aka why I shoudn’t write while tired and tipsy. Clarification if it’s needed is at the bottom in bold.
They called him cursed. They thought he couldn’t hear them, but he could. The whispers crept onto into his ears as comfortably as the frost did and he smiled at them, quirking his head at the strange sensation within his chest at the thought of them cowering behind a wall, huddled together and terrified of him. Was this amusement or hatred or fear of what they could do with the right spark to ignite the flames? He had heard the stories, everyone in the village had, of the forests of burning bodies just because of the power that they cpuld wield and did. He ignored the glances that they shot him when they whispered to each other and he knew that it was only a matter of time before they came for him with fire and iron, with fury in their hands and in their hearts. But Matthew did nothing. He did not stare at those who whispered, even when the words covered his skin like the frost until they were burnt onto the pale flesh in white lines.
Witch, they said.
Unnatural, they called.
Monster, they hissed.
Cursed, they howled at the sky when the flakes came tumbling down, beauty in their jagged shapes and in the destruction that they caused and hid in the same heartbeat.
But Matthew did not care. His heart beat in his chest, but not like theirs nor like anything elses expect for one. He cuts his hand one day and marvels at the blue blood that spills forth, laughs as it dots against the clean white snow until his mother skrieks and drags his unprotesting form inside the house where the fire blazes and burns in the hearth. They do not mention the strange and twisted flowers that sprung forth, made of ice and yet they lasted through the blaze of summer until Matthew takes them to the lake and lays them down, leaving before the temptation becomes too great.
He misses the body that rises from the water, the gaze that glitters in the meager moonlight and follows him home until he is lying in bed, red cloak wraped tightly around him and a smile on his lips.
He wonders what it would be like to feel. To know joy and love, sorrow and pain, desire and hatred. They do not speak of him anymore as if by simply not mentionning his name they can erase him from their thoughts and lives. That is why he stays, to remind them of what they did. That is why his mother leaves, his father long dead and buried as she plucks at his sleeve as if to bring him with her, but they both know that it cannont be and so she is gone. And Matthew can feel nothing.
The cold coils against his soul like the tendrails of mist that slipped out of the bordering forest and into the village that the children were fascinated by and yet repulsed by because of a strange nameless fear. If Matthew had to, he would say that he loved the mist and let it dance around him, bleaching his skin and twisitng into his breath. Arthur came with the mist and so Matthew hid, feeling the cold in his heart shift and pull painfully towards the spirit. But the other never entered Matthew’s house nor any of the others, content to sit and watch with eyes like poison and lips like blood. He was waiting for him. But Matthew never went, stubbornly ignoring the call as his body and mind waged against the one that had both cursed him and saved him in the same heartbeat.
They came for him, one bright summer day with the sun beating down like it would protect them. It did not. The cold reared up within him, a terrifying monster that had been hurt one too many times, that had been beaten down too often, that would never be hurt again. Afterwards it nudged against him, purring lowly as it’s snowy form condensed into white fur, and Matthew stroked it’s head with blue tinged hands and stood up. He was winter now, blessed or cursed by a God of old after dying in his lake. He stood up and stretched, feeling the twinge of new words that etched into his skin Devil, Monster, Witch, Whore, Cursed, Disgusting, Dead. Laughing he turned on his heel and walked into the mist, feeling for the first time in his memory the warmth of a hug as Arthur wrapped his arms around the slim body and kissed the blue lips, a grin on his crazed face as cold hands joined together and they walked into the misty dark cold.
Just to clarify what I think I was getting at. Matthew was cursed/blessed when he was brought back to life by Arthur (a God) after drowining in his lake (a sacred place). Matthew gained control over winter, but couldn’t feel emotions. This naturally scared people who kept themselves away from his and eventually tried to kill him before Matthew left with Arthur who he had previously been ignoring because the timing wasn’t right.
A Canada/England fic to be specific. It was highschool AU (I think) and Matthew was trying to learn British history and Artie tied him up with shirts or something and gave him a striptease until Matthew gave him the right answers then smexy tiems issues. I think the story might have been written by Appleskirts but I don’t remember. Can anyone help?
What if they are both terrible at cooking. What if they both yelled “PREPARE FOR TROUBLE AND MAKE IT DOUBLE!!” as a battle cry. What if England x Canada became a very popular ship because he kept being mistaken as his twin so he knew how Canada felt. /CRYING IN THE DISTANCE