A/N: Hello! See, I wasn't lying when I mentioned I'd be writing more Hetalia stuff, haha. But anyway! Yeah, so, I've had this idea circulating for quite a while, so here we are! I'm actually kinda nervous about this one, I hope it's interesting! Ah, jeez. But yeah, I hope to hear from you guys! Enjoy!


Rain fell harshly onto the streets of New York City. Outside, cars and buses and taxis beeped and roared with life. Voices of people echoed from the city streets. A vehicle was honking impatiently. Loud, booming thunder shook the walls of the small apartment. A flash of bright lightning temporarily illuminated the bedroom from behind the thin curtain.

Alfred F. Jones rolled about restlessly in his bed.

He mumbled loudly in his sleep, his face contorting into something of pure terror and agony. Cast upon his back, he flipped over, a hand fisting deeply into his battered pillow. The set of dog tags clinked loudly about his neck at his movement. Wearing nothing but a pair of underwear, his exposed skin was clammy against the cold air of his bedroom. The sheets beneath him were drenched from his perspiration. He squirmed, kicking off the bedding, where it tumbled onto the floor in a big, messy heap.

Beside him, a figure stirred. A mop of blonde hair emerged from the depths of the cramped bed as the man lifted his head. His eyes were bleary in the darkness of the bedroom. He sleepily rubbed at one eye, keeping still as another flash of lightning lit up the space. In the sudden burst of light, he could see Alfred's face. It was scrunched, drenched in sweat, his eyebrows drawing inward, and his eyelids absently fluttering. His body was tense, hands tightly gripping the pillow, his enormous shoulders jerking and coiled up so tightly it looked as if the man was going to attack. Sighing, he leaned over and gently shook Alfred's well-sculpted shoulder.

"Alfred. Alfred, wake up."

Ugly red liquid ran down his face and was staining his sleeve. He squinted one eye shut as blood leaked into his vision. His arm burned with a pain that felt utterly unreal, but was somehow slowly dissolving into numbness.

Gunshots. The Humvee against his back rocked violently, the noise of explosions echoing too loudly in his ears. He pressed his head back desperately against the body of the vehicle, gritting his teeth. Smoke and rubble and dirt and dust were surrounding him, flooding into his eyes and down his throat, invading his lungs, and he was choking.

He was crawling through sand. All around him was noise. Screaming vibrated through every fiber of his being, the sound of artillery and machinery sounding like angry storms. He passed by bodies, some with unresponsive eyes, and he kept moving, occasionally helping drag others toward the wall. Behind it, he finally sat up, using the structure to support his back as he clutched tightly at his arm.

"Alfred?"

His eyes shot open. His head whipped to one side, staring at the body sitting next to him amidst the destruction and noise. He was met by a face that was stretched in the largest smile Alfred had seen in years, and it would've been perfect if it wasn't for the blood running over his lips.

He scrambled onto his knees, yanking at his comrade's hands, exposing the jacket he had been clutching to so tightly. His palms were red, his jacket was red, his lips stained the same ugly color.

"No, no you can't…"

"It's okay." He was smiling. Tears were suddenly leaking out of his eyes. He rested his helmet-clad head against the wall behind them. He was taking too long to breathe. His chest trembled for a moment and then stilled, as if holding his breath. It slowly expanded as a labored breath left his lungs. His body felt cold in Alfred's tightly coiled arms. His lips were pale. "It's okay, Alfred."

A hand grabbed him by his jacket as he screamed. Tears fell violently from his eyes as the hand tugged on his jacket harder. He lifted his head, gaze filling with the man hovering above him. Tears ran down Alfred's face as he rambled pathetically, nearly in hysterics. He had seen people die, but it was never his friends, and—

With a loud crack of thunder, Alfred shot awake in his bed.

His chest rose and fell rapidly as he laid there, not daring to move. His body was covered in the sleekness of a cold sweat, and hot tears misted in his eyes. The walls of the apartment shook against the storm. His heart pounded violently in his chest and Alfred's built frame trembled against his will as the anxiety attack slowly grew worse.

He jumped violently as a hand, warm and soft, settled upon his exposed shoulder.

For a moment, his brain remained a million miles away as he stared ahead lifelessly, his eyes wide and distant. He slowly seemed to sink back into earth, body heaving as he remained sprawled out on his stomach. As he returned from the bombardment of destruction plaguing his mind, his eyes came back into focus, staring ahead motionlessly and taking in the sight of the face before him. A pair of tired, worried eyes stared back at him, flashes of lightning temporarily illuminating the body.

"Al? You okay?" The man beside him asked softly. The soft hand gently rubbed at his upper back. Unintentionally, and out of pure reflex, Alfred recoiled against the touch. He was still violently shaking as he squirmed to the side of the mattress closest to him, before swinging his legs over the edge. He sat there for a moment, breathing heavily as beads of sweat rolled down his face. He heard a small sigh come from the other form lying in the bed as he clambered off the mattress and onto his own two feet. He grabbed at the bed sheets he had accidentally knocked away and onto the floor, and quickly draped them across the mattress, covering up the figure in the process. "Alfred…"

Without a word, he retreated from the bedroom, roughly slamming the door behind him.

From the bed, the man sighed and snuggled down into the bedding. This had been happening for so long now it was almost routine. He sleepily eyeballed his alarm clock sitting on the side table and proceeded to bury himself deeper into his bed. Just after four A.M. The usual.

There was no point in chasing after Alfred when he was like this. It wasn't like he would receive any answers, or anything more than a simple, empty stare.

It was something Alfred always kept to himself.

In the meantime, Alfred had locked himself in the bathroom. After studying his reflection in the mirror, taking in his pallid, clammy face and dark circles, he turned on the sink and began to splash the cold water onto his skin. The liquid felt like ice against his face, and Alfred breathed heavily as it ran down the contours of his skin as it dripped into the sink. He did this for a few minutes before he dried himself off and again looked at himself in the mirror.

The color had to returned to his cheeks, but he still looked rather pale. The dark circles under his eyes were extraordinarily prominent now. The bright blue of his eyes seemed strangely dim. His hair was a mess, wild and swept into his eyes, and his jawline was dark due to an obvious sum of facial hair he hadn't bothered to shave off. His flesh was still slick from sweat, limbs still slightly shaking, his thick chest heaving.

He never used to be like this. Who the hell was this stranger staring back at him?

After brushing his teeth he wandered into the darkness of the tiny living room. Rain loudly pounded against the single window, lightning flashing brightly from behind a thin gray curtain. Alfred shuffled, barefoot, across the room and sank into the couch, absently switching on the old, battered television. The electronic splashed him in a blue light as he resided in darkness. The sound of the weather channel was like simple white noise in his ears. Alfred sighed as he buried his face into his hands, unable to help but simply think.

Six months. It had been six long months so far and he was not making any progress. If anything, he only seemed to be getting worse. He was sleeping less and less, and was having panic attacks more and more. It was like he descending deeper and deeper into an unseen hell.

When he had gotten out of the service six months ago, he began to live here in New York City with his twin brother, Matthew. And Alfred was grateful, of course he was. After all, his brother was opening the door to his extremely tiny apartment to Alfred out of the kindness of his heart. Matthew was giving him shelter and food and necessities while asking for so very little in return. Most nights Matthew shared the only bed in the house with him. The couch was much too small for Alfred to lie out on, and the back pain he constantly suffered through wouldn't agree with him if he did decide to crash there.

But he did harbor guilt about it. His episodes like this one were constant, and usually woke Matthew up in the middle of the night. It was bad enough to through it, but to know he was the cause of Matthew's constant awakening and daytime exhaustion, well, it made him feel more than just a little guilty.

Did he have a problem? Probably, but he didn't want to admit it. The reoccurring dreams – nightmares, rather – were only the tip of the iceberg. He had plenty of other issues, not all of which were so obvious. The triggers had to be the worst. The list of them was long and no matter where he went in this stupid city he couldn't get away from them. Some days he could power through it with only his hands shaking, and nothing more. And then other days a simple noise made it all come rushing back and left him breathless and sweating and trembling as a victim of a severe panic attack.

The amount of triggers was unbearable. It used to only be war-related noises that set him off, like the sound of gunshots or explosions, even fictional ones in video games. But now, anything loud was making him dissolve into this mess. Things like storms, the roar of airplanes, construction projects, the sound of machinery coming to life, and anything loud or sudden was starting to startle him. It was taking over his life and he knew it.

He could never fall back asleep after these episodes happened. He just sat there on the couch for what felt like forever, sitting in total darkness except for the blue glow of the television soaking into his skin. He didn't realize how deep in thought he was until something soft wrapped around him. He jumped, snapping out of his thoughts as he lifted his head, finding his twin draping a thick blanket over his shoulders. Alfred's hands absently clung to the hem, his gaze falling. He could feel Matthew staring at him. Suddenly, a hand combed gingerly through his messy blonde hair. Matthew didn't speak. After the simplistic touch, he simply vanished into the small kitchen. Alfred remained motionless underneath the heavy blanket, just listening, hearing the rattling of pans and the sound of the refrigerator door opening and closing multiple times. He dissolved back into his thoughts almost instantly, trying to wipe out the nightmare from his mind, but it was something he still struggled to do.

He sat there for a while, basking in silence, broken only by the mumbles of the old television. A rumble of thunder sounded outside of the window. The blue light soaked into his skin, and Alfred vaguely felt his throat constricting. Moisture swelled against the curves of his eyes, welling up against his own desires, threatening to spill. For a second he was choking silently, eyelids clenching down tightly, eyelashes dampening. He buried his face deeply into his sweaty palms and breathed loudly, deeply, struggling to hold back the wave as explosions rocked inside his eardrums and screams filled his brain.

You just couldn't escape from it.

After a while his brother emerged from the adjoined kitchen. Alfred had not heard him, too wrapped up in his own mind for that. But Matthew's hand, warm and soft, wrapped about his shoulder and gave him a tiny shake, jolting him abruptly from the dark waters swarming around in his brain. Matthew was, again, speechless, simply handing him a plate and a fork before vanishing into the other room once more.

Matthew usually cooked him breakfast. Even if Alfred didn't ask, his brother still did it for him, every single morning. And honestly, Alfred felt guilty for it. He stressed his sibling out immensely and he knew Matthew cooked him breakfast because Alfred had a nasty habit of not eating enough during the day regardless. Sometimes he didn't have the appetite, and sometimes he just completely forgot. But he wasn't taking care of himself properly, and he knew it, but fixing it was easier said than done.

So, once more, on a Tuesday morning, Matthew cooked him breakfast. He prepared him eggs and bacon and toast and a cup of rich coffee and very vaguely, Alfred knew it was something he loved a lot. Food was always something he loved. But it just didn't taste the same. Everything these days tasted so bland, as if he was cramming sand down his throat. Maybe that was why he didn't really care to eat that much anymore. There wasn't much enjoyment in it when everything tasted like cardboard.

Matthew joined him on the battered couch, squeezing himself in between Alfred and the ripped arm of the piece of furniture. They ate in silence for a moment, sitting in the off-blue glow of the television set, just mindlessly focused in on the babbling of the reporter. And then, out of absolutely nowhere, Matthew spoke.

"Did you want to talk about it?"

Alfred visibly stiffened as he sat there on one ugly cushion, large, scarred hands tightening about his silverware. He purposely kept his eyes gridlocked onto his plate.

"No," he answered, voice crackling against his own control as the urge to cry suddenly welled back up inside of him. But he wouldn't dare let it overcome him. He wouldn't allow himself to cry about it. There was no point. Crying wouldn't turn back time or bring anyone back or anything else. "I don't."

Six months later and he still had yet to tell his twin about what had happened to him overseas. He hadn't even been willing to tell why Matthew why he was out of the service now, either, but there wasn't really too much running around that one. Matthew had refused to let him stay until he provided at least some answers, and so Alfred had rolled up his sleeve and showed him the enormous scar on his bicep. But besides that, no, he hadn't breathed about what had happened. He didn't dare talk about the ambush, about losing his comrades – his family – or anything else. He was sure Matthew did know some of the details from Gilbert; the guy practically never stopped talking these days. But how much the guy had told him, well, Alfred didn't know.

Gilbert. Alfred's eyes drifted to the screen of the television, checking the time that was posted in the bottom right corner. A bit past seven, now. Matthew would be leaving for work in less than fifteen minutes, and then Gilbert would be here at eight. It was Tuesday, after all, and this was how Tuesdays went.

He hadn't really noticed that Matthew had been talking to him this entire time. He zoned back in very slowly, lazily almost, but that wasn't the intent. Things were hard these days, and that was all there was to it. Sleeping was hard, talking was hard, paying attention was hard, living was hard.

"I just worry about you," he heard Matthew say. "You never tell me anything so I'm not even really sure of how to help you. I do want to help, Al, you know that… But I can't… I can't help you unless you let me."

"I know." Alfred took some coffee into his mouth. It was too hot but he swallowed it down anyway, barely reacting to the burning sensation that went down his chest. "I… Sorry."

"Alfred…" Matthew started, and the man took a second to look his twin in the eyes. Matthew did have really nice eyes. They looked almost lavender, and held a bright, loving warmth in them. Alfred didn't have that warm glow in his eyes anymore, after all; he was a bit jealous of it. But even so, he could never look Matthew directly into the eye for too long these days. He hated seeing that pathetic, sad glow, he hated seeing the worry, he hated seeing the pain. Those emotions were his fault. Completely. He hated it, hated it. So as fast as possible, his eyes instantly darted back down to his still nearly-full plate. "You know I don't like seeing you like this."

Before Alfred could formulate a proper reply, Matthew abruptly stood up, plate in hand.

So Alfred let him. He sat there motionless and silent as Matthew abandoned his empty plate in the kitchen sink and hurried into his room, finishing the process of getting dressed. And Alfred let him leave, hurrying out the front door of the apartment in a scramble, no words spoken between them. Alfred's mouth burned with silent speeches, with things he wanted to say, with emotions he wanted to tell, but he couldn't. he just couldn't. And all he could do was feel the guilt.

He sat there for a while before he slowly got up from the couch, feeling like it too every ounce of energy to do so. He finished getting dressed himself before he wandered back into the kitchen. He wound up dumping his plate out into the trash and started to wash the dishes. He didn't do much else these days, so helping Matthew with chores was the least he could do. And while he stood there, noticing that the rain had stopped, his brain swirled violently and his eyes burned and his mouth itched and he wanted to scream.

But of course, nothing came out.

He knew he was a bit of a burden on his brother, whether or not Matthew would admit to that. Matthew was basically supporting him completely at the moment and was letting Alfred take shelter in this tiny, tiny nest of his. And his behavior bothered Matthew. Alfred knew it did. He had changed drastically since he first joined the army years ago, and now, it was like he was a stranger. Matthew had said it once by mistake, but Alfred didn't even bother to argue, because it was true.

He was starting to fray, really, and it was destroying Matthew to watch it. It killed Matthew on the inside to watch him suffer like this without reaching out for help. He was drowning, gurgling underneath some brackish liquid that poured into his lungs, and it was getting harder and harder to keep his head above the surface. Matthew had offered a hand to him many times to try to pull him out, but it was as if Alfred just couldn't reach it, no matter how hard he tried. So he just let himself drown.

Besides not discussing what had happened, there were plenty of other signals that were making his brother worry, too. The constant nightmares, the lack of sleep, the lack of appetite and energy and lack of life in his bones… All while not speaking to a single soul about it. And it killed his brother inside to watch him go through this without being able to do a single thing, simply because Alfred would not let him. He needed to get out of here before he only made things worse.

Making his brother suffer like this was one of the worst things he had probably ever done.

The sudden sound of pounding on the front door jostled him from his thoughts, and he jumped for a second, dropping the sponge into the bottom of the sink. Fumbling around for a second, Alfred dried his hands on a dishtowel before making his way across the tiny apartment, doing his best to ignore the loud, repetitive knocks coming from the outside that made his head pound.

He yanked it open, not at all surprised to find Gilbert standing outside, dressed in a wet, navy blue raincoat. His snowy hair was a mess underneath the hood, and his smile was enough to blind Alfred, teeth sparkling. And then, suddenly, a cup was being thrust in his direction.

"Morning! I brought you something." Gilbert was still grinning at him. Alfred's lips twitched for a second as if he was trying to smile back, but it quickly dissipated. He reached out slowly and took the warm, white container into one hand. He then inched to one side, allowing the man entrance into the tiny, battered apartment.

"Gilbert, I told you, you don't need to keep buying these for me," Alfred muttered, closing the door. He found himself sipping at it anyway. It had a hint of vanilla to it. But either way, Gilbert buying him a coffee every single Tuesday morning seemed almost excessive.

"Nah, it's fine." Gilbert let out a bit of a laugh, tucking his hands into his pockets. His skin was ghostly white, and he looked nearly sickly with that tone being combined with his hair color. There was a bit of a pink twinge in his cheeks and knuckles, but besides that, there wasn't much tone to him at all. Alfred surveyed him quietly from underneath blonde lashes, noticing that his friend's body seemed thinner underneath his coat. Great. It's not like the guy was scrawny enough as it was. "So? You ready?"

Oh, right. Tuesday. Tuesday was physical therapy day.

"Uh… Yeah, yeah one second… Let me find a jacket," Alfred murmured, setting down the cup of coffee on the nearest countertop as he began rummaging around in the pathetically small closet in the hallway. He absently rubbed at his left arm. The numbness was pretty bad today. It probably wouldn't be very long before his fingers stopped working again. Great. That was just what he needed.

Sighing rather loudly through his nose, he finally managed to grab onto a jacket and wrangle it out, before kicking the door closed. He wandered back into the entranceway and had managed to slip into the coat, but his fingers had started to fail him now and he couldn't zip the stupid thing. He couldn't even get a proper grip on the zipper. His fingers just wouldn't work no matter how hard he tried.

"Here, I got it," Gilbert interrupted, reaching out and aiding the blonde in zipping up his jacket. The smile was gone from his face now and Alfred was silent for a moment, studying his friend's face, taking in his tired eyes and ghostly pale skin. It was amazing, really, that they were so much alike, and yet, they were so very different. Two very different types of shells, two very different types of ghosts. "How's that?"

"Fine, thank you." Alfred picked the coffee cup back up and snatched up his keys from the nearby rack before ushering his friend outside. He had tried to lock up the apartment, but could no longer get a good grip on his keys, and after he dropped them for the third time, Gilbert simply locked the door for him before giving him the keys back.

Some days his body just refused to cooperate, and today seemed like it was going to be one of those days.

When he was overseas in his last tour, he somehow ended up with a bullet going through his arm that same day everything went to hell. He hadn't noticed it at first until it suddenly felt like he was being lit on fire, like his arm was suddenly burning. By some miracle it hadn't hit any main arteries, or bone. He still didn't understand it. However, it tore through a lot of muscle and a lot of his nerves were destroyed.

Six months of physical therapy later and he finally had the muscle strength to lift household objects properly again. Lifting a gallon of milk in that hand was no longer a life ending task. Despite gaining some strength back, he still struggled a lot with the nerve damage. A lot of the time his upper arm was numb, and sometimes, on the bad days, the trouble spread down his forearm and into his fingers. Sometimes they became numb too, or sometimes he felt terrible phantom pains. Sometimes his fingers didn't want to work and he couldn't even hold a pencil. And that was, more often than not, extremely embarrassing, especially when he was out in public and the problem struck him. The last time he had gone to buy coffee he wound up dropping the cup and spilling it all over the floor. He had lost count of how many times he had dropped things in stores – food, glass, and countless other things – or how many incidents had occurred where he had tried to move his arm and it was suddenly frozen with temporary paralysis, and he couldn't feel a single thing. That probably had to be the worst, especially when he had been trying to get change back from a cashier or hail a cab…or trying to do anything, honestly.

It was something he was probably going to struggle with forever if his instincts were correct.

But, well, he was probably the luckiest one that had gotten out alive. His eyes strayed over to Gilbert, silently observing his enormous smile and the way his eyes sparkled when he blabbed, even with how tired he looked. He suffered from sleepless nights, too, Alfred knew. But it seemed like even after everything, Gilbert was still a ball of compressed sunshine. He had been like that ever since they met, really, and the trend had yet to die down. If anything, ever since the war days, Gilbert's cheery demeanor had only gotten more intense. Alfred vaguely wondered if it was his way of coping, like how, well… Like how his demeanor had only grown darker and darker over the years.

Gilbert. Alfred sighed a bit as he moved alongside his friend on one of the busy sidewalks. He was a great guy. They had met in basic training, back when things were good and they were different people, back when they both were healthy and had life bursting out of their seams, back when they didn't have problems. Even after the ambush, even after their injuries, even after everything that happened, their bond had only seemed to have grown stronger. They were best friends, comrades, and if Alfred thought about it hard enough, Gilbert was probably like a brother to him. The man had helped him through a lot of shit, after all. He'd go down tooth and nail trying to keep him safe, and he knew Gilbert would do the same for him. He had already proved it, after all.

Gilbert couldn't walk very quickly. He hobbled a lot too and on a bad day like this one, with the sidewalks being wet, it slowed him down immensely. He slipped so badly sometimes he would have to cling to Alfred's thick arm to keep himself up on his own legs. Six months later and he was still struggling to get used to his prosthetic.

"Alfred, are you listening?"

"Huh? Oh, um." Alfred stammered for a second, struggling to piece words together to formulate a proper sentence. Gilbert's head swiveled to look at him as he clung absently to Alfred's left arm, lips forming in a prominent pout. "Sorry."

"Too rude," he drawled out in reply, overdramatically draping his free arm over his forehead. His other one remained coiled tightly about Alfred's, using him for support. He then dropped the bravado, letting his eyes focus in on his slightly taller friend's face. Alfred's eyes looked disgustingly void, his face practically hollowed out and exhausted. "Seriously though, you've been doing that a lot lately. You feelin' alright? What's on your mind?"

The large muscle in Alfred's arm suddenly tightened underneath Gilbert's touch, and the pale man frowned deeply as he watched Alfred's eyes lock firmly onto the ground.

"Did you have that dream again?" Gilbert pressed, thin eyebrows knitting together. At Alfred's silence, he sighed, shaking his head. "Alfred, you really need to start talking to someone about these things. It's not healthy to bottle it up, you know that."

He and Gilbert never talked about that day. It opened up too many bad memories. It brought back times of death and destruction and war and chaos and neither of them really wanted to remember it.

"I… I mean, Matthew has been asking about it a lot…" Alfred started lamely, struggling to properly form a sentence. Talking about anything seemed hard these days. He had grown so grossly reclusive over the months. "I just…"

"Yeah. I know what you mean," Gilbert finished as he released his grip on Alfred's arm. "Alfred, look. You need to try to talk to someone about this. Anyone. I know it's a touchy topic between me and you but if you want or need to talk about it, you know I'll listen. You mentioned Matthew has been bugging you to spill it, so just try to, ya know, spill it. It's hard, I know it is. It took me forever to tell Ludwig, but you have to try."

Neither of them really had a place to go after the war. And neither of them could really survive on their own when it first happened. Alfred wound up crashing with Matthew, and Gilbert took refuge in his younger brother Ludwig's apartment across town. Their siblings served as a mental and emotional crutch for a while. But, well, for Gilbert, his return home meant surgery, and he had needed to extra support for that, too.

Their recoveries had been different, though. Gilbert had been making tons of progress in only a few weeks than Alfred had made in six months. The man was more emotionally stable and levelheaded and just generally seemed less stressed than Alfred did. He had his problems, surely, like the insomnia they both suffered from, but Gilbert overall seemed to be in pretty good shape. But then again, he had been accepting of help. He had been going to a psychiatrist for a while and his little brother let him cry on his shoulder quite a bit when they first came home.

Alfred had been pushing help far away ever since they set foot back onto American soil.

He was silent for a long moment, the two of them caught in an ocean of other human beings, bodies just flooding around either side of them on the sidewalk as they simply stood there. It was making him grossly anxious, but he was trying to ignore it, instead just focusing in on the face of his friend. Even though Gilbert was smaller, and just a bit shorter, he exuded a confidence that Alfred was actually a bit jealous of. He walked with his head held high and his shoulders pushed backwards, and even with their physical differences, it often felt like Gilbert was bigger than Alfred was. But, well, it probably shouldn't have been that surprising. Gilbert had been a higher rank than him in the army either way; confidence was just a part of who he was. His years exceeded Alfred's as well; the experience of life had thickened his skin.

"I want you to promise me that you're going to try to talk to someone. I don't care who it is, I want you to tell someone." Gilbert sighed, shaking his head as he took Alfred by the arm and began to walk again. His eyes were straight ahead, not daring to look Alfred in the face as he mumbled. "I've lost enough people in this life so far; I don't need to lose you too."

"Sorry." Alfred's apology was instantaneous and almost empty. It wasn't real, and the words seemed rehearsed. Gilbert didn't react, though, his face serious now as he stared straight ahead. "I… I'll try."

"I said promise, but I guess that's good enough for now." Gilbert's head moved again as he shook it slightly. "You know I worry about you. Matthew does too. Both of us."

Alfred didn't speak. He suddenly felt very tired. Even getting on this topic seemed to suck the life right out of his bones now and he really hated it.

"You know what I think would be good for you, kid?" Gilbert asked him suddenly, and Alfred barely even blinked at his voice. "I think you need to get out of here for a while. Change of pace. Go somewhere quiet and less busy. I think all this movement and noise is only being detrimental. How do you expect to get better when you can't even concentrate with all this garbage going on around you?"

Alfred was barely even paying attention anymore, too focused on where he was going and the mess of bodies constantly bumping into him. It was more of just to humor Gilbert at this point. The guy loved to talk. And honestly, if he thought he was helping, who was Alfred to disagree?

"Ludwig and I are planning on going to visit some old friends in, like, a month or two though if you wanted to come? It'll only be for two weeks or so I think, but at least you'll get a break from…from all this," he finished, motioning to the world about them. His eyes flicked to Alfred's face and he grinned suddenly. "I think it'll be good for you."

Alfred just let out a grunt in reply. Gilbert paused for a second, looking extremely hopeful for an answer, but he never received one. Time to call it quits for now. With a sigh, he rolled his eyes skyward and back around in a complete circle, shaking his head in the process.

Stupid kid was too damn stubborn for his own good.


Chapter 1: End