My first Hetalia fic.
Summary: Alfred gets into a fight with his father, Arthur, and storms out of the house. While out, he is raped. Due to the trauma, Alfred develops an Oedipal Complex and suffers from depression and self-loathing. Arthur struggles to take care of his emotionally unbalanced son while meanwhile starting a tentative relationship with Francis, who also has a son Mathew who has feelings for Alfred.
NOTE: Arthur NEVER becomes a pedophile.
"I hate you!" cried Alfred as he slammed the front door of the house.
Arthur listened to the footsteps as they faded down the pavement before letting out a cry of frustration himself.
"That boy! He has no respect for anyone!" He paced the living room considering what punishment would ensue upon his son's return. Fourteen years old, and he already thought he could do whatever he wanted. Arthur briefly considered running after him, but then decided it would be better to allow both Alfred and himself to cool down first.
He strode into the kitchen, and filled his red kettle before slamming it down on the stove top and lighting the burner. He stared out of his kitchen window and at the lit street lamps contrasted against the darkening sky. Worry seeped through the anger and nudged at his conscience as he thought about his son. He dismissed it; Alfred never went far after their fights, and he would return home soon.
The kettle's whistle pulled him from his thoughts and he took out a tea bag from the cupboard and placed it in his favorite blue and white teacup.
He slumped out of the kitchen with a steaming cup in hand and sat himself down in his worn green arm chair.
Sipping his tea, he contemplated his and Alfred's relationship. They didn't fight all the time, per say. Usually they got on quite well. However, whenever they did fight, it was explosive. It would start with something trivial before turning into an all out war between the two. Still, in spite of the boy's recent attitude, Arthur loved his son. He glanced at the clock and hoped that Alfred would return home soon.
Alfred sprinted down the street with tears of anger in his eyes. His father was such an ass sometimes.
He leaned against a lamp post and stared up at the artificial yellow light, not noticing the car pulling up a few feet behind him.
He was yanked back by a pair of arms before being forced into the back of a car. In shock, he struggled against his offender who climbed into the car beside him.
"I'm gonna have fun with you kid," he said with an evil grin as he reached towards the boy.
No one heard Alfred's desperate screams for help.
Arthur awoke to the sound of the front door shutting gently. Stiff, he realized that he had fallen asleep in the arm chair. He tuned his head with a wince to look at the clock on the mantle. Twelve-thirty. That boy was going to get it.
His spine cracked as he rose to confront his delinquent son. Stepping into the hallway he found Alfred in the hallway staring at the floor with his arms wrapped around himself.
"You are in huge trouble. Not coming back…until…" Arthur took in his son's appearance with growing horror.
His blue shirt had been ripped open, and the buttons were missing. Alfred's arms had little purple bruises dotting them that looked like finger prints. His belt was undone. His entire body was shaking violently despite of the warm spring night. Finally, he realized Alfred was crying.
"Alfred?" he whispered stepping towards him. Alfred didn't react, he just continued to cry. He looked behind his son, and found the seat of Alfred's dark blue jeans was stained with fresh blood.
"No…" Arthur murmured shakily as he realized what had happened to his son while he was out.
This statement seemed to break a dam within Alfred and he began to sob uncontrollably.
Arthur pulled his distraught son into his arms and ran his fingers through the blond locks.