Chapter Text
Alfred POV
As the water droplets run down his body, the sweat washes away along with memories of the last three hours… Alfred sighs. He had fucked around with some college girl for like two hours. He’d known her for what, three hours? He hardly got to talk to her before she was already in his pants. He tried to remember her name, ‘Josephine? Jolyne? Jacklyn? Did it really matter?’ He wasn’t gonna talk to her ever again. Alfred figured her sex game was mediocre at best, and her moaning was annoying as shit. She was… stupid pretty. Long copper hair, olive skin, and soft, thin fingers… Alfred shudders with arousal, his face flushing. ‘She was soft in a lot of ways.’ He bites his lip, then starts to scrub himself down with the body wash, a little rougher than usual.
Someone loudly bangs on the door, and he flinches like hell. ‘Jesus…’
“Finish up in there! Your dad and I have to talk to you!” Arthur yelled through the bathroom door.
His dads probably knew why he came home past curfew. Or at least had a good idea of why. He hopes he can convince them that he wasn’t getting down with an adult… Alfred doesn’t bother responding, and sure as hell isn’t gonna shower any faster just because they wanna bash him for his lifestyle. ‘Is lifestyle the right word?’ He hums softly as he thinks, ‘Maybe the lifestyle of a hooker…’ His dads were never very good at punishing Alfred; maybe that’s why he does the shit he does so casually.
Sometimes the way he acts makes him think about Matthew, his twin brother, who was so much more well-behaved than him, and overall just a better person. Alfred would’ve never guessed that his twin was suicidal had he not seen the attempt himself. He replays that day with disgust and guilt. All the blood that was well… everywhere, literally everywhere. The floor, the couch, the coffee table; Matthew’s hands, legs, and arms. His stomach twists. He wishes he had paid more attention to him. Matthew just seemed so quiet all the time… ‘I should hang out with Matthew more, before it’s too late.’ He makes a note to himself to take his twin brother out to the club the next time he goes with his older friends. He wonders if Matthew can even survive a club; he’d probably be a pussy… He shouldn’t say that about his suicidal brother. ‘Man, not making fun of him is gonna be hell…’ Alfred chuckles despite himself. He had struggled with self-harm in the past; he’d only cut a couple of times. He’s stopped cutting, yes. But he didn’t stop self-harming, technically… The drugs, vapes, beer, and the purging. ‘A truly better escape,’ he scoffs, ‘harming my body differently.’ Lucky him. He attempts to focus on something else, looking around for stuff to mindlessly stare at.
He exhales deeply. ‘Speaking of starving myself.’ Alfred looks down at his body. He’s gaining weight again; to Alfred, he’s severely overweight almost constantly. He wouldn't outwardly say he had an eating disorder; he just didn’t like being a fatass and would smoke and starve himself until he was at an acceptable weight again. Just to get right back to looking fat as a pig because of the fast food he shoves down constantly. ‘Oh well, back to purging,’ he thinks absently, ‘Now, I really sound like a hooker.’ Alfred cringes and scrubs himself even harder.
————————————————————
Despite his father’s command, Alfred takes another 30 minutes before getting out of the bathroom, just to annoy him a bit more. He doesn’t typically respect Arthur’s authority, constantly ignoring him and never doing what he asks, but with his papa, on the other hand, he becomes as obedient as a dog. When he walks out of the bathroom, he is wearing a Pink Floyd shirt and a pair of his brother’s pajama pants. His hair is barely dry, and he smells strongly of sea salt and cedar. Francis is wearing a silk, blue robe, and Arthur looks homeless; he’s wearing a wife-beater and ripped-up shorts. They’re sitting at the dining room table, laughing and talking happily while sipping some tea. They’re also flirting, and subtly making sex jokes that make Alfred wanna gag. Until he does, which makes Francis notice his presence, and the mood drops rapidly.
“Alfred-Franklin Jones Bonnefoy-Kirkland. Where were you at…” Francis checks his watch and calculates silently. “11:30?! Mon dieu! Are you out of your damn mind?!”
Alfred flinches at the full name and at the yelling. First off, he hates his full name, who gives their kid a hyphenated first and last name, all while still having a middle name? It’s weird as shit! Second, Francis seldom yells at him or Matthew; he’s usually very gentle with his words. In fact, his way with words leaves you feeling kind of warm inside; his strong French accent really adds to it, too. That is definitely not the tone Alfred is receiving. Sure, he ignored their every text and call, but he was in the middle of something! That something being a girl’s vag… but that’s beside the point.
“Papa, I was just chilling with a… friend, and we lost track of time, and she drove me right back home.”
Francis and Arthur share a similar look that says ‘Likely story’ or some dumb shit like that, before going back to sipping their tea.
“You were just chilling together, alone, Alfred? Is there anything else you two were doing? We know you tend to get a little passionate and handsy with your female friends.” The obvious suspicion in Francis’ voice makes Alfred feel pissed off. Why was he being so damn serious right now? Why did he care so much?
“Papa, I didn’t do anything with her. She’s just a friend.” Alfred insists.
Arthur sighs, “Look, son, we already know you’re lying.”
‘Called it.’ Alfred exhales.
“We have to tell this young lady’s parents about this, and ask her what her parents' contact is.”
“What?… what?…”
“We need to tell them that their teenager is sleeping with someone… It’s the responsible thing to do, mon fils. Unless her parents are… uhm, abusive or something? Are they?” Francis rambles.
“She, uhm… she doesn’t… her parents don’t need to know…”
“Of course they do! Unless you have a reason, they shouldn’t know.” Arthur exclaims.
And then, Alfred decides he just doesn't care anymore. Terrible decision. “Her parents don’t need to know because she’s not a teenager.”
“Well, how old is she?” Arthur frowns.
“Twenty…”
Silence, deep, deep silence. So silent he could hear Matthew opening and closing his drawers upstairs in his room. Arthur stares at him with a face of terror, and then he quickly masks it. Francis places his cup down on the counter and opens his mouth to say something, but the silence remains. Alfred averts his gaze. He doesn’t feel guilty or ashamed; he just doesn’t feel like seeing them make these horrified faces at him.
“Twenty, Alfred?” Arthur repeats sharply.
“Alfred, that’s- that’s a full ass adult…” Francis points out the obvious.
“Mhm…”
“You knew this? Actually, forget about that. Did she know how old you were?” Arthur begins to tap the table.
Alfred makes the mistake of looking up, and he sees pity on his parents' faces. He rolls his eyes.
“Bloody hell, Alfred...”
Arthur’s expression changes completely. “Give me your phone.”
Alfred blinks and doesn’t move.
“Now.”
He hands his father his phone, and then avoids eye contact by playing with the hem of his shirt.
“Do not go near those college ‘friends’ you have, ever again. I don’t care if you hate me for it.”
“This can’t happen ever again. I knew I shouldn’t have trusted those damn chancers, so no socializing outside of the family, no hanging out with friends, no texts, no calls, nothing.” Alfred can almost feel his father’s overbearing gaze on him.
Arthur backtracks, “This isn’t a punishment, it’s a restriction. You’re a victim, and you don’t seem to realize it or care. It’s really disturbing, why would you- why didn’t you say no?”
His expression falters and gets much more intense, “You are sixteen, Alfred! Not twenty-six, not thirty-six, sixteen!…”
“Mon amour, this is not his fault. She probably coerced him into sleeping with her, vile woman.” Francis, who was starting to cry, takes Arthur's hand in his.
“We don’t know that, dear.”
“Still, it’s not his fault. You will not blame him.”
Arthur takes a deep breath. “What type of person willingly sleeps with a sophomore in high school?” He tries to make the situation practical, but for obvious reasons, fails.
“You’re making this a bigger deal than it actually is.” Alfred glances over to his papa. “You both are.”
“Because we love you, this is… devastating. Son, I'm so sorry that this has happened to you, and I know you don’t care right now, but just know that we do.” Arthur rants, his voice breaking only slightly.
He looks at Francis. “Papa, can you tell him-”
“Alfred,” Francis has tears rolling down his face, with an expression of hurt. “Je t’aime, but I agree with your father, completely.”
“Papa, don’t act like teens having sex isn’t normal. Isn’t it especially normal in France?
“Teens having sex with other teens is very normal, Alfred. But adults should not have sex with children, no matter the country!”
“I was the one who led her on, I basically said yes…”
Francis starts sobbing. “Mon loulou… Tu es trop jeune pour ça, tu es mon bébé!”
‘Ugh, this is giving me a major headache.’
“Une femme adulte n'aurait pas dû coucher avec toi; elle aurait dû faire preuve de plus de bon sens ! C'est impardonnable!”
“Jesus Christ, Dad, she’s just twenty, it’s not that serious!”
“Not that serious? How is it not that serious?! Explain, Alfred-Franklin.” Francis stands up from the stool he was sitting in, clearly frustrated. “What do you mean, not that serious? She slept with you! She took advantage of you, she… she raped you… and you’re just brushing it off.”
“I wanted it. It felt… good”
“That does not make this situation even the slightest bit okay.” Arthur jumps in.
Truth be told, Alfred still doesn’t think it was rape. He opens his mouth to defend himself again, but looking at his crying papa, his throat tightens, and he can’t bring himself to talk back. So he nods, gets up, and walks up the stairs to his room, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. ‘Damn it!’ he’s pissed. It was his life anyway, why should it matter whether he has a little bit of sex, well… a lot of sex, but that’s beside the point.
While he is rushing up the stairs, Alfred nearly bumps into Matthew walking down the stairs with clothes and a towel in his hands. He stops on the stairs above Alfred, smiling almost condescendingly.
“Got scolded? Let me guess, you got laid again.” Perhaps Matthew was being genuinely happy for his twin, but Alfred still almost punched him in the face.
“Not legally, I guess…” He continues up the stairs with no clarification or context while Matthew stares at him in confusion.
Alfred slams his bedroom door and groans before flopping on his unmade bed. The whole room was a pigsty, but he didn’t give a shit. The space smelled strongly of weed, cigarettes, and an expensive cologne he stole from Matthew. Alfred wonders if Francis had ever yelled at Matthew like that… He shrinks in on himself, remembering his usually sweet papa going from an enraged father to something similar to a certain depressed Frenchman who just lost a war. Alfred doesn’t even want to think about the way Arthur ranted about his punishment. He swallows; he wasn’t used to such harsh treatment from his parents… ‘Whatever… I just need some relief.’
———————————————————
Alfred did promise himself he wouldn’t relapse with the stronger stuff again. He knows that’s not happening. He begins to prep some O, but just as he finishes prepping it, someone softly knocks on his door. ‘Holy shit!’ He tries his best to swipe the opium back in the bag, but ends up smearing some on his hands, the table like a dumbass, ‘Shit!’ The rest of it falls on the damn ground. ‘My shit!’
Matthew walks through the door slowly, his typically curly hair damp and flattened. He’s wearing a blue hoodie with a cartoon polar bear on an iceberg and boxers. Matthew glances at the dark brown resin on his brother’s hand and the bedroom floor, then looks back at his twin, deadpan.
“You’re wearing my pyjama pants; I need them back…” he mumbles.
“I don’t have any more clean bottoms. I haven’t washed my clothes in like 2 months,” Alfred responds, with obvious surprise at Matthew’s ignorance of the narcotic smeared on Alfred and his surroundings. “Um, you don’t have any other sleep pants to wear? When I was going through your drawers, I saw lots of shorts.”
Matthew’s eye twitches, and Alfred notices him balling his fist before he slumps his shoulders. “Do not look through my stuff, please…” he averts his gaze, “Anyway, I need to wear longer pants… because of the… y’know…” he gestures at his thighs.
“Oh shit, right…” Alfred shamefully resists looking at his brother's scars. “Well, uh, I-”
“Just-” he stops himself from yelling, “Just give them back in the morning, I’ll just wear some shorts to sleep.”
“I can’t, I can’t leave my room till our dads say so, I’m like grounded for the rest of the year probably.”
“You know what? Just keep them, they’re ugly anyway.” Matthew rubs his temple. “Also, that’s the wrong type of pipe; you’re going to char your O…”
“What?”
“Smokable opium has its own special types of pipes. You can use glass pipes, but they’re more for crack or meth. In the end, your O will more than likely taste burnt. Love you, goodnight.”
“Uhm, thanks… and uh Love you, goodnight.” Alfred responds.
Matthew turns around and closes the door gently. Alfred stares at the shut door a little longer than needed, then checks the alarm clock on his dresser, ‘Three past midnight?’ Alfred wipes up the opium with a tissue ‘Definitely just wasted hundreds of dollars.’ He dumps it in the trash and puts away his glass pipe. He presses the heel of his palm into his eye, as he lies down, his blond hair splays across the pillow, and he closes his eyes. 'This night has been a whole lot of bullshit.’ And maybe Alfred does give a shit this time… ‘Only this once…’ probably.