"An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind."

The glint of a car bumper. Light gleaming off the silver metal, hauntingly blinding and flashing into his eyes as it reared closer at a speed he had never seen of one, and certainly not towards himself. The glare of the rare sun streaked across the other driver's window, rendering it practically white in his eyes and giving him only a briefly opaque surface he could not even attempt to see through before a blue paint job filled his view and suddenly, his neck was jerking forward, slamming against the dashboard of the car.

When his neck went back up, he was left feeling confused. Lights and colours were everywhere, and everywhere he looked he saw nothing but those same lights, those same colours. His head throbbed and he could not, for the life of him, comprehend anything that was going on. But the familiar sight of an ambulance was an odd sort of comfort, a sign of safety, to which he dutifully went towards as the car door above him was heaved open (wait, above? Car doors weren't supposed to be in the ceiling) and slammed aside as muscled hands had reached down to lift him by the pits of his arms.

Shakily, clumsily, he was led away, and by who did not matter. He was led towards that ambulance and he sat there for a moment, maybe a moment or two, feeling dazed with eyes unfocused, torso slightly swaying as a man peered into his eyes with a flashlight (which really did no wonders for his sudden massive migraine). But as quickly as it felt he had gotten to the ambulance, he left it, but that time it was with his mind. Noise filled the corners of his eyes, littering his vision, and before he knew it – he could remember nothing else.

That was when Arthur woke up.

Cold sweat was drenched over his torso, sticking his boxers to his hips and causing his naked middle to feel sticky as he pressed his elbows against the sides. The window the night before had been left open due to the unusual summer heat, but that morning, there was the scent of rain and Arthur shivered, quickly reaching up to slam it back down. It took him a second to get over the dream, but that second was quicker than the second the morning before and the morning before that. The dream was continuous during every summer, and the only thing Arthur could do was get used to it.

He sat there for a bit longer, attempting to regain all the sudden warmth he'd lost from being beneath the covers, but once realising it wouldn't come back, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. The remaining bits of the blanket fell away, causing goosebumps to rise over his newly exposed legs, and Arthur blinked sleepily at the alarm clock beside his bed.

06:37. Really?

It was ungodly early, yet the sun shined as if it were midday, streaming through his room's only window and blotching the cream carpet a bleached blonde. His feet silently passed towards his bedroom door and he swung it soundlessly open, walking down the hallway and reaching the kitchen of his single-floored, quaint brick house. There, finding the tea leaves already at the bottom of the kettle, he switched it on and watched as the water inside boiled.

Arthur usually began his summer mornings that way. Sleeping in the heat, yet waking up too soon due to the day's early cold. Then he'd spend an hour staring into his tea and swirling the water around, sipping it and blowing at it carefully until 07:00, when his father got up for work and left thirty minutes after. Once engaging in a lazy conversation with his father, Arthur was awake enough to settle down in the living room's computer chair and surf the web. That morning, however, his father had no reason to wake up, as he had quit his job the day before, so Arthur finished his tea and headed straight for the desktop.

It was good timing, too. After all, Arthur would normally be reading zooned in on his computer screen by the time Amelia, the blasted American tourist who so happened to end up marrying his father, woke up and prepared breakfast, not bothering to talk to Arthur for she was aware of his reading obsession.

"Scones?" came Amelia's quick question from the stove, though Arthur couldn't see her due to a wall blocking her face and his own back being turned in her direction. He let out a breath, closing his eyes in mild annoyance at having been interrupted in the middle of reading a rather odd criminal story set within Palermo, Italy.

"Yes," he replied curtly, his eyes flying back to the screen to catch the sentence he'd been drawn away from. After a few minutes, the smell of rising bread wafted from the oven and Arthur breathed it in, realising that there was no way he could possibly return back to the story he'd been captured with. However, when he heard the sound of bare feet slapping lightly against the wooden kitchen floor, he resisted the scowl fighting for space on his mouth and clicked to leave a review. Arthur was busy typing whatever it was that came to mind when a plate of very pleasing scones were set down beside his elbow, but he refused to let himself so much as glance in that direction.

The shoulders holding the plate practically wilted. "Arthur—," the voice began, but Arthur's posture stiffened against his will and he found that he had to backspace more than he usually did when writing reviews. "Are-," she seemed the pause, thinking over what she had to say, and then changing her mind, "do you have everything packed?"

The scowl Arthur had tried to stop planted itself firmly on his face as he sent the review with probably a bit more force than usually necessary and clicked to go to his inbox on the website.

After lingering for a moment longer, Amelia left, and Arthur allowed himself to stay there for a moment, glaring at the S in his username on his web address. Taking a deep breath to contribute towards his wavering posture, Arthur clicked on the first message he saw.

BurgerHeroJunkie (December 1)

In response to your review at: /#/########

Hey!

I totally wasn't expecting a review like this so soon. I mean, usually I'll get one word or a sentence review if I'm lucky, and so I normally don't respond, but this needs a response.

First of all, thank you for taking the time to review. It really means a lot. I can't answer the questions you dumped on there, but trust me, they'll be answered by the end of the story (I'd tell you 'by next chapter', but even I'm confused what's going to be in the next chapter).

Get some sleep, man! I always stay up reading fan fictions in this place, because once I start a really good one it's just hard to put it down only half finished, you know? Hearing that you did that with mine makes me automatically think you're saying it just to make my day. I really can't believe anyone would find my story that good. But if you honestly mean it, thank you! Really, thank you so much.

Arthur smiled briefly, the small lift of the corner of his mouth as he scanned at the first reply sent more than half a year before. His rule for the internet was pretty much, 'American until proven otherwise,' and the rule had held true the second he started reading BurgerHeroJunkie's story, with the American spelling and all, and was only confirmed with his messages. Still, he found himself not annoyed as usual – sure, the American's random informality as his first message to Arthur was, expectedly, unnerving, but he discovered that it was an easy thing to get used to. Arthur even had some of it get rubbed off on him, looking through his own history of messages and finding them to get more and more casual the further down on the page he scrolled. It seemed as if the boy just had that natural sort of charm to him.

He went to the latest message.

BurgerHeroJunkie (1 day ago)

Oh man, sorry for not answering earlier! I was all caught up in the July 4th stuff going on – I'm sure you know how big of a deal it is over here. Someone down the street was lighting off fireworks and it landed on their neighbors house – caught the thing on fire when the neighbors weren't home. Broad daylight, too! I don't really get why you'd set off fireworks when it's practically noon, anyway.

Did you get things sorted out with Alistair? I mean, my brother is awesome. In all actuality I'm probably the jerk one in the house when it comes down to it. Therefore, I can't completely understand the situation, but I know that if my brother punched me in the face, I'd be pissed! Was it on accident, at least? You said Dylan helped you, so it's not possible that no one in your house cares about you. It's just that having two other brothers and a newly married step-mom must get kind of hectic. You said your dad married her only two years ago? Hey, look on the bright side – at least she didn't give you another brother. Right?

No way. Holy shit, no way! You're coming to America? Really? Fuck! No way. You're going to love it here! …I think? I mean, I've never been to England and stuff – I've actually never been out of the states. But it can't be that different, can it? Well, if you have any questions anyway, just message me and I'll be sure to answer. I don't know if you can get much more American than me. I'm related to George Washington when you go way down the line.

You can't say 'bottle?' I never thought about how I say it, but you're right, we kind of do replace the t's with d's, don't we? Hey, do you have a Skype or something? It'd be really awesome to finally be able to hear your voice. You said that there's a whole bunch of different British accents, so there's a good chance I've never heard yours before.

Arthur tried to contain his multiple facial expressions, something he usually never shared outwardly, but it was hard while still attempting to focus on the message itself. Shooting a glance around the room to make sure no one else was peeking over his shoulder, he clicked down to leave a new reply.

SconesNotPhones (now)

Yes, I am aware of the rather...interesting celebrations Americans hold over the pond. It's always struck me as odd. Then again, St. George's Day is pretty much a day where some bloke slayed a dragon for something or another and somehow that is a representation of England. You might get a sentence in the newspaper pointing out what day it is, but otherwise, no one really pays attention.

Honestly? Why would you shoot off fireworks near a wooden house, anyway? The houses in my neighbourhood are mostly, if not all, brick, but I've heard your houses are practically made of cardboard.

I haven't seen Alistair since the incident. Accident or not, his temper really is uncontrollable – perhaps a trait the entire biological family save for Dylan seems to share. He went out drinking with his friends and he's most likely bunked with them at the moment. I'll probably have to go pack his bags now last minute and deal with a hung over older brother the entire plane ride to the United States. Amelia might be pregnant with another child, I overheard her and my father talking, and if that's the case then they're going to be born in America and I'll have an American in the family. I deal with your accents enough on the telly, I don't want to be around it at home, too. But I suppose I'll have to.

Yes, I'm quite sure I said that, already. I don't believe I'll like it very much over there, and it's very unlikely that I'll find you - considering your country is so bloody large. I'm not very fond of most Americans, but I can say that you're one of my very few friends, so I doubt you're as American as you claim.

I can say bottle the normal way, but not the way your people seem to have morphed it. I do not have a Skype as I've never had anyone I wanted to go out of my way enough to talk to before. I suppose I could make one someday, though. However, I'm sure you've heard my voice before. I've just got your regular old London "accent".

I have to make sure everything is ready to go, now. We're leaving this afternoon in order to get there by roughly 21:30 (9:30PM). I'll be back on here sometime July 8th if I'm not too destroyed by jet lag.

After staring for a moment at the message, reading over it almost self-consciously, Arthur nodded and hit send. He pushed back from the desk and made extra sure to log out and exit the tab, before dashing down the hall to his room and checking with an almost OCD habit that he had everything he ever owned.

It was strange, seeing nearly everything gone. He had the clothes he'd need for the immediate few weeks in a suitcase, 50% of his clothes had been sold, and the rest were either scattered in extra spaces in other suitcases or with everyone else's extra clothes in boxes already in America.

It was odd, thinking about how his belongings were in a country he had yet to step foot in.

His bed was gone, just a mattress that would soon be given to his neighbours. The desktop downstairs was old and bulky and also going to be given to their neighbours, while Arthur would only have his slightly old laptop tucked away in some random suitcase until they decided to buy another. He ran his fingers over the zipper of the first of the two suitcases he would be taking with him onto the plane.

"Arthur?" called a slightly soft voice, and Arthur glanced up to see green eyes and pale blonde hair – duller and darker than Arthur's – littered in an absurd amount of freckles, a trait Arthur thankfully did not share with the other, standing in the doorway. "Do you think you can fit this in somewhere?"

It was a stuffed sheep with once-white fur turning an off-beige colour and fraying, while one ear seemed slightly torn and hanging on by a few select threads and terrible re-stitching. Dylan, the one holding out the stuffed sheep in the palm of one hand while his other hand seemed to self-consciously grab the doorframe, had his cheeks dusted a noticeable pink. A pink that only darkened as Arthur's face turned uncomprehending. He remembered Dylan having that stuffed animal somewhere in the back of his mind, but he could hardly believe it was the same one after so long. Dylan was seventeen, for christ's sake. "I just found it at the back of the closet, and I didn't want to leave it behind, but Ali's stuff is in my suitcase and I don't want him seeing it—" Dylan rambled awkwardly as Arthur began to unzip his suitcase and jabbed his fist into various pockets to see which ones had the space. He almost immediately found the perfect spot. Right at the bottom of his suitcase there was a horizontal pocket with a net pouch on the inside, and so Arthur grabbed the sheep – perhaps a little more harshly than necessary – and stuffed it into the net, not daring to meet Dylan's face.

"Yeah, I know," Arthur muttered, attempting to sound bitter, "Alistair can be an ass."

"Thanks, Art," Dylan said with a sudden grin, and even though Arthur could not see it, he could hear it in the older teenager's voice.

"I had the space," Arthur dismissed, zipping the pocket back up as Dylan laughed and made his leave. Arthur stood up, brushing invisible dust from his trouser legs as he lost himself in thought and grabbed both suitcases – one by the pouch at the top, as it was smaller, and the other by its extended plastic handle.

"Oi, who left the scones?" yelled a voice from the main room, and Arthur stopped momentarily in his movements to sigh. "Whoever they belong to, you're bloody wasteful and they're mine now!" The teenager continued forward to spot a tall boy with well-built arms shoving said scone into his mouth, curly radish hair a whirling storm around his head and his own green eyes, identical to the other two boys living in the household, glinting in the quickly approaching afternoon sun streaming through the window.

"You're welcome," Arthur scowled, dropping the suitcases in the middle of the empty floor, surrounded only by bare couches. Amelia had given the new family of the house liberty to begin moving their own stuff in, as well as left large pieces of furniture to them, and Arthur had to mentally thank all of them that the house didn't feel any emptier than it already was.

Alistair turned to look at him, bushy eyebrows raised in question. "What are you—" at that moment, though, he seemed to notice something and squinted his eyes suspiciously at Arthur's face. "What's with the bruise?"

Arthur reached his fingers up to graze lightly over the sensitive skin just above his eye, where the edge of his socket had been banged against the floor. He had been sure his eyebrows covered it just fine, but apparently, his brother had noticed the budding injury. "I got into a fight."

They stared at each other for a moment, a moment where Alistair had half a scone shoved in his mouth and his eyes briefly widened in realisation. That moment, however, was briefly gone, and Alistair harrumphed through the food in his mouth and took a bite out of it, sticking one fist in his baggy shorts and strolling almost leisurely to his room. Arthur could only hope to god that Alistair really had his things gathered up, or else Arthur would be the one having to get to it, and in his long-lasting sour mood that was the last thing he wished to have to do.

"You both need to get into anger management," went a cough from behind Arthur, and he turned to find Dylan leaning against the couch, drinking bottled juice he had probably bought not that long before.

Arthur's scowl deepened. "Easy for you to say," he spat, inconspicuously trying to find something to throw but finding nothing that was easy enough to carry. Dylan only shrugged and didn't reply, something Arthur found strange until Amelia ran into the room, a bag slung over her shoulder and eyes darting around to her own, Arthur, Dylan, and what could only be their father's suitcases lying around on the floor. She frowned.

"Where's Alistair?" she demanded, looking ready to throw off her bag and look for her phone to call the boy with, until he called his presence and approached out of the hallway as well. As Alistair began to complain about the drinking age limit they were about to be subjected to; Alistair was not too pleased with the fact that he had just gotten legally able to drink alcohol and now had to wait three more years all over again because of 'blasted American laws'; the front door opened, revealing a shorter man of tossed red hair, large eyebrows, and glowing emerald eyes. He was like a shorter, older version of Alistair, but with far less freckles and a rounder face.

"It'll be a relief to get out of this house," he greeted, propping the door open with a wedge and rushing forward to yank his bags into his hands, "this place is too small for you blokes, I feel claustrophobic every time I step inside."

Arthur muttered darkly a bitter comment about his brothers and was thrown a chastising look, being the youngest of all of them. Deciding he had enough of their presence, he picked his suitcases back up and rushed outside, throwing them into the trunk of the mini cooper and climbing to shotgun. Soon enough, though, he was kicked out of the seat by Amelia and was crammed into the back seats with his two other brothers, suitcases being piled on their laps and underneath their feet. Then, they were off.

It took thirty minutes to get to the London airport from where they had formerly lived, and after much work of confusing each other, they made it to the gates on time. Setting everything in their respectful places, with suitcases above him and having a window seat all to himself, Arthur promptly plugged in his headphones and blasted what he had of Sex Pistols, staring blankly at the grey scene outside consisting of airplane wheels and the chance of rain. Sex Pistols had given way to Asking Alexandra and then to Muse by the time the plane had caught air, and the beat of words were draining into Arthur's ears by the rhythm of

Another promise, another seed

Another, packaged lie to keep us trapped in greed

And all the, green belts wrapped around our minds

And endless red tape to keep the truth confined.

True to the ticket, Arthur was down on the ground many hours later at nearly 10PM. However, he was shocked to find the sun rising, and a glance at the local time found it to be, in actuality, nearly 6AM.

"Welcome to—" began the speakers, and Arthur was quick to block out the sound, staring at the incredible scene of what was-

pretty much an exact version of England.

At least, when he took out the significantly larger landmass surrounding it and the much taller mountains, and even the three or so volcanos they had apparently flown over – which really did nothing at all to calm his nerves.

The world glistened with early morning rain and dew and an abundance of ground fog. Arthur supposed that he was lucky, being plunged into a climate that was nearly exactly what he was used to rather than a place like Texas, but at the same time, there was not an ounce in him that dared so much as consider his situation lucky.

Especially when the second Arthur got out of the plane, he had to wait another hour or so going through customs, and then there was running around baggage claims and getting yelled at by his older brothers, and finally, finally, he stumbled on weary feet outside of the double doors. Arthur nearly tripped on the slope undoubtedly made for the handicapped right before the double doors, but that was blamed entirely on jet leg and pure fatigue.

Why did Americans live so bloody far away? It was both a blessing and a curse.

Before his eyes, all he could see were skyscrapers. Skyscrapers. Blast it all, they were large and tall and he knew that whatever crazy blokes were really thinking about putting them in London, of all places, needed to go jump off a cliff because holy hell all he could see when he glanced to the sky were windows and metal reflecting the sun's light. At the same time, though, he was still under a concrete slab that extended out of the side of the airport and over the pavement (sidewalk, as Americans apparently called it), stopping right before the curb where cars were parked and people were getting in and out of the parked vehicles – most with suitcases in their hands or around their legs.

"What are you standing there for—jesus," interrupted a shout from behind Arthur, before a certain tall radish head stopped right beside him and furled his eyebrows at the sight. "Maybe we should have watched a bit more American movies more often."

"If we went off movies," approached another voice, and Arthur didn't need to glance back to know that it was Dylan, "then a random bloke would have already jumped out of a limo and shot some odd undercover Brit, because all Brits are apparently evil villains that come to America for the sole purpose of ruling over the world."

"Or fairies," Arthur spoke up before he could stop himself, and Alistair shot him a weird glance. He rushed to compose himself. "I mean to say, British people are either the evil villain or the god damn fairy in Hollywood."

From behind all three of them, a feminine voice burst out laughing. "Hey, that's so true!" shouted Amelia, using her arm balancing a purse on the elbow to rustle Arthur's hair. "Kind of unfair, don't you think? But, hey, what can I say; you guys are considered 'exotic' over here – or something like that."

"I thought those were Russians, or Arabians, or the French," Dylan commented, making a face.

Amelia grinned. "If you come from another country, you're considered exotic here. Watch," she said, "and just wait until you talk to someone. They'll suddenly discover a renewed interest in finding ways to keep you talking."

Before Dylan could respond, or any of the other boys could butt in with their own odd commentaries, Amelia seemed to spot something in the long line of cars in front of them. She glanced back to see that her husband had caught up with the family and then began frantically waving her arm and yelling. Arthur was perhaps most surprised when it was only a few looks that were shot towards them.

"Maddy!" persisted the American woman, "Mrs. Freaking Williams! Look this way, you blind lady!" The Kirkland family only stood there in puzzled silence as a blonde woman – or girl, she looked shockingly young; but then again, she looked as young as Amelia did and Arthur knew for a fact that Amelia was older than appearances said – turned around. She had deep blue eyes, the same as Amelia's but perhaps a shade darker, and long, light brown hair. Whereas Amelia's hair was cut short to her ears, the new woman's hair inched just an odd amount of cm above her waist and was held up by two pigtails. There was an exclamation from the new woman that Arthur couldn't hear, and then Amelia was gesturing wildly and excitedly towards the boys for them to join her.

"Time to meet your step-aunt," Harry, otherwise known as Mr. Kirkland, said, prompting the boys to half-heartedly pick up their bags and drag it over to the red sedan parked at the curb.

After pleasantries and getting the luggage all sorted out with the car, Arthur decided that he liked Mrs. Williams.

First of all, she was much quieter than Amelia; however, it did not seem as if that meant she were any less demanding of respect in any way. At one point, Dylan and Alistair were sent off to another car, presumably Mr. William's car, due to the lack of space for both people and luggage, and for once Arthur found that his two brothers knew not to argue – that, and they had just met the woman and first impressions were always important. She was also patient and kind, but not sickly sweet. As they got settled into the car, Arthur discovered that he had never quite realised just how much his step-mother could truly talk until she was rambling to her sister about everything she had discovered since last seeing her – which was, honestly, a lot, considering it had been approaching the two year anniversary of Amelia and Harry's marriage. Mrs. Williams – Madeline, as Arthur soon found out – just let her talk, and even offered input where necessary that was descriptive enough to be clear that she was listening and vague enough to allow her sister to continue on. It wasn't even a few minutes and Arthur himself had already gotten tired of hearing that high-pitched American accent go on and on.

As much as he came to immediately respect Madeline, though, he truly wished to not be there.

Staring out the window, Arthur could only have his breath catch in his throat. He was used to travelling. Living in Europe, it was, frankly, unheard of to not have at least travelled to the other main European countries. But across an ocean? That was both a new experience, and a very homesick one, because Arthur knew that it wasn't just a visit. No, he wasn't going back. He was 15 years old and stuck in the United States, with no way back home.

Out of all women, why did his father have to marry an American tourist? There were a fine variety of ladies in London, let alone in Europe! Why on earth was it the one who didn't even live on the continent, and couldn't afford to just dump everything at her home so soon to live with them in England? No, instead, she just had to go and uproot all of their lives and move them all to the United States, family and jobs and friends be damned.

Arthur hated his step-mother.

And, in the end, once they had reached their destination – they would all be staying at Madeline's house with her two 14 year old sons, a house full of boys, until they had gotten all of their stuff moved into their own house and finally pulled themselves together – of a certain case of porch steps, Arthur felt the pang of homesickness grow so large it consumed his entire chest. He felt completely out of his element, as if he were being tested and judged, and he could hardly focus on greeting the Williams boys appropriately.

"Arthur, Dylan, Alistair," Arthur distantly heard Amelia say after two teenage figures had practically barrelled into her, "meet Alfred and Matthew."

Really, he just wanted to sit on his computer chair at home with a cuppa, read fanfiction, and talk to BurgerHeroJunkie on the internet. Was that just too much to ask?

A/N: NB

Hey! NecroBrits speaking, here. Welcome to AOH! This is DaifukuBun and I's first fanfiction written together on this joined account. How this is going to go, is that we're both going to take turns writing out the main part of each chapter, and then we're going to look over each other's works and alter it so that it fits both of our styles - and is generally just well written. But worry not, the story has been planned out and each chapter will be, as well; however, no, this is not a roleplay.

I'm the one who wrote this first chapter. The next chapter will be written by DaifukuBun. If you forget who wrote what chapter, the person who's A/N comes first is probably the one who wrote it.

Song lyrics are from Uprising by Muse.

A/N: DB

I- well, yes. She explained it rather well.

The only thing I can think to say here is that while NB uses British English, I use American. I suppose it's one way to distinguish between who is writing the chapters. Oh! Also, our inspiration for this fic started when she reviewed one of my solo fics, and since then it's just turned into the gigantic spiral of conversations, hehe. Kind of amusing, huh?

Well, we'll see you next time, Dearies!

(NB: In other words, review! You don't know where it'll take you.)