For Mattie

Chapter Thirteen

×Chapter Thirteen×
×It Starts Again, Or Does It?×

"It's about Matthieu...Arthur, Matthew was a prostitute...and I knew..." silence filled the room as Arthur's eyes widened in shock and worry and hatred. But the words rang out in his ears once more and he looked at Francis for any type of some sick mischief. But his husband was crying, slim frame shaking as soft hands tugged on pulled back hair. Quickly removing Francis' hands, scared his lover would hurt himself, Arthur pulled the other into a tight embrace, tears of his own falling. The hate that seemed to make up for the emotions he once felt threatening to spill over. But he had to remain strong for a little while longer, keep the strength to be able to talk to Matthew about this. But the pit in his stomach made him sick on what Matthew would say, how he would react.

"It's not your fault, Francis. But I need your side of the story" Arthur commands lightly, bringing the French man down to take a seat. Francis looked uncertain and cautious, moving a bit away from his husband before speaking, voice shaky.

"Well..."

'Francis sat on the old cushioned couch, eyes flickering from the front door to the clock that shone 2 am in bright red numbers. Arthur was late and for sure he went straight to the bar to spend his paycheck. Francis has a job but it wouldn't be able to support all the bills and groceries. With a huff, Francis shut his eyes only to open them when the door was opened all too slowly. He looked up and frowned at the sight of a tired and red faced Matthew.

"Matthieu, cher?" his voice, he noted, seemed to spook the boy who looked up at him with wide eyes.

"P-papa! I didn't know you were awake. I'm sorry, I'll heading off to bed" Francis grabbed Matthew's wrist just in time, stopping the boy from running away.

"Why were you out so late for?" Now that he was close, Francis could smell some cheap cologne and a weird yet familiar salty smell...his eyes wiended as he knelt down, inspecting the boy closer. He saw how Matthew's wrist and neck had fingerprints and his shirt was stained with some white stuff.

"M-matthieu?" he whispered, looking at his boy with scared eyes. Matthew pulled himself away roughly, a small glare setting on his features.

"Forget it, papa. I'm fine" Matthew whsipered back, his back turned but he threw an envelope on the floor. Francis grabbed it and teared it open, eyes widening at the large roll up of money.

"$1,500. I know it's not enough but it was all I can muster up to ge-" Francis pulled Matthew into an embrae, loud sobs escaping his bruised and cut lips.

"Merci, Matthieu! Merci...je t'aime!" they stayed like that for a few minutes before Matthew pushed Francis away. As he walked to his bedroom, he heard his papa's voice.

"One more month? S'il vous plait?" and Matthew could never refuse the abused face of his papa, or the hushed shouts and cries later on that early morning.'

Arthur looked sick, he felt sick. He knew that what he did to his family wasn't healthy, he knew he made them suffer in all ways possible. He was the worst but hearing that he led his youngest son to sell himself for money just to help them, and hearing how Franics choked halfways when he tried to stop himself from telling the abuse he got. The front door opened and he looked up with hope that it was Matthew, so he can hug and apologize his son for being more of the man of the family at such an young age. Hell, not even his own brother was this rough with him. He knew Alistair loved him but had a hard time showing it because of his own father. It was all Arthur Kirkand and he couldn't blame anyone else. But what he saw wasn't Matthew, for the first time he can tell the brothers apart at one glance, and frowned as Alfred immediately ran over to them.