To Be a Hero

Chapter 10

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. That's what Alfred felt. When Francis had gotten him home, after a brief phone-call with Arthur on the way there, his older cousin had flocked him, trying to get him to explain what was wrong. But he just... couldn't. Alfred had pushed past the Brit, slugging up to his room. When he opened his door, he moved to go to his bed.

However, he just stood there with the door open, hand still on the doorknob, staring at his bed. The previous night's memories hit him like a subway. There had been so much trust, so much love. What had gone wrong? Why did Ivan suddenly feel like he wasn't good enough?

Part of his head tried to tell him what was true--that Ivan only agreed because it was his grandmother, and he wanted to get their talk over with, to please her. But the larger part of Alfred's conscious, the broken, wrecked part of him, wouldn't believe it. It would only hurt more when he found it to be false.

Who was he kidding anyway? Ivan--beautiful, smart, talented Ivan--liking him? Ridiculous. Alfred should have seen it coming from the moment he kissed him. No, from when he got into his car. Even before that, when Ivan came up to him in the hallway. It was all a sick joke, some terrible scheme Ivan had come up with to finally take down his school-long enemy. And it worked. He hated to admit it, but Ivan got to him. He had won.

No, Alfred couldn't get back into his bed. Not when he knew the sheets would smell of the Russian his heart longed for. There was no need for more hurt. Instead, he closed the door, dragging himself to his brother's room. Letting himself in, he beelined it for the bed.

He flopped down on his side, not bothering to remove his jeans and crawl under the covers. Tears burned his eyes and tracked his face, never ending. His body trembled with every gasping breath. He held himself so hard he made his own prints into his arms.

After God knows how long, he fell asleep on his brother's bed, waking up after a while, but not getting out. Hours later, Matthew came in, pausing when he saw Alfred's heap of a being curled on his covers. Slowly, he approached him, whispering softly, "Alfred?" After not getting a response, he tried a little louder. "Alfred."

Alfred's response was a tiny shift, barely noticed by Matthew. "What's going on? Arthur was freaking when I got in, and Francis won't tell me anything." He sat on the bed next to Alfred, making a point not to touch him. He knew by now that it wouldn't help. "Al, talk to me, please?"

"Ivan," was all Alfred could get out before falling apart, wracking out loud sobs and throwing himself into his brother's arms. And just like that, Matthew was a different person--the timid, shy boy was gone, replaced with strong arms wrapping around the American, a sense of calm encasing them.

"It's alright, Al. Just breath. In, and out ."

Between shaky breaths, Alfred got the story out. Matthew stayed silent through it all, stoic as he held the mess in his arms. When he was done, his brother said nothing for a few minutes. When he did, Alfred thought he'd freak.

"He's in for it," Matthew said. When Alfred lifted himself off of him to look in his eyes, all he saw was violet flames. He'd rarely seen Matthew like this, and when someone did, run.

"Matty, no," Alfred whispered.

"Yes, Al, yes!" he yelled. Alfred flinched. Matthew didn't stop there. "That was an asshole move, it doesn't matter why he did it. You don't say shit like that about people you care for, and he obviously cares for you!" Alfred let out a hmph . "Okay, pull yourself together, and make up your damn mind."

"Excuse you?" Alfred asked, flabbergasted. Here he was, crying on his brother's bed, and said brother was being short with him?

"Excused. Alfred, listen to yourself. Hell, look at yourself. This isn't the Alfred F. Jones I know. This isn't even Alfred F. Jones--this is a whiny little bitch who won't make up his damn mind about if he doesn't like a hoe or not. Now, does that sound like you, Al?"