the prompt was 'soft'. im so sorry

Scenes of fauna and flora; these were what covered the walls of Matthew's room. Painted on the wall as murals, or hung in frames, these paintings were his pride and joy. Years of slaving in front of a canvas were certainly paying off, as he had shown a few pieces off at a recent art fair. Sometimes he would even paint things that were to happen a little into the future. The young man blinked his violet eyes open, lips parting in a long yawn. As soon as he sat up, he was shoved from the side.

"Go back to sleep, it's like five in the morning," whined his brother, who had crawled up in Matthew's bed during last night's storm – seeing as he was terrified of them and craved comfort often. Matthew raised a brow and shoved him right back.

"This is my bed, Alfred, you hoser." He scoffed, reaching for his glasses on the side table. "I'll wake when I want to."

Alfred groaned with irritation, burying his face into the red and white duvet that cloaked Matthew's bed. "Why in hell would anyone want to wake up at five?" He moaned, hand pushing at his brother's hip again.

"Things to paint, colours to mix-" hummed Matthew, shuffling out of bed and moving over to the wall to flick on the main light. This was much to Alfred's discomfort, as the younger of the two let out a tired wail and hid his face a little more.

"I'll never understand you, I swear to god," he grunted, hesitantly turning his head up a bit to give a death stare to Matthew. "Find my glasses for me, will ya'? I have school but I don't want to move." Alfred elicited a soft whine, running a hand through his honey-blond locks.

"Move and I'll make you breakfast." That was a bargain Alfred would go for, and Matthew knew it.

Alfred sat up in a flash, almost tripping over the duvet as he stumbled off the bed and to the door. "Don't burn the eggs this time, 'kay?" And with that, he was gone.

Matthew let out a quiet sigh, taking a moment to turn and admire one of his latest pieces on his wall.

This canvas was adorned with beautiful scarlets and dashing ambers, striking golds and bright whites. It was a scene of autumn, captured and played with by Matthew's brush. It was a piece of life captured within a whimsical artwork, and he found himself rather proud of it.

After another moment of adoration, he tore his eyes away from his piece, and got dressed into work clothes for the morning. Work was hard to avoid, seeing as he and Alfred's parents, Francis and Arthur Bonnefoy (Francis had voted for Kirkland-Bonnefoy but Arthur would have none of it) actually owned the coffee store that he was employed at. Well, they usedto own it together.

Now, it was just Francis, seeing how Arthur had walked out on them all, done with the many disputes that occurred in their home. In the end, to try and support two growing boys and their education, Francis was almost constantly working. Matthew deemed that a little sad. His dear Papa used to be a lot happier, and he didn't always drink the weekends away. The worst things happen to the best people, he thought.

Matthew finished dressing and headed out of his room, glancing to Alfred already sitting at the table. "Alfred," he started, giving his year-younger brother a warning glare. "That's only half of your school uniform. Put on the tie and cardigan, or I'll skip the hash browns." Ah, how convenient food was as a bartering object. Puffing out his crimson cheeks, Alfred stood up and toddled away to find the rest of his uniform.

Smiling a little, he moved to the kitchen, where he worked up a culinary storm. A beautiful breakfast was what he had in mind, a treat for both he and his brother before they headed off to their places of need for the day. First, he fried and scrambled eggs, before cooking rashers of bacon for Alfred, and a small stack of waffles for himself. Francis used to make them a delicious breakfast before they both had to go to school, but that was a thing of the past. Matthew missed it dearly; Francis was only really home on some weekends and in the very early hours of the morning.

He served up the plates at the dining table, returning the wide grin Alfred gave him as the younger sat down. After he'd eaten and gotten Alfred off on the bus to school, Matthew could kick back for an hour or two and splash those vibrant colours onto the dry white of the canvas.

"Thanks for the grub," Alfred laughed quietly, patting at his full belly once he'd cleaned his plate. "Your cooking's almost as good as Papa's." He praised. Although this had been meant positively, it dampened Matthew's spirit a little.

"Merci-" He cut himself off. As bilingual as he'd ended up being, now was not the time. He'd just make himself more melancholy. "Thanks, little bro."

"Go and brush your teeth; I'll walk you to the bus stop." Matthew instructed with a yawn, standing up and taking their now-emptied plates.

"When did you start bein' my dad and stop being my big bro?" scoffed Alfred, who just stood, stretched his arms, and fixed the glasses Matthew had found for him earlier. Matthew just grit his teeth.

"I'm not sure, Alfred. I'm really not sure."

He walked Alfred to his bus stop, making sure that he hopped onto the right bus this time. Alfred was a rambunctious and boisterous boy, even in his last year of high school. As he turned, it was as if he was struck across the face. That was how inspiration usually got to him.

It was a scrabble back home, his sneakers squeaking a little against the warm pavement. He had to write his ideas down, he had to get at least the sketch onto canvas. As he fathomed more over this thought, Matthew pushed the door open and practically charged into his painting room. It was supposed to be Francis's room, but he didn't use it too much anymore. The bed was still over to one side, and painting equipment took up the other half of the room.

Matthew reached down for a pencil, before he let his muse take over and he started. Many fast and elegant strokes soon marked the canvas, pushed only lightly, but getting the point across. The sketch entailed of a boy – or perhaps a man – being pursued by a bus that seemed to be out to get him. He creased his brow.

He went to add more detail onto the sketch, but glanced to the wall clock in this room, and groaned. Time to head off to work. Matthew rose to his feet, letting out a weak sigh as he headed out, locking the door behind him. It didn't take him long to get to the store, and he opened it up for the morning. Work was never really too interesting, but sometimes he came across the nice person or two along the line. Just last Saturday, he had served a charming high-school couple; one of them with slicked back blond hair, and the other with the brightest smile you'd ever seen.

Matthew unlocked and then opened the door, stepping into the store with a faint smile. He dawdled not, going behind the counter and setting up the coffee machines. It didn't take long for the first customer to show up. The workday was long and uneventful. He packed up once it was closing time, and then made his way home. Since Alfred came back from school before his shift ended, he assumed that his brother would be at the house. Matthew smiled at the thought.

What he saw when he stepped inside gave him a bit of a shock.

"Papa?" He murmured, dropping his bag and hurrying over. Francis was laying face-down in the middle of the living room, just to one side of the coffee table. He didn't appear to be moving. "Papa!" repeated Matthew, crouching and worriedly shaking his father.

"Mm? Oh, désole," Francis whimpered, turning his head a bit to lean his cheek against the floor. He stared up at Matthew with cheerless eyes, giving a tiny and forced smile. "I must've tripped and hit my head. I stopped for drinks before coming home," He laughed quietly. That was obvious; the stench of alcohol was strong on the Frenchman's breath.

"Thank goodness you're okay," Matthew mumbled, sitting down properly since he figured Francis didn't wish to get up. "Where's Alfred? He didn't hear you fall down?" He puffed, indignant. What kind of son was Alfred, not looking after his old man like that?

"I haven't seen him," commented Francis, who lamely sat up and hugged his knees to his chest.

Matthew creased his brow. "That's weird, he should've been home by now-" he mused quietly, tensing up. "I can try calling his cell.."

"Go for it, mon ange." His father mumbled, a bit too tipsy for this. "Make sure he's okay."

He used the landline to call, seeing as Alfred was the only one in the family to have a cell phone. That was because he stole it, though. The phone rang out, and this seriously alarmed Matthew. Alfred always had his phone. He would answer in two seconds flat if he received a call. "Papa, I'm going out." Matthew announced meekly, grabbing a blanket and giving it to his drunken father to curl up in. Gritting his teeth, he set out again, headed towards Alfred's school.

He wasn't sure when, but at some point, he'd changed pace from walking to running, and then sprinting down the pathway. Then, a memory struck him. Oh. Matthew let out a dumbfounded laugh as he remembered that Alfred had mentioned going over to Kiku's house this afternoon. Genius, Matthew.

Matthew sighed with relief and ran his fingers through his hair, feeling kind of stupid for sprinting all the way to the school for nothing. He turned to go home now, for he had a painting to finish.

Returning to the house, he found his father and gave him a long and warm hug, having not had the chance to do so for a while. As much as he reeked of alcohol and cigarettes, Francis was still his father, and he loved him deeply. There was a kind of feeling that Matthew felt around his father and brother, a kind of connection, a kind of soft touch. Giving a little smile, he passed Francis, and headed into the bedroom where he painted.

Without much more to say or do, he passed that soft touch onto the canvas he'd started this morning. As if in a trance, Matthew painted. His strokes were smooth, and his colour choices were always flawless. The scene materialised in front of him.

It was raining in the artwork, pelting sheets of water coming down on the whole area. A grey bus seemed to be the centerpiece, but if one were to look closer, they would see the real focus of the painting. A man, running from the vehicle, was painted in the center. Matthew recognized the man in the painting as his own father. Not Francis, but Arthur. That was probably what spooked him the most.

He believed it to be another one of those paintings. Matthew was scared this time. He'd painting things like this before, although they were quite different things; one was Alfred shoplifting a phone, the very act that he'd got away with within the next week. Once, he had painted himself tripping on the two stairs up to the coffeeshop door. As illustrated, that very happening played out true.

Alfred showed up to the house a little later, pleasantly surprised at the sight of his father. The younger brother had always been closer to Arthur, and surely loved and missed him, but he still got along with Francis rather well. Considering he was rarely home, time around Francis was always well spent.

"I need to go again in an hour," Francis sighed, pulling his sons into a hug and kissing the tops of their heads.

"Can't you just stay for a bit longer? I like never get to see you," Alfred whined softly, to which Matthew just let out a quiet sigh. The man shook his head slightly, ruffling his son's hair gently.

"Désole," murmured Francis.

This hour with Francis was spent for the most part just sitting about in the living room, curled up together, a family of three. There was still a painful emptiness from where Arthur had once been, but Matthew closed his eyes to try and shut out the memories. He didn't want to be thinking about that bastard now. As much as he didn't really want to, he resented his father for leaving like he did, taking the bulk of family funds instead of he and Alfred. Alas, the time for Francis to leave came all too soon, and they were wishing him goodbye again as he set off to work again.

"I miss times like that," remarked Alfred as he curled up against Matthew on the couch. "It was nice having Papa around for a bit." He mused quietly, this morose situation causing Matthew to sigh.

"It was, wasn't it?.." He hummed, fingers toying in Alfred's messy blond locks. "You need a haircut, bro." Matthew laughed breathily, not really focusing on what he was saying.

Alfred puffed out his cheeks, pawing at his brother's shirt, and failing to sense the mood. "Papa used to cut my hair," he mumbled quietly, lip quivering.

"Papa's just busy, but I'm trying to help out with money, yeah? The coffee store is going to get bigger and be a great hit in this town, and we'll be rolling in dough." Matthew enthused to soothe Alfred. "Then Papa won't need to work so much and he'll have time for us."

The statement saddened him as well, and before they knew it, the brothers were crying silently against one another. "Things are going to get so much better, Alfred." He mumbled, pulling out of the tight embrace to wipe away his brother's tears.