A door clicked in the thick silence of the house as someone returned home in the late of night. Small, light footsteps attempting to be hidden, padded on the wooden floor of the stairs. A faint creaking could be heard when he stepped on certain areas. Finally, he arrived at the master bedroom door, opening it ever so quietly, as to not disturb the even quieter Canadian who could possibly be sleeping inside. Upon reaching the bed, he ever so slightly pulled back the bed comforter, seeking a petite form. Finding no such person, he scratched his head in thought through his wavy blonde hair.

"Matthew?", Francis whispered almost inaudibly, in search of his absent lover. His blue eyes scanned the darkness of the room for violet, and only then did he notice the soft, yellow light emitting from the crack of the bathroom door. In curiosity, he moved closer, tiptoeing as he did. As he neared the white door, he could he muffled whimpers and sniffles. Thoughts of a crying Canadian Matthew entered his mind, swirling around and worrying him. His knock that turned out to be a tap, along with a call of his boyfriend's name came next. No sound at all followed. No whimpers and sniffles. No creaking, footsteps, or clicks. Again he tapped. Again he gained no answer. Sighing in frustration, he mumbled a concerned 'I'm coming in' and pushed open the surprisingly unlocked bathroom door.

The sight he was met with wasn't one he expected, but he certainly wasn't surprised. Nonetheless, he felt his heart plummet at what he saw. There, in the farthest corner of the room, sat Matthew, body in a ball, head in his arms. Francis could clearly tell he was the one who'd been crying seconds before, Matthew seemed to be choking back those heavy sobs. Next to him, a wooden box stood on the white tiled flooring. Francis recognized the engravings on the side, and was almost immediately brought to tears. The only thing that could make him cry harder was the sight of what was on the other side of the box, a few bloodied razors and several ripped scraps of lined paper written on in familiar handwriting.

At the sound of Francis' weeping, Matthew curled up into an even tighter position, letting his own tears spill. The two stayed that way for a while, with Francis leaning on doorway for support, and Matthew by the sink. After the five minutes that seemed like an eternity, Francis managed to croak, "W-why, Matthew?"

Matthew lifted his head the slightest bit, but his eyes were still casted downward. He couldn't bring himself to answer, nor did he desire to. At that, the taller of the two sighed shakily, walking very slowly, carefully toward his partner. Kneeling down right in front of him, he gently pulled Matthew's arms to him. Francis pushed up the sleeves of the red sweatshirt, revealing the scars, both ancient and fresh. He'd seen the older ones before, when the two had first started dating, about three years back. That was when he discovered the self-harm Matthew was inflicting upon himself. That was when he crafted that box specifically for that purpose.

On the night Francis first caught him in the act, Matthew was found in the same situation as this. In the corner, with a wooden box in tow. In the box were two blades; Matthew held the last to his pale wrist. Both males gaped at whichever sight fate threw at them. Francis' eyes watered, realizing what was going on. Matthew wept louder in fear of the disgust his secret love might show to him. They both were frozen, none trying to hide the tears streaking their faces. They stayed like that until Francis pulled the small teen into a warm, heartfelt embrace. By then, he had stopped crying and gained the sense that Matthew needed someone to hold at this time. Never in his life had he been so right, Matthew certainly needed that loving reassurance. Words of comfort were exchanged and Francis rocked the boy to sleep in his arms. He sat there glaring at the box of razors until he came to a decision and brought the Canadian to bed. Francis made his way into the bathroom, retrieving the box and blades and heading downstairs. There, he took a knife, and after returning all three razors to the wooden container, carved loving phrases of support and encouragement on all four sides. If you looked, you could see 'I love you' and 'you're not alone' on it. Then, with a pen, he cautiously wrote more of those sweet sayings on little pieces of paper. Those little pieces were the ripped up scraps Francis saw as he deliberately placed kisses to all the scars visible on both of Matthew's arms.

"Matthew, mon amour, why?", he begged, wondering what could've happened that caused Matthew to go against the promise they made years ago. The day after he caught him, Francis made him vow not to cut again, not to harm himself. That was the day they first went out. That was the day Francis presented the newly renovated box.

Matthew found it impossible to hide his tears any longer, and they streamed down his cheeks as he gazed up at him, looking into his eyes for the first time in a while. At seeing the distress reflected from them, he felt all the more guilty. He knew it wasn't his fault though, Francis' actions were what triggered him to do so.

When the crying was reduced to occasional hiccups, Matthew spoke, "F-Francis, do you know w-what today is?"

The French man's eyebrows knotted in confusion. 'It's Friday, doesn't Matthew know? I just came back from drinking with Antonio and Gilbert, just like I always do every Friday night.'

"Of course, Matthew, it's Friday," he replied, baffled.

Matthew's tear stained face displayed shock and what Francis could make out as pain. It also appeared that he was fighting off something, like he refused to believe it. "Y-yes, but what Friday?", he pleaded.

Francis, head still utterly puzzled, could not piece together what the other blonde was getting at. "The 21st, today is Friday the 21st. May I ask why it's so important to you?"

At that question, Matthew's heart stopped and his eyes widened.

'How could he have forgotten? How?', he brokenly inquired in his mind. He could feel more drops hastily slip down his already soaked cheeks, wetting his sweatshirt even more than earlier.

He tugged his arms away from Francis' grasp, instantly missing the warmth as he did. Warily, he collected the torn papers and let them fall into the box. Unsteadily standing, he dropped the box in the garbage and slid the razors into his pocket. Francis watched him as he did it, unsure of how he should go about it.

"M-matthew, just what are you doing?"

The one he called out to simply shot him a grieved expression as he staggered past him.

"Jerk," he whispered, "You forgot,"

XXX

Guess what guys, I'm not dead! School has been the worst lately, and I've barely had time to do anything with the fics I'm trying to get out. Despite that, I found the tiniest slot of time to write 1175 words for you. Not much, but it's something. This will also be my multi-chapter fanfic that I have been talking about writing. I feel proud of what I've done so far, even if you guys don't like it. Therefore, I DO feel like making it longer and explaining everything else. Hopefully the next chapter will be out next week, but there are no promises I can make. Consider this my present to you for the summer of 2014.