Another kinkmeme deanon, what else - they're older here than in the last two fics, some sort of teen

"They're so loud."

Alfred looks up from his toy soldiers. General Maximus was just about to call his alien friend Tony to help before Matthew was so rude as to interrupt. "What?"

"They've been fighting for ages." Matthew hugs his polar bear tighter to his chest, lies down on Alfred's bed and curls in on himself. "Make them stop; you're the 'hero'."

Alfred merely rolls his eyes. "They always fight, nothin' new." He can hear them fighting, but honestly, it is nothing new.

The sounds of the fight penetrate the walls so it sounds like their fathers, Francis and Arthur, are arguing in the next room instead of the kitchen.

Neither is sure what their parents are fighting about. Volume is never really an issue in their house; Alfred and Matthew had accepted long ago that the louder they are when they fight, the quieter they are when they lock themselves in their bedroom and do… their 'thing'. They can get pretty loud, super loud even if they aren't able to release the majority of their energy in yelling matches.

Plus, Alfred would really much rather hear his parents tearing into each other than screaming out 'oh yes' and 'ah right there' and 'Mon Dieu Arthur you've been watching fetish porn again, yes?'.

But right now, even Alfred can hear there's more bite to Arthur's insults and more hurt in Francis' comebacks.

Matthew is practically drowning in his hoodie and if he's not careful he really will suffocate himself in his bear, Kleonardo Ka Kinci. He never cuddles it in front of Alfred unless he wants to be teased; it's obviously bothering him. So, Alfred pushes off his chair and plonks himself down right next to Matthew's head.

"Hey come on, they're not going to kill each other or anything." Alfred lightly slaps Matthew's cheek and gets no reaction for his troubles. He wishes Matthew hadn't come into his room, it's always a lot easier to ignore things without him there.

"How do you know?"

"'Cos they do it all the time. They fight and then they break stuff and then they're all mushy again. It's just who they are." Alfred rubs Matthew's shoulder. "Seriously, don't worry, it'll all be oka-"

But then Arthur and Francis' screams get louder. They're so loud Alfred's toy soldiers fall, one by one. Matthew clutches at his bear and squeezes his eyes closed and mutters under his breath, unintentional 'maples' coming out like a prayer chant. If he concentrates hard enough, it's almost as if he isn't in the room. Instead, he's ice skating, playing hockey, talking to moose and it's not so bad.

Alfred, however, can't even do that much. Arthur and Francis are so loud, louder than before. Alfred feels as if he's never heard anything louder.

General Maximus can't call Tony now.

Alfred can't hear himself think. He holds his head in one hand and looks at Matthew. "Hey, Mattie, you okay?"

Matthew can't hear him, he's in his own little world now or maybe he's choosing to ignore him. Alfred envies his brother for that. Alfred's good at ignoring subtly, but his parents' shouting is like black paint on white canvas and it's terribly hard to ignore. He wishes his mp3 player was charged or that actually turning on his stereo wouldn't draw the attention of their parents. If they don't get it all out in one go, it'll just build up.

But it will be okay. Arthur and Francis will stop fighting; the whole house will suddenly go quiet. Then Alfred and Matthew will release the breaths they don't know they're holding and then continue going about their business, because no longer than a minute later, Francis and Arthur will come into the room, ask them what they're doing and wonder Can we join? and everything is alright again.

Except, the yelling doesn't stop and the front door slams shut. They know it's the front door because only that door has the power the shake the foundations of the whole house. Someone slams their fists against the door in quick succession. It goes on for some time, knocking, yelling, banging, screaming, until it stops altogether and Alfred can think again. Matthew returns to the room.

Alfred shakes his head. He starts working on rebuilding his army of toy soldiers. General Maximus needs to rethink his war tactics and Tony still wants to join in.

"What happened?" asks Matthew from the bed, sitting up.

"Dunno," replies Alfred and continues righting all his soldiers.

Neither Francis nor Arthur comes to visit them.

"Fucking Francis."

Arthur mutters curses under his breath as he throws himself onto the couch in the living room.

"Fucking son of a bitch, bleedin' wanker, fucking- why did I marry him? God I'm so fucking stupid."

He sees nothing but red. Red everywhere. And now Francis has walked right out of the house, most likely to paint the town red. Red. Red red red.

An album of photographs sits on the coffee table between the couch and the television set, along with an open scrapbook. A few photos are scattered across the surface, all from their last holiday. Florida was nice; warm and fun. Alfred insisted they go to Disneyland and at least half of the photos are of all four of them in the theme park. Alfred grins the whole time, in every photo, Matthew's teeth peak out every once in a while because his smile is so wide and Arthur can see himself looking quite jolly as well.

Francis smiles too.

Francis smiles at him, mocking him, taunting him. Francis' smiles says I'm better than you, rosbif and You're hopeless at everything.

Behind that smile is a coward; a coward who runs away when he loses an argument, a coward who can't even come back and apologise for what he says, never mind Arthur is at fault too. Never mind Arthur is the one who pushed him completely out of the door and locked it and refused to let Francis back in again. What matters is that Francis is a coward and Arthur suddenly doesn't know why he's married to the fool.

He wants to wipe the smile away.

He's so angry he's shaking. He's so angry he doesn't know what he's doing. He's so angry he picks up the scissors that lay on top of the scrapbook.

They were working together, Francis and Arthur, on making a scrapbook, because Matthew's hockey team won last weekend and Alfred's tutor was impressed with his knowledge of Tutankhamun but he still needs to concentrate on the actual task and the two of them are growing up so, so fast.

Francis is cut out of the first picture, the one of them standing at the entrance in front of a blue sky with happy smiles, before he realises what is happening.

There's a small pang of regret and guilt, but it's not strong enough to stop him picking up the second picture. Or the ones after that.

When Francis comes home, he's relieved to find the front door unlocked.

He's tired, exhausted. He trudges into the house and drops his coat, the only thing he was able to grab before being forced outside.

He'd spent at least what felt like a couple of hours outside on the front porch before realising that Arthur really wasn't going to let him back in, and realising that the back door was locked too, he went to the bookstore to kill time.

They kicked him out for loitering, but if he had brought his wallet with him, he probably would have purchased that newest cook book by the 'Naked Chef' Arthur always prattled on about. It could have been something they could enjoy together, cooking, and being naked. They'd at least be together. Francis couldn't ask for more.

Except maybe having the boys there, but then there could be no naked part. He'd have to compromise somehow.

The door closes softly and Francis feels his chest tighten.

It's so quiet.

Not a single noise in the whole house. Normally, after such an argument Arthur would take to knitting fiercely or burning something in the kitchen. Then he and Arthur would get their boys and everyone would gather and try to stomach it, but it would be okay because they were together.

Francis would usually go out into the garden and pull at the weeds if Arthur occupied the kitchen, or lock himself in the study if it was raining until he was prepared enough to face Arthur again. Unless of course the smell of something burning managed to waft upstairs or out the kitchen window, then he would come down regardless of if he was prepared or not.

Right now though, it's quiet. No sounds of Arthur knocking pans or charring some poor piece of poultry or even the quiet clicks of his knitting needles.

Francis can't even hear his boys. He never knows what his boys do during or after the fights, not until he goes and fetches them with Arthur.

He plonks himself down onto the couch and rubs his face. It was his fault, he'll admit, but it was also Arthur's fault too, it always is.

Nothing changed after they got married, nothing changed after they adopted Alfred and Matthew; they still fought and argued, but that's okay. The only real difference is that they try to make up afterwards with words and not sex. The sex is good, but the fulfilment that he can feel swelling in his chest every time he coughs a 'sorry' and then Arthur mutters a 'yeah me too', it's not much and they're still working on it, but they are working on it. And the warmth he feels when he can see the true apology in green eyes and he knows his own comes through in the bite of his lip, well, it's all worth it.

I might as well apologise first, he thinks and makes to get up. He stops halfway, strangely squatting in mid air when he notices the coffee table.

The photographs from Florida, the ones he and Arthur had taken out from the closet a weekend ago to place in the scrapbook, right after the pictures of Alfred's last birthday – are all mangled.

It's a mess; there are bits of paper everywhere. The photographs are in ruins. Some are cleanly cut, where Francis had been pictured standing to one side, but the ones where he had been somewhere in the middle are crudely shredded beyond repair.

It's obvious that whoever had done this, and Francis knows only one person would have- could have done this, wanted Francis out of the pictures.

He picks one up, the one that was previously the four of them, he, Alfred, Matthew and Arthur, in front of Disneyland with a blue sky backdrop, which is now only three of the four with white marring the sky where Arthur ripped the photo, too angry to use the scissors.

In that moment, his heart drops into his stomach and settles in a cold pool there. He swallows, as if that will coax it back into his chest, but it doesn't and it just feels harder to breathe. A lump grows in his throat and he has the strange urge to gag. There's nothing disgusting in front of him, nothing that should make him retch like he wants to, just photograph upon mutilated photograph of his smiling family.

His head hangs. Arthur doesn't deserve his apology.

Instead, he makes his way to Alfred's bedroom where he usually finds Alfred and Matthew after a fight. Sometimes he wonders if they understand. Arthur and he fight and that's what they're good at. One could say it's how they show affection.

There's too much passion to be contained in the bedroom or in affectionate words so it spills out everywhere. It spills everywhere, over dinner, in the lounge room, over the phone, did you pick up Matthew?, oh bugger I left him at school- Alfred didn't remind me, you're an idiot, you're a bastard! and sometimes they know they wouldn't have it any other way.

Francis finds Alfred with Matthew in his room, curled around each other on the bed, chest rising and falling with their quiet breathing. Toy soldiers litter the floor, the ones Arthur got for Alfred many Christmas' ago that's he's never tired of and Francis wonders if he'd be embarrassed if anyone else found out. A great battle looks like it has taken place and Francis smiles.

He won't disturb them. They look so peaceful, together, comfortable and content.

He wonders if Antonio will let him sleep on his couch for the night- just tonight, because it's not like World War Three has just been declared. It just hurts, that's all.

On the way out of the house, he notices the little pile of cut-outs of himself on the floor, under the coffee table. He stares at it for a long while, just stares, like it doesn't register that they're all of him, even though he had felt his heart plummet not even a few minutes ago.

He gathers them up and dumps them in the trash in the kitchen. Arthur isn't there. He doesn't know where Arthur is and he's glad and disappointed at the same time.

He only hopes Antonio's couch is free tonight.

Matthew peeks his head into the kitchen where Arthur is cooking dinner. It smells as if it's supposed to be beef stew, but there's something slightly off about the odour.

"Hey Dad," he says quietly and has to repeat four more times before Arthur actually hears him.

"Huh? Oh, Matthew."

Arthur turns to Matthew and looks worse for wear, tired. Just by looking at him, Matthew feels tired too. Alfred and he had fallen asleep after Kincent Kan Kogh battled Tony in between the fallen soldiers, because neither of their parents had opened their door and they suddenly felt like they wanted to be five again.

"Where's Papa?"

Arthur is silent and turns back to the pot on the stove. "He's staying at Antonio's house."

"Tío Antonio's? Wh-?"

"I don't-!" Arthur's fist clenches the wooden spoon he's holding and Matthew is surprised it doesn't snap. "I don't know."

From then on, Arthur either doesn't hear Matthew's further questions or outright ignores him. Either way, Matthew takes the hint and leaves for the living room.

"Where's Pap?" asks Alfred who had been standing behind listening the whole time. His hands are buried deep in his pockets and he rocks back on his heels like he doesn't really care. Matthew knows though.

"He's at Tío Antonio's house."

"Huh? Why?"

"I don't know, I think they had a really big fight. Papa's never actually walked out on his own before."

Alfred shrugs like it doesn't bother him. "Whatever, he'll come back later. He can't go a whole night without Dad to, you know." He blushes.

Matthew shakes his head. "Thanks for the mental image."

They stand in uncomfortable silence for a moment. Alfred swallows and breaks it, always the first to in these instances. "Wanna watch a movie or something?"

"Not really, I kind of want to drown myself in maple syrup."

"Uh huh, right… Oh hey!" Alfred's hand shoots out of his pocket and he snaps his fingers. "We should totally help out with the scrapbook!"

"That's a great idea!" Matthew's glad Alfred's idea is sane and achievable.

The last time their parents had a big fight, which probably wasn't as bad as this one but still, he had suggested they build a robot maid to take the stress off Arthur and Francis. Alfred got as far as sketching the plans before giving up and joining Matthew in cleaning up the dishes themselves. They even started preparing dinner, for which Arthur and Francis were very proud.

That had been a good night.

When they enter the living room, it smells like Francis' cologne. He never puts it on on weekends when they spend the whole day at home, but it seems to meld with his natural smell. Arthur complains about it, but both Alfred and Matthew have seen him catch quick sniffs of Francis' shoulder when they pass by each other.

"Hope they haven't gotten to last year's Christmas yet," says Alfred sheepishly, "I wanna take out that picture of me making out with the turkey."

"Seriously, were you high?" asks Matthew.

"You're high," Alfred retaliates and maturely sticks out his tongue. He rounds the couch before Matthew and stops dead in his tracks. "Uh," he says, slack-jawed.

"What?" Matthew comes around the couch too and sees the mess on the table. "W-What happened?"

Alfred picks up one of the photographs, the one that was once the four of them outside of Disneyland. "Holy crap…"

Matthew stuffs his hands into the pocket of his hoodie and bunches the material in his fist. He doesn't have his polar bear to hold so it's the best he can do. "Do you think… dad did this?"

"Dad?"

"Yeah because… Papa's not in any of the photos."

Alfred checks the photographs again and yes, Francis has been removed from all the photos. "Shit." He rubs the back of his head. "Shiiiiiiiit."

Matthew chews on his bottom lip. "Dad must've been really mad."

"Yeah… shiiiiiit."

"Where's all the pictures of Papa?"

Alfred looks at Matthew weirdly and looks around. He can't find them anywhere, on the coffee table, under the coffee table, beneath the album or the scrapbook. He looks at Matthew with wide eyes and Matthew can see worry in them that he hasn't seen since they were ten when Alfred's baseball broke a window.

"You don't think…?"

Matthew shrugs and chews his lip a little harder. "I don't know… we could check."

So they do check. Or at least, they want to check, but Arthur is still in the kitchen and that's where the nearest trash bin is and it would be highly illogical that Arthur would have taken the cut-outs all the way upstairs in a fuming rage.

Matthew pokes his head in while Alfred swings the door open.

"Hey Dad," he says announcing his arrival and irritating Matthew.

"Ah Alfred, how are you?"

Arthur hasn't turned around. Alfred looks behind himself and gestures to Matthew with his head. Check the bin.

Fine, Matthew says back with his eyes and furrowed brow, prick. Alfred flips him off with his tongue.

"Yeah I'm good. Whatcha making?"

"Chicken stew."

Alfred and Arthur continue talking, questions answered with short, curt responses. Arthur doesn't turn around the whole time.

Matthew is only mildly concerned the 'chicken stew' smells like strange beef stew as he peeks into the trash bin. On top of the pizza box that was emptied mostly by Alfred last night, sit all the cut-outs of Francis. Matthew is glad Arthur hadn't cooked something buttery and gooey last night or he would be rifling through gunk to get them.

He slaps Alfred on the back and goes back into the living room once he retrieves the cut-outs.

"-so I thought I'd make some stew because-"

"That's great, uh, I gotta go."

Alfred dashes out of the kitchen before Arthur can respond. Arthur doesn't say anything anyway.

"I told you, this one goes with this one!"

"Okay okay, sheesh, calm the farm. You high again?"

"Shut up, Al."

Matthew uses sticky tape to tape the clean cut cut-outs back to their photos while Alfred uses glue to stick back the ripped ones. He makes a complete mess, but Matthew doesn't say anything.

"This is kinda fun," says Alfred, "in a really sad way."

"Yeah… Do you think Dad will notice if I put maple syrup in my stew?"

"Probably, but if you're fast enough you might get it in."

Ten minutes later and nearly all the photographs are back together. Some are completely unrecognisable, smeared with glue or too many layers of sticky tape, but they're nearly all back together.

Arthur comes into the living room to call them to dinner.

"Boys, dinners' read…y…"

Alfred and Matthew look up like they've just been caught stealing money. Matthew chews his lip again and Alfred just laughs awkwardly. "Haha… uh, hi."

"Hi…" Arthur manages to get out, completely dumbstruck. "What are you doing?" he asks, like he can't see exactly what's in front of him.

"Um," Matthew says and realises Arthur probably won't hear him, "You tell him, Al."

"Oh er, we were just putting these back together because um… they were… broken?"

Arthur pats his cheek with one hand, still not completely processing everything. He slaps himself once, twice and then focuses properly. Something wet builds in the inside corner of his eye but he wills it away.

"Thank you, both of you," he says voice clearer than before, "but… you do know that we have those pictures stored on the computer, right? We could print out more."

Oh.

Alfred sets down the glue he is holding and grips it tighter when he realises it's stuck to his hand. "That makes sense."

"Indeed."

They stand and sit around, not looking at each other. Alfred resists the urge to say 'awkward' and wills it away completely when Matthew gives him a look.

"Dad," Matthew finally says, "I think you should call Papa."

"Hm," says Arthur and quickly retreats back into the kitchen.

"So," Matthew says to Alfred when Arthur is completely out of sight.

"Yeah," responds Alfred.

"We need to clean this up."

"…Oh hell no."

Arthur can't keep his foot still as he waits for Francis to pick up his mobile. After precisely nine rounds of punching in Francis' number and then hanging up the phone, he has finally made it to at least the second ring.

Francis picks up on the fourth ring. Except, it isn't Francis, it's Antonio.

"Hola!" he says with too much enthusiasm that Arthur doesn't have, "You want to speak to Francis?"

"Yes," Arthur grits out, "I did call his mobile."

Antonio laughs. "Okay, but don't yell, he's been crying like a big baby and-"

"Give me the phone you-." Arthur hears what sounds like Antonio and Francis grappling for the phone before he hears a door close and Antonio's muffled laughter.

"Arthur," Francis says, breathes.

"Francis," Arthur says back and then they're silent.

"Um." Arthur speaks first, for once. Usually, Francis would be the one to force out a half-hearted apology until they gave each other a proper one with unspoken words. Sometimes it's a Forgive me with remorseful blue eyes or I know, it's my fault with the slight worry of a hairy brow.

"Um," he says and pauses. "Francis," he adds like it helps any.

Francis doesn't say anything on the other line, just breathes. Arthur needs to be the first to say sorry and he can't do it with his body language, because they're on the phone and no matter how much he wishes he could so Francis' face, he's forced to use words.

"I miss you," he says and it comes out like he's six again when Francis wouldn't talk to him after his pet rabbit ate through Francis' family's cabbage patch. It was their fault for putting it so close to the fence between their houses. It had only been less than a year after they had first met.

It's not sorry, but it's the best Arthur can do with words.

"Please come home," he adds and sneers at himself. He feels stupid and vulnerable and wishes the guilt in his chest would do something useful like piss off.

Francis sighs on the other end like he's finally able to breathe. "Alright."

They're silent again. Arthur clears his throat. "Um… I made dinner."

"I assumed as much, I can smell it from here."

Arthur doesn't even want to retort because the insult's not that bad, Antonio's house is only a few streets away.

"Chicken stew, I presume?"

"Yeah." Arthur nods to himself.

"You always make chicken stew."

"I know."

"I like chicken stew."

"I know."

"I am coming home. Gilbert was supposed to come over but I'm not in the mood for those two," says Francis. "I miss you," he adds quietly.

"Okay."

"Arthur?"

"Yeah?"

"…That really hurt."

Arthur cringes. He had hoped Francis wouldn't bring it up. "I know, I wasn't thinking." And he wasn't.

"Alright… Okay, I am hanging up."

"Yeah."

"See you."

Francis hangs up and Arthur holds the phone to his ear for a little longer. "Sorry," he says to the receiver and puts the phone back on its cradle. At least Francis is coming home.

Arthur paces around the front door. He checks that all the keys are still on the bowl and that Alfred hasn't left his in his bag again. He inspects the potted plant in the corner, that it's substantially watered and then makes a small 'oh' when he remembers it's fake.

He hears something outside and opens the door before Francis can knock.

"Hey," he says without breath and moves aside for Francis to come in.

Francis gives a lop-sided smile and enters the house, Arthur closing the door behind him.

It takes fifteen seconds, Matthew counts from the couch where he and Alfred are peeping at their parents, for Francis and Arthur to fall into each other's arms. Uncomfortably though, they look so stiff and awkward like they don't know what to do. They don't know what to do, but they're there, together.

They laugh, because they're foolish and idiotic and it's only been a handful of hours and they've missed each other. Francis pecks Arthur on the cheek and Arthur doesn't even turn away. He owes Francis that much.

"Dinner's getting cold," says Arthur and drags Francis towards the kitchen, tightly gripping his hand like he'll float away if he doesn't hold on.

Francis nods to the back of Arthur's head and waves Matthew and Alfred over. "Come on," he says and all four of them try to fit through the door at the same time.

When they sit down to eat, Alfred tells a story, one about Yong Soo from school's new video game and Arthur chastises him for wasting a 'study session'. Matthew manages to sneak at least two big squirts of the maple syrup bottle into his stew while Francis spoon feeds Arthur.

"Stop that," grumbles Arthur but opens his mouth anyway.

Francis laughs and everything is right again. All of the them, the four of them, they know that tomorrow Francis and Arthur will fight again, refuse to apologise again and then do something stupid like mend the shirt Francis tore in the garden last weekend or bake madeleines for everyone to share but are really meant for Arthur.

They're together and they'll end up together, the two of them and the four of them.

"Tomorrow afternoon I'll print out the pictures and start the scrapbook again."

"Oui, sounds great- ah, I should buy more glue."

"Hey," Matthew says and surprises himself when everyone turns to look at him. "What were you guys fighting about anyway?" he asks.

Francis laughs and waves his hand. "Haha it was nothing, I accidentally put one of the red shirts into the white wash. Silly, non?"

"Hahahaha – yeah! Really silly! Hahaha!

Matthew gives Alfred a suspicious look from the corner of his eye. "Al."

"Hahaha yeah, Pa that was mega silly hahaha."

Francis fusses over the stew dripping down Arthur's chin and cops a feel during the distraction. Arthur grumps and bats him away. They clearly aren't listening when Matthew deadpans.

"It was you, wasn't it?"

"Huh? What? No it wasn't! I mean-." Alfred looks at Matthew pleadingly. "Please don't tell them."

"Fine." Matthew leans forward and Alfred doesn't like the slight smugness curling his lips. "Fifty bucks."

"Fifty bucks! That's murder. Come on, I'm your bro, gimme a discount."

"Fine, fifty-five."

"Deal."

That night, Francis and Arthur make hardly any noise when they 'do their thing'.