had been his best friend and confidante for almost eighteen long years- taking part in the bullying. Matthew never blamed him; Alfred was a popular kid with a good life. He didn't deserve to have a "faggot freak" for a barely-younger brother. The "freaky albino"- Gilbert Belschmidt- had a full time job as well as full time college classes, so he could only communicate through texts or a phonecall if he had time, or a study session turned makeout session when they both had time off- which was an uncommon occurrence, but Matthew was grateful it was an occurrence at all. But even with companionship from the albino, Matthew found himself very, very much alone.
Quiet Matthew found himself becoming quieter. He found reasons to miss class. He would fake an illness, or not even bother coming to class. Nobody noticed, of course. Or if they did notice, nobody cared.
Matthew sighed, closing the lid of his laptop and hiding the harsh words from his sight. For a moment, he considered checking his phone to see if his brother, or father, or boyfriend had contacted him. But he quickly changed his mind when he saw the New Message notifications covering the screen of his phone. Messages from numbers he didn't even know covered the screen, rehashing bits and pieces of dialogue and hate-filled words on Facebook and Tumblr, as well as the halls of the school and the mouths of his tormentors as they "put the faggot in his place" with fists and kicks. Tears flooded his eyes as he tossed his phone in front of him, bouncing twice on the mattress before coming to a rest.
The blonde sat on the bed, bringing his knees to his chest. His heart was heavy in his chest. It felt as though there was a weight sitting on his ribcage, making every shaky breath he drew feel as though it took every ounce of effort in his body.
Matthew was tired.
No, Matthew was exhausted.
He was tired of everything, of the effort it took to get up and out of bed in the morning, of the effort it took to go to school and endure the endless onslaught of abuse. He was just tired.
Matthew decided then and there he didn't want to be tired any more.
In a trance like state of mind, Matthew slowly rose from the bed and walked out of the bedroom. He walked down the hall, wood floor cold on his bare feet, and followed the mindless murmuring of the television.
When he got to the source of the noise he found Alfred lounging on the couch, a large bowl of potato chips resting on his stomach. His sky blue eyes shifted to the doorway where Matthew stood. "Hey Mattie." He said, "How ya doin'?"
Matthew gritted his teeth and forced a smile. "I'm fine," he replied, "Just getting a bite to eat."
"Good. You need it. You're like- skin and bones, man." Alfred chomped a potato chip loudly.
Matthew gritted his teeth again, biting away a reply about how he didn't care, and brushed into the kitchen. He walked right past the refrigerator to the cabinet where his family kept medicines. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Alfred had not followed, and opened the cabinet doors.
Tentatively, he ran his fingers over some of the bottles, glancing in something resembling delight at the black and white "WARNING" labels over the bottles. In the same trance like state that brought him to the medicine cabinet, he picked up a handful of different bottles half full of pills of all different kinds. The one Matthew's poor vision rested on was brand new. His father's blood pressure medication. He turned it over in his hands, the rattle of pills in the freshly refilled bottle music to his ears. He hesitated for half a second to check over his shoulder, and then stuffed the pill bottles in the pocket of his red hoodie.
He swallowed the lump in his throat, and shuffled his way out of the kitchen and into the living room where Alfred still laid on the couch, eyes glued to the television. "You okay, Matt?"
Matthew swallowed again, and forced another smile. "I'm fine, Al." his normally mousey and quiet voice was even quieter than usual.
Careful not to push the pocket of his sweatshirt against the other, Matthew hugged Alfred tightly. "I love you, Al." Matthew said softly, "Please, promise me you won't ever forget me?"
"I love you too, Mattie," Alfred felt unease in his stomach, "And yeah, of course I promise. You sure you're okay? You're acting all weird, n' shit…"
Matthew's smile was almost genuine for a moment. Alfred only added "and shit" when he was anxious. It reverted to its false state as he uttered that well rehearsed lie he gave to everyone and anyone that bought it. "I'm fine, Al." he stood, and managed to keep the contents of his pockets quiet. "I'm gonna go get some homework done before Papa gets home."
"Okay…" Alfred's sky blue eyes hesitated to leave the quiet blonde. "I think he's working late tonight… Wanna watch the rest of this with me before you go do that?"
"N-no, it's fine." Matthew gave him a well practiced fake smile, and what he hoped was a convincing lie "I have a huge paper I have to type… it's going to be an all-nighter."
"Well... Ok…" Alfred hid the panic at his forgetting an essay behind a poker face. "Don't work yourself too hard."
Matthew made a noise of acknowledgement, and shuffled down the hallway to his bedroom. Once he was inside, he turned the lock behind him and took the pill bottles from his pocket. His hands shaky, he unscrewed the caps from the bottles, and dumped them on the bedspread. His throat was dry as his shaking hands collected each pill one at a time, placing them in the palm of his hand.
Matthew was so enraptured by the medication in his palm he didn't even realize the new presence in the house.
"I'm home," A voice announced, dropping car keys into a ceramic dish by the door.
"Hey," Alfred replied, not looking up from the television. "You're home early."
Francis rubbed his eyes and yawned. "Monsieur Javert got someone to replace me for the last couple hours of my shift… he told me to go home and get rest, since I worked seven days straight and had a fourteen hour day today."
"Fuck man," Alfred replied, met with a scolding glare from his father. "Sorry…. Rough day I take it then?"
"Oui… Rough, and long." his father replied with a groan. "I'm taking my medicine and going to bed."
Francis walked to the medicine cabinet and opened it up, but was surprised to find the orange bottle with the white cap not in its usual place. Or anywhere else in the cabinet for that matter. "Alfred," he called into the living room, "Have you seen my medicine?"
"No," Alfred shouted back, "It's not in the cabinet?"
"Non," he replied, "And it's not on the counter or anything either."
Francis walked out to the hall. "Matthieu? 'Ave you seen my medication?"
The radio silence he was met with unsettled the Frenchman. He glanced out the window. Matthew's car was in the driveway, nestled between his own sedan and Alfred's rebuilt Camaro. "Matthieu?"
Francis walked up the hallway, his footsteps loud from the dress shoes he wore for work. His mind raced with unease. After a moment or two, he reached Matthew's door. He gave a gentle knock with the knuckle of his index finger. "Matthieu? Are you in there?" he frowned at the silence behind the door. "Matthieu?"
Worry in his stomach, he reached for the doorknob, only to find it locked. "Matthieu?! You know the rules! Unlock this door!" his voice was laced with desperation.
He fought with the knob of the door and pounding on the wood with his other hand. "I'm breaking the door down, stay away!" he shouted desperately, using strength he didn't even know he possessed to kick in the lock, making the door fly open to a truly horrifying sight.
One Francis would never, ever forget.
There were a few assorted pill bottles scattered next to the bed. A sheet of paper rested on the writing desk, a pen sitting beside it. And his son, his baby boy of seventeen, half a month away from eighteen years laying on his bed, gurgling sounds escaping his throat.
Francis screamed.
He ran to his son, pleading with desperate cries, "Non, Matthieu, wake up! Please, Please wake up! Oh God, PLEASE!" he shook the shoulder of the boy desperately, his voice becoming an all out wail. "ALFRED!"
Alfred had listened to his father's calls with a growing sense of dread. And when Francis's scream ripped through their home, he leapt up from the couch, bowl of chips flying comically off of his stomach and falling like snow all around the living room. The athlete took off like a rocket, ricocheting off the corner as he rounded it, and then skidding to a stop in front of Matthew's door. "ALFRED!" Francis's voice was pained and broken and his arms were wrapped tightly around the boy's body. "C-Call 911! M-Matthieu's not breathing!"
Alfred's eyes were open wide, taking in the whole scene. "Fucking shit, Mattie…!" he muttered, fumbling to fish his phone out from his pocket.
In the time Alfred spent on the phone talking with the 911 operator, Francis kept up his begging and tight hugging. "S'il vous plaît, s'il vous plaît bébé ouvrez vos yeux!" he pleaded, not even realizing he had switched to his native tongue. "S'il vous plaît mon petit garçon, s'il vous plaît être bien!"
In a matter of minutes, paramedics had swarmed the house, all seeming to talk at once. The time spent with the paramedics and on the way to the hospital seemed to pass at a thousand miles an hour.
Francis was barely aware of his surroundings as he watched his baby of almost eighteen years disappear behind the doors of the emergency room. It felt akin to an out of body experience as he examined the phone in his hand. He had taken it from Matthew's bed with intentions to contact his son "in-law". He and Francis worked at the same restaurant, so he knew he was off work. However, he quickly changed his mind when he saw the screen.
The screen was covered with New Message notifications, all from numbers without contact names. They were all about the same. "Stupid queer!" "Do us all a favor and kill yourself!" "Worthless slut!" "You should just die!" "I'll kill you myself!"
Francis scrolled through all of the new messages, his eyes watering. He recalled that upon reviewing the last month's phone bill and seeing how far over the limit his youngest son's texting had accumulated to, he had confronted him about it. He remembered his irritation, and the relief in the back of his mind that the boy was at last making friends. He felt nothing but guilt now. Alfred had mentioned in passing that Matthew was being picked on, but he had no idea it had gotten so far. Francis wanted to slap himself for the sole reason he- he of all people- had let it continue for as long as it did.
His vision was clouded over with tears as he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Hey," he scarcely recognized his elder son's voice. "I'll call Gilbert. You just wait to hear back about him."
Francis nodded, his heart sore in his chest, offering the phone to Alfred. Alfred took it tentatively, locking his sky-colored eyes with Francis's water-filled sapphire ones. His eyes told the same story as his silence did: one of pain, confusion, and regret. Alfred couldn't keep his father's gaze for long. Not knowing deep down that he was responsible for the state of his younger-by-two-minutes brother.
Alfred left the waiting room for somewhere more private. He unlocked the phone and stared at the hateful messages. He swallowed away the lump in his throat and clicked to block messages from the numbers. He took care not to delete the messages, however. He had learned from one of those stupid school assemblies that they could be used as evidence. Alfred filed that bit of information away in the back of his mind for future reference, scrolled through his brother's contacts until he reached the one titled "Gilbert Belschmidt". He tapped the contact name and put the phone to his ear.
After three or four rings, the phonecall went to voicemail. Alfred groaned a little, and redialed the put the phone back to his ear. When the phone went to voicemail a second time he repeated the process, adding an impatient foot tap into the mix. "Come on, ya Nazi dickhead." Alfred muttered under his breath. "Answer the goddamn phone already!"
As if the albino on the other line could hear him, there was an audible click, and a groan. "Damn it, Birdie, what is it already?" a slightly irritated voice asked, "I'm in the middle of class, I can't come over for a booty call right now!"
"First off, I'm not your 'Birdie,'" Alfred had a quiet disgust in his voice, grateful for his brother's sake it was him who called and not Francis. "Second off, you booty call my little brother, and I swear to god I'll castrate your 'five meters'."
The voice on the other line groaned quietly. "What is it, Alfred?"
"Look, you need to come to the hospital." Alfred said, his voice shaky. "Mattie's hurt… h-he… God… h-he just tried to kill himself."
There was a silence between the two of them. "Y-you still there?" Alfred asked quietly.
"Y-Yeah," The albino's voice sounded shocked and broken. "Fuck, Birdie…"
What seemed to be a sob echoed on the other line. "Goddamn it, I'll be there in ten minutes."
The line cut off before Alfred could reply. The blonde pocketed the phone, and removed his glasses with intentions to clean the lenses. His eyes were watery, but for his family's sake, he blinked them away. He made his way to the waiting room where he found Francis hunched over, leaned over his knees with two photographs in his hands. One, Alfred recognized. His mother. She had died right after she'd given birth to he and Matthew, so Alfred only knew his mother through photographs and stories of her from Francis. The other, Alfred didn't recognize.
The picture looked old, at least twenty years or more. It was a boy, looking about his and Matthew's age, with eyebrows the size of overfed caterpillars and shaggy blonde hair. He had an irritated look on his face, as if the picture had been snapped without his consent or knowledge. However, even with unattractive features, this boy seemed to carry himself as a classic gentleman, and even though he wasn't gay like his brother, Alfred had to admit the young man was attractive. "Gilbert's on his way," Alfred said, taking his eyes from the picture, "any word yet?"
Francis shook his head, not taking his eyes off the pictures. "I broke a promise, mon cher," he murmured, "I hope both of you can forgive me."
Alfred's eyes scanned the older photograph. "Who is that, Dad?" He asked softly, "I haven't seen that picture."
Francis's eyes watered, and he turned the photographs away. "Someone who was very dear to me." He answered softly, sounds of crying leaking into his voice.
Before Alfred could press any further, a new arrival appeared in the waiting room. "Al, Francis," Gilbert made his way to the chairs they occupied, "God, I'm sorry…"
Francis uttered a sob and hugged his friend, shaking. "Mon Matthieu…" he sobbed quietly, "God, how could I let it get so far?"
"You didn't know," Alfred tried to comfort him in vain, "None of us knew."
"He refused to talk to me about it." Gilbert confessed, "I knew he was getting picked on, but I don't know why…"
Alfred hesitated. "It's because he's gay…" he said softly, "The assholes at our school…"
That slice of information made Francis break down completely, turning into a sobbing, wailing mess right there in Gilbert's arms. Alfred's eyes widened and his heart broke at the sight of his usually strong father in such a state. It was impossible to describe the pain in the corner of the room where the three sat. No words in English, in German, in French- or any other language for that matter- were sufficient to describe their suffering.
However, after a few hours, a nurse finally called for the family of Matthew Williams-Bonnefoy. Francis- who had cried himself into a sleeping state- awoke almost immediately at the sound of his son's name, and practically ran to the nurse, demanding knowledge of his son's state in incoherent French. The nurse, shocked by the sudden bombardment of foreign tongue, was rendered speechless until Francis was mostly silenced by Gilbert and Alfred pulled the nurse aside. "Sorry about him, miss," Alfred apologized, "He's just freaked out… How's Mattie doing?"
"He's doing fine now," The nurse assured him, "The doctors pumped his stomach and got all of the medication out of his system. He's in the Psych ward at the moment, and he is on mood tranquilizers to keep his emotions even."
She cleared her throat. "We ARE required by law to keep him here for three days," she told them, "But after that, you're allowed to take him home."
Francis seemed to sigh in relief and thank a higher power that their luck seemed to be improving. "And sir- er- Monsieur…" The nurse continued, biting her lip lightly, as if to stop the words from leaving her mouth. "Since he is still a minor, we are also required by law to inform you that while we were pumping his stomach, we found…" she hesitated, trying to find the words. "Well, I'll be blunt with you. We found evidence of self-harm on his thighs and stomach area. As well as his ankles and upper forearms."
Francis took a deep breath, and tried to fight back the tears he was certain were depleted. He wasn't surprised. How could he not expect his boy to find some method of trying to cope with the hell that'd become his life? Even still, the knowledge of it was heavy and painful on his heart. "Goddamn it, Mattie…" Alfred muttered, running a hand through his hair. "When you survive all this, I swear to God I'm going to kill you…"
Francis ignored his elder son's empty threat and tried to regain his ability to speak coherent English. "Can we see him?" his voice was weak from the strain he had put on it with all the crying.
The nurse nodded. "Two at a time," she told them. "we don't want to overwhelm him. He's still pretty out of it from all the drugs."
Alfred and Gilbert glanced over at eachother, and seemed to come to a mutual agreement. "You go first," Alfred told the albino, "I'll gather up some evidence for a case against these assholes on his phone." He shuddered a little and rolled his eyes. "And don't worry, I won't go through YOUR texts."
Gilbert just nodded in appreciation, then followed Francis and the nurse through the halls. After what seemed like a lifetime, they came to a room. Matthew laid out on the bed, tubes and wires coming from his body, his eyes barely open and his glasses resting on the nightstand beside him. "P-Papa…. G-Gil…" His voice was hoarse and groggy, like it hadn't been used in some time.
"Bonjour, mon petite lapin," Francis's voice sounded as though it was about to crack.
Matthew's eyes watered. "P-Papa…." He whimpered, "Wh-Why…? Want to… Want to die… I want to die… no one… n- no one would miss… no one would… would even care…"
"Of course people would care, Mattieu," Francis had tears in his eyes, "Your brother, your boyfriend, your best friend, your papa… Please… Why would you do something like this?"
"Y-Yeah, Birdie," Gilbert's voice and hands shook almost violently, "You're awesomer than that."
Matthew turned away in shame. "I just want this pain in my heart to go away…" he replied. "A worthless little faggot like me…. doesn't deserve to live… I'd be doing the world a… a favor…
Francis stared for at least a full minute, trying to wrap his mind around what his son just said. "Who told you that, Matthieu?" his voice was low.
"Who HASN'T told me that?!" Matthew's voice rose, laced with a mixture of tears, anger, sadness and a hint of desperation, "EVERYONE has told me that! I hear it every goddamn day! I read it every goddamn day on Facebook!" he choked on a sob. "If this is what my life is going to be, than why the fuck is it even worth living?!" Matthew's body seemed to fold in on itself, months of repressed pain pouring out of his body in waves.
After the longest time, Francis spoke. "Matthieu," his voice was soft, "Is that truly what drove you to this?"
His hands shaking, the older man slipped his shoes off with his toes, and climbed up on the bed. He pulled Matthew into his arms in an attempt to comfort him, rocking and not knowing what to say, and simply sat by him, holding one of the delicate hands in his pale ones.
None of them said anything for a long time. It had gotten so calm and quiet that Matthew had cried himself into a fitful and drug-induced sleep. Eventually, Gilbert was banished on Francis's demand that he go home to rest and prepare for a long day of school and work in the morning. Francis remained with the boy, even as visiting hours passed and nurses tried to convince him to leave.
It was late in the night when Matthew finally started to stir from sleep again. "Papa?" his mousey voice was even softer than usual.
"Bonjour, mon petite Mattieu," Francis tried to manage a smile, his voice equally soft and his arms still wrapped around the boy.
"W-Whatr'e you doing here?" Matthew asked, "You have work tomorrow…"
"Oui, but I couldn't let mon petite Matthieu spend the night all by himself," Francis had to use every ounce of willpower in his body to keep up his smile.
Matthew looked ashamed. "Gilbert…? Is he here too?" he sighed a little. "Maple, he already has so much to worry about…"
Francis managed a chuckle at the uttered "curse", and shook his head. "Non, cher. I sent him home to sleep." He said.
Matthew looked away with no response. "I'm sorry, Papa…" he apologized sadly. "I just… I just wanted this pain to end…"
Francis hugged the boy tighter, rocking him gently. "Shh, it's alright Matthieu," he soothed, "It'll be alright."
"No it won't be," Matthew's voice was almost a sob, "No matter what I do, I'll still be miserable and hated…" He sobbed. "I don't even know what I did to deserve all this…"
Francis hugged the boy tighter, as though if he let him go he would slip through his fingers like sand, and blinked away the tears welling up in his eyes. "Nothing… there's absolutely nothing you could've done to deserve all this hell…"
His hands shook as he fished his wallet out of his front pocket. He hesitantly unfolded the billfold, and took a folded photograph from behind his driver's license. "Matthieu… I'd like you to meet someone."
Matthew looked down at the black and white photograph with hazy eyes. "Who is that, Papa?" he asked quietly.
Francis's eyes were watery. "This is Arthur." He said, "He was pretty irritated with me for taking this. I 'ad to tell him there was no film."
He laughed humorlessly. "Arthur could play guitar like you'd never, ever heard before… and a voice of an angel." Francis smiled tenderly. "And his hands… Mon Dieu, he had the softest, most lovable hands…" Francis closed his eyes reminiscing. "And that messy hair of his… it was like he dunked his head in Indian spices every morning…"
Matthew looked up at Francis, confused. "Who… Who is this Arthur… to you, I mean?"
Francis smiled sadly, gazing down at the picture. "Arthur was," he took a breath, "WAS… my first kiss… my first boyfriend… my first time… and my first and one of my truest loves."
Matthew's eyes widened slightly. "Bet you didn't know your Papa was bisexual," Francis said with a miniscule smile.
Matthew shook his head, and stared down at the picture. "What happened to him, Papa?"
Francis swallowed away the lump in his throat. "In almost thirty years, almost nothing's changed." He mused to himself, "My first and truest love was bullied to death."
The younger's face was frozen in shock. "H-he… what?"
Francis nodded, tears leaking from his eyes. "Arthur was bullied by everyone around him, except for me." He said, "He was bullied by the others at school… By strangers that barely knew him… Even by his own older brothers." Francis sucked in a breath to keep composed. "He didn't deal with it well… Syringes, razor blades and hard liquor were his only friends beside me…" He sighed. "I tried to help him quit… I tried to help him get clean, and get through living the hell he lived…" Francis swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat. "I promised him we'd live far away from it all, that it'd be just him and me…. but the day never came." Francis's voice became quiet. "One day, it…." tears escaped his closed eyes. "It finally became too much for him to take."
Matthew's eyes watered. "Oh Papa…"
Francis took a couple of uneven breaths. "I found him." his voice quivered. "I-I went to his home to surprise him with dinner, and… I found him in the bathtub with his wrists slit."
"Oh Papa," Matthew couldn't control the tears anymore. "I'm so sorry, Papa!"
"Suicide is not a guarantee life won't get worse." The elder man's voice was heavy with unhindered sobs. "It's a guarantee that it can never get better."
Francis lifted Matthew's face to his. "There's so much more to life than what you feel right now, mon petite Matthieu." He told him, "There will come a day when you look back at all these days, and all this pain will be nonexistent. Invisible, even." Francis wiped away the boy's tears with his thumb. "But you have to stick with us long enough to see that happen… you have to keep going long enough to see better times." Francis put his forehead to Matthew's. "You won't go through it alone. And you never, ever will."
Matthew tried to stop the tears that just kept coming. "I know it's hard." Francis told him, "But it's never worth it to give up before you start really fighting… I'm not going to tell you things get better, because I'd be lying." He shook his head sadly. "No… things don't always get better. But YOU do." Matthew looked confused. "You get better at not listening to the labels they give you. You get better at finding your allies… And at finding ways to get through daily life." Francis smiled. "Your mother used to tell me that sometimes you have to go through periods of just surviving before you can get to really living."
Matthew wiped at his eyes and leaned back against his father. "I'll do my best, Papa." He said quietly. "I promise I'll try my hardest to keep going."
"That's all I can ask of you, Mon Coeur." Francis said softly, pressing a kiss to his hair. "You'll be glad you did…. I know it doesn't feel like it now. But you will be."
Matthew studied the reflection in the mirror, feeling nervous and excited all at the same time. The boy in the mirror had chinlength blonde hair, so much brighter than it had been only a few years previous. His skin seemed the tiniest bit less pale, and had almost a radiant glow to it. The violet eyes of his reflection seemed brighter, more full of life than they had ever been. A quiet knock interrupted Matthew's observation. "Come in," Matthew called, barely raising his mousey voice.
There was a click of a doorknob, and Francis appeared in the doorway, dressed in a black tuxedo. "Allo, Mon Coeur." He almost sang, "Are you almost ready?"
Matthew gave Francis a small smile. "Almost, Papa." He fought with his deep maroon tie. "if I can fix this darn thing…"
Francis chuckled quietly, and went to go fix it for him. "Here, let me help, Mon Matthieu."
Once the tie was tied and adjusted to look presentable, Francis brushed the black tuxedo jacket free of imaginary lint, and rested his hands on the barely taller boy's shoulders, a proud smile spread over his face. "Look at you," he said softly, "You look just like your mama."
Matthew looked into the mirror, studying his features again. "You have her smile," Francis continued with a sad smile, "and her eyes, too. She would've been so proud to see you today…"
Matthew smiled a little wider and blinked away tears. "I can't believe it's really happening…"
Francis had a smile as wide as the moon. Nothing short of death, disaster or apocalypse could wipe it away. His eyes flooded with proud, happy tears. "Mon Bebe…" he murmured, putting a hand to Matthew's cheek. "You've grown up so much…"
Matthew laughed a little bit and adjusted his glasses to wipe his own eyes. "Don't cry, Papa." He told him, "You'll make me cry too."
Francis wiped another tear and laughed humorlessly. "I'm just so proud of you, Matthieu… of how far you've come…"
Matthew smiled again, sadder than before, and turned to the mirror. "It hasn't been easy… I'm definitely not there yet." He admitted. "I still have some really, really bad days Gil's had to pull me back from."
"But you're working on it." Francis reminded him, "That's more than I could ever ask of you… And I'm so proud of you for it."
Matthew pulled his father into a hug. "Thank you, Papa." His voice was barely a whisper.
Francis wiped his eyes more and planted a kiss to the side of Matthew's head. "Je t'aime, Papa." Matthew whispered.
"Je t'aime Aussi, mon petite Matthieu." Francis replied, his face hidden in Matthew's jacket.
They stayed like that for a few more minutes, until there was another knock on the door. "Come in," Matthew's voice raised slightly again.
The door opened, revealing Alfred in the doorway, dressed in a tuxedo similar to his father's. "We're all waiting, Mattie." He said. "Ready, little bro?"
Matthew cast a glance back at his reflection, then back to his barely-older brother. "Yes, Al." he said. "I'm ready."
Matthew waited outside the doors of the chapel. His mouth was dry as Francis looped his arm through his. Matthew's heart pounded in his chest as he watched the groomsmen and bridesmaids walk down the aisle, music Matthew couldn't place playing softly. His heart almost drowned out the sound of Francis's voice, informing him it was their turn. Francis opened the door for them, a bright light overwhelming Matthew and making him adjust his glasses.
The meek Canadian tried to keep his eyes forward, and focus on not tripping over his own heels as Francis led them to the front, where Gilbert was waiting for them, clad in a black tuxedo with a maroon tie. Matthew tried not to cry as the officiate spoke to everyone that had gathered. When Francis went to give Matthew away, the boy trapped him in another hug. "Thank you, Papa." Matthew's voice was quiet. "I love you."
"I love you too, Matthieu." Francis whispered back. "Go on now… Your future husband is waiting for you."
Matthew released Francis from the hug, and joined hands with his soon to be husband. Saying vows, exchanging rings, everything seemed to move at a thousand miles an hour. Matthew was so happy, everything seemed to pass at a whirl. "I now present to you, for the first time," The officiate turned the two of them to the crowd, "Mr. and Mr. Beilschmidt- Williams!"
The crowd of their friends and family cheered loudly. "You may now kiss the groom."
The two shared a passionate kiss that left Matthew dizzy in delight.
Papa had said things would work out.
Papa had said he would be glad he kept going.
Papa was right.
WELLP, that's all for now folks. Now time to crawl back under my rock of schoolwork and impossible possibilities and not be seen or heard from for another couple months :P
Reviews are better than pasta! And I LOVE MY PASTA! :D
SF OUT!~