"Matthew, this is the only one you are receiving, you break it, you don't get a new one. Got that?"

Matthew only nodded, too tired to actually communicate through words as his papa handed him a rapier. Forcing a couple of broken fingers to bend around the handle, Matthew pulled it out of his papa's light grip. Once the hand that was holding the sword up let go, Matthew let it fall next to him on the ground, completely exhausted from the fighting they had been doing previous. Blood stained his jeans from scraped knees, fingers throbbing with the need to be set into place, and his nose once again bloody from a punch to the face that he didn't dodge in time. His long sleeved red shirt was torn in a couple of places from a few close calls from his papa's own rapier.

It had been like this for as long as Matthew could remember. Getting up and out of bed only to start sparring with his papa or whoever his papa bribed (aka blackmailed) from the boxing ring down the street, and then trying to survive the 8 hour fight that would occur only minutes after rolling out of his sheets.

Even when the fighting was over, Matthew couldn't let his guard down. Traps were set everywhere, and he had to watch his every step. The one time he hadn't he ended up with a broken leg and had to set it himself when his papa walked away telling him to 'walk it off'. Thankfully Matthew wasn't 'human', and his wounds healed at an insane rate. Faster than Alfred actually, and it was probably because he had to go through this process every day while his brother got to eat his tofu burgers in relative peace. Relative due to the fact that Arthur would never leave him alone, but at least he didn't have to watch for steak knives coming out of nowhere.

It was the next day that Matthew started to practice with his rapier. He didn't really like it, but it was better than trying to fight off a sword with his bare hands, now he could parry with a weapon of his own.

Of course, when he was just starting to get the hang of the weapon two months later later (you had to be a quick learner in this house), the rapier broke. After the powerful swing, Matthew dropped the now blade-less weapon, jumping back from the oncoming swing, continuing to fight off his papa with his hands, just like old times it seemed.

Completely tired and finally done for the day, Matthew picked up the two pieces of the broken sword and looked at his papa's back as the man walked away. Right, you break it, too bad, no seconds.

Carrying the pieces upstairs, he dropped them onto his bed as he reached his room. Taking his (finally) long enough hair out of its tie, he stepped into the shower, cleaning his wounds as he washed his hair of any sweat. What was he going to do without a weapon, his papa seemed to have made training even harder since he received the blade, and without it he might end up unable to move for weeks. He would just have to improvise then, he still had the blade to work with, he could make something. Right?

Wrapping a towel around his waist, he quickly dried himself off and pulled on a pair of pajama pants. Making his way over to the bed, Matthew lifted the clean piece of metal. He hadn't been able to hit his papa yet, but possibly one day.

Sitting down, he pulled the blade to himself and fell back on his soft mattress. What could he do with this? He needed something. Rolling his head to the side as he let out a huff, only to spot something in the corner of his room. A hockey stick. Now, Matthew didn't play much, but he did enjoy it and it looked like it would make a decent bat if he wanted to use it as such. No, not a bat...

Getting up and picking up the hockey stick, Matthew made his way back over to the bed which still had the blade resting on it. All he needed was some tape or glue or something. Finding a bunch of medical tape in one of his drawers, Matthew lined up the metal to the blade of the stick, and wrapped the tape around two of the ends. He would figure out a way to hold it all together a little bit better later, but for now, this would work fine. Placing his new weapon against his dresser, Matthew headed off to bed, preparing himself for the next day.

The second he stepped foot into the dark basement, Matthew was met with his papa's rapier swinging for his face, but he was able to bring up his hockey stick in time to stop the swing. The light in the basement turned on, and his papa let go of the string attached to the lightbulb in the ceiling.

"What is that Matthew?"

"My... weapon..." He let the blade run against the concrete floor, which created a horrible ear piercing screech. His papa didn't say anything but, rested his hand on his hip, lazily holding his rapier in his other as he watched Matthew position the hockey stick across his body, holding it in both hands.

"Alright then."

No more was said on the matter as his papa charged at him. This weapon had better hold out if he wanted to survive any more of his papas training. Metal crashed on metal as the broken blade met his papa's rapier.

-oOoOo-

It had been nearly a century since Matthew had used his hockey stick as a weapon, and his additions just made it that much better. Barbed wire, there to grab and rip any skin that got too close to his body. A nice grip close to the top and bottom of the stick so he could shove the blade in deep with little effort on his part. He even re-enforced the core with steel, balancing it out along with preventing it from breaking.

It did it's job.

It was also fun to swing around at his brother. 'Accidentally' breaking Alfred's nose once or twice, only to watch him run off to Arthur who was making strange faces at his papa.

Matthew had learned early on that expressions were dangerous, so had adopted his stony facade from his papa. Emotions showed weakness, and often caused problems when people thought you cared about something.

So as he watched Alfred run off, hand to his bleeding nose, Matthew just stared at his retreating back. What a joke his brother was, he couldn't even take a hit, he hardly even scratched him. What was a broken nose anyway. It was easily fixed, even if he might have a bit of a crook in it from now on, it was still nothing to whine about.

He continued to watch as Alfred launched himself at Arthur, and then turned his gaze on his papa. Only to see his papa looking back at him. Even with no expression on his face, he could see that his papa was 'proud'. Or as proud as an emotionless man could get.