¢нαρтєя σиє:

Soft.

If there was one word Francis had to use to describe his son, that would wrap it up perfectly. Everything about him was soft.
From his hair, his flax-golden hair that curled ever so cutely at the tips, to his timid mannerisms, to the very way he held his cup of tea in the mornings.
Even his name. 'Mattieu'. Or, 'Matthew', as his friends preffered. He was soft, he was precious, perfect- almost the poster child for innocence,
Though that wasn't the case and Francis knew it far too well.

The boy had a devious streak. Most days he was calm, gentle, soft-spoken, and very passive. Most days he was quiet, he would do his work, ignore his brother's harassment and watch the television or maybe read a new book. (He was very immersed in the new Harry Potter books his mother had sent him.) He would almost resemble a deer, with his doe eyes and relaxed temperment.
But some days, Mattieu could get overwhelmed. And not always with anger, no, but anger seemed to be prominent. Francis had had to break up far too many bloody, nearly lethal fights between Mattieu and his brother.
Or the boy down the road.
That one babysitter that slapped Alfred.
That Russian boy at school that refused to acknowledge Mattieu.

He had his breakdowns. Mattieu rarely ever showed emotion, but when he did, that's when Francis would have to worry. It were as though Mattieu bottled up every little thing, as though he collected these tiny spurts of emotion somewhere in them, and they slowly began to build up. And when these emotions were too much, it was as though they would explode, ever repressed feeling being shown at once. Francis once had to console him for over an hour because Alfred ripped Mattieu's stuffed polar bear, and Mattieu had cried so much he had passed out. Both Mattieu and Francis knew that was an overreaction, that Francis could easily sew it, but Mattieu had nothing else to do with these emotions. They just boiled out of him and it grieved the boy to no end, but there was nothing they could do about it, aside from being careful.

He'd cry for hours, he'd laugh so hard he can't breathe, he'd get so violent they'd have to replace the front door, he'd get so embarrassed he wouldn't come out of his room for a week. These outbursts of emotion were few and far between, but they happened.

Mattieu seemed to repress himself every which way. If Francis could recall, when Mattieu was hitting puberty, he noted how the boy would sleep with his hands above the covers. Every night. He thought it was odd but overlooked it, until reading one of the boy's pamphlets brought home from Sex. Ed.
' A good boy sleeps with his hands above the covers.
To touch thyself is to sin. '
He had groaned. Francis hated this catholic school, but both his sons preffered it, considering all their friends were there, and the only other option was a rundown, drug addled public school that was probably a worse off fate than were they were now. Francis was not a catholic, but Mattieu seemed devout in it. Alfred seemed conflicted about it, but he figured it was because mass just bored the boy.
Francis would call himself a catholic but there was so much he disagreed with, so much he found wrong about the way things were taught in schools.
Especially that goddamned pamphlet.

'It's a natural thing,' he had tried to explain, tried to talk to Mattieu. Gone on and on about how it's healthy, it's normal, how God does not care if Mattieu does so or not. That no, no, God's not watching, why in the world would God want to watch?
But all that had ended with was a yelp of 'Papa!' and a beet-red Mattieu fleeing to his room.

...Maybe 'ended' wasn't the right word, as Francis had barely even started before Matt fled and Alfred's booming laughter could be heard from the kitchen, A 'ferme ta bouche!', a 'speak english old man!' and that was the end of that night, Mattieu refusing to come down for dinner and Alfred happily eating his brother's share.
Oddly enough, though, the next day, it appeared that Mattieu had his limit. He had come home during the day, and Francis was supposed to be at work, but he had wound up staying home. The car wouldn't start and he couldn't be assed to try to hastily fix it in time, so he just called in sick, deciding it'd be a good day to just relax, maybe prepare the boys strawberry tarts for when they came home. It was about one in the afternoon when the frenchman heard the door slam open and shut, nearly shaking the wall. The noise startled him and he immediately turned to look into the hallway, noticing Mattieu was home early. He seemed sweaty and the bottoms of his pants were dirty, his shoes splattered in mud. He was flustered and out of breath, and seemed rather distracted. Francis was about to call his attention, ask if he was sick, maybe. He was breathing hard and his cheeks were a deep red, but the boy only seemed to make his way upstairs, not noticing his father in the doorway to the kitchen. He had made a hasty retreat but from that angle Francis had seen a rather noticeable tent in Mattieu's jeans, almost immediately clarifying what was going on. He quietly made his way back to the kitchen, trying to drown out the rather loud noises his son was making, which was proving rather difficult. He seemed to go at it for somewhere near an hour, as though every time he had refused to appeal to his more basic urges was coming back at him, and Francis wanted to smack him for letting things build up like that.

Though he figured it was punishment enough for Mattieu to have to come downstairs and realise his papa was just in the kitchen, and it was hilarious the way he went bright red and ran out of the kitchen when Francis muttered 'C'était bien?' as he offered him a tart.

Mattieu was the exact opposite of Alfred. While Mattieu repressed everything to the point he'd explode, Francis didn't think Alfred could retain a single thought in his head. Everything Alfred thought, he spoke. Everything he felt, was plain and clear for the world to see. The boy wore his heart on his sleeve and had a mouth looser than child's shoelaces, and that mouth got him into absurd amounts of trouble to the point where Francis had a permanent seat in the principal's office.

Alfred was feisty, rebellious, loud, and outgoing. He could give less of a damn about school, and it'd been years since he even tried to do homework.
Mattieu was passive, disciplined, quiet and introverted. He worked hard and had a lot of trouble making friends, as he only spoke when it seemed he needed to.

Francis figured the two needed each other, like a balance. Like earth needed sky, like water needed fire and every other single silly cliche known to man.

They were an interesting family. There was Francis, Mattieu and Alfred. There was Alice, their mother, but she was overseas and had seemed to grow some horrible disdain for her family. Her and Francis seemed to be unable to do anything but fight, and Alfred seemed to resent her with very fibre of his being. Mattieu missed her.
Alice couldn't seem to tell the difference between Mattieu and Alfred, but Mattieu still loved her, still believed she cared.
Maybe she did.
Francis was biased and inclined to believe she didn't, that she didn't even deserve the month in the summer he was legally obligated to leave the children with her.
Believed she'd be much better off with her multitude of books and the maybe three phone calls a year she made to them, consisting of a very practiced few words.
Alfed hated her. Francis seemed to swing between hate and love. Mattieu loved her beyond a doubt, no matter how much she could manage to hurt any of them.

So they were seperated. Francis living in Canada with the boys, and Alice had moved back to England. They lived in Ottawa, a large city situated in Ontario, and that seemed to suit all their needs. Mattieu loved the country, the people- especially the Tim Horton's. (Francis would swear he's addicted.) Alfred loved the vast city and Francis was just fond of the bilingualism, much as he may yearn for his own country.

But they were happy, the boys attending the local high school, Francis co-owner of a Scotiabank nearby. They lived in a fairly decent sized two-storied town home, each with their own room.
It was a comfortable, quiet life, that truly should have remained as such.

"Papa! Regarde! I got a ninety-two on my english paper!" An excited voice carried in from the hall and the frenchman glanced up, a smile on his face,

"Oh? Montrer-moi, chouchou." He waved Mattieu in the living room, noting how quickly Alfred seemed to skirt around his brother and right upstairs, letting out a slight breath. He knew what that meant.
Another failed paper, another trip to see the english teacher, another reccomendation to drop Alfred down to an 'easier class'.
Another long, long rant from Alfred on why his tutor is horrible and impossible to listen to and 'I bet he's secretly an alien-'.

A paper was waved in his face and he shook his head, clearing his thoughts as he glanced it over. Three pages of textbook perfect writing, a few red marks but nothing other than that, a happy face and '92' scrawled in pen on the top of the page, right below the 'Complications of a capitalist system' title.
Francis had to wonder where teachers got the patience to read these things.

"Bien, bien! Bravo, Mattieu! I'm very proud of you!" Francis shifted so he could see better over the back of the couch, placing the remote beside him. He tugged Mattieu down by the shoulder so he could kiss the boy's cheek, though his attention immediately moved to the hallway, wincing at the dirt tracks Alfred had left in his haste,

"And how'd your brother do?" Mattieu shrugged. Francis would not have noticed the way the blonde boy's lips seemed to have turned downwards ever so slightly, the way he seemed to slouch forward at the mention of Alfred. How this was all too familiar, how he was noticed for a brief second but his accomplishments were shoved on the back burner, how Alfred always came first and foremost, no matter what.
Or at least, that's how it was to Mattieu.

"Ask him." Matthew was still smiling, though, waving down the hallway. He knew how Alfred did. He saw his brother look in horror at his sheet, saw how he immediately crumpled it up and stuffed it in his pocket before anyone could give a look. Heard the teacher tell Alfred to 'get your father to call me'.

"Probably best. Help yourself to a roll, I finished them this morning, so they may be cold." And with that Francis was off, already up and going down the hallway, socks muffling the noise he made on the floor. Mattieu sighed and wandered into the kitchen, poking at the rolls on the stove.

"Alfred?" The frenchman knocked on the door, fist rapping against the old superman photo there, Clark Kent seeming to stare back at him.
You know, you could just put him in the easier class.
Francis rolled his eyes, though coughing when he realised he was trying to give a poster attitude. He would not just put Alfred in an easier class, as he knew Alfred could do this. He knew Alfred was smart enough to do the work- he just also knew Alfred was also insanely lazy with schoolwork.

"Alfred." He knocked again, harder this time, fingers reaching for the doorknob before the boy swung open the door, lips pulled up in a tired small,

"Yeah, dad?" He spoke quickly, seeming nervous and holding the door tight, as though ready to slam it closed,

"How'd you do in english, petit?" Francis spoke calmly, giving Alfred a rather hopeful chance to prove him wrong.

"Pretty well, thanks, hey, I've got science to do, so I'm busy okay thanks dad bye-"Alfred tried to shut the door but Francis threw a hand out, forcing it open,

"We've been over this-" He started, setting foot in the room and Alfred had already backed up, seating himself on his bed, Captain America grinning at him from right beside the boy's thigh,

"I know! And I told, I'm not smart enough for this!"

"But you are, you just don't try-"

"I do too try! The teacher's a jerk and I'm not good at english, so what? I'm good at other things!"

"Comme quoi?"

"What?"

"Your french classes are clearly paying off."

"I will never need to even usefrench."

Francis rolled his eyes at that, stepping in fully and shutting the door behind him,

"I asked, like what? What else are you good at?"

"Soccer! Basketball, I'm even on the football team!"

"For now."

"Huh-"

"Remember, if you can't bring your grades up, they're going to kick you off the team."

"If you'd just let me into the applied class-"

"If you would listen to me and actually try-"

"I told you I am-"

"Alfred!" He shouted, slamming his foot on the ground. Alfred seemed to shrink back, pushing himself back against the wall of his bed and looking down. Francis could hear a glass shatter in the kitchen and he had to take a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose and breathing in rather slowly. He loses his temper too easily sometimes, and this was a constant arguement. He knew it terrified both boys when he yelled, especially Mattieu. His little darling could not handle yelling in any way, that was something he had to avoid.

"Alfred." He tried again but Alfred wouldn't look up, seeming very interested in a shadow on his wall.
"Alfred, we've been over this. You have to try. You skip out on your tutoring lessons, you won't do your homework and you refuse to study for tests. That'swhy you're failing. Not because of the teacher, not because you don't understand, but because you don't care."

Alfred tried to argue, lifting his head but Francis raised his hand to signal him to stop, only shaking his head.
"I'm calling your teacher. We'll discuss what's best- I'll see if I can get you another shot at that essay. I can't have you failing anything else." He frowned, turning to the door and opening it,

"And if you fail, Alfred, I can assure you you'll finish your schooling with your mother." A harsh threat and he knew it, hearing the boy's wail of protest as he shut the door. He didn't want to deal with that. He wanted a moment to calm down and start dinner, then call Alfred's teacher and maybe deal with him later. He needed this course to get into College. If he dropped to a lower course he wouldn't even make it into a comunitty college, he'd only have enough credits to graduate high school. That's not exactly something to strive for.

"I still don't see why you won't help him." Francis spoke as he entered the kitchen, Mattieu empyting broken glass shards into the garbage can,

"I told you, he doesn't take me seriously and we fight too much." He spoke, shutting the lid behind him and putting the broom and pan away. He seemed to have calmed down from his scare but Francis noticed a bandage over the boy's thumb and took Mattieu's hand in his, glancing over the bandage,

"Je sais, je sais. But it'd be so much easier, I can't seem to find a tutor that doesn't want to throttle Al by the end of the session." The thumb looked fine and he let Mattieu's hand drop, half-smiling at the boys chuckle. Mattieu didn't have anything more to say and Francis just let it drop, moving and digging through the fridge in search of the chicken he had prepared earlier, grabbing it and pulling it out.

"You wanna help me?" He offered, worried he had upset Mattieu earlier. Mattieu smiled and took the plate from Francis, setting it beside the stove and nodding, moving to get the spices. He knew most of his father's recipes by heart, and knew right off the bat what to get. Chicken cordon bleu, and Francis had occupied himself with shredding cheese as Matt prepared the breading.

"How was school?" Francis tried to make conversation, glancing at Matt. The boy had on plastic gloves, always so cautious. His hair fell in gentle waves around his face and his eyes were a pretty shade of blue, seeming to brighten whenever he looked up, the light from the window hitting his eyes. His mouth was set in a thin line, as though he were thinking about something difficult and he was in a basic outfit, over-sized jeans and a white t-shirt.

Francis didn't believe he could look more beautiful.

"C'est bien." A quick answer and Matt was stirring the breading, adding in pinches of paprika,

"Oh? Classes been well?"

"Yeah."

"Anything interesting happen lately?"

"Not really."

"Any girlfriends?"

"No."

"Boyfriends?"

"..."

"..."

"Papa!" Matt seemed to glare at him, but the glare quickly died and he only sighed, peeling off his gloves and pushing the bowl to the side,

"What?"

"You shouldn't ask such things," He frowned again, looking away, "Chuis finit."

"Bien. You're too touchy, you know. There's nothing wrong with it." Francis was frowning now, too. He knew better than to tread on such a subject, but he had to push it anyways. He always did, and it was always the same, 'don't ask me.' 'stop it.' 'why do you even care.'

"Father Laurence says it is." Mattieu tried weakly, already starting to leave the kitchen,

"Well, you can tell Father Laurence to shove that damned bible up his-"

"Papa!"

"Désole. But, you know better than to listen to him, right?" Francis inquired, already beginning to fill the chicken with the cheese, ham ready to be chopped to the side,

"Mm."

"Answer me."

"I know. It's just weird."

"What's weird?"

"The priest being wrong."

"Everyone's wrong sometimes. Father Laurence especially."

"Still weird."

"Je sais. Pass me the butter."

"Here. He doesn't like you either, eh."

'Not my fault."

"It should be common sense that you have to wear a shirt to church."

"He's just lucky I kept my pants on."

"Francis!"

"Don't call me that, you know better."

"You're so vulgar." The chicken was done, stuffed and breaded and Francis had it on the pan and in the stove, turning up the oven. He shook his head at Mattieu but they were both amused, things relaxing some. He shooed Mattieu out of the kitchen and the boy left, snagging an apple before wandering into the living room. Francis could only smile at his retreating form, glad for even the most irrelevant banter with his darling boy.

But now, of course, he had to deal with an english teacher who was convinced his much less darling boy was the bane of her existance. He picked up the phone and dialed a far-too familiar number, reminding himself he was in for a long night.

"Seven percent." Francis stared at his son, left side of his mouth twitching. Alfred only half grinned up at him, shovelling chicken into his mouth as Matt suddenly became intrested in his green beans, tensing at the thought of another shouting match,

"Great dinner, dad, you really know how to cook-" Alfred began but Francis cut him off, expression deadpan,
"Seven percent. I thought, maybe, you got a fifty. Forty, even. But seven percent. You could not have done worse."

"Well, I could have done worse by at least seven points, if we're be-"

"I don't want to hear it! Do you even try? She said you even spelt your name wrong!"

"That was just an accident-"

"You know your grammar! You know the damn alphabet! You know there is no fucking 'y' in 'children'! How could you do so horribly?!" His voice was raised but the way Mattieu clutched his fork forced Francis to calm himself, refraining from yelling,
"How." One word. That was it. How could he have possibly done so horrible, such a blatant lack of disregard for his education.

"It's hard." Alfred spoke, swallowing the last bit of chicken and staring down at his plate, once again resigning himself. He was usually so angry, so bent on emotion- but whenever it came to school, he was always passive, always quick to just give in to Francis' lectures. It seemed to work best, at least.

"It's not hard! It's simple english! You don't try, you sit on your lazy culand play video games all day, you do absolutely nothing useful and are a damned drain on thi-"

"Papa." A small voice cut in and Francis paused, looking over at the doe-eyed boy to his right. Mattieu's grip on his fork was so tight he could see the boy's knuckles turning white and he only shook his head, taking a sip of his water,

"Raise your grade, Alfred. This is your last chance." He put his glass down and that was that. No one wanted to speak. Mattieu was petrified of sparking Francis' temper and Alfred seemed to be dealing with his own temper, looking torn between lashing out and running to his room. Instead, he simply got up and pushed his chair in so hard the table shook, heading off to his room again. Francis ignored it and Mattieu let out a sigh of relief when there was no further arguing, though dropping his fork as well.

"I'm done."

Francis looked over, a little suprised. Matt had barely eaten anything, his plate virtually on touch.

"T'est pas finit." He frowned, placing his own fork done,

"I'm full."

"You barely ate anything."

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"Papa, what if..." Mattieu trailed off, setting his chin on the palm of his hand and chewing on his lip worriedly, eyeing his father.

"Oui?" The frenchman pressed him on, his previous irritation receding quickly,

"Maybe he's just..." He trailed off again, worried he'd say the wrong thing, shutting his yes for a brief moment and pushing his plate away, foot tapping on the floor.

"Juste quoi?" Francis asked, watching him as well, waiting,

"Not cut out for that class? He's had problems in english for years, eh?"Matthew spoke this very hurriedly, more interest in his butter knife then looking at Francis.

"He's as smart as you are, and he shouldn't be getting such low grades."

"Maybe he's not."

"We're not having this discussion."
Mattieu shut up at that, looking down again before standing up, quietly taking both his and Francis' plates. There was no point to it- his papa wouldn't want to hear it. He put the dishes away as the frenchman went into the living room, setting his laptop on the coffee table and leaning over to start it up, the power button flickering as it was pressed.

"Leave the dishes for your brother." He called out and the sink was abruptly shut off, Mattieu going to the living room and sitting across from his father, vacantly turning on the TV,

"You want to see anything?"

"Non. C'est ton choix." Francis half-smiled and continued with his laptop, opening the webpage for his bank account, though he loathed doing his taxes.
A few brief moments of peace, Mattieu having flicked on some news station and Francis bent over, fiddling with his laptop and Alfred most likely playing his new game was over as soon as the phone rang, the noise cutting right through their silence.

Francis waved a hand and Mattieu picked it up, a brief ''Allo-' before he paused entirely, seemingly shocked.

"C'est qui?" Francis muttered, not breaking his gaze from the laptop,

"Maman."

"Quoi?"