"Alfred!" The voice is very soft. Although it seems to be quiet by nature, it also sounds as if it's coming from far away; several yards, Alfred would say. It is very insistent. Alfred feels as if there's cotton in his ears.

"Alfred…they're taking me…they're trying to take me away from you…."

"I won't let them." The desperate words fall from Alfred's lips without his controlling them. Gripped by sudden panic, he reaches out into the darkness, attempting to catch hold of something that isn't there. Somewhere in front of him, Alfred hears the muffled sobs growing even fainter and farther away. He continues to reach towards the sound, towards the voice that he can almost no longer hear.

Alfred's heart jolts as he is suddenly gripped from behind by an unknown pair of arms. He shivers with something deeper than fear as the person who has trapped him leans down near his face and whispers words in his ear, in a tone that should be comforting, but instead sends shivers cascading down Alfred's spine.

"Shh, Alfred, it's alright. You need to stop yelling. Everything is going to be alright."

In front of him, there is a mirror; he can't remember when it had appeared, but he also can't remember a time without it being there. From the mirror's surface, a boy stares back at him. He looks like Alfred, but he is not Alfred. He is trying to speak through the glass, but no sound is breaking through the translucent barrier. Until the boy lets out a terrible scream.

The sound erupts in Alfred's ears. The glass shatters.

The boy is gone.

Beep, beep, beep.

"Uhg…."

Beep, beep, beep.

Alfred rolled over. Sensing the early morning darkness, his body made an educated decision to remain in its current, horizontal position, happily ignoring the fact that his alarm clock was about to go into full-blown existential crisis mode at any second.

BEEP, BEEP, BEEP.

"Fine!" he shouted at the panicking appliance, slamming his fist down on the off button with enough force to send it sliding across the wooden floor. On said wooden floor lay the futon that was currently playing host to Alfred's unmoving body . After a few seconds of struggling, he managed to find his glasses, and shoved them onto his face. The time on the clock read 4:34 AM.

"Christ," he mumbled as he rolled out of bed and began searching the floor for his clothes. Working the "early bird" shift, which Alfred had more appropriately renamed the "ass-crack of dawn hellish nightmare" at McDonald's, an institution that he was beginning to love less and less with every dreadful morning coffee rush, was going to take some getting used to. Possibly the rest of Alfred's life, if the past few days were any indication of what the future would hold.

When Alfred entered the main room of their small one-bedroom apartment, Arthur, his twenty-six-year old English roommate, was sitting at his little cluttered desk, typing unenthusiastically on his computer. As usual, there was a cup of tea steaming near his right hand, and a cigarette resting between his lips. Arthur was an aspiring novelist.

He didn't look up when Alfred entered. "Sleep well?" he asked lazily.

"Mmmph."

"I'll take that as a 'yes'. I heard you shouting at the alarm clock."

Alfred ran a hand through his dirty blond hair as he looked at his friend, still in a daze from having just woken up. "Still up from last night?" he questioned.

"Just got home a few minutes ago."

Alfred thought about asking Arthur what he had been doing to keep him out until almost five in the morning, considering he usually only worked at the club until about one or two, but an impressively large yawn interrupted his thought process.

Jumping at the chance to mock Alfred's pain as ever, Arthur made a show of loudly closing his laptop, and stretched as he stood up and put out his cigarette. "Well, I'm off to bed," he proclaimed smugly, as Alfred glared sleepily at him, "I hope you've made it." There was only enough room in the apartment for one futon, but thanks to their opposing schedules Arthur and Alfred now rarely had to share, which was completely essential to the both of them maintaining a certain level of sanity.

"Shut up," Alfred mumbled, guiltily realizing that he had not, in fact, made the bed, "It isn't even a bed. Fuck, it isn't even a real futon."

"It's a Japanese futon…what on Earth are you doing?" While Arthur had been speaking, Alfred had begun to sniff the air like a dog.

"Mmm…Do I smell doughnuts?"

Arthur rolled his eyes, placing his hands on his hips in his favorite gesture of general disapproval, "I picked some up for you on the way home. But I'm not sure if you deserve them if you've decided to make fun of my taste in furniture."

Alfred panicked, "But Artie," he whined, "I'm so tired. I need doughnuts!"

Arthur sighed, "Fine. They're on the counter. And don't call me 'Artie'."

"Awesome! You're the best, man." Said Alfred, suddenly energized as he walked to the counter and began to stuff his face with fried pastries.

Arthur shook his head as he made his way to the counter to place his empty mug in the sink, "Why are you so tired, anyway? I told you to start going to bed earlier if you're going to work this shift." Alfred looked away shamefully. Arthur groaned, "You were up playing video games with Kiku again, weren't you?"

Alfred swallowed a bite of doughnut. "He just got a new one, Arthur! And he brought these crazy Japanese snacks that start off like powder and then turn into little adorable hamburgers!" To emphasize the true smallness of the hamburgers, Alfred held up his right hand, leaving little more than an inch of space between his thumb and forefinger.

Arthur stared at his younger roommate. Standing hunched over the counter with his tired red eyes and bed head, shoveling doughnuts in his mouth with gusto, and ranting on about magic Japanese hamburgers, he honestly looked more than a little insane. Arthur decided it was best to end the conversation there, and to talk to Alfred when he was a bit more… coherent.

"Well, I'm off to bed. Have fun flipping burgers…oh, and don't forget that Kiku and Feli's exhibition is tonight."

"Uhhhg…."

"Don't be rude. They're your friends."

"I just don't think I understand art."

"That's because you're uncultured."

"Whatever."

Arthur huffed as he walked towards the bedroom.

"Good night!" Alfred mumbled bitterly, as Arthur closed the door behind him.

Ludwig was not having a good day. In fact, it was precisely days like this one that made him wonder why he had ever made the decision to join the NYPD in the first place. It was days like this when Ludwig wished that the entire city was like his kitchen, and that he could wipe it clean methodically with disinfectants, and sponges, and no interruptions. After all, no one had ever heard of a speck of dust or a grease spot protesting, or trying to run.

But, Ludwig thought, a philosophical mood overtaking him as he surveyed the lazily humming, summer afternoon streets of Little Italy with perpetual suspicion, people are not really much like grease spots at all.

The day was July first, and one would think that the 90 degree (Fahrenheit, obviously) weather plus humidity would render the citizens of his adopted city complacent, with less of an inclination towards causing trouble and more of a desire to move their bodies as little as possible throughout the day; this was certainly how Ludwig felt, after all, as he sweated profusely through his navy blue uniform. However, the heat was apparently having the opposite effect on the majority of the city's population, as they seemed to be experiencing some kind of collective emotional breakdown under the sun's continuous oppressive assault. The result was an increased number of fights, minor thefts, and acts of vandalism that had left Ludwig stewing in equal parts exhaustion and agitation.

For the moment, however, everything appeared to be relatively calm. Large groups of tourists wandered down the street, taking pictures (mostly of themselves) on their phones, and enjoying rapidly melting cups of gelato, as men with suits and thick accents stood outside of small Italian restaurants, shouting at them and shoving menus in their faces. From somewhere nearby, the sounds of yelling men and metal clanking typical of construction work were constantly present, and, from somewhere a bit closer by, someone was playing a calm, meandering melody on an acoustic guitar.

Feeling dazed and as overheated as a slowly baking potato, Ludwig decided to take a break from walking and stand on the edge of the busy sidewalk for a few minutes. Almost as soon as he stopped his steady pace, however, he was abruptly slammed into by someone who seemed to have been walking quite quickly.

"Hey! Watch where you're going, you stupid bastard," snapped the person in question, with a thick, biting Italian accent. He was not looking at Ludwig; rather, he was bent over on the ground, attempting to gather the possessions that had apparently fallen out of his bag when the two had collided, hoping to grab them before they were swept away by the endless and aggressive stream of people walking on the sidewalk. Looking him over quickly, as he had grown accustomed to doing with new people, Ludwig noted that he was a young man, probably in his early twenties. His eyes and hair were of a similar dark brown, and his skin was tan. He was dressed in all black, regardless of the heat, his shirt slightly torn and pants too tight (in Ludwig's opinion, anyway). Despite the fact that Ludwig had already unconsciously labeled the boy as a potential troublemaker, he attempted to make amends.

"Sorry…ah, here. Let me help you with that." As Ludwig crouched down to help him with his things, he realized that the boy was suddenly staring up at him, his large brown eyes widened in horror. Dismissing the expression as a reaction to the realization that he had just cursed at a police officer, Ludwig ignored it as he reached out a hand for one of the items that the boy had dropped.

"Wait…no, I…." The boy stammered helplessly. Ludwig sighed heavily as he realized what had been the contents of the boy's bag.

In his hand was an average-sized can of acrylic spray paint.

He tilted his head up to look straight at the boy, who was doing little to keep the terror from his features. "And just what were you planning to do with these, kid?" He asked, lowering his voice to a more intimidating register as he held up the incriminating can of paint. In times like this, he always found that his strong German accent could be a very powerful persuasive tool.

He never got to hear the boy's answer, though, because before Ludwig could react he had dropped his belongings, jumped up onto his feet with surprising agility, and broken into a run, shoving aside the protesting masses as he barreled down the sidewalk.

"What-scheiße," Ludwig cursed, running a hand through his sweat-drenched blond hair as he begrudgingly began to run after the delinquent. He was in good shape- in his late twenties, well-muscled, still not many years out of training- but that didn't mean that he was excited to go running marathons around New York in the early summer heat for the sake of some insolent kid.

And yet, true to his profession, Ludwig dutifully pursued the offender, causing minor disruptions within the crowd as he went. Then he paused as his eyes searched for a glimpse of that dark brown hair. After a few moments of thinking that maybe he has lost him, he caught sight of the delinquent just as he turned the street corner. Ludwig followed, bounding around the corner with purpose.

After that, several things occurred very rapidly. Firstly, Ludwig found himself making some unwanted contact with the hard concrete as he tripped on several unfortunately placed objects. Secondly, as he gathered his wits from the fall, Ludwig realized that he was currently sprawled out on the hard, dirty concrete, surrounded by a mess of square objects, and lying on top of something strangely soft and gangly.

Thirdly, as some small whimpering sounds were emitted from underneath him, Ludwig became aware that the object underneath him was, in fact, a person.

He immediately flung himself into a sitting position, feeling a slight twinge of pain as he did so. Before he could properly tend to the person who he had probably just crushed, however, the sounds of a struggle happening somewhere above his head caused Ludwig to look up.

The sounds were coming from the Italian boy, who was protesting loudly at a man who had at some point appeared behind him and lovingly, but somewhat forcefully, obstructed any attempts of the former to outrun his pursuer by spinning him around and throwing an arm over the boy's shoulders. He, much like the troublesome youth who was struggling and fuming within his grasp, had a dark complexion, with the exception of his eyes, which were of a startling, bright green. Slung over one of the man's shoulders was a heavily worn guitar case, and he maintained an easy, good natured grin as he addressed Ludwig, all the while ignoring the boys shouts and curses as he attempted to break free.

"Ah, what seems to be the problem today, officer?" he asked calmly, Spanish accent causing the words to drop lazily from his mouth like molasses. Smile never wavering, he used his free hand to help Ludwig to his feet. "Is Little Lovi here getting into trouble again? He can have quite the wild temper, no?"

"Don't call me that, you dumb bastard!" Lovi griped, although he seemed to be losing energy, and had all be stopped attempting to free himself. In response, the man only chuckled deeply, and the young delinquent's face turned an impressive shade of tomato-red.

Ludwig made a small hmmph sound in the back of his throat as he attempted to brush some of the dirt from his fall off of his uniform. "Actually," he began gruffly, "This boy was caught engaging in acts of vandalism."

The man gasped in surprise; Ludwig found it difficult to tell whether it was sincere or not. "No!" he exclaimed, "There must have been a mistake, yes? That doesn't sound anything like our Lovino…."

The boy rolled his eyes.

"…And you saw Lovino do this thing, officer?" the man asked innocently.

Ludwig stumbled a moment, "Well…not exactly, no."

The man made a small hmm sound from the back of his throat, and suddenly Ludwig felt the need to defend his actions.

"But he was carrying several cans of spray paint with him, and walking at an abnormally hurried pace." He explained, "He ran into me. Otherwise, I wouldn't have taken any notice of him."

The Italian boy, Lovino, bristled. "Well, maybe if you hadn't stopped right in the middle of the fucking sidewalk…."

But the Spanish man, to the surprise of both of them, cut Lovino off with a burst of lighthearted laughter. "Oh, silly Lovino!" he exclaimed, "Why didn't you tell him?" Lovino said nothing, opting only to stare at the older man with poorly hidden suspicion. The man then moved his attention back to Ludwig. "This has really all been a funny misunderstanding. You see, Lovino and his brother, Feliciano-he's the one you just tripped over-are participating in an art exhibition tonight. Lovi here was just bringing over some supplies, you see?"

Ludwig was unimpressed by the story. "Hm," he said flatly, "Is that so."

The man laughed that increasingly annoying laugh again. "Of course!" he proclaimed happily, "In fact, we would all love to see you there, wouldn't we, Lovi?"

"Hmmph."

"You see? He would love for you to come."

Ludwig sighed. This was all quickly becoming more effort than it was worth. "If this is true," he questioned, "Then why did he run away from me?"

Lovino, finally managing to break free from his captor, huffed. "Because you're really fucking scary, that's why. You're like, three times my size. What do you expect to happen when you talk to people with that freaking ugly accent of yours, huh?"

Before Ludwig could respond to this ridiculous statement, the older man clapped his hands together in one swift motion. "Well, there it is then! As you can see, there is no problem here. Now, if you wouldn't mind, I think that little Feli could use some help now, no?"

A high, sweet voice replied from the ground behind Ludwig, and he spun around to face it, suddenly and guiltily reminded of the person he had recently almost killed. "Oh!" it said. To Ludwig, it sounded so strangely musical, like a quiet tinkling of bells, "I'm okay, Antonio. I'm just happy big brother isn't in trouble!"

Ludwig glanced down at the boy, Feli, for a moment. He was on the small side, much like his brother, but with a slightly lighter complexion. And, Ludwig noted, feeling his throat go a bit dry, that there was something delicate, almost feminine, about his facial features. He looked at Ludwig with wide, innocent brown eyes, and the serious police officer suddenly felt as if he had been punched in the stomach; all of the air had for some reason been swept from his lungs. He inhaled sharply, attempting to compensate for the sudden lack of oxygen.

After a moment of staring, Ludwig suddenly became aware that he was not moving. Then he wondered exactly why he wasn't moving…and then he decided to worry about that later. And then, he moved.

Luckily not enough time had passed for any of his present company to notice anything odd, although Feli's eyes did linger on him for an extra moment as Ludwig bent down to help the smaller man. As he did so, Ludwig realized that the many objects that he had fallen over were, in fact, paintings; it appeared as if Feli had been selling them on the sidewalk when Ludwig had rounded the corner.

"Here," Ludwig offered, hand shaking a bit as he picked up one of the paintings, "Let me help you with that."

Feliciano smiled brightly at him, "Thank you!" he said, seeming to harbor no resentment towards the man who had crushed him, nearly destroyed his livelihood, and almost arrested his brother, "I almost have it all fixed now, though."

Ludwig wasn't sure if he should say something now. For whatever reason, he had become suddenly very conscious of what he was doing, and was beginning to feel a bit nervous. Stop being ridiculous, he told himself firmly. Instead of speaking, he glanced down at the painting that still rested in his hands. It was of a street in the city, Ludwig was sure of that; strewn across the campus were people and headlights and streetlights and concrete. But the artistry was somewhat impressionistic, and seemed to evoke feelings of an alternate city- one with more warmth, more light, and more gentleness.

"It's beautiful," Ludwig found himself saying aloud. Feliciano's eyes lit up.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Wow! Thank you so much!" He laughed, clapping his hands rapidly like a child, and Ludwig wondered what it was with these people and laughing when no one had told a joke. "Are you really coming to the exhibition?" he asked, and when Ludwig looked uncertain, said, "You should! It will be so much fun. All of our friends are coming, right Lovino?"

Lovino responded by continuing to glare murderously at his brother from above.

"Well…." Ludwig began pensively, assessing the situation, "I really should, ah, make sure that your brother isn't lying about this." For police work, he assured himself.

Feliciano clapped again, saying, "Yay! It's at nine o'clock tonight, at that building down the street, see?"

Ludwig clarified that he did in fact see the building in question, and that he did know how to get there. After that, he explained that he really needed to get back to police work and, after apologizing to Feliciano one last time, and sending a pointed threatening glare towards his brother, said goodbye to the three of them. He walked quickly, wanting to put as much distance between himself and the three other men as he could without wandering beyond his territory, all the while wondering just what the hell had come over him during those last few moments.

Meanwhile, Feliciano remained on the sidewalk, and smiled after the police officer. "He seems nice," he said to Antonio and Lovino.

Antonio chuckled, "Looks like Feli has made a new friend, no?"

Lovino stared between the two in disbelief. "Friend?" he asked incredulously, "He tried to arrest me!"

"Yes," Antonio agreed, his words taking on a more serious tone, "And if it hadn't been for me, he would have. How many times do I have to ask you to stay out of trouble, Lovi?"

Lovino's face turned red again, and he mumbled something that may have been an apology. "Hey, how are we going to pretend that I'm supposed to be in that exhibition anyway, genius?" he muttered, face still the color of a ripe tomato.

Antonio rested his hands on his hips. "I'm sure we'll figure out something," he said optimistically. Feliciano nodded his head in agreement.

Lovino groaned, burying his face in his hands.

"We're all fucked."

It was a quarter past nine when Alfred and Arthur arrived at the studio. Arthur had wanted to leave earlier, as he was the kind of person to arrive on time for almost everything, but Alfred had (somewhat predictably) ruined his plans by taking an unintended nap on the floor of the apartment halfway through his ninth re-watch of Captain America, and then insisting that they stop and get food before going to the exhibition. But, after many shouts of "Well not all of us get to sleep until two in the morning you cranky, lazy old man," and, "This is ridiculous get out of my apartment I don't know why I took you in anyway", the two had somehow managed to extract themselves from their apartment and arrive at a reasonable time.

When they stepped into the room, which was modestly sized, with brick walls, a wooden floor, and dim lighting with the exception of the small lights trained on the art pieces, they were immediately waved over to the corner where their small group of friends had already congregated. As the two approached them, they realized that they were all discussing a single painting that rested on a wooden stand in the corner.

"It's really pretty good, Lovino," Antonio was saying.

"Yeah, well…I'm sort of used to doing art fast. Not like it matters…the bastard didn't even show up."

"What's this?" Arthur asked curiously as he peered over everyone's shoulders to get a better look at the painting- a colorful, graffiti-style caricature of a woman's face, "I didn't think you were going to be submitting anything, Lovino."

"Neither did he," said Antonio, chuckling.

Alfred looked at the painting for a moment, already starting to get bored with this whole thing. He liked art, really, he just found it to be generally lacking in things he enjoyed, like…rocket ships. And explosions. And other things that he understood.

"Hey, Kiku," he said suddenly, hoping that his best bro could help to entertain him, "Where's that one of me that you took a while ago?"

Kiku smiled lightly at him. The man was a slight, soft spoken photographer, who still had his bulky, old-fashioned camera around his neck even though he was showing his pictures, not taking them. While his reserved nature meant that he didn't usually form strong bonds with other people, he and Alfred had developed a fast friendship after being introduced through Feliciano, who he himself had known through (Alfred assumed) mutual artsy hangouts. The friendship was based primarily on a shared love of videogames, specifically of the Japanese variety that Kiku made a living by smuggling to the U.S. before their release dates, and selling for ridiculously inflated prices on the black market.

"My pictures are over here," he said, leading the group to his display. He pointed at one photo in particular; a black and white of Alfred sitting on a less busy sidewalk, wearing a hoodie, and staring out onto the street in front of him. Upon seeing it, Alfred perked up with excitement.

"That's me!" He exclaimed happily, "Wow. I'm like, famous now."

Kiku let go of another tiny smile. "I wouldn't say that, exactly. But thank you."

"They're all really beautiful, Kiku!" their friend Laura, a sculptor with green eyes, freckles and shoulder-length blond hair, complimented. Arthur and Feliciano expressed their agreement. Kiku seemed pleased, if not bit embarrassed by the attention.

Before anyone could say anything else, Lovino groaned loudly. "Great," he muttered, "He's here."

At his words, everyone looked in the direction of the door, just as a man was closing it behind himself. He had slick blond hair and impressive muscles, but he was wearing an expression that would have been more appropriate on the face of a twelve-year-old trying to find a place to sit in the cafeteria on the first day of school. He crept into the room slowly, looking as though he would rather not be noticed. Any chance he had of that, however, was crushed as Feliciano called to him from across the room.

"Ludwig!" he chirped, waving at the man frantically, "We're over here! Ludwig!"

"Who's that?" Alfred asked.

"That's Ludwig!" Feliciano answered helpfully.

Arthur smirked, "Oh, is he? I would never have guessed."

Lovino's face was even more sour than usual as he explained, "That's the jerk who tried to arrest me today. I told him my spray paint was for the exhibition."

"Yes," Antonio agreed, "And I think Feliciano has taken quite a liking to him."

Lovino huffed, "He takes a liking to everyone."

"I do!" Feliciano beamed.

Meanwhile, the man had been walking towards them, wearing the expression of someone who was currently regretting every decision he had ever made.

"Hi Ludwig!" Feliciano said with a smaller, though still very enthusiastic, wave, "I'm so glad you could come!"

"Ah, yes…hello." The man looked incredibly uncomfortable. To his credit, everyone was staring at him, as if waiting for him to speak.

However, it was Lovino who broke the silence. "See, bastard?" he said, pointing aggressively to his painting in the corner, "I told you I wasn't lying."

Ludwig squinted at the painting suspiciously for a moment, and then sighed in resignation. "I suppose not. I apologize."

"Yeah, that's right, you'd better apolig- hey!" Lovino was cut off as Antonio swiftly stepped on his foot, giving him a look that clearly said, "Don't push it."

After a few more moments of uncomfortable silence, Ludwig spoke again, "Well, I guess I should be going now…."

Feliciano looked heartbroken. "But," he squeaked, eyes somehow enlarging significantly on his small face, "You just got here! And you have to meet everyone first!"

Ludwig looked down at him. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine. Go ahead."

Feliciano smiled like Ludwig had just given him the best present he'd ever received. "Well, you already met Lovino and Antonio," he started, "So that leaves…um…where did Kiku go?" Kiku had, in fact, fled as soon as he had realized that a cop had entered the room. Feli continued to introduce him anyway, undeterred, "Well, Kiku's a photographer. He's really nice. He took that picture of me!"

Feli pointed; Ludwig stared.

"Are you…wearing a dress in that picture?"

"Yes! Dresses are really fun."

Ludwig blushed furiously.

Feliciano appeared not to notice, and continued, "And this is Laura. She's a sculptor, and she makes really nice pastries!"

"Thanks, Feli!"

"Um, nice to meet you," Ludwig muttered, wishing he was at home with a book and some tube-shaped meat.

Feliciano then pointed to a tall, bespectacled blond boy, who appeared to be the youngest of the group, "This is Alfred. Arthur found him!"

"Found…? Ah, wonderful. The boy from the Bryan Park Statue Incident."

Alfred visibly paled, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "Aw, shit. You're that cop?"

Feli giggled. "I don't think you've ever told me that story, Alfred."

"It was a while ago," Alfred mumbled, still looking ashamed, but also a little confused, "And it was in The Bronx. So why…?"

"I was moved," Ludwig explained, face devoid of any expression, "And I have a very good memory." He looked back at Feliciano. "Do you perhaps have any friends who aren't criminals?" he asked, exasperated.

The other man seemed to ponder this for a moment. "Um…I don't think Arthur is," he decided at last. Ludwig rubbed his temples.

Arthur, however, looked quite proud. "Yup," he declared, "Clean as a whistle."

Alfred barked a laugh.

"Excuse me, Alfred, is there something you find funny about that?"

"Well I wouldn't exactly say you were 'clean as a whistle', Arthur."

"And why not? I'll have you know I do honest work."

Alfred snorted, and Arthur looked as if he might backhand him. Ludwig, however, looked lost.

"Arthur's a stripper!" Feli clarified helpfully.

Arthur sighed wearily, "Thank you, Feliciano."

"You're welcome!"

Ludwig looked around him, noting with immense relief that Feliciano had introduced him to all of his friends. Before he could begin to say goodbye, however, Feli grabbed his arm and began pulling him to the other side of the room. "Here, I'll show you my paintings!" he said excitedly.

Ludwig realized that it was going to be a very, very long night.

In reality, the evening proved quite pleasant for everyone. Even though not that many people beyond their small circle of friends and the friends of other artists involved stopped by the exhibit, this was hardly out of the ordinary for the struggling artists, and they all just had a good time talking and laughing and looking through all of the pieces. Even Ludwig, who had always found himself rather baffled by artistic pursuits, felt that he had gained something from the experience. Every so often he would see something so abstract (and occasionally disturbing) that it would leave him simply staring in blank confusion, and Alfred would appear behind him, saying "Yeah. I don't really get it either." But at those times, Feliciano, who was intent on not leaving Ludwig's side, lest he attempt escape, would say something like, "It's not really about thinking. It's more about a feeling, you know?" that would be at the same time both so vague and so simple that it would leave Ludwig feeling strangely idiotic.

"My brother is an art curator," he found himself saying at one point that night, "But he has never explained these things to me in this way before."

"Oh, wow, he is?" Feliciano, seeming to miss the compliment entirely, had gushed, "That's so cool! I would love to meet him."

After a couple of hours had passed, and it seemed as if the small room was beginning to clear out entirely, they all began making plans for where to go next, and Ludwig, panicking, began to think of ways to disentangle himself from the uncomfortable social situation. He protested, but for some reason he felt himself being pulled in, both by the idea of getting his hands on some alcohol, and of the thought of his brother's nagging voice telling him that he should go out and socialize more often (and definitely not because of Feliciano's ridiculous puppy eyes). And so he gave in, wondering how he had landed himself in this bizarre situation, going out for drinks with people he barely knew and who he had virtually nothing in common with.

"We could go to the club…." The sculptor, Laura, suggested first. Arthur groaned.

"Definitely not. It's my night off, for Christ's sake."

"And besides," Lovino said, grinning wickedly, "She only wants to go so she can see Michelle, anyway."

The poor girl's face tinted pink. "I don't…" she mumbled, rubbing her left arm nervously, "I mean, it's not…."

"Oh, of course," Arthur huffed, "Everybody wants to see Michelle, as usual."

"Aw, don't worry man," Alfred consoled, giving him a swift pat on the back in that ludicrously heterosexual way that he had so skillfully perfected, "You're really good too, and stuff."

"You're just saying that because I put a roof over your head."

"Well…."

"And it doesn't matter what you say anyway," Arthur continued, "Because you're underage. You can't come with us."

Alfred groaned dramatically. "Aw, come on!" he whined, "That's so unfair, I mean I have a…" But just then Alfred was reminded of Ludwig's presence by his piercing glare and slightly raised eyebrow, and redirected his sentence so fast it was like he was turning a car around to avoid a tsunami. "…A job to do tomorrow morning, unlike some people," he finished, crossing his arms grumpily, "I wouldn't want to go anyway."

Lovino snickered, "Ha! Hey guys, Alfred can't go to a bar with us because he's a baby."

Arthur smirked, "Yup. Just a little baby…."

Alfred's eye narrowed. "Guys, please," he protested, "Not this again."

Antonio stepped closer to pinch Alfred's cheek, cooing "Aw, what a cute little baby!"

"You know I hate it when you do this…."

"Haha, poor baby Alfred!"

"Would you like some milk, widdle baby Alfred?"

"Do you need someone to walk you home?"

"Stop it!" Alfred yelled, pouting. He knew that, if he didn't put a stop to this now, they could go on for hours. It had happened before. "I'm not a baby! I'm going to be nineteen in like, three days. Geez."

Arthur frowned. "It it really that soon already?" he asked, surprised.

"Yeah. Today's the first. And that means you all have to be nice to me!"

Ludwig's brow furrowed curiously, doing the math in his head as he asked, "Your birthday is on the Fourth of July?"

"Um, well, not really. But it's sometime at the beginning of July, so we always just celebrate it then."

"How…patriotic of you." Ludwig was becoming increasingly concerned about this (apparently eighteen-year-old) boy's situation. Why didn't he know his own birthday?

But Alfred, meanwhile, had brightened considerably at the mention of the approaching festivities. "Yeah!" he said excitedly, "It's awesome. We always have a big party on the roof, and it's like they set off all those crazy fireworks just for me!"

"I see."

"Well, birthday or not, you're still nowhere near twenty-one," Arthur said, bringing the conversation back to its original purpose, "Now, if we were living in a sensible country, you could do whatever you wanted. But, as it is, you'll have to go home."

Alfred rolled his eyes at the way Arthur said "sensible country". "Fine, whatever," he mumbled, "But if you drink too much and call me at two a.m., I'm not coming to carry you home. And, also, I'll kill you."

"I'm not a child, Alfred. I know how to handle my liquor."

And, at that (much to Arthur's dismay) Alfred was not the only one of them who burst into a fit of laughter.

They ended up in a pretty generic bar (to Ludwig's enormous relief; he had become a bit skittish at the mention of strip clubs, as that was a road down which he never again wanted to travel). Like many places in America, it was new and clean-looking; all chrome countertops, with multicolored neon lighting behind the bar. Ludwig found, also like many other places in the young country, that it lacked a certain atmospheric charm, but this did not bother him too terribly as he settled at his stool with a beer as the group he had arrived with looked for an empty table. Just when he was getting comfortable with the idea of losing them, and sitting at the bar by himself, his brief moment of privacy was shattered as Feliciano appeared at his side.

"You should come and sit with us, Ludwig," he said, still smiling, and apparently bursting with energy, "There's room at our table."

Ludwig cursed his luck today and, realizing that it would probably be rude to turn down the younger man's offer, allowed himself to be led over to the crowded wooden table, where some sort of commotion had already broken out among the strange group of friends.

"I'm telling you, Arthur," Antonio was saying, his tone as persuasive and as falsely disinterested as a salesman's, "He's looking right at you. You should definitely go over there."

Arthur just shook his head, "You're completely delusional."

"Aw, come on, old friend. You have to admit it's been ages since you've been with anyone. We're all worried about you."

"I'm not worried," Lovino pointed out, taking a long drink from his glass as Ludwig and Feliciano were finding their seats.

Antonio ignored him, decidedly maintaining his focus on attempting to get Arthur to flirt. "Not to mention the fact that your sexual frustration is making you even more of a grouch than usual, eh? You're spreading your misery to all of us."

Arthur glared, but it was half-hearted, like he had long since resigned himself to this form of torture. In the end, he took his real revenge by not even glancing at the bar for any purpose other than to collect a continuous stream of refills from the bartender, which ultimately lead to him becoming increasingly agitated as the night wore on. Eventually, after several moments of unreasonably emotional ranting about Alfred forgetting to put his socks away, he fell asleep, with his face on the table, and drool pooling under his mouth.

"Well," Antonio, who was pretty intoxicated himself at that point, declared, after glancing at watch that he had imagined on his wrist, "I think that might've been a new record for Arthur. Very ipressvvn."

"What did you say, idiot?" Lovino asked, smirking, bad temper, if not entirely dissipated, then at least mildly suppressed by the alcohol.

"I said it's really impresamiven."

Laura laughed, "Oh, boy. I guess I'm gonna be the one who carries Arthur home tonight."

But while the majority of the party had been teasing Arthur, and enjoying the spectacle which he had provided, Ludwig found himself separated from them, chair pulled to the corner of the table with Feliciano. Neither had noticed what was happening as they were slowly shifting their chairs away from the group, because both had found themselves deeply engrossed in conversation with one another. This was strange and new especially for Ludwig, who usually found himself remarkably disinterested in any form of small talk, and who preferred to limit his words to only those which he found necessary. But somehow, when Feliciano spoke, even about the mundane, scripted things that characterized conversations between almost strangers, he made everything appear so exciting and wonderful. Ludwig wondered if this was how Feliciano always saw the world.

They spoke of more than just simple matters, however. At some point, Ludwig, preferring to listen to Feliciano speak than be the speaker himself, had asked Feliciano when he had first come to America. From what he could piece together from Feli's undoubtedly sugarcoated version of things, he and his brother had come to the U.S. with their grandfather when they were toddlers. He did not mention his parents, and Ludwig didn't ask him to. Feliciano then explained him and his brother's relationship with Antonio, telling about how the older boy had lived in the same building as them throughout their childhood, and had quickly assumed the role of surrogate older brother to the two, although it sounded to Ludwig like he spent much more time with Lovino than with his younger brother. He supposed that this was because Lovino was more prone to getting himself in trouble than Feliciano, even when they were children. From what he had seen of the young Italian even in one day, Ludwig could not imagine that he would ever intentionally do something potentially harmful to anyone. He was in all likelyhood as innocent and as non-threatening as he was on the day he was born.

Eventually, Ludwig decided to ask him about the eighteen-year-old who had previously been with them. He didn't want to pry for fear of upsetting Feliciano, but his police instincts could not ignore the unpleasant suspicion he had felt when they were being introduced.

He didn't get much out of Feli, though, who seemed reluctant to say much on the subject. "Alfred started living with Arthur a few years ago," he said, suddenly looking as if he was afraid to say the wrong thing, "He was so little! He's gotten much bigger though. Even bigger than me!"

"And is Arthur a…relative of his?"

Feliciano considered this for a moment. "Um…no, that wouldn't make sense. Because Arthur is from England, and Alfred is from here."

"Of course. So why is Alfred-

"I've never been to England. Have you ever been to England, Ludwig? I hear it's very rainy all the time."

Ludwig took that as a signal to drop the subject, although he still felt uneasy, even more so after what little information Feli had given him. If what he had said was true, then Alfred couldn't have been any older than sixteen when he began living with Arthur, who was apparently not a family member of his, or, he assumed, any sort of legal guardian. Why had Alfred begun living with a strange man when he was sixteen years old? Particularly a man who was currently passed out in a pool of his own alcohol-infused saliva?

The whole story did more than just make him fear for Alfred's sake, however. It was like an alarm clock going off in Ludwig's mind, waking him up from the strange dream that he had been living ever since he had been smashed into by Lovino earlier that day. He felt apprehension course through him as he realized what should have been obvious; that he didn't know these people, that he could have been spending his night with felons and, although they didn't seem particularly dangerous, that they were people who could potentially get him in serious trouble. People who he could get into serious trouble.

So, after telling Feliciano a few stories about when he had gone to England before moving to New York (stories that made Feliciano laugh a tinkling laugh that made Ludwig's heart ache to think of not being able to hear it in the future), he told Feliciano that he had to work tomorrow, and so he really should be getting to bed. Feliciano insisted on walking him to his apartment building, which was not far. Ludwig couldn't help but accept.

When they arrived at the main entrance to the building, Feliciano didn't leave. Instead, he pulled something out of his pocket.

"Do you have a cell phone?" he asked sweetly.

Ludwig's mind stopped. When it started again, it went into overdrive, along with his heart, which had begun pumping madly, and his lungs, which suddenly could not receive enough oxygen from the air around him. Suddenly, here, outside of his apartment, with Feli's big brown eyes gazing up at him through the dark, the nature of his night seemed very different….

But that was a ridiculous thought. They had gotten along very well, for being complete strangers. Why wouldn't he want to contact him later on? But then, the image of Feli in a photograph, smiling just like he was now, only clad completely in women's clothes, filled his mind, and he struggled not to blush just as he had upon first seeing it. What was happening to him?

"Look," he said abruptly, struggling to meet those innocent eyes, "I…had a very good time tonight, and I'm not exactly sure what's happening, but I do know that we…it's just that, our lives, they're very different. I just don't think that…." He trailed off miserably. How could he explain this without hurting the younger man's feelings?

But Feliciano seemed to have stopped listening to him. Instead, he was looking dreamily across the street where people were still bustling about on the sidewalk, despite the late hour. Against a building, there was a man sleeping, clothes tattered, a single blanket underneath him. A dog barked somewhere nearby. The lights of the city were reflected in Feliciano's eyes.

"Antonio's sick, you know." Feli's eyes never moves from the homeless man across the street.

"I'm sorry?"

"He got sick a few years ago. Someone made him sick; I think that's part of why Lovi's so angry all the time. Toni's okay if he takes his medicine, but…."

Ludwig thought he understood. "Why are you telling me this?" he asked.

"Because," Feliciano finally tore his eyes away from the street, and instead trained them on Ludwig's hopelessly lost face, "It's just that I think that, if you want to do something, then you should do it. Because you never know if something's going to happen."

And, before Ludwig could say anything, before he could even begin to form any sentences in his mind, or think about what had been said to him, Feliciano went up on his toes, and kissed him, quickly, on the mouth.

"Here," he said, and Ludwig realized that he had slipped his phone out of his pocket when he had….

He pressed a few buttons, the light from the screen lighting up his smiling face, before handing the phone back to a completely unresponsive and dumbstruck Ludwig. Then he giggled, wished Ludwig a good night, and left.

And Ludwig was left standing on the sidewalk, staring after him with the echoes of Feli's words even more than the feeling of his lips still lingering in his mind.

On the morning of July 1st, Matthew Bonnefoy awoke excitedly in his father's house in Ottowa. He shot up in his bed, looking at the blanketed expanse surrounding him as disappointment began to settle in his stomach. It was his birthday; his nineteenth, specifically, and he had expected his father to carry out a long-standing tradition of placing all of Matthew's gifts on his bed while he slept, mostly in the cruel hope that he would wake up and scatter them around his room upon waking. One year, when Matt was turning thirteen, his dad had gone so far as to place one of the packages directly on his son's face, almost giving him a heart attack when morning came around, and causing him to sulk for nearly half the day (he had been thirteen, after all).

But this morning, Matthew sighed as he looked at his empty bed, supposing that he had finally outgrown the childish tradition; he had, after all, completed his first year of college only a few months earlier.

He realized upon closer inspection, however, that there was something on his bed- a standard sized, red envelope with his name written in his father's neat but impractically elaborate cursive on the back.

Curious, Matthew picked up the envelope, and carefully ran a finger underneath the seal to open it. There was no card inside, like he had expected. Instead, there was simply a folded piece of standard computer paper, which Matthew unfolded. He frowned in confusion as he read the words at the top- it seemed that his father had decided to give him a printed out list of employees at a McDonald's in Manhattan's Lower East Side. Thinking there must be some strange joke being played at his expense, Matthew cautiously began to read through the short list of names.

Michel, Joseph Roger, age 34

Duarte, Rosalina Adela, age 21

Jones, Alfred Franklin, age 18

Matthew stopped reading, less than halfway through the list, and stared at the third name. He felt as if shock had turned his lungs into two identical vacuums. He read the name again.

Jones, Alfred Franklin, age 18.

He had heard people in novels and on television talk about not being able to believe what they were looking at, and now he thought he understood the feeling. It was as if his mind had decided to detach from the world around it, leaving him lost. He picked up the red envelope, which was not yet entirely empty, and shook it.

Onto his bed fell two identical tickets. He picked them up, and read one of them- it was a train ticket into New York City, departing tomorrow night.

Throwing his covers aside, he grabbed the tickets and bounded outside of his bedroom, like he used to do so many years ago on snowy Christmas mornings. He found his father in the kitchen, preparing a traditional stack of Birthday Pancakes. The man jumped in shock when Matthew threw his arms around him from behind, struggling to speak words of gratitude through the choked feeling in his throat.

"Papa, merci, c'est le meilleur cadeau…je ne sais pas quoi dire. Merci beaucoup !"

His dad laughed, spinning to face his son and hug him properly. "Bon anniversaire, mon petite fils. And what did I tell you about speaking English, now that we live in Ontario?"

Matthew still seemed at a loss for words; whether the words were English or French held no consequence. Francis Bonnefoy felt the excitement and disbelief radiating from his son, and decided to bring a bit of reality back to the situation.

"Now, Matthew," he said, allowing a bit of sternness into his tone, "I don't want you to get your hopes up too high. We only have his first name and middle name, and his age. There is no guarantee that this is your brother."

"I know, Papa. But still…it must have taken you so long."

Francis smiled, "It has taken me thirteen years, Matthew. It has been too long that my mistake has hurt you. You have no reason to thank me for this."

"It wasn't your fault."

His father didn't respond to that, only continued to smile as he said, "Well, I suppose we should begin packing, then!"

Matthew beamed, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, a hope that he had not felt in years beginning to well up inside him.