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As his mental state worsened, Matthew had gotten good at making neglect look accidental.
That was the worst part of it, really; how easy it was to disguise when nobody was looking too closely. Sleeping a little later, talking a little less, leaving half his meals untouched and smiling faintly when anyone asked if he was alright.
He had always been quiet enough that silence didn’t stand out on him. Always been soft enough that exhaustion could hide in the droop of his shoulders and pass for shyness, in the shadows under his eyes and pass for a bad night of sleep. He moved gently, apologized automatically, kept his voice low and his presence smaller than it should have been, and all of it made it terribly easy to disappear in plain sight.
But when he began losing motivation to take care of his body, his hair became harder to hide.
Matthew’s hair was usually one of those small, constant things about him; it was soft and thick, feathered around his face, always a little airy no matter how often Alfred ruffled it or how badly the wind caught it.
It had a sort of quiet volume to it, pale and fluffy and unmistakably Matthew, the kind of thing Francis liked to smooth back from his forehead when he passed by and Arthur pretended not to fuss over when it got too long in the back.
Lately, though, it had gone flat. It wasn't all at once, but it had happened slowly, gradually until nobody could ignore it anymore.
The roots had begun to cling together in faint, oily strands. His fringe hung limp across his eyes, dull and heavy, and the ends at the nape of his neck had started to curl oddly where it hadn’t been brushed properly. It made his face look narrower, paler; it made his eyebags look darker.
Made him look less like himself and more like a ghost wearing Matthew’s body.
Francis noticed on a Wednesday morning.
Matthew had come downstairs late around 10, socked feet whispering over the hardwood, moving sluggishly; he was clearly still tired. The kitchen was warm with sunlight and the smell of coffee. Alfred was halfway through a box of cereal, shoving fistfuls of it into his mouth, while Arthur stood at the stove with a cup of tea gone cold at his elbow, reading the news on his phone while he ate a burned piece of toast.
Francis looked up from where he was cutting fruit and paused. Matthew looked...different.
Matthew, oblivious or maybe too tired to register the shift in the room, mumbled a soft good morning and moved toward the cabinet for a mug.
“...Mathieu.”
Matthew’s hand paused halfway to the handle as he turned, shoulders already pulling inward. “Yes, papa?"
Francis set the knife down with exquisite care. “Come here, cher." He looked slightly tense, which made Alfred look at him over his cereal. Arthur’s attention had been diverted as well, half focused on the news.
Matthew hesitated. “I was going to get tea, do you think you could wait?" He didn't seem all too willing to move, which was also unusual; the Canadian loved attention, since it came rarely for him.
Francis shook his head. “Come. Here.”
There was no room in his tone for argument, not even gentle argument, and Matthew obeyed. Clearly, he was too tired to argue properly. He shuffled closer to the island, cardigan hanging off his frame.
Up close, his hair was even worse. It was visibly greasy at the roots, flattened against his head in soft blond clumps, and there was a knot tucked behind one ear like he’d slept on wet hair and never bothered fixing it.
Francis reached out, hooked two fingers under Matthew’s chin, and tipped his face toward the light.
Matthew went pink immediately, embarrassed by the attention more than anything else. “Francis, what are you—”
“How long?” The Frenchman interrupted, worried.
Matthew blinked. “How long what?”
“Do not do that with me this morning.” Francis lifted a strand of his hair between two fingers and let it fall. It landed limp against Matthew’s temple. “How long has your hair been like this?”
Alfred actually lowered his spoon, for once. Arthur turned off the stove, taking another bite of his toast. The tense atmosphere had caught everyone's attention.
Matthew’s face burned hotter. “It’s fine, I just haven’t washed it yet...I was planning on doing it today." An obvious lie, but one that he could hopefully get past Francis with.
Francis stared at him. The silence stretched.
Matthew, wilting under it, tried again, smaller this time. “I was going to later.”
“Oh, really.” Francis’s eyebrows lifted. “Later. Of course. And were you also going to brush out the knot behind your ear later? And the one at the back? And perhaps eat something more substantial than half a piece of toast and tea while you were at it?” He shot Arthur a look, noting that he was eating the same; but at least Arthur had actually been eating good the rest of the week. Unlike Matthew.
Matthew instinctively lifted a hand toward his hair, but Francis caught his wrist lightly before he could touch it.
“No,” Francis said, not unkindly. “No, sweetheart. You do not get to lie to me and expect to get away with it."
Matthew’s mouth parted and closed. He looked down at the floorboards, ashamed. Had it really been that obvious?
Arthur was the first to move. He set the spatula down and came closer, his expression sharpening. He was worried, but clearly not trying to show it. “Let me see.”
“Arthur, it's fine!” Matthew started, mortified, but the Brit moved before he could push him away, gently pushing Matthew’s fringe back from his forehead. Arthur’s face changed almost imperceptibly as he looked; he had never been the best with hair care (that was Francis's forte) but Matthew's hair had gotten bad enough that even he could notice.
His mouth flattened, eyes flicking over Matthew’s skin, the shadows beneath his eyes, the hollowed-out tiredness in his face. How long had he been like this? "Bloody hell..."
Francis’s expression softened for one brief second, watching the two, before it hardened all over again into something brisk and efficient. “Right. Upstairs. Now.”
Matthew looked up, startled. “What?”
“You heard me, Matthieu. Go."
“Francis, I'm twenty years old, I can wash my hair by myself! It isn't a big deal..." The excuse sounded pathetic even to himself.
“It is a big deal if you are letting yourself get like this under our noses.” Francis was already taking hold of his elbow, steering him away from the kitchen with a firm expression. “Upstairs. Bathroom. Immediately.”
“Francis, please—”
“Now, Matthew.”
The use of his English name instead of the gentle "Matthieu" normally used by Francis made the Canadian go quiet.
Alfred watched them, blinking. "Uh, do you want me to bring your weird hair products...?"
“They are not weird, but yes,” Francis snapped over his shoulder, “Bring the detangling spray from my room, the blue bottle, not the cheap one from the hall closet because that one is horrible. And a clean towel."
“I going to clean it by myself,” Matthew mumbled, following because he had no choice.
Arthur, trailing after them, snorted softly. “Maybe you thought about it, but you certainly weren't going to do it."
By the time they got to the upstairs bathroom, Matthew looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him. Francis was already adjusting the water temperature of the faucet when Alfred barreled in with a towel over one shoulder and three blue bottles in his arms.
“The HERO is here! And, I didn't know which blue bottle you meant, so I brought all of them!" he announced.
Francis turned, took one look, and sighed through his nose. “Mon dieu. Fine. Put them there.”
Matthew sat on a chair next to the sink with his hands tucked between his knees, shoulders rounded, staring fixedly at the bathmat while the room filled with the soft rush of water. He looked exhausted. Arthur leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him with a pinched, worried expression he was making no effort to hide anymore.
Francis took the towel from Alfred's hands and wrapped it around Matthew's neck carefully. “Head back,” He said. Matthew obeyed.
The moment Francis’s fingers slid into his hair and the warm water began to run through it, Matthew’s eyes fell shut.
It was humiliating, maybe, to be twenty and sitting bent over a sink while his father washed his hair like he was a child. It should have been embarrassing enough to make him pull away.
Instead the first pass of warm water over his scalp nearly undid him on the spot. The heat seeped into the tight ache at the base of his skull. Francis’s fingers worked slowly at his scalp, massaging shampoo into the roots with a thoroughness that was almost clinical, and Matthew’s shoulders dropped by an inch before he could stop them.
“There,” Francis murmured, voice still edged with irritation but softer now. “That’s better already. Honestly, Matthieu. What did you think was going to happen? That none of us would notice?”
Matthew swallowed, unsure of what to say. Because no, he really didn't think they would notice. They never did.
“You shouldn't hide these things from us. We're your family." Arthur supplied, looking disappointed.
“No, I..." He trailed off, because he had no ending for that sentence that didn’t sound pathetic. What could he say?
Arthur supplied one, quiet and merciless. “Stopped caring.”
The bathroom went still except for the running water.
Matthew’s eyelashes fluttered, but he didn’t open his eyes. Alfred had gone silent too, a rare feat.
Francis kept working shampoo through Matthew’s hair, but his hands gentled even more. “How long have you been feeling like this?”
Matthew’s mouth pulled faintly at one corner, not quite a smile. “I don’t know.”
“That answer is getting old very quickly,” Arthur said.
“Arthur,” Francis warned.
“No, I’m serious.” Arthur stepped farther into the room, jaw tight. “Look at you.” His voice cracked around the edges of the command and came out harsher for it. “You’re exhausted. You’re barely eating. You look ill. Your hair..." He cut himself off, looking away briefly. “For God’s sake, Matthew.”
Matthew’s eyes opened at that, glassy and startled. “I’m sorry.”
Alfred shook his head. “Dude, don’t apologize. We just want you to tell us whenever things get bad for you."
But Matthew had already resorted to his old tactics in a panic; folding in on himself, trying to make his feelings smaller before anyone could be inconvenienced by them. “I didn’t mean to make everybody upset. I’m okay, I just haven’t had a lot of energy lately and I forgot. I promise I'd tell you if anything was seriously wrong—”
“Stop.” Francis’s hand slid to the back of Matthew’s neck, firm. “No more apologizing. You are allowed to be unwell."
Matthew wisely clamped his mouth shut before he could ramble further.
Francis rinsed the shampoo from his hair, one hand shielding water from running into his face, the other combing gently through the strands until they were clean. Without the grease weighing it down, his hair was starting to look well again. Alfred, unable to keep quiet for long, crouched in front of Matthew and rested his elbows on his knees, peering up at him with open concern and slight confusion.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Alfred asked.
Matthew looked away. “You were all busy.”
Alfred recoiled like he’d been slapped. “What? Busy with what?"
“Well, you had your meetings to go to, and Arthur’s been working a lot, and Francis was planning that event thing with Monaco and I just…” Matthew’s voice thinned. He kept looking at the floor, like he couldn’t bear to watch their faces as he said it. “I didn’t want to make it a whole thing."
Arthur closed his eyes.
Alfred sat back on his heels, stricken. “Matt, that’s insane. You know I’d drop anything if you needed me.”
Matthew gave a tiny shrug, miserable and unconvinced.
Francis reached for the conditioner and worked it carefully through the ends of Matthew’s hair, fingers catching on knots Matthew clearly hadn’t had the energy to brush out. He untangled each one with infuriating patience, all while continuing his soft but relentless lecture.
“This is what happens when you decide to suffer in silence," he said. “You become ridiculous. You stop washing your hair, you stop sleeping properly, you stop eating, and then you wander downstairs looking like a shell of yourself and expect me not to notice! Unacceptable. As if I didn't raise you!"
Despite everything, Matthew let out the faintest huff of breath. Not a laugh, exactly. Just the ghost of one.
Alfred pounced on it instantly, trying to lighten the mood. “Hey, there you are! No need to mope."
“Don’t,” Matthew mumbled, face pink. Alfred grinned.
Arthur crouched beside Alfred now, close enough that Matthew only had to tilt his head a little to see him. His expression had lost some of its sharpness, worn down into worry and guilt and something gentler.
"We should have noticed sooner.”
That made Matthew look at him properly.
Arthur did not often apologize in plain terms, and especially not in messy, emotional situations. But there it was anyway, written across his face with aching clarity. Francis had gone very still behind Matthew, hands buried in damp blond hair. Alfred’s mouth pressed into a line.
Matthew suddenly looked painfully young. He'd never been affirmed that his existence was something that truly mattered, that people were actually supposed to notice how he was doing. People were supposed to care. It was all one big foreign concept.
“It’s not your fault,” he whispered. "I should have told you."
“Rubbish,” Arthur said immediately.
“Yes, it is,” Alfred added at the exact same time, then grimaced. “It's not your fault you feel bad, but it is our fault that we missed it this much. You literally look like a Victorian orphan, dude. That’s on us.”
“Thank you, Alfred,” Francis said dryly. “Very eloquent.”
Alfred waved a hand at him dismissively. “Eh, he's smart, he knows what I mean."
Matthew made that tiny almost-laugh sound again, and this time it broke in the middle. His mouth trembled. He ducked his head as if he could hide it, but he failed.
There was no dramatic collapse, no sobbing fit that shook the walls. His shoulders caved inward. His breathing went uneven. A tear slipped down one cheek, then another, and he turned his face away like he was ashamed of them.
Francis rinsed the conditioner from his hair in silence, one hand steady at the nape of his neck. Arthur stood and fetched a box of tissues without a word, setting it within reach before resting his hand lightly between Matthew’s shoulders.
“There we are,” Francis murmured at last, switching off the water. He gathered Matthew’s damp hair away from his face and wrapped the towel gently around his head, blotting it dry with a level of care that made Matthew's chest ache. “There is my sweet boy. Much better.”
Matthew laughed wetly at that and immediately cried harder.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Francis’s whole face softened. He pulled Matthew upright and into his chest despite the towel, heedless of getting damp himself, one hand cupping the back of his head. “No, no, come here. You poor thing.”
That was what did it.
Matthew folded into him despite being taller with a broken sound, clutching at Francis’s shirt with both hands. Alfred stood up only to wrap himself around both of them from the side. Arthur lingered for only a moment, unsure, before awkwardly giving in too, pressing close at Matthew’s other side.
The four of them stayed like that in the warm, damp bathroom for a long time. No one told Matthew to stop crying. No one asked him to explain himself before he was ready.
Eventually Matthew’s crying eased into hiccuping breaths. His face was blotchy and miserable, his hair damp and half-towel-dried, his nose pink from crying, and Alfred, due to a lack of self-preservation, looked him dead in the eye. “You still look a little pathetic, but, like, in a cleaner way!"
Francis made a scandalized noise. Arthur frowned and sharply smacked Alfred in the side of the head as the younger nation laughed.
Matthew stared at Alfred for one stunned second and then, against all odds, laughed as well. A real one this time—watery and exhausted, but real. The tension in the room loosened.
Francis pulled back just enough to cup Matthew’s face in both hands, thumbs brushing the damp tracks beneath his eyes. “Listen to me,” he said, and Matthew did. “If you cannot take care of yourself, then we will help, whether you like it or not." Alfred nodded as if confirming his statement.
Matthew’s mouth twitched upward helplessly and he nodded.
Pleased, Francis kissed his forehead. Alfred squeezed his hand. Arthur patted his shoulder.
And afterward, when Francis sat him back down to blow-dry his hair until it fluffed soft around his face again, none of them left the bathroom. Alfred stayed cross-legged on the floor talking nonsense just to keep Matthew listening. Arthur brought him toast and watched until he ate every bite (although it was somewhat burnt).
By the time they were done, his hair had returned to normal, light and soft and fluffy. Matthew touched it with tentative fingers, almost shyly, and Alfred grinned.
“Lookin' good, Mattie! Not as good as me, but it's good enough."
"Oh, shut it, Alfred..." Despite his younger brother's teasing, Matthew couldn't help but smile. He hadn't felt this good in a long time, and it made him feel hopeful. Maybe, with encouragement, he could start to get better.