God of Your World
He suspected, sometimes, that Arthur hated him. He looked like Alfred. When one wasn't looking closely, he was precisely alike to Alfred. Only...
He wasn't. He wasn't Alfred. He didn't smile like Alfred. He didn't walk like Alfred. He didn't talk like Alfred or cry like Alfred or storm off to his room like Alfred.
And Arthur hated that. Perhaps, if Matthew could just be the little boy he loved. The little boy he had lost. If he would just grin widely and laugh uproariously and strut proudly. If he could just be Alfred.
Matthew hated it. Hated not being loved for himself. He was loved for being Alfred. For looking like him, even in just the slightest bit. He was what Arthur wanted. Matthew was nothing. Something extra on the side that he had never really wanted while Alfred...
Alfred got everything.
And it just wasn't fair. He loved Arthur more. Always had. More than Alfred ever would or could. So why...? Why did Alfred get all the attention, the affection? Why did Arthur pour all of his love on to Alfred when he only rejected it. Why when Matthew was...
He was right there!
Arthur cried. Not openly. Not so that just anyone could see. His pride wouldn't allow it. Instead, he held Matthew tight, sobbing into his hair "Alfred, Alfred!" Why wasn't he the special one? Why did Arthur not cry his name? Did he not see him?
Matthew never said anything, wrapping his arms, thin and frail, around Arthur's waist. He breathed in the other's scent, like oak and spruce and heather and autumn when the leaves were still changing from green to yellow. He reveled in these nights when Arthur was weak.
Partly because he wanted Arthur to suffer. More, your pain I want to see it ha did you get what you deserve? He liked it when Arthur cried.
But mostly because Arthur held him. And were it not for the constant chant of Alfred's name, Matthew would for once truly believe it was him, Canada, Matthew Williams, that Arthur saw. Not a clone. Not a replacement. This... This was what it would feel like to be loved.
With haunted eyes, Arthur stared at him from across the room. Remembering. Looking at him. But not seeing him. His lip trembled, and he downed the rest of his bottle of rum, trying to appear strong.
"You look just like him." I'm not him. "And I don't understand why he left." I'm here. Look at me. Love me. Arthur was past the point of reason, too drunk to care what he said, what he meant. Too drunk to care if Matthew went to bed in tears again tonight.
Did Alfred not realize what he had done? He'd torn apart everything and left Matthew with the broken pieces. As always, second best at most.
Arthur held him, breathing in the scent of his hair. He smelled like snow and jasmine and peaches. Not like Alfred. Not tart apples and blossoms and dead of summer night winds. He was not Alfred.
"Alfred." Such a horrendous broken cry. Matthew bit his lip. Didn't quietly whisper 'I'm Matthew' as he might be inclined to do. "Alfred." His heart tore.
Was he not good enough? Was he worthless? "Alfred!"
"St-stop crying." He tried to smile. Arthur blinked at him blurrily, not fully seeing him, as always. "I-I'm here so please stop crying." He was loyal. He was there. He would always be there. He would be there because Arthur needed him.
He had to believe Arthur needed him.
Arthur choked on his tears, stroking Matthew's cheeks with calloused fingers. "You look so much like him." It was undeniable really. Alfred had been god. God of everything Arthur was. And Matthew was just a replacement. An idol to praise.
"I-I'll be your America. So. So please...!" Please, just love me.
Owari