Benevolent.

Akrasia

13 sat at the long dinner table, alone. He honestly couldn't identify what was on the plate, chunks and bits of unnamed food stirred onto one plate. All he could think of was that it looked like slop.

It smelled like slop.

It tasted like slop.

13 gagged, swallowing down a spoonful of what tasted like hot shit. He placed the spoon down, breathing hard to not gag again. "I'm full. I don't want to eat no more," he said aloud.

Scotland tsked from where he was, holding a pot of vegetables he dug out of the trough. Walking to where 13 sat, he whispered, "Aye bairn, but you 'ave to. Ye know what the old sassenach would do to you."

"But it tastes terrible! How can someone eat this?!"

The Scot looked down at his feet in shame. "I figured so. Just 'ave to tough it out, bairn." They both looked up at the sound of faint footsteps, Scotland quickly taking his leave to the kitchen.

13's stomach growled, moving around leaving the child feeling ill. It was not a surprise for him to feel sick, it was a daily occurrence at this point. A plate of slop would be handed to him, and he was expected to finish it.

Usually, the ever-so-Great Britain would accompany him while he ate. No, not as company but as an enforcer. Making sure he ate every last scrap.

Looking around, no one was there. Scotland was stumping the trash out, Great Britain was teaching her other successors, maybe he could quickly throw out the food--

The scraping of the wooden chair made him flinch. He looked up at New France, his face lighting up in a smile. "Frenchie! I'm so glad you're here!"

New France glanced at the food before looking at him. "You are not going to finish that?" He asked, so simple it came off as nonchalant.

"Of course not! It tastes horrible! Can you stand guard as I dump this out the window?" 13 asked eagerly, getting up from his seat before a hand reached out and sat him in place. "Frenchie? What are you doing? You got to help me before the old hag gets here!"

"No."

"What do you mean no?"

"I mean no. Non." New France slowly reached for the utensils, getting a spoonful of food as he dragged it to the child's mouth. He was acting as if he was feeding a baby, an infant. And this angered the so mature 13. "You are going to finish your food. You are going to eat it all." He stated, like a demand.

13, however, looked at him with betrayal hidden in his eyes. "How... how could you? You're going to make me eat this?"

"Yes. I am." New France straightened his back in the chair, proper as ever. He stood up, going to stand behind 13, hands on his shoulders.

"I'm not going to eat this. It's terrible, it what they would feed to swine." 13 scoffed, trying to wiggle his way out of the older grip to escape. He cried out when his nose made contact with the table, watching as crimson liquid mixed into the indentations with the wood.

New France looked down at him, anger swelling in his eyes. His grip on his brother's hair a clear sign of his rage. "You should be grateful. Some of us get no food, we would be fucking celebrating if we got a gram of food! I wouldn't be starving all the time!"

The birth of a lifelong hatred. A resentment that will still live as he rots in his grave.

"Be grateful you're getting food! Be grateful you're getting treated as an animal instead of an object! Eat your fucking food, treize!"