Warning. Chapter will contain a lot of Francis in the middle, and some French. I can't be bothered to translate some of it. The context should make it clear, or God forbid you might have to look it up and learn some French! XD

Also, despite the beginning, this is not a funny chapter. It's the start of my proper hurt/comfort topic, and it is certainly introducing the hurt. So yeah, I'm sorry about making it all serious at the end there.

I'm pretty worried about posting this actually, so pls be nice!


Chapter 3

Arthur woke up before his alarm the next morning. At first he didn't know where he was, then he remembered that he had moved flats. The next thing he had to wreck his 7am brain about was why there was an arm lying across his chest.

The Brit's heart sank dramatically. Thoughts like 'Did I drink anything last night!? I am still under-age, I hardly even drink at all. What the hell is...?' filled his head. He hoped he wouldn't hyperventilate.

He turned his head slowly to see another blond sleeping peacefully next to himself. Anger over-powered awkwardness and he reached out for the book placed on his bedside table, and used it to hit the other guy in the head.

The American woke with a startled "AUCH! What the hell dude!?", rubbing his head with his hand.

"That is what I should be asking, you twat! What the hell are you doing in my bed!?" The Brit shouted horrified and seriously pissed off. The two emotions battling in his face, along with a slow blush of embarrassment.

"Dude, calm down! I was trying to make the sofa bed thingy work, but then I couldn't understand it, so I tried sleeping on the sofa, but it was too short. Then I tried to wake you and get help, but you were sleeping really heavily and all, so in the end I decided to just sleep here. No biggie," Alfred said. As if it wasn't the end of the bloody world!

"You should have stayed on the sofa! Or slept on the bleedin' floor. Or asked one of the porters for help. You could have tried harder at waking me up. Your solution was absolutely unacceptable! Don't ever do such a thing again!" Arthur snapped, and got to his feet.

He was in dire need of caffeine, and he needed to get away from the American and calm down.

"Dude, I'm sorry OK? Geez. It's no big deal and all," Alfred said walking after the angry Brit into the kitchen.

"Alfred, it is a big deal to other people. Can't you understand that people are different, and cultures are different. And where I am from we don't sodding violate personal space, or touch other people's things, or sleep in the beds of strangers - unless we are very drunk, alright?" Arthur said, stirring his coffee furiously.

Alfred stared at him, then nodded. "Yeah, I get it. You're a bit like the Japanese aren't you? I suppose I sort of assume people that speak English are like us," he explained.

Arthur rolled his eyes, but couldn't bother keeping up the discussion. He knew for a fact there were many decent Americans that would never do such a horrible thing! Alfred was just peculiar.

The Brit dipped some breakfast biscuits into his coffee and chewed on them, while the American started making an elaborate breakfast of sweet things.

After debating eating properly or not Arthur toasted some bread, found some strawberry jam and sat down with a book and a cuppa. This day had not started very well!


It was another rainy day on the British isles. Alfred was complaining about the "friggin weather" when they went out. Arthur just shrugged, he had always found rain cosy. And it made everything even greener, and he liked the smell.

They walked to class in silence after that, Alfred occasionally eyeing Arthur curiously. The English tried to ignore it, thinking about what they had for their first lesson. He knew they had geography later, and music, but the first lesson was "Oh bloody hell! We have French!" he cursed out loud. Breaking his inner vow not to talk to the American for the day.

Alfred laughed, "not your best subject then?" he asked.

"It is not that my French is half bad, it's more the fact that Francis is there to mock my pronunciation," he sighed.

"I hardly remember how to say hello in French. I was always better at Spanish," Alfred offered in return, "I think you sound really French when you speak in class, but I'm no expert of course."

They reached the classroom, the American being half soaked from just the short walk because he had never heard of umbrellas it seemed. They sat down just as the bell rang. With Alfred tagging along Arthur was much less early than normal.

"Bonjour tout le monde!" the teacher called as he entered the door. He was French himself, and was of course very fond of Francis. Matthew was also in his right element for this, although the two Frenchmen mocked his funny accent and choice of words.

The teacher spoke in French for a while before repeating most of it in English. He always did that, hoping everyone would just pick it up instinctively. Arthur gave himself a mental kick. Some people probably benefited from it, he should probably stop being so grumpy about this subject but the teacher always...

"I was thinking we work in pairs today. Matthew, why don't you help Alfred out? And Francis, could you work with Arthur? Les Anglophones always seem to have a harder time picking up French, n'est-ce pas?"

Francis just grinned his most evil grin as Arthur turned around to face him.

"I never understand why I have to work with you. It is a waste of both our times. You should be reading French literature and analyse poems. I should be working with someone at my own level. It is ridiculous," Arthur muttered angrily.

"Ah, mon cher Anglais! It is so amusing for me to hear you parle francais! Also, I have to have every other class in your stupid langue. You should be grateful, mon petit," the Frenchman said.

"D'accord class. You are reading a text together. Choose who is A and B. Ask if you have problems with the pronunciation or questions about what a word means, oui?" the teacher instructed.

"Après vous, Rosbif," Francis said mock-formally with a small bow, gesturing towards the text.

"Don't call me rosbif, frog," Arthur muttered grumpily, but turned to the text, slowly stuttering through. Far too aware that the Frenchman was sitting opposite him, waiting for him to fall into a pit of despair.

"Tu as un accent très mignon, mon petit lapin," Francis said. Arthur's accent might not be all that good, but it was certainly not 'cute', and he was starting to get annoyed at the fact that he was picking up French from Francis patronising him!

"Don't call me 'little rabbit' Francis, it is utterly disturbing. I know my French isn't perfect, and I don't need you telling me that. It is not like your English is without an accent, but I don't pick on you every day," Arthur snapped.

The Frenchman's expression suddenly changed. "D'accord. Let us work properly then, mon ami. Did you understand ze texte?" he asked Arthur.

This was unexpected. Arthur looked back at the book. "Well. It is about the 'jour J', which is the D-Day of 1944, right? And the nazi occupation of France..." Arthur trailed off.

"Oui, c'est vrai," Francis said, and they just sort of trailed off in their common history as friends. It was easy to say that their two countries had always been enemies and rivals, but when one of them (mostly France) was in danger they were concerned for each other. One cannot compete without the other, after all.

"Do you want me to read ze next page?" Francis asked, and Arthur nodded.

As the Frenchman started to read the Brit immediately recognised it as Winston Churchill's radio speech to France during the war. Although, of course, Francis was actually pronouncing the French correctly.

"You have to admit it is more charming when Churchill did it," Arthur grinned.

Francis grinned back and started doing a parody of the English accent as he kept reading.

"Twat," the Brit laughed and gently punched the other in the shoulder.

"You 'ave to admit my accent was spot on," Francis laughed. "It is nothing to be ashamed of, mon cher, it is adorable. Mais, l'accent Francais will always be the most sexy," he added in a husky voice.

Arthur rolled his eyes and changed the subject entirely. "Do you miss home?" he asked. "I mean, we are here several months at a time, and you have to live with a different culture and keep up a foreign language for most of it," he supplemented.

"Oui, I do miss home. And the language made me very tired in the beginning, but I got used to it. I do miss France a lot. Particularly in regards to rules of dating," Francis confessed. Arthur softly snorted, but secretly agreed. Whatever the English dating rules were, he still prefered them to this mis-match of cultures placed at a school in the Republic of Ireland.

"Je pense.. I might be picking on you because it feels like home, tu sais? Like, the French and the English are supposed to be teasing each other, and allows me to pretend that I am back home, maybe in Calais, making fun of an Anglais who just crossed La Manche," Francis confessed very sincerely. Maybe he just realised himself.

Arthur had to admit that it did feel very natural to bicker with the Frenchman. "Well, I am not far from home nor speaking a foreign language, but I know what you mean," he said and Francis lit up.

"However, that does not mean I like it! Please, don't you have the concept of personal space in France!?"


The rest of the day was more or less uneventful. After class Arthur went off to do his duties as the student council, while Alfred went back to their flat.

Alfred was bored. So very bored. So bored, in fact, that he decided to look through Arthur's things. He knew the other wouldn't be back for a few hours, so why not?

He opened drawers, noticed how neat all Arthur's clothing was looking in the cupboard, and everything. Alfred managed to make a little London- bus souvenir (he hadn't taken Arthur as the sentimental type, but everyone gets homesick now and then, right?) fall from the bedside table and find its way underneath the bed.

"Shit," Alfred muttered and lay down on the floor to retrieve it. Instead of a little, red double decker bus, he found a leather bound book. He pulled it out and opened it. The pages was written in a neat cursive handwriting. How very Arthur.

Instead of doing the decent thing - putting it back (in case you were wondering) - Alfred started reading the page he had found. Dated a couple of weeks back.

Diary Entry, 7th January:

Back to school again. I cannot say I have missed it, but being with my family was not much of an improvement.

The black hole is back in my chest. I can function – my grades are as good as they get - , but I physically feel it every day. It is not eating me up, but it is constantly there. Like an old wound, that is there, but you can live with it. Sort of like a dementor is trailing behind me ever day.

I keep trying to find the cause behind it. I will not be going to get professional help, but I can still try to locate it.

So far no thoughts of self-harm or suicide, which is a very good sign.

I am so scared of being alone, never feeling connected to anyone, but then again, I prefer to be alone. It is such a horrid paradox! Most days I am fine with having people I know, rather than friends. People I can ask to help me with subjects I struggle in, or similar, but it is not always enough.

Having to be around people all the time makes me so tired. And they are the only ones that can truly hurt you.

Imagine telling Francis I am constantly sad and angry! Don't think he would react the way I would need him to. He would probably think I am kidding.

Fictional characters hurt too, of course, but it is different. And it is never personal. When America pokes fun at me, it is personal, which is why reality will always lose to fiction.

bloody hell.I should go work.

And thus the entry ended. America re-read it, then felt a bit bad. A black hole in England's chest? How does that even work? He had never felt that, maybe apart from maybe when his dad died, but he had been too small to really know what was going on.

Alfred had gotten used to it really, so no too much sympathy thank you. Also, his uncle had stepped in rather quickly. The dude had been living in Britain for most of his life, so his accent and customs had become a bit fucked up. Still, he had the wits enough to take Alfred to baseball games like a father should be doing.

Anyway, maybe the feelings were similar?

Was Arthur constantly walking around, doing all of the things, while hurting? He really hoped not. The American, despite of himself and respecting other people's Freedom, read on. Maybe he should tell someone? Like a teacher or something? But that would be admitting he had read the thing, which would take away any trust Arthur would ever had in him ever.

'America poking fun' had to be him. Alfred highly doubted Arthur would nickname Matthew America, North American or not. Had he been too mean? 'Poking fun' wasn't that bad was it?

He read on, deciding that he needed to know more.

It hurts. It just fucking hurts. My chest is stabbing me from the inside and nothing can make it stop. I have made several pots of tea, I have taken walks, smelt flowers, had several "healthy" cries lying underneath my desk with a bunch of pillows, but nothing seems to be working. I am sleeping and eating as I should too.

I never would have thought that being sad could hurt physically. It's not like it is a physical wound, you know? I bought ten new books in hope of being inspired to read, but I cannot concentrate on them.

Sometimes I would love to say that I feel like this because I am bullied, or have any other external reason. But I don't. It is just me, and my useless feelings.

I have no courage to share them with anyone either. Crying in front of anyone would be beyond painful and I could never live with it. And it is no way I can try to put words to this without crying. Or at least get violent.

Even worse though! What if I tell someone and then they say: "You are not depressed, idiot", or ask me just "why? Why are you depressed? That's stupid. You are from a nice, comfortable home, in a first world country. People starve in Africa". I couldn't live with that.

I can't explain WHY, it just is. I just feel it. It is irrational. I have applied reason to it, but I cannot reason myself out of it. Very distressing in a sense, but feelings doesn't seem to be about what your head is reasoning.

I am 17, my first instinct should not be to get a drink. But it is. I just want to drink a bottle of wine by myself... God, I am pathetic.

Alfred hid the diary back under the bed, and left the room like he had found it. This was some serious shit he would have to deal with. But he was a hero, wasn't he? This is what Americans do!

He decided for himself to find a way to check if the Brit had any cuts on his wrists. It would not be easy, with Arthur and his, like, 20 layers of clothing, but he could try. He would start by putting all of the tea on the top shelves.

If the Englishman had to stretch to get his Elixir of Life he might get to see. Although, there was always a chance he had cut himself further up. Though, the Brit had written, to himself no less, that he was not hurting himself. Still, better safe than sorry.

Alfred opened the Brit's cupboard and discovered several big boxes (hundred or more bags in each) of tea. The American was used to a variety of fruit teas, camomile, green stuff but Arthur owned none of that. In this case, even some Earl Grey would have liven it up. But nope, it all looked like the same sort of black tea.

'Man, Arthur has some serious variety issues', the thought to himself, as he moved the tea to the top shelves (where even he had to tiptoe to reach), before turning on the oven to make himself a nice hamburger. He was feeling peckish.

The American set about making his awesome food, but couldn't get Arthur's words out of his head. He had to do something. Alfred would indeed have to step in and be the hero in this matter! Although the Brit was grumpy and annoying, maybe this explained why. If Alfred could just get the other to see he did care for Arthur, although he was a bit stuck up, maybe the Brit would feel better?

Alfred made several mental notes and future plans for himself as he sat in front of the TV chewing on his hamburger and fries. He would definitely find a way to make Arthur happy!


Yes. Alright that was heavy. Alfred will lighten Arthur up in the end alright and it'll all be fine! I'm sorry for painful stuff.