Hello there! This is a fic that explains the origins of the series, basically. It's Treville and Richelieu's story since they are kids and it will end somewhere before or around the start of YASLWYH. There's no need to read YASLWYH, but you should read it because it's awesome. It will have 4 chapters in total. Enjoy!

Warnings: Parents' death, violence. Both Treville and Richelieu are underage on the first chapter and their parents are sort of together, but there is no incest, romantic or sexual relationships on it so it's safe. (There's no incest in any of the chapters.)

Jean can see the snow falling down slowly through the window and sighs. Another night alone at the cabin while his father works.

He shouldn't be alone, but he checked Armand's room and he wasn't there. Which meant he was out. Something he wasn't meant to do, especially this late at night.

Jean bites his lip and tries to concentrate on the padlock in front of him. It's a new kind his father bought for him so he could have fun while he worked. Opening padlocks without a key was a hobby passed from father to son.

Jean wasn't sure it was fun, exactly, but he was good at it, and it made him think about something that wasn't Armand. Armand who was outside this late and was gonna get the both of them grounded for it.

He dropped the hairpins he was fidgeting with back on the table and decided it was better if he went outside looking for Armand.

Walking through the snow with a cane wasn't the easiest task and he liked to believe it was also the reason he wasn't a rebel like the other teen, but in reality, he wasn't a rebel because he had sense.

His father and Armand's mother were business partners and their business was a dangerous one, hence them hiding in a cabin in the middle of nowhere. Hence them not having permission to go outside.

The bridge where Armand hangs out with his friends wasn't too far away from their cabin at least. He had found out by accident and both of them thought it was better to not tell their parents. Especially the part about the friends, because they weren't supposed to talk to strangers.

Jean had pointed that out and Armand had laughed at him, saying that's only advice for babies, and they hadn't talked about it anymore.

Now, in the cold, in the cold dark, he wishes that they had talked about it once more, because then they could both be inside, out of danger, not risking their parents' anger. Jean makes a little noise of frustration when he suddenly hears voices from afar. They don't sound friendly. His heart skips a beat – Armand -, and he tries to walk very quietly, because he's not ignorant but he's also not a coward and won't return to the cabin alone. The snow is a goddamn traitor though, cracking under each of his steps, but he gets closer to the voices, closer, until he sees flash lights and people. Schemes of figures. One stands out, surrounded.

Trapped, yells a shrill voice in Jean's head, and he can't unsee it, the way Armand's surrounded. He steps closer – please, don't let them see him, please, please -, until he can make out his face. Arrogant, composed, but undeniably uncomfortable. His eyes – almost black in the night – check the surroundings, swiftly, relentlessly, all while he makes conversation and keeps up a smile. The others, his friends, all seem older. And stronger.

Jean stops walking when he is close enough to hear them and stays under the shadows that the walls of the bridge offer. He thinks Armand has seen him, but his ami shows no signs of it, and locks his eyes on the figures in front of him.

One of them is speaking.

"I'll ask one more time: "Where is your mother?" Jean tries to not freak out at the tone of the voice, at the question being asked. He forces down the need to yell at Armand for the mess he got himself into, and that Jean himself is in now too.

"I already told you I have no idea of what you are talking about, Locarno."

Jean watches as the figure steps closer to Armand and he thinks his ami has lost his smile, but he can't see it perfectly with Locarno's shadow over his face.

The sound of the slap and it's echo resonates through Jean's brain as he tries to not let the panic take over him. He closes his hand more firmly on the head of his cane, pressing it with all his force so he doesn't lose his focus. His rationality.

He doesn't hear what Armand's friends are saying next, he doesn't hear the cracking sounds beneath himself, he is too concentrated controlling his breathing. Inhale, wait, exhale, wait.

When he finally hears the cracking sounds it's too late, his cane pushed through the snow and the icy layer underneath it, deeper down, and he loses his balance, falling to the ground. He hears Armand's friends shouting in his direction, the noise had alerted them of his presence, and the last thing he thinks before he loses his consciousness is that he was probably putting all his weight on the cane. Screw Armand.

There's the cracking of snow, the sound of a body dropping to the ground, and Armand's head snaps up, finds the direction of the noise, and the only reason he doesn't yell is because it would get them both killed.

Fucking Jean. Fucking little bastard kid. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Two people leave the circle – circle, hah, rather the prison made of bodies that's supposed to keep him in place -, one of them Locarno, of all people, and he makes himself keep his mask up. He doesn't know anything, and he pointedly does not know the person that fell in the snow.

They drag Jean – that fucking nerd with his fucking cane and his fucking courage – to his feet, into the circle, into the light. He's only half-conscious, his eyes confused, and a bloody mark on his face where he must've hit a stone under the snow, cutting his skin, but he keeps his lips firmly pressed together. Armand doesn't flinch, doesn't move. This doesn't touch him in any way. At least that's what he hopes his face tells the others.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk... look what we have here. Another kid."

Armand knows better than to tell Locarno that he's, in fact, not a kid, and almost 18, but he's close to snarl something in return. Fuck. Fuck Jean. Seriously, fuck him.

"So, what's this? Is he with you or am I supposed to believe this is just... a coincidence?"

"Don't know the little one," Armand says, shrugging one-sidedly. His face still burns from where Locarno has hit him. "But nice catch. Is this all you've got, Locarno? The ability to scare and drag children with canes?"

Locarno's face shifts. Fuck. The cane. The fucking cane. He should not have mentioned it, because he couldn't possibly have seen it, and couldn't possibly know-

"Well, this is what I call a plot twist."

"Let him go."

"Your mother. Tell me now."

"You are under the false impression that I am the one you're looking for," Armand says stubbornly, because if he gives this information up, he can as well just give them permission to kill him. To kill Jean. That fucking kid. Why couldn't he have stayed at home? Why did he have to come here? And why, why didn't he himself not listen to his mom? Like she was joking when she told him that they were in danger. Fuck.

"You know, I can just ask your little friend..."

"If you touch him, you're dead." Not thinking, his fucking mouth too fast for his brain. It's instinct. Protect Jean. Protect annoying, nerdy, smart, brave Jean. Aramand decides that if he survives this, if they both survive this, he won't talk to Jean ever again. He will deny his existence, because he's trouble. (Nevermind that he's the one who got them into this mess in first place. Fuck.)

Locarno gives him a downright nasty smile. "Rule number one: Never give away your weakness to the enemy. Tsk, your mother should've taught you better. Or maybe she did and you were just too pretentious to listen."

Armand doesn't reply. Ironically, Locarno can't be much older than himself. Less ironically, it doesn't matter. He's screwed. They're both screwed.

"So, boy," Locarno says, and Armand growls somewhere in the back of his throat, "talk or I will hurt your little friend."

He looks at him and wishes he'd go up in flames. Explode. The sudden flash of light and noise takes him by surprise, though. He throws himself to the ground – Jean, fuck, where's Jean -, not realizing what's happening around him, but he knows, he knows it's nothing good.

(He's right.)

Maybe it should've been consoling, to know that Locarno didn't survive. That the others got injured, some of them so severely that they couldn't flee the scene before the arrival of the police. Maybe it should've been consoling that Jean didn't get hurt. That he himself didn't get hurt.

But Armand doesn't feel any of it. All he feels is emptiness and, somewhere deep down, boiling rage. They lower his mom's coffin into the ground, beneath the other one, the one that is Jean's dad's. They showed up in time, saved them, and sacrificed themselves. And rationally, yeah, rationally he knows that it's his fault. For disobeying. For not listening. For being pretentious. He, Armand, killed his mom and Jean's dad.

But he can't help but blaming Jean. Jean who should've minded his own fucking business. Jean who didn't and fell and fucked it all up. Jean who sobs pathetically, dressed in black, holding on to his great aunt's hand like his life depends on it. Well, at least he has someone left, right? Good for him. Fucking great for him. He's so lucky. Luckier than Armand, anyway.

So when the ceremony closes, and his mom is gone, gone from the world, Armand turns around. He ignores Jean's pleading, the apologies, the downright desperate shouts. Back with Locarno, he'd thought that if he'd survive he wouldn't talk to Jean ever again. Back then, he didn't think he would go through with it. Not really. Not like now.

Armand walks faster, pretends not to hear Jean, pretends not to cry, and leaves.

They won't see each other again for many years.