CHAPTER VII

When Alfred woke up in the morning, his tenant had already left the room. Yawning, he rolled up his sleeping bag and carried it and the pillow back to the den. The scent of pancake batter, along with the sound of Matthew humming a melodic tune, caught his attention. "Good morning," the Canadian greeted him as he walked across to the kitchen, flipping flapjacks on the griddle.

"Morning," Al replied, fishing plates and eating utensils out of various cabinets. This sort of morning had become customary over the week, with Al setting the counter and Matthew cooking. "Did you sleep well?"

"Pretty much. I woke up a few times, but then I looked over to the floor…and saw you…and I could fall back asleep. Again, thanks." He blushed bashfully as he spoke, tossing the pancakes onto a plate, each a perfect composition.

"You're welcome," Al answered, realizing he'd forgotten to get out cups for their milk. As he pulled them out of the cabinet, he heard his father trudging down the stairs. Right, it was his day off. He grabbed another glass and the third plate before opening up the fridge to get the two-percent milk. "Morning, Dad."

"Morning, Al," Arthur grumbled as he rubbed at his eyes, having not completely woken up yet.

"Good morning, Mr. Kirkland!" Matthew addressed him, his posture suddenly upright. Alfred fought to suppress a laugh as he almost choked on his milk. It was so cute how Matt acted so polite in front of his dad, trying to give off his best impression. However, it always came off as abrupt and frantic, yet adorable.

"Huh? Oh, good morning, Matthew." Arthur took a seat opposite his son at the counter and began drinking his glass, hoping it would wake him up. The Canadian soon brought over the platter of pancakes, butter, and the pure maple syrup from his native country. He sat down next to Alfred and the three dug into the meal.

"God, Matt, how'd you learn to make such good pancakes?" Al asked through his food-filled mouth. It was true; the flapjacks were absolutely delectable.

"…My mother taught me her recipe when I was a kid," he answered after a pause. "I have it memorized by heart since I've made it so much. …Um, and back there, um, he would sometimes let me make breakfast for everyone, so I haven't forgotten it."

"…Oh, right," Alfred replied, stuffing some more food into his mouth. The atmosphere became awkward since they were talking about Matt's past in front of his dad. Well, Al did need to discuss their plans for the day with him, so this was probably the best time to bring it up. "Um, so Dad, can you take us to the Limey Bar & Grill today?"

Arthur stopped mid-bite as he processed the question. His son hated being dragged to that pub since he was underage, and the Brit tended to get obnoxiously drunk whenever they went there. "…May I ask why?"

"It's the last place Matt remembers being with Toris before they got separated, so I thought maybe he'd remember what happened if we went back there."

"Hm, that's reasonable, and it is my favorite pub. All right, when do you want to head over there? It doesn't open until twelve."

"Maybe we should go at night so we can recreate the circumstances. Matt, that'll make it easier to retrace your steps, right?"

Matthew nodded, sucking at the leftover milk staining the rim of his glass. "Sounds good to me. You should still get dressed though." He had changed his clothes the moment he got up, so Alfred and Arthur were the only ones still in their sleepwear. "I'll wash the dishes in the meantime."

Al found it endearing how the boy eagerly jumped up from the counter and collected their plates, using a soapy sponge to scrub away the remains in the sink. Matthew's behavior in front of his father was so similar to that of someone meeting his lover's parents for the first time. He entertained this thought as he headed upstairs to change, considering how wonderful it would be if that were actually the case.

. . .

"Arthur, mon amour!" the bartender flirtatiously welcomed him as the three walked into the bar, humiliating the man in front of his son. "I have not seen you in so long! Do not tell me you've been unfaithful!"

"What bloody hell are you spouting now, Francis?" Arthur growled, trying to push the Frenchman away. "I was here a week ago! Don't give me this 'unfaithful' crap!" Of course, he should have expected this to happen since this was Francis after all, and he loved embarrassing the Brit.

"Ah, who is this?" Francis inquired, scanning his eyes over the timid boy hiding behind Alfred, who was laughing at his father's mortification.

"This is my friend, Matthew," Al introduced him, stepping aside to give the bartended a better look. The Canadian just waved shyly and blushed, already uncomfortable with the attention.

"He's the only reason we're here," Arthur declared crossly, taking a seat at the bar counter, "so give me a beer and let them be."

"Oui," Francis replied, picking up a glass and filling it with the Brit's favorite drink. Arthur came here so often that he knew the brand by heart. With great tact, he slid the mug over to him without spilling a drop. "You really should try a French wine someday. Having the same thing day after day must be so boring." He wasn't sure if the Brit would pick up on his subtle innuendo, but he enjoyed making them.

"Why the hell do you even work here, you wine bastard?" he ridiculed him, taking a swig of the beer. "You're French! This is an English pub!"

"My, my, one gulp and you're already shouting like a drunkard."

"I AM NOT!"

"Just ignore them, Matt," Alfred told him. "All right, so what happened that night?"

"Toris walked into the bathroom. I waited for him at the bar." He slipped onto a stool to reenact his movements. "…I started to feel uncomfortable."
"Why?"

"…I don't know. Maybe someone was looking at me weird or something. We were still in our working clothes and I had that gray blanket around me, so I suppose it would be."

"Okay, next?"

"Toris came out and we left…turning right." Alfred followed him out the door, the sound of his father arguing with the bartender thinning as he made his way outside. Matthew froze as the bell jingled another time, the American walking through the door. "…I remember hearing that as we walked down the sidewalk. People came out after us."

"People? More than one?"

"Yeah. The door didn't close for a while, and…I heard several pairs of footsteps…and laughter. Likely drunk." He replayed it over in his head, recalling small bits as he stood on the sidewalk. "…They started hitting on us." Matthew spoke slowly, the dark weight of the memory threatening him to back off and let it go. But he was so close; no way was he stopping now…no matter the cost. His eyes widened as he was filled with a panic, the same feeling that had overcome him on that night.

"Matt!" Alfred called out as the boy broke into a sprint. He ran too, straining to catch up to the Canadian. "Matt, what-"

"Keep chasing me!" he screamed, his heart pounding with terror as he tore through the sidewalk. This was the only way he would remember everything: by reliving the night, emotions and all.

"What? What the hell-"

"Just do it!"

Alfred dashed after him, alarmed by Matthew's startling antics. Just what was going on?

The Canadian kept running, panting hard as he gripped the make-believe hand next to him. It slipped away suddenly, and he heard a shout as Toris was wrenched from his side. His feet skid on the sidewalk as he slowed, Alfred crashing into him from behind, as he hadn't expected the boy to abruptly stop. He looked over his shoulder, envisioning the recreation. "…Someone…some guys…pulled him away."

"Toris!"

"Keep running!"

Panic was restored to him, and Matthew sprinted away again, desperate to find the truth. "I kept running!" he hollered as he ran around the corner of the block, Alfred in pursuit. "I ran into the alley and fell! Then I hid behind the dumpster…"

Matthew sat plastered against the brick wall as someone walked into the alley, but his frightened mind imagined three sets of footsteps. Slowly, the person came into view, and his breath stopped altogether, replacing the concerned look of his friend with the faces of the culprits.

Then the memory flooded back full-force:

Voices shouting gruffly, hands grabbing harshly, all wanting him, every bit of him.

"Check out the name on the dog tag. This bitch's name is Matthew!"

"Oh, Matthew, come here!"

"No, come here. I want to stroke that lovely skin."

"Hey, I was here before both of you. This kid is mine tonight."

"Really? I think we should let him decide. You want to spend the night with me, don't you?"

"No…No, I don't want to. I don't want to. No."

"Matt? Matt, what's wrong?"

"See, he doesn't like you. Come here, Matthew. I'll make you feel good. Isn't that what you want?"

"No…I-I don't want this. I don't want this. I don't want this!"

"Why don't we take turns? I don't mind sharing as long as I get to fuck this bitch up."

"Matt!"

He woke from the trance, staring into Alfred's worried face as it all clicked mercilessly inside his head. That dream…it had been a memory…the surroundings and their words might have changed…but it had really happened. To think that the answer was right in front of him all this time…

"Matt?"

"G-Gang rape," he softly uttered, his violet eyes hollowed.

The purity…I regained in my newfound life…was lost before I knew it.


(A/N: So Matthew suffered from a bit of repressed memory from the traumatic gang rape. Basically, the victim blocks the memory out of his or her mind as a coping mechanism. Repressed memory is often associated with child sexual abuse, but repressed memory can occur in practically anyone.)