Well so apparently my characters are totally OOC?

Uh...? Have you seen how many fanfics I've written? I think I understand these characters well enough to bend them around a little. Also, I have something called a "plot". Sorry it doesn't call for a grown up Matthew and Alfred in young bodies. I doubt Matthew would act the same way at 20 and at 11. Sorry it doesn't call for needless keseseseses, or Ves or LET ME A-KISS YOU OHONOHONHON. And if that's what you're looking for, I'm sorry. Please try the next local story.

And also - how dare this story make you angry! Wow, how dare writing get an emotional reaction out of you. Including anger. Including confusion.

Now, to use my final weapon: pathos. Starting this story is the only reason I haven't killed myself these past few days. So I literally do not care if this gets 0 reviews and negative 16 follows/favourites. I came back to this site to post this, because I wanted to post it. I also wanted a final farewell story to a fandom I spent so much time in. Review if you'd like, kind or otherwise, because I'm still writing.

short chapter. sorry

4

Real Smoke

It was Timothy Baker's fault.

Alfred was thirteen, finally, and he and Tim decided to head out to smoke. Alfred would be extensively ridiculed if he refused the offer. Francis would go apeshit if he caught the smell of smoke on him. Alfred, therefore, decided to take a couple puffs and wash it out by walking through something that smelt even worse. At least then he would have an excuse. A very unpleasant one, but one nonetheless.

Tim sat down on the concrete. The whoosh of the city rustled nearby, causing a stir of wind to tussle Tim's hair. He pulled out a pack from his pocket and tossed one to Alfred. Alfred caught it, easily, and his heart began an uneasy march.

"You chicken?"

"No…"

…

"Ok, hold it in." Tim said, staring at Alfred. Alfred's eyes watered.

He never wanted to do this. Ever, ever again.

"Breathe out." Alfred sputtered. Gusts of cold smoke popped out of his mouth. He coughed, wheezing slightly.

Tim smirked. "Try again. You'll get used to it."

"Why?" Alfred managed to ask, somehow without sounding like a dying toad.

"It's cool." Tim said, like it was clearly the most obvious thing in the world. Alfred nodded mutely, rejecting the second offer. Alfred went home, deciding that maybe he should tell Francis straight up —

— and receive a cuff to the ear. It was gentle, it didn't hurt. But the shame carried in Francis' limp palm rocketed through him like a collision. Alfred felt tears prickle his eyes.

"He said it was cool."

"There's nothing 'cool' about it, Alfred." Francis said sternly. "Follow me."

He gestured for Alfred to follow up the stairs. They croaked with age. Alfred wondered if they had ever seen a different house, his fathers. Maybe they had been born here. All the chipped wallpaper and haphazard renovations spoke volumes. Words oozing from the sides of the walls like smoke.

Francis pointed at the ceiling.

"See?"

It was yellowed. With nicotine. The shadow of a past, burned on to their home. Francis stared at it, his fatherly-facade steadily slipping.

"We quit together, Arthur and I. It was hard and long. He quit drinking, too, and I quit something else. It was an exchange, a health exchange." He fell silent.

Alfred stared up at it. Wondering what other histories could be told by the wallpaper.