Matthieu tramped up the stairs in a temper. Why the heck did he have to go check on Dorian? What was he? A flipping house elf? But his mother seemed to think he should care that he was sick and want to go say ‘hello’ - she really had no idea. Well, she knew that he and Dorian did not get on. He was pretty sure it was impossible to ignore that. But she seemed to assume it was some kind of surface level difference and that underneath it all they really loved each other. Underneath it all, Dorian was just a pathetic disappointment and always had been, and the one most likely to drag down their family reputation. This also confirmed what Matthieu had long suspected - father had never told her what he’d found out about Matthieu’s less than favourable behaviour over the years.
Apparently, Arceneaux was around as well. Two birds with one stone, he got to say hello to his brother and his ‘friend.’ He supposed he could forgive his mother for that one. After all, society made it necessary to smile and shake hands whenever you crossed paths with anyone else, but really, he had no wish to socialise with his former Qudiditch rival any more than he did with his brother.
He threw the door back and stopped dead. Dorian and Aceneaux were springing hurriedly apart, but their faces were riddled with guilt. It would have been clear something was up, even if he hadn’t seen. But he had.
“What. The. Hell?” he growled. He saw Arceneaux fumble in his pocket, but Matthieu was quicker to get to his wand.
“Petrificus totalus,” he shot, dropping him back against the bed, flat and rigid.
“Hey!” Dorian protested, a protective hand fluttering to Jean-Loup’s shoulder, “What are you- leave him alone!” he protested. His brain hazily prompted the fact that he was of age. He could take his own wand. Fight back. Where had he left it?
“I’m not going to do anything to him. Yet. I just want him out of the way while I deal with you,” Matthieu snarled, crossing the room in a few short strides. Dorian flinched back, but there was nowhere to run to as Matthieu swung his wand at him, lifting Dorian out of bed and flinging him hard against the nearest wall. “What the heck is wrong with you?”
“Nothing. We-”
He was cut off by Matthieu’s fist connecting hard with his face. He felt the familiar sticky trickle of blood from his nose, the copper taste seeping into his mouth.
“I always knew you were a freak. But for crying out loud, this?! What. The. Hell?!” Matthieu’s words were spat out as pointed, individual syllables, his wand flicking so that his sentence was punctuated by Dorian’s shoulders being slammed against the wall again and again, the sound echoing each time as his head lolled back making separate, sharp contact. “You can’t do this.”
Dorian didn’t protest. Knew there was nothing he could say, no rational argument that would convince Matthieu that there was nothing wrong with him. He only tensed his muscles to try and stop his head flying back every time he was jerked around by the dance of Matthieu’s jinx.
“Nothing to say for yourself?” Matthieu yelled.
Plenty. But what was the point? It had always been this way. Keeping silent damned him; nothing to say to justify his pecularities or his choices. Argue back and he had a smart mouth that needed punching in.
“This is going to stop. Right. Freaking. Now.”
“No,” Dorian shook his head quietly. He wasn’t sure why he did it, what the point was of arguing back and fuelling the fire, only that he couldn’t lie. He couldn’t pretend to give in to Matthieu’s bullying, pretend that this was all going to go away when it wasn’t. He was greeted with Matthieu’s fist slamming dizzyingly against the side of his skull.
“Yes!” Matthieu insisted. “I say so! And you are going to listen, for once, in your pathetic life, or-” But there was no or. Not that Matthieu could put into words. And then thick, firm fingers were holding Dorian in place around the neck, Matthieu resorting to his old friend, physical force instead of magic.
“I- can’t - breathe,” he sputtered, protesting, fighting back somewhat as Matthieu’s behaviour crossed past the line where he’d been desensitised, back to a place where he felt the pounding rush of pain and fear. “I- Can’t-” he choked again, struggling more.
“Say you’ll stop then,” Matthieu growled, his fingers increasing their pressure. “Or else. Better dead than a messed up disgrace!”