A/N: Well, this is depressing.
It was an idea I've had on my mind for a while, and last night I figured, what the hell? So I finally wrote it. Enjoy, and please don't be too depressed to review!
EDIT: Okay, so I felt guilty leaving it just at that ending, so I ended up writing an epilogue of sorts; it's not MapleRevival without fluff, right? Anyway, the epilogue is fluffy and glorious, so you need not worry about being too depressed!
First it was the boys at school.
In fifth grade, Matthew Williams had been shut in his locker, mocked, punched, slapped, teased, and ignored, all day, every day, for the entire year. Ivan Braginski and his sister Naytalia had a bone to pick with Alfred F. Jones, a jock Matthew hardly knew, but looked exactly like. Alfred never got any of the beatings—only Matthew was weak enough to be easily broken. Ivan slammed him against his locker, ignoring Matthew's attempts at an explanation of the fact that he was not Alfred, and drew back his arm, curled his fingers into a fist, and punched him in the face. Hard. A resounding bang echoed through the empty hallway as his head rebounded against the locker, hard enough to force swimming blue stars into his vision, pain ripping into his skull. A second punch slammed into his nose, this one harder than the last; Matthew yelped weakly as he felt his nose snap, blood spurting over Ivan's hand pinning him to the locker by his throat, his glasses cracked and snapped in two as they fell to the floor. Matthew's eyes stung with tears, blurry with searing agony, but that didn't stop him from seeing the menacing grin on Ivan's face as he finally pulled his hand from the smaller boy's throat, shoving him to the ground in a crumpled heap.
"Next time you will not have it so easy, Alfred," Ivan said cheerfully, before setting off down the hallway like he was a perfectly normal fifth grader happy that school had ended for today, Naytalia trailing behind him like the creepiest shadow humanly possible.
Matthew waited until they were gone, and then he slumped on the floor, blood dripping down to ruin the white maple leaf logo of his favorite hoodie, and sobbed with pain.
It was nearly an hour before anyone found him.
In seventh grade, his mother was married for the second time.
She called the man 'Jeff'.
Jeff hurt Matthew.
The first time he had hit Matthew, the sour stench of alcohol had been strong on his breath, and his fist had been like lead, connecting with his ribs to smash the wind from his lungs. Matthew had been beat up by Ivan practically every day for almost two years now, so he was all too familiar with the pain that exploded in his side when he was hit, but this was far different from Ivan. Jeff was stronger, and angrier than Ivan ever had been. Matthew choked for air, unable to remember how to breathe, before another blow rammed into him and agony exploded in his stomach, making him choke, nearly vomiting right there on the kitchen floor. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move, and as another punch slammed into his ribs, he crumpled to the ground, tears of agony running down his face; curling into a ball in a feeble attempt to protect himself, Matthew still struggled for air against the steady kicks now raining down against his side. He was still coughing, shivering, choking, when finally the blows ended with one final kick to his ribs, so hard that Matthew was sure he felt something crack.
Jeff left him to pull himself upright, half-limp, half-stagger down the hall to his room, and curl up in bed and cry. He locked the door—was too afraid to risk the short scamper between the bathroom and his room for some Tylenol to help with the pain. Was there internal bleeding this time? Matthew had never felt as though his insides had been permanently relocated, but now he knew it was the most terrible feeling he'd ever been through. Pain pulsed through him with every heartbeat, inescapable, searing, and hellish. He hoped Jeff would never do this again.
Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, Matthew wanted to scream and pound himself even more, into oblivion. He threw himself against the wall, punching at his stomach and legs and face.
He was such a coward.
In the morning, his entire stomach was black and blue, his ribs had a dent in them where the final kick had landed, and he could barely move for the pain that exploded through him whenever he tried to turn his body one way or the other.
Matthew couldn't tell his mother, or anyone. He just couldn't. He went to school that day, trying to pretend nothing had happened. Not that anyone would have noticed, anyway.
Ivan beat him up again.
Matthew felt sure he was dying.
It was sad, really, that by the time he was a freshman in high school, Matthew had had seven broken bones and three cases of internal bleeding from the beatings he got from Jeff, in his drunken rages, and Ivan, in his hatred of Alfred. He had only been to the doctor for his injuries one time, and then had only been because he had almost died of his injuries. The doctor had looked horrified, but had not asked questions.
Ivan had to realize by now that he was not Alfred; Matthew thought that the boy just enjoyed beating him up.
Jeff was worse than usual tonight, and Matthew had simply gone limp as a ragdoll upon the first crippling blow to his thin form. He had found, since sometime in eighth grade, that to just lie there, pretend he was dead, and take it as it came was a better way to cope; as his body was pounded and beaten relentlessly, and agony exploded as new bruises were slammed into his skin, he could just float away... He could go elsewhere, to a better place—one where his true father had not left them when he was six, where his mother had not remarried to a monster, and where he did not have yellowing bruises and crookedly-healed bones from the beatings of that monster. Matthew floated deep within his own mind, until he suddenly felt the kicks and punches cease, as though from very, very far away, and was jerked back to reality by a woman's scream.
Jeff had turned on his mother.
And Matthew leapt on him, suddenly mindless, forgetting that he was a skinny, frail young boy trying to protect his mother from a hulking madman.
A week afterward, Matthew was sent to the hospital again, for three breaks in his upper arm and a concussion.
The night he got home from the hospital, Matthew had cut himself.
He had taken an X-Acto knife from his mother's craft desk and hacked at himself until his wrists and shoulders and thighs were gashed like he had been in a car accident, tears streaming down his face. Warm blood ran over his skin, a few drops soaking into the white maple leaf on his battered red hoodie, lying on the bed beside him. Why me? he wanted to scream. But he could not scream, because Jeff would hear and come to shut him up. His cries were soundless, as they always were, anymore; he had long ago gotten used to crying in silence. More blood welled from the slashes, sticky and scarlet as it shone on his pale skin. Matthew turned his face skyward and opened his mouth in a silent scream.
Why me?
Matthew was invisible until halfway through his Sophomore year.
When Alfred F. Jones, the jock Matthew hardly knew but had used to look exactly like, accidentally bumped into him in the hallway and sent his books flying, Matthew had not expected an apology. But just as he was going to hurry away to pick them up again, a warm hand on his shoulder stopped him. And when he looked up, it was to meet the bluest eyes he'd ever seen, sparkling behind wire-rimmed glasses.
"Sorry," Alfred said, voice bright and kind. "Didn't mean to run into you like that, dude. Need some help?"
All Matthew could do was nod.
Alfred helped him pick up his books. There were freckles scattered lightly across his tanned face, a lone spike in his messy blond hair bouncing as he darted around to gather all of Matthew's books, his Captain America T-shirt revealing no traces of injury or abuse on his arms. Matthew felt a sudden pang, thinking of himself and his battered old maple leaf hoodie, and suddenly finding himself wondering why this popular, happy, perfect boy would have stopped to help a loser like him. Alfred just popped back up in front of him in a heartbeat, grinning as he handed Matthew his books. Matthew winced when their arms accidentally brushed, but Alfred's touch was gentle, and a spark of worry flickered in those brilliant blue eyes when he saw the wince.
"Hey, you okay?" he asked suddenly.
Matthew hoped he didn't jump. "Yes. Thank you," he quickly added, attempting the tiniest hint of a smile.
Alfred's grin returned. "No prob," he said warmly, before joining the flow of other students on their way down the hall to class.
When Alfred had invited Matthew to come home with him after school one day, maybe it would have been wiser for Matthew to decline.
But he hadn't, and was instead following Alfred and his bouncy blond cowlick through the front door of a large white house, windows glowing warmly with light, and carpet thick and soft beneath his feet. Matthew took off his shoes cautiously, gazing around at the spacious, comfortable living room, at the staircase leading to the second floor, and the kitchen that was adjoined to the living room at his right. It was all so airy, and open, and clean and warm and homey—his own family's apartment was grubby and tiny and dim. Looking around at Alfred's beautiful home, Matthew had never felt so out of place.
Alfred had introduced Matthew to his dad and papa—Arthur, the one Alfred called dad, was short and skinny, his green eyes kind and blond hair messy, almost exactly like Alfred's; apparently, he worked as a policeman at the local station. Francis, papa, was tall, an artist, and had wavy blond hair and Alfred's sapphire-blue eyes. Even though Alfred assured Matthew he was adopted, Matthew found it remarkable how similar Alfred was to his two fathers.
Dinner was a completely new experience for Matthew; it wasn't eaten in stony silence, but Francis and Arthur were laughing and teasing one another as they set out the food, and once Alfred and Matthew had joined them, Alfred and his fathers were talking about school, and work, and all manner of things that regular families talked about at dinner. Matthew sat and watched, feeling more out of place with each passing moment. The food was delicious, but he wasn't very hungry.
After dinner, Alfred showed Matthew the rest of the house, ending with his room. Matthew gazed around, taking in the four walls covered in superhero and Xbox posters, the rumpled American flag bedspread, and the way Alfred blushed slightly and kicked the junk on his floor into the messy closet, slamming the door on it. He ran a hand through his hair with an awkward shrug, looking to Matthew for approval.
"It's not much, but it's mine," he said, and Matthew felt a smile grace his face for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. Alfred's eyes never left his face, the American's same wonderful aw-shucks grin creeping onto his face as he watched Matthew smile. He flopped onto his bed, patting the spot next to him and watching as Matthew seemed to float across the room to sit.
"It's wonderful," Matthew whispered, really, truly meaning it.
But the pricelessly rare smile faded away in the next two seconds.
That night, when Matthew got home again, Jeff beat him so badly he could hardly breathe through the agony in his ribs, for not being back before seven.
They were talking about Matthew.
Alfred knew it. His fathers were both talking about Matthew, and he wanted to talk about Matthew, also, but both Dad and Papa always stopped their conversations when he walked into the room. Since last week, all anyone in this house could think of was Matthew. Something was very, very wrong for him. Alfred had just known it, from he second he'd seen the frightened flash in his soft violet eyes that day they'd brushed in the hallway.
He hovered just around the corner of the staircase, listening to his fathers murmur quietly in the kitchen.
And then, he stepped from the shadows. "Dad," he said bravely, taking a deep breath, "I think someone's hurting Mattie."
Matthew curled into a ball, floating away, again, white mist enveloping him in its cloak. As another of Jeff's punches sent an explosion of pain racking down his back, he curled up tighter, shutting his eyes, retreating farther than he ever had before and feeling oddly peaceful for the first time in his life—disconnected, as though he were floating in space, and the muted throb searing through his thin, trembling body was merely a figment of his imagination. The blows rained down, harder and faster this time, and distantly, he felt something crack as Jeff drove a foot into his side so hard he was slammed against the wall. Jeff hauled him upright, before throwing him back against the wall again and driving a knee into his stomach. Matthew didn't know where his mother was; he could only hope she was away from here.
And then he heard, distantly, as though in a dream, someone knocking on the front door. Jeff kicked the wind out of him, punching his face back against the wall, making blue stars spin in his vision.
And now a voice Matthew vaguely recognized was calling through the door, and the knocking was beginning to get louder. Another blow landed itself on his ribs, making him choke, curling up in his ball again for protection, feeling Jeff kick him in the shoulder. A sickening crack resounded through the apartment, and suddenly the pounding at the door stopped.
Instead, the door burst open, and Alfred came flying in, looking around frantically, with Arthur not far behind him, in full police uniform with handcuffs and gun in hand.
"I told you, dad!" Alfred yelled, almost sounding hysterical with grief. "Look—look at him, he's hurt so bad!"
The sight of Alfred brought reality surging back to Matthew's senses, and suddenly the agony of his bruises and whatever bones were broken this time was pounding over him, and the white fog was gone, and he could barely keep his eyes open against the sheer pain engulfing him—but even despite it all, there was relief. Relief, because Alfred was here. The world looked more focused, sharper, lights brighter and shadows darker even despite the blue stars dancing in front of his half-lidded eyes. Matthew realized he was shivering with pain.
Alfred had rushed to him, and now knelt beside him, gently bring Matthew's small body to rest in his lap. Even though Matthew nearly whimpered at the screaming shriek of pain from being shifted, the warmth of Alfred's body brought his heartbeat to a calmer pace. Being this close to Alfred, suddenly he realized how strong and warm and gentle the other boy was. So unbearably gentle.
With Alfred's arms around him in a soft embrace like none he'd ever felt before, Matthew's shivers slowly became a mere trembling, and he slowly realized that the wetness in his hair was not blood—it was tears.
Alfred was crying quietly.
And, looking up into those brilliant blue eyes, to find them unsparkling, and instead glistening with tears of grief, was enough to bring tears to Matthew's eyes as well.
"I'm so sorry, Mattie," Alfred whispered, running a hand through Matthew's soft, sweaty hair and feeling the smaller boy wrack with soundless sobs in his arms. "I'm no superman—and I know I came too late... but I swear to you, I will always be your hero."
The cool breeze in the air brings the chill, spicy scent of autumn to blow gently through Matthew's strawberry-blond hair, violet eyes shimmering brilliantly in the warm sunshine, long, beautiful lashes no longer obscured by cloudy, broken glasses. His threadbare maple leaf hoodie has been replaced by a soft, clean red jacket with a cozy hood—but today the sleeves are rolled up, finally freeing his scars from cutting and abuse for the world to see. He is beyond that now, with a new family, new friends, and a new life.
Watching the wind run through his hair, Alfred thinks that the smile on his face is enough to light up an entire town.
He reaches out to take Matthew's hand as they stand near the fountain in the town square, smiling as the wind shifts direction for a moment, misting them both with spray, and Matthew laughs, giving Alfred's hand a squeeze. Alfred smiles, almost unable to believe just how beautiful Matthew really is—if it had been anyone other than him, Alfred would have thought them too perfect to be real. As Matthew looks up at him, chilly autumn breeze rippling his hair softly, violet eyes shining in the golden sunlight of the fountain, Alfred cannot help himself; he takes Matthew's face in his hands and kisses him softly.
Matthew giggles, kissing back, smiling against Alfred's lips. Alfred laughs too, unable to help himself, feeling that smile—so much has changed between them since sophomore year, but he would never get tired of seeing and feeling and tasting that smile. He hadn't ever seen Matthew smile, before he had come to live with he and his fathers.
When they break apart, Alfred hugs Matthew close to him, letting their foreheads rest against each other as he lets himself breathe in Matthew's scent. Matthew sighs, hugging Alfred back.
"Thanks for being my hero, Al," he says softly. Alfred's heart will never stop skipping a beat every time he hears those words that Matthew says so very, very often. He still holds Matthew close to him, now running a hand through his soft hair, feeling the gentle breeze on his face. And in that moment, as Matthew smiles, everything is perfect.
"Love you too, Mattie," Alfred whispers back.