A/N: Okay, shit like this should not be coming out of me two days after Christmas. But for some reason my brain is spewing it at me, and that being said, I decided to give poor Mattie a break, and torture Arthur instead. I am such an evil person. *cue head meets desk*

Anyway, I also think I should tell you that as soon as I get the last chapter of The Seven Days' War up, I'm going to be changing my pen name. I just figured I should warn you guys in advance, since, y'know, I'd rather not confuse more people than I have to, lol.

The school year began with aching hands and bloody nail marks in Arthur's palms.

Smothering it in a veil of lies was a skill he'd had years of practice at; first they were the fault of the cat he didn't own, and next he'd had sex, and after that he'd gotten splinters from helping his brothers work on something in the yard. With every practiced excuse, his fists clenched, sending pain shooting into aching knuckles and carving the marks deeper into his skin. There were times, when he was home, and his brothers tormented him to the point of white knuckles and bloody fingers, that he nearly collapsed into hysterics.

He just couldn't stop.

And sometimes, he would rip his hair out. Sometimes he would drag his nails over his wrists, tearing away the skin, leaving wide red scratches that would soon transform into faint pink scars. He would punch himself black and blue, on top of the bruises from his brothers. He slammed his head on the wall and kicked dents in his door and forced himself not to eat.

No one knew about the time he'd taken a kitchen knife to his shoulder, raking it over his skin, leaving bloody slashes that stained the shower water scarlet and left horrible, ugly, mottled red scars to rake over his collarbone. Seeing them dug bloody marks deeper into his palms.

He was sinking.

And the worst part of it was the fact that he had no reason to hate himself like this.

Of course, then there was Francis.

Francis—the gorgeous boy with blond waves like silk and deep blue eyes that Arthur so often found himself all too lost in. The boy he'd been too shy to talk to, long ago in fourth grade, and who seemed more an enemy than a friend these days.

He took Arthur's breath away.

Last year, he told himself he'd come to terms with the fact that he was gay. For Francis.

But it wasn't that simple.

He'd had problems since gradeschool, but now, they were eating him alive. He had no chance; he was a snappish Brit with horrendous eyebrows, anorexia, and ugly, dirty-blond hair, while Francis was a god among men. He hated himself for being so weak—for allowing himself to be reduced to this wreck over something so stupid, so trivial. There would be others than Francis, he told himself. And yet, every time his eyes accidentally met those blue ones, he felt himself falling a little more in love. It made his stomach hurt.

Was he really so starved for love that he would die trying to get it?

Was he really so desperate—so pathetic?

And yet, every time he saw Francis, the little jump of happiness made him want to cry.

He'd been too obvious.

Francis suspected something now.

Only a month and a half into their junior year, he'd already blown it. The Frenchman had never talked to him the way he did at lunch that day, sitting down across from him and reaching over to gently touch the back of his hand—leaning down to catch his downcast gaze. The hand Arthur held beneath the table clenched, and he jerked away from Francis's warmth, his unbearably gentle touch—it made him want to scream. Blood trickled over the white-knuckled fist in his jacket pocket. He was terrified.

Francis's eyes were deep and blue, and framed by long, shining golden lashes that matched the waves falling from the ribbon at the nape of his neck.

He looked so upset.

Arthur's heart cracked.

"Arthur, what happened to your hands?" Francis asked softly. The worry in his eyes—those beautiful eyes—made Arthur want to die.

He shook his head, yanking away again when Francis tried to turn his hand over. More blood trickled over the fist, white and screaming in his pocket. He looked down at the vapid food on his tray, hiding his face from Francis. His ugly face.

"I broke a glass," he muttered, biting his lip, forcing himself to remember that this was Francis he was talking to. Beautiful, popular, kind, smart, witty, romantic Francis. No need to tell him. No need to pretend he was more than a complication to such a beautiful, wonderful human being.

A soft sigh. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. He could hear the anxiety. Damn him for being the stupid, worthless cause of it.

He didn't look up. Couldn't. The distress in those blue eyes would eat him alive.

And suddenly there were warm fingers beneath his chin, gently tilting his face until green eyes met blue.

Clench.

A single bead of blood, trickling over his palm. His hands screamed in pain, and Francis just looked at him. Arthur was shaking, fists clenching tighter, feeling the warm, soft fingertips on his skin, the distress in those eyes, the sneaking suspicion...

He was petrified. Sticky, bloody nails tore deeper.

More blood. More blood, trickling over his fingers—more, more—

"Stop touching me!" Arthur burst out, desperate, praying the frog didn't catch the choked cracking of his voice. He had to get away. He had to escape—from gentle touches and deep blue eyes and all the things he should know by now that he could never, ever have. He snatched his tray, not looking up, and hurried away, to another empty table.

But Francis noticed the blood, trickling over his pinky as he rushed away.

The day before Christmas break, Arthur came to school limping.

He seemed fine—but then, he always did. Francis had resigned himself to watching from a distance, as Arthur did the little things that he seemed to think no one else would ever notice.

Like dumping his lunch, without taking a single bite.

Like keeping his hands in his pockets at all costs.

Like tugging down his sleeves, nervously, when no one was looking, as though something horrible was hidden beneath them.

And now he was limping, and Francis bit his lip, wondering what had happened now, turning away because he just couldn't stand it anymore. He'd known Arthur since he was eight years old. He knew him well enough to know when something was very, very wrong.

Francis knew his brothers teased him, and hit him. He knew Arthur had never felt loved, and he knew about the huge trust issues. It all sounded like some teen drama novel in his head, but its reality was frightening. It hurt, to know that Arthur was so afraid to trust him—to see the look of terror in his green eyes, once so bright, and now glazed and dull. It twinged harder, every single time he ran away.

Because he'd fallen for Arthur, harder than anyone, longer ago than he cared to think of, and faster than he could've looked anywhere but those sparkling green eyes.

There were times when he would catch a tiny glimpse of their dullness—why would Arthur never look at him anymore?—and have to look away because he wanted to reach out and touch him, hug him, hold his hand with the bloody marks dug into his palms and kiss his bruises into love bites. And every day, the less okay Arthur seemed. He was painfully thin. Every day, Francis held back the tears—of worry, grief, guilt...

Had he done something wrong?

Was that the reason Arthur didn't trust him anymore?

Didn't speak to him in more than five-word sentences?

Didn't even look at him?

He couldn't take it anymore, and after school, that day, he caught Arthur by the shoulders, stopping him dead in his tracks. He jumped away, fear sparking in green eyes, but when he saw it was Francis, quickly looked down to his shoelaces.

"What, frog?" he muttered. Francis heard his voice crack.

He didn't question him about the limp. Not here—not now. He stumbled for something to say for one second, two, and then suddenly a question spilled out of his mouth.

"Do you want to come to my house?" he asked quickly, shoving his hands into his pockets to stop himself from reaching out to tilt Arthur's chin up, to see those green eyes. He missed seeing those eyes.

A full, torturous minute of awkward silence. Arthur still looked down, unmoving.

And then, just as Francis was frantically beginning to wonder how to take it back without scaring him away, he nodded.

"It's better than home," he murmured.

Francis forced himself not to reach out and take his hand as the two of them walked across town to his home, together in painful silence.

His mother didn't get home from work until six-thirty, and until then, the house was quiet, warm, and empty. Surprisingly, Arthur didn't object, or even question, as Francis led him down the hallway to his room, soft, cool light filtering through the deep December clouds outside the window and through his sheer, drawn blue curtains.

The two of them had sat across from each other on Francis's bed, legs folded beneath them, bickering and laughing, so many times before, but now a silence hung in the air like a foreboding, stifling fog. Arthur still looked down at his lap, avoiding Francis's eyes, hands hidden deep inside his hoodie pocket like he was trying to conceal them from God.

Francis could see them clenched into fists.

And suddenly it came smashing down on him.

Arthur was digging the gashes with his nails.

He had to force back the wave of emotion, watching Arthur, sitting silently on his bed, and took a deep breath, willing his voice not to shake. "Arthur, look at me," he whispered, leaning forward, desperate to catch a glimpse of the old sparkle in those lifeless green eyes. Arthur curled in on himself, and Francis bit his lip. "Arthur, please."

Arthur curled up tighter, shaking his head. Francis's teeth dug into his lip, and he sucked in a quivering breath, forcing it back, forcing it back—

It wouldn't do any good to cry in front of Arthur; it would probably only scare him more. He swallowed hard, trying to find words around the cotton in his throat.

"I just want to know what's been going on," he finally murmured, swallowing again. "W-what happened?"

And to his relief, Arthur gave a shaking sigh and let his tense shoulders slump. "I fell in love," came the hoarse whisper.

Francis looked up in surprise. And suddenly, the words were all tumbling out of Arthur's mouth in a jerky, flooded mess, and he was powerless to do anything but sit and listen, and feel the sickened sense of horror growing in the pit of his stomach. Love should not do this to someone so beautiful as Arthur. Love should not rape and plunder. It shouldn't murder.

And the entire time Arthur talked, about this boy, about his brothers and the pain and his own unworthiness—patheticness, he said, and Francis nearly cracked—Francis wanted nothing but to reach out and hold him, let him cry, rub his back and love him and kiss away the pain, one bruise and scratch and gash at a time.

And once Arthur was talking he couldn't stop, it all came spilling out in a flood from his mouth and before he could get a grip on himself he was rambling about Francis, staring down at his knees, feeling blood drip over his white fists and cursing himself for being this weak.

"His eyes are just so blue, I get lost in them and I can't ever look away, and then he catches me and I hate myself for it. And when he smiles it can light up an entire room, and he has this really annoying laugh that makes me want to strangle him, and his hair is always perfect, no matter what. It's always tied back in a ribbon. And he's so perfect and beautiful and wonderful and I'm such a fucking weakling I don't even deserve to l—"

Arthur stopped, fists clenching tighter, blood soaking into the inside of his hoodie, swallowing tears and wanting to crush himself, smash himself to a pulp and never have to deal with any of it ever again.

But Francis had realized at the ribbon.

It was moments before he finally gave up and let the tears flow, hot as they trickled down his face and he folded gentle fingers around Arthur's wrists and pulled his hands from his hoodie pocket, taking white-knuckled, bloody fists in his own warm palms. Arthur flinched, but Francis didn't hesitate—finally, gently, prizing open his fingers to expose the bloody marks torn into his palms. Arthur winced, trying to pull away, but Francis didn't move to touch them. Instead, he looked up to meet Arthur's eyes, and slowly leaned to kiss each one, softly, lips warm and tender and dammit, Arthur squeezed his eyes shut at the drip of hot, salty tears onto his skin.

When Francis looked up to meet his gaze again, Arthur was biting his lip, seeing the desperation and pain in those eyes—so blue, they could rival the sea.

"I wish you had told me sooner," Francis whispered. Arthur swallowed hard, looking away as Francis's next whisper brought even more tears to his eyes.

"I would've told you I'd fallen in love with you."

When Francis pulled him into a close hug, Arthur couldn't take it anymore; the Frenchman was shaking with quiet sobs, holding him like he would be torn away at any moment. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, tentatively moving arms around him, until finally he hugged Francis back and let the tears flow.

Neither knew how long they clung to one another, but after hours—or maybe moments?—Arthur's tears were drying in tracks on his face, and Francis's breaths had stopped jerking and catching in his throat.

There was a spark of hope, returning to those green eyes.

Francis clung to it like a lifeline.

But as Arthur began to look down again, almost as if by instinct, Francis swept down to capture his lips in a kiss. Arthur made a little noise of surprise, and Francis chuckled softly, smiling against his mouth before pulling away.

Arthur looked like he was struggling with tears again, and Francis sighed, sliding arms beneath him and lifting him gently from the bed. He was painfully light—fragile in his arms, beneath the bulk of his hoodie, and the grief all came rushing back.

He carried Arthur down the hall to the bathroom and rinsed the blood from his hands, gently prying his fingers from their fists, relieving an ache that nearly relieved the one in Arthur's heart. And the next thing Francis did was pull a nail clippers from his pocket, gently take Arthur's hand in his own, and carefully trim each of his nails down until nothing was left of it but a tiny, blunt stub. Arthur bit his lip and looked away. He fought another wave of tears down his cheeks.

Francis's touch was so unbearably soft.

The next time he clenched his fists and his white knuckles twinged, the bloody marks in his palms didn't reopen. No beads of blood smeared on his fingers.

Arthur shut his eyes, and the next moment, Francis was beside him, taking his hand and enfolding him in his arms. Arthur clung to him. And with Francis's warmth holding him, saving him, helping him breathe, maybe—just maybe—it would be alright. He could learn to eat again. He could learn to live again. Think again.

Trust again?

And maybe—just maybe—the torn, bloody nail marks in his heart would heal.

Maybe they could heal, like the nails in his hands.