A/N:
 I originally published this as a multi-chapter story, but I eventually decided that it would work better as a huge oneshot. It just...flows better? I guess. This thing's a monster! 6k words long D:

Anyway, I have about one more oneshot after this before I re-avert my attention to my other ongoing fics. I'm sorry for the slow process you guys, but thank you a billion times for being patient with me. ; A ;

Moving on to the story-

Disregard any mistakes for the moment; this is yet to be edited.

Something Beautiful

Up, up the spiral staircase - he ascended the tower, each step bringing him deeper and deeper into the welcoming darkness. The walls were bricks of cement that seemed too narrow, too constricting. He couldn't imagine being imprisoned in a tower so high for a night, much less ten years.

Each footfall echoed and reminded him that he's getting closer. By that point, it was pitch dark and he could barely see anything. The knight climbed the final step and paused.

Slowly, he reached out. Upon feeling nothing, he began walking forward with his arm still out in front of him.

Then finally, finally, his palms pressed into something solid, and through his worn out gloves, he could tell that it was a wooden door. He slid his hand downward and caught hold of a doorknob.

He twisted it and pushed the door open.

Darkness was flooded and overcome with light; Arthur Kirkland stepped forward into the desolate bedroom to finally see his Sleeping Beauty.

. . .

"They say that there's something up there, you know," Gilbert Beilschmidt says one day as he and his friend pass in front of the rickety gates that block the pathway to the giant castle. "Or, rather, someone."

They are two eighteen-year-olds venturing outside of the village's walls; nothing more, nothing less. Alfred wanted to visit the next village over like he's always wanted to since he was a little boy listening avidly about his father's travels, but Gilbert dragged him to the old castle before he could protest.

Alfred spares the sight a glance, gaze lingering for a few seconds on a particular part of the decaying structure. "Sleeping Beauty," he answers. Then he snorts, turning away. "He's been trapped in that tower for a hundred years, right? I doubt that he's any sort of 'beauty' anymore."

Gilbert rolls his eyes. "And you say you want to be a knight."

"What does that have to do with this!"

"You're not even willing to save a damsel in distress."

"It's not a damsel. It's a guy, and I think he should have enough balls to get out of there himself." Alfred huffs and re-shoulders his knapsack. "And I doubt that anyone's really up there, anyway. Who can survive in there for century?"

Gilbert moves closer to the gate, touching one of the iron bars. They are rusty and have little cobwebs in between. "Mutti told me that there was one knight who came through here once..."

Alfred glances back, looking suddenly interested. "You're serious?"

"Yeah." Gilbert's crimson eyes inspects the castle critically. "Arthur...Kirkland, I think. Some high and mighty English noble." He shakes his head. "Apparently he went in and never came back out." He rattles the heavy padlock that secures the gate closed. "It's been locked since then."

Alfred studies the structure, then looks down at his hands. The lock doesn't look too hard to break into; if he can't get passed it, then he always has that sledgehammer. Being the son of the blacksmith has its perks.

Or he can just...

Without another word, the blond slings his knapsack over the gate. Then he grabs hold of the bars and begins to haul himself up and over.

"What are you doing?" Gilbert asks incredulously.

Alfred lands on the other side with a thump and a grunt. "Exploring. What else?"

"I thought you weren't interested."

"Well, it's too late to go anywhere else. The sun's probably gonna set soon, and we'll have wasted our time here." At first he pouts, but then it transforms into a mischievous grin. "Unless you're scared, Gil?"

The silver-haired boy frowns. "Cheap blow."

Alfred snickers. "You can just wait here, then!" He grins brightly at his friend before whipping around and running for the castle doors.

"Hey! Get back here, you ass!"

He's surprised to find that there's no sort of lock on the doors. With one tug, they begin to creak open. Behind him, he can hear several clatters as Gilbert presumably climbs over the gate as well, and Alfred dashes inside once there's enough space to squeeze through. Two steps in, he trips and sends a dust cloud into the air.

He sneezes loudly.

Outside, Gilbert yells, "Are you really in there?"

Alfred doesn't answer and picks himself off the floor, then looks to the left. There are two huge windows behind what seemed to be a little stage for the thrones, and the streaming sunlight allows him to see that there's a door.

So he runs for it - something tells him that horsing around in an old abandoned castle isn't exactly the smartest idea, but he refuses to give Gilbert the satisfaction of catching him.

He slams the door shut behind him and suddenly he's enveloped in darkness. Through the walls, he hears Gilbert call, "I know you're in here somewhere!" Almost reflexively, he begins walking backwards blindly, expecting to eventually hit a wall. He doesn't. Instead, he trips over a staircase.

Alfred mumbles several curses under his breath, slipping off his sack and rummaging through it. Luckily, he remembered to bring some matches.

It takes a few tries, but eventually he gets it lighted. The flame is small and isn't that big of a help, but it does reveal a small alcove in the wall where a candle sits innocently. The match burns out; Alfred lights another one, grabs the candle, and lights it as well.

In front of him, there's a narrow staircase leading upwards. He puts the candle out in front of him experimentally, but it doesn't help.

"Alfred!" he hears Gilbert yell.

Alfred pauses in contemplation, but curiosity gets the best of him. He starts climbing up slowly, eventually picking up speed. He feels the excitement bubbling up inside him - this is what he lives for: adventure.

When he finally reaches the top, his legs are burning and his breathing is labored. He seriously hopes that whatever he finds will be worth climbing the seemingly-ten-mile-long staircase.

There's a door. Alfred inspects it - the edges are starting to decay and there are more than a handful of scratches in the wood. He runs his fingers downwards until he finds a doorknob.

He doesn't waste any time and twists it open.

A gust of cool air rushes to greet his face. Alfred almost stumbles backwards at the sudden change of atmosphere.

The room is beautiful. Small and rounded, the walls are decorated with dark purple satin drapes. On the ceiling, there's a golden chandelier; all candles are lighted, giving the room an eerie glow. The floor pristine white, solid with something that Alfred has never seen before. There's only one piece of furniture: a bed.

"What's this?" Alfred says aloud curiously. He sets the candle down, walking closer. There's a thick curtain that hangs from the ceiling, acting as a makeshift wall around the bed. He feels around the curtain for an opening.

He freezes when he hears something shifting around from the inside.

"Arthur?" a voice suddenly questions. It's soft and a little raspy, and it sends his imagination wild.

Alfred really does stumble back this time. "Whoa! Is there someone in here?" he yelps, recoiling in surprise. "Hello?"

"Is that you, Arthur...?"

"No, I'm... I'm Alfred..." he doesn't try to hide his shocked tone.

There really was someone in the tower!

The other person stays silent.

"Why are you in there?" Alfred asks, trying to keep the incredulity out of his voice. "Come out." It was probably some wrinkled old man. After all, if the legend was really true, then the guy has been stuck here for a hundred years!

"I can't," they reply softly.

"Why not?"

"The curtain is cursed. I can't leave without permission..."

"Cursed," Alfred echoes with a nervous laugh. "R-Right." It becomes too creepy for him. Abruptly, he whirls around, grabs his candle and runs out of the room, swinging the door shut behind him.

. . .

"Are you all right, dear?" his mother asks as she sets a plate of food down in front of him. "You've been awfully quiet lately."

Alfred glances up with a fake grin plastered on his face. "Of course I'm all right! Why wouldn't I be? I just experienced the most weirdest thing ever about three days ago. Yes, I'm completely all right!

He finishes breakfast whilst managing to avoid most of his mother's questions.

Afterwards, for some unknown reason, he packs a box of matches, a candle, and a blade(just in case), and then sets out for the castle again.

. . .

"Is it you again, Alfred?"

The question is immediately posed as soon as he enters the room.

Alfred almost drops his candle. He can't help but stare in wide-eyed terror at the bed, even though he's certain that he can't be seen through the curtain...

...Right?

He prays to god that it's a yes.

In an attempt to stay hidden, he stays perfectly still and makes no noise.

"I know you're still there. I can hear things a lot better than you think."

Alfred bites back a defeated sigh. Instead he cautiously makes his way over to the bed. "So...you're real?"

"Of course I'm real," they answer. "I'm talking to you, aren't I?"

"Then what's your name?"

"I'm Matthew."

Alfred frowns at the lack of a surname, but ignores it for now. "When are you going to come out of there?"

There's a brief pause. Alfred's starting to wonder if he said something wrong or maybe there wasn't actually anyone there after all when Matthew finally answers, "I can't."

"What do you mean, you can't?" Alfred puts the candle out - the chandelier provides more than enough light - and begins circling the bed, patting the curtains, searching for where the two ends met. "You just have to...pull this open..." He stops when he finds himself back where he first started, unable to find what he was searching for.

"I can't," Matthew repeats simply.

Alfred contemplates the situation for a moment. "Is this how we're going to talk to each other, then? With a curtain in between us?"

"Hm," Matthew hums. He sounds thoughtful and amused at the same time. "You make it sound like we're going to be having more conversations in the future."

"Well, of course. I want to eventually see what you look like, Matthew."

If there wasn't a curtain, Alfred thinks that he'd be able to see the smile on the other boy's face. "I think you're going to be waiting for a rather long time." But almost immediately after that, he adds shyly, "I think I'd like the company, though."

Alfred beams, although it remains unseen by anyone else. He takes it as an open invitation.

. . .

"Matthew," the name rolls off of his tongue smoothly, "does this mean you're the sleeping beauty in the legend?" Alfred sits against the bed, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of dry bread. He initially brought two to share, only to realize upon stepping into the castle that he can't exactly give it to Matthew.

"I am a legend," Matthew echoes with a slight snort. "And Sleeping Beauty? Is that what they call me? Don't they know that I'm not a female?"

Alfred laughs. "We're definitely aware," he answers. He doesn't know exactly how the strange title stuck, but he's kind of used to it now, despite the fact that Matthew is very much a boy. "So how come you're stuck here, anyways?"

When Matthew doesn't answer for the longest of times, Alfred begins to wonder if he said anything wrong. He adds softly, "I-If you don't mind telling me, that is?"

"Why don't you ask one of your friends?" Matthew replies. He sounds almost cold and Alfred feels slightly regretful. "Seeing as I'm apparently a...legend."

"But why would I ask them if I have you-"

"You should leave before it gets dark."

Alfred doesn't mention that it's only two in the afternoon. Nevertheless, he stands and leaves the room without another word.

. . .

"Ma," he says distractedly from where he sits in front of the fireplace, "what's the legend about that old castle?"

He used to pride himself in knowing everything about it, but maybe - just maybe - there's more to learn.

His mother glances at him over her shoulder, busily stirring tonight's stew. "The one about Sleeping Beauty?" she questions.

Sleeping Beauty, Alfred echoes silently, and he thinks of the tower and the bed and Matthew, with the face that he can't see. There have been times in the previous days where he finds himself wondering what Matthew looks like.

And there's the occasional thought of Maybe he looks as beautiful as his voice sounds, but that makes him redden like a tomato, so he tries to steer himself away from that direction as much as possible.

"Mhm," he answers mindlessly.

"Well, a royal family lived there, once. It was, ah, King Bonnefoy, I think. His wife Jeanne only managed to give birth to a son before she was killed in a raid a few days later." Pause. "Then there was the Uprising. The villagers overthrew the King. Did you know, Alfred, that your great grandfather participated was there?"

Alfred furrows his eyebrows, but doesn't look away from the fireplace. "What happened next?" He's not sure why he feels so eager to learn more - a few days ago, he could have cared less.

His mother shakes her head. "They killed King Bonnefoy, and then went to search for his boy. They figured out he was hiding in that tall tower. They tried everything to get him to come out so they could kill him too, but he never did."

Alfred's breath hitches. "And then?"

"They decided to leave him to die," his mother continues. She sounds indifferent. "Found a key and locked him in. I guess that's why they call him Sleeping Beauty - it was a bedroom, after all - but I just feel sorry for that poor boy. He was merely nine."

Nine? He imagines a little boy trapped inside that horrid room, shouting for help, and it makes his heart throb painfully. His great grandfather had participated in that?

"It was about ten years later, I think, that a knight came into the village, heard about the story, and went to see for himself."

"Arthur Kirkland," Alfred supplies half-heartedly.

"Yes, that was his name. Came back once, raving about how there was something beautiful up there. I don't see the appeal. Neither did anyone else, apparently; everyone thought he was a fool." She stirs the pot in blissful ignorance. "After that, he went back a second time and- Oh, the stew's done. Call your father to eat, will you?" Just like that, the story is cut off abruptly.

Alfred gets up to do as he's told, but his mind is harbored with the thoughts of Matthew stuck in that tower, all alone.

. . .

The next day, as he's going out to visit the castle again (hoping that he hadn't set off Matthew too severely), he runs into Gilbert.

"There you are!" his friend exclaims, punching his arm lightly. "Where've you been? I haven't seen you since that day you ran into the castle. I was starting to think that you got eaten by a monster, too."

"There's no monster," Alfred retorts dryly. "And there's...there's nothing up there, either."

(He tries to convince himself that he's not being selfish by trying to drive away anyone else who might accidentally discover Matthew. He tells himself he's doing it to protect him.)

(It doesn't really work.)

Gilbert shrugs. "Figured. Like you said, it's been a hundred years."

"Yeah." Alfred finds himself staring off in the direction of the castle, just visible behind a large hill. Today, his knapsack is stocked with food; he intends to stay at the castle with Matthew until he has the full story.

No hero gives up easily, after all.

"I have to go," he says, effectively cutting his friend off in the middle of some story. "Pa sent me to buy something in the next village over."

Gilbert frowns at being interrupted, but relents. "Whatever you say."

Alfred gives a clipped nod before walking away, perhaps a little too briskly, but all he wants to do is be with Matthew.

. . .

"I brought food," he announces upon entering the bedroom, "and all sorts of things. Do you want to see?"

Matthew replies, sounding honest, "Yes."

"Then come out."

"I can't."

Alfred slumps down to the floor dejectedly.

It becomes routine.

. . .

They talk to each other, Alfred sometimes mentioning the past and Matthew neatly skirting around the topic, sharing jokes, laughing, smiling, and it eventually gets to the point where it almost feels like the curtain doesn't exist.

But then Alfred would glance up to look at Matthew's face (and see his smile, see the way his eyes dance with mirth) and he would be greeted by the sight of purple silk, almost mocking him.

He starts to wonder if Matthew wants to get out just as badly as he wants him to.

. . .

"Do you think you'd be able to fall in love with someone whose face you've never seen before?"

. . .

"What's it like to stay in there all the time, Mattie?" The nickname slips out almost subconsciously. Alfred does nothing to correct himself and if Matthew notices, he doesn't complain.

The curtain is ever-present, acting as a pestilent barrier between them.

Alfred wants to rip it apart.

"Boring," comes the soft reply.

Alfred sighs, leaning and nuzzling his cheek slightly against the curtain. He wishes he can feel Matthew's skin instead of the fabric. "I want to see you," he says."

"I can't do that, Al," Matthew says. "You know that."

"Can't you convince your guardian - or whoever it is - to let you out, just once?"

"Arthur does this to protect me. If it weren't for him, I'd…" The other boy trails off into silence and for a few minutes, Alfred doesn't hear anything else. Then Matthew finishes, "I just can't."

Alfred freezes - because how could he have missed it? That name, that name, Arthur Kirkland- "I thought Arthur was dead?"

And he realizes that he's hit a sore spot a minute too late.

"F-Forget I said anything," Matthew mumbles, barely audible through the thick curtain.

"How am I supposed to forget about something like that?" Alfred deadpans. "Mattie, you can tell me. Please." His voice softens to the point where it sounds almost pleading, and yes, heroes don't plead, but he doesn't care.

He wants to know.

"I can't, Alfred."

"You always say that!"

"It's the truth. What else do you want me to tell you?"

There it is again, that façade that Matthew puts on whenever Alfred brings up things like these.

"Fine," he says shortly. "Fine. I just wanted to help." He starts packing his things into his knapsack, teeth gritted.

"I know, but some things are better left undisturbed," Matthew whispers.

Alfred ties his bag closed and slings it over his shoulder. He's halfway out the door, ready to leave, when he hears Matthew say weakly, "Please don't leave."

"Alfred? I'm sorry I can't tell you, but just...please...don't leave me..."

Matthew sounds desperate and maybe even heart-broken, and Alfred wants more than anything to gather him in his arms and comfort him, but he can't.

He closes the door.

. . .

Matthew thinks he's left, but he hasn't - in truth, he's sitting there against the wall of the bedroom, silent, contemplating.

There's no window, but he's certain that night has long fallen and yes, he's probably missing dinner, but he can honestly care less.

Matthew is crying, soft, unstifled sobs that emit from behind that damned curtain that hides his Sleeping Beauty from sight.

Guilt finally overcomes him and Alfred stands, opening his mouth to make himself known, but then he hears the telltale sound of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs.

He panics and rushes to hide behind the heavy drapes hanging from the wall.

The door opens at the same time he's finished praying silently that he doesn't get found, pressed tightly against the wall, hoping the folds of the curtain are enough to mask the outline of his body.

. . .

"Matthew? Are you crying, love?"

"O-Oh, good evening, Arthur. I-I was just th-thinking about Papa."

"You shouldn't remember those things if they make you sad. Are your eyes all right?"

"They hurt a little..."

"Do you want me to take the mask off?"

"No, I'm all right."

"If you say so. Come over here."

"...D-Do you think you can keep the curtains open? Just for tonight? It's been awfully hot lately."

"You know I can't do that, Matthew. What if someone manages to sneak in here?"

"Everyone thinks I'm dead."

"Better to be safe than sorry, lad."

"Please? I won't ask for anything else."

...All right. But they're being shut first thing tomorrow, understand?"

"I understand."

"Good. I have to go now; I received a request from someone today, and I must have it finished by tomorrow. Sleep well."

"Good night, Arthur."

"I love you."

"...I love you too."

. . .

When he hears the door finally shut and the footsteps slowly fading, Alfred nearly tears the drapes down in his haste to come out. He barely keeps silent as he practically throws himself into the curtains.

To his surprise, he easily falls through and lands on what he assumes is the bed.

Matthew yelps, and Alfred wraps his arms around the other boy from behind, clasping a hand over his mouth. Matthew struggles violently in his grasp, not stopping until Alfred whispers quickly, "It's just Alfred!"

Slowly, the boy relaxes in his arms. Alfred strokes his arm comfortingly, burying his face into the back of the other's neck; God knows how long he's been waiting for this.

A million questions are running through his mind (whowhatwhenwherewhy?) but he pushes those aside because he finally has Matthew, and nothing else could be more important.

"Why are you still here?" Matthew's voice is weak and hoarse. "I th-thought you left..."

"I didn't."

"How much did you hear?"

"Everything." Alfred kisses the nape of his neck chastely, sweetly. "Mattie, you don't know how long I've waited for this."

Matthew struggles half-heartedly against him. "You need to leave before Arthur finds you."

"No, I don't." Alfred takes his chin and turns him slowly, baiting his breath.

(Sharp cheekbones, pink, soft-looking lips. Slightly wavy and overgrown hair, but otherwise, beautiful. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.)

There's a white sleeping mask (with the letters MB embroidered on the bottom left corner) stitched on his face. The stitches zigzag left-right-left-right, grotesquely neat, covering part of his forehead, nose, and cheeks, sewn right into porcelain skin.

"Please, Alfred," Matthew says weakly. He reaches up and puts a hand on the other's shoulder, searching, moving upwards until he's holding his cheek. "I don't want to lose you too."

Alfred chuckles humorlessly. "I can't." He makes sure to emphasize the ever-familiar phrase. "I love you too much."

"You haven't seen me until now," Matthew points out.

"You were the one who asked me if it was possible to fall in love with someone you've never seen before," Alfred persists. "I didn't have an answer back then, but I do now.

"I love you, Mattie."

Matthew looks too tempting to kiss.

So Alfred does.

. . .

Alfred wakes up the next morning with a dazed smile on his face. He sets off to see Matthew as early as possible, which happens to be approximately five minutes after he inhales breakfast.

"Haven't your mother and I raised you better?" his father berates. "You keep disappearing off to who-knows-where."

"I made a friend," Alfred replies as he packs that day's necessities.

"Well, I don't want you getting hurt because of this friend," his father says sternly. He hands him a smooth black dagger, its tip nice and sharp. "Take this. So I know that you're not completely helpless out there."

Alfred grins at the sight of the weapon, slipping it into his bag. "Glad to know you have faith in me," he chirps brightly.

His father grunts. "Late birthday present."

(Even though his birthday was months ago.)

Alfred thanks him nonetheless before leaving the house.

On the way out, he grabs a pair of his mother's sewing scissors.

. . .

That night, he stays again. This time he manages to fit himself underneath the bed. Arthur comes in to check on Matthew, and when the knight is standing just a few feet away, Alfred is sorely tempted to use his dagger.

But he refrains from the impulse and instead waits until Arthur leaves.

Matthew, by some miracle, has managed to convince him to leave the curtains open for a second time.

"He won't be back for another three days, at length," the blond speaks once it's just him and Alfred again. "It's always the same on this time of the year. He has to collect ingredients to make sure he has enough to cast his spells."

Alfred heaves himself out and onto the bed, collapsing languidly beside the other male. "He's a wizard?" he speaks distractedly, stroking Matthew's hair in rapt fascination.

"He took an interest in magic shortly after he found me," Matthew answers, hesitant. "He...He uses it to keep us both young." The confession hangs in the air heavily; Alfred inhales sharply, but keeps his tone level.

"So you've been nineteen for a hundred years?"

"Yes, technically."

Alfred closes his eyes and sighs. The curtain is back to its original never-opening state; all he can do is try to remember golden blond hair and soft lips.

"If he stops casting them," Matthew continues, as if reading Alfred's thoughts, "we'll both die."

"Do you think I can learn magic, too?" Alfred says wonderingly, musingly. "I'd be able to steal you away, and we can live on our own in a nice little house, out in the middle of nowhere. Leave everything else behind."

"Al," Matthew replies, laughing slightly, "I'm blind."

"Not blind," Alfred whispers. He quietly slips the pair of scissors from his pocket, asking hoarsely, "Mattie, do you trust me?" He grips the cool metal tightly.

Matthew shifts his head slightly, tilting it in the direction of Alfred's face. "Do you really need to ask?" he says softly, smiling.

"All right." Alfred bites his lip in slight indecision, holding the scissors up to Matthew's face. "Hold still, okay?" He tries to steady his hands (come on, don't shake, don't shake) as he slides the bottom blade neatly underneath a stitch. He feels Matthew flinch slightly underneath him, but otherwise he keeps still.

This better not be cursed too, Alfred thinks to himself, and closes the scissors with a small snip.

To his delight, the thread falls apart easily.

Grinning, Alfred sets to work on undoing the rest of the stitches.

. . .

He keeps count all the while, Matthew gradually getting tenser with each second. When the last of the 43 stitches are finally cut, he feels Matthew's body go lax.

"Al?"

The sleeping mask looks visibly loosened. Alfred swallows. "Hm?"

"What if Arthur finds out?"

"He's not." Alfred takes a hold of the corner of the mask, "Because I'm going to take you away before he ever finds out."

And, as if on cue, the door is opened and a voice floats in: "Matthew, it seems that I've forgotten my satchel for the-"

. . .

The following events happen in a blur; Alfred's mind hazily tries to process the situation.

Arthur doesn't take as much time to assess things and lunges for Alfred, eyes glinting almost a predatory red. Alfred dives for the floor almost instinctively and narrowly dodges the wizard. Instead, Arthur crashes into the bed, sending it skidding to the wall along with him. It slams into the curtains, bringing them down to encase the bed in red velvet.

Chest heaving, heart pounding, Alfred pulls himself up to his feet. He unhooks the dagger from around his waist and holds it out in front of him. His arm trembles. In his other hand, he clutches the sleeping mask tightly.

Oh god, he hopes Matthew is okay.

Arthur wipes his mouth across his sleeve, turning halfway. "I don't think you know just who you're dealing with, boy." His voice is thick and laced with a heavy English accent.

"I'm not a boy," Alfred says through gritted teeth. "I'm eighteen."

"You have no right to be trespassing my castle."

"It's not your castle!" Alfred thinks his voice cracks, but he forges on, "I-It's Mattie's!"

At that, Arthur bursts out into fits of chuckles, eyes dancing with mirth. "Mattie," he echoes mockingly, smiling widely. "I suppose that you two are quite close friends, then..." His eyes travel downwards to Alfred's hand, still clasping the sleeping mask tightly. "I knew I should have charmed that bloody mask too."

Alfred tightens his grip on the dagger. "It's too late now."

"Look at you, full of wisecrack," Arthur drawls, and before Alfred can blink, the former knight is charging at him.

"N-No!"

(He doesn't know whether the cry came from his own mouth or Matthew's.)

Alfred barely remembers to put his arms out, enveloping the other man in a tight embrace, and the momentum carries them backwards across the room. He fills his back hit the thick curtain, and then...nothing.

He realizes that there had been a window hidden by the curtain, and they were free-falling from the top of the tower.

. . .

"You did it, Al," Matthew murmurs, fingertips brushing against his jawbone lovingly. "You did it."

He leans down and kisses him on the lips.

Alfred wakes up.

. . .

"Good God, Alfred, what were you thinking?" When his eyes finally open, the first thing he sees is his mother hovering above him. "Gallivanting around old castles with a stranger. If Gilbert hadn't been looking for you, you would have died out there!"

"Matthew," Alfred croaks, and he realizes just how dry his throat is. He forces the next two words out: "Where's Mattie?"

His mother's voice sounds faint. "...speaking nonsense...get some rest..."

Alfred tries to sit up, but his arms fail to support him. He collapses back onto the mattress and promptly loses consciousness.

. . .

He dreams of Matthew.

. . .

The next time he wakes up, he's alone in what he assumes to be a hospital room. The window is half open, revealing an evening setting. There's a dark figure looming at the edge of his bed and, out of panic, Alfred reaches over to the side table and turns the light on.

The figure recoils. "T-Too bright..."

Something clicks in his mind; he recognizes that soft voice. "Mattie?" He immediately turns the light back off and moves to get out of the bed hastily.

"Careful, Al." Matthew steps up to the side of the bed and takes a seat beside him, putting a hand gently on his legs. "I overheard them saying that your legs aren't in the best condition right now." There's a dark brown cloak hiding his figure.

"Matthew," Alfred whispers, and reaches up to push the hood back.

Matthew's eyes squeeze shut, an automatic reaction, but Alfred strokes his cheek comfortingly until the blond finally opens them.

Alfred's breath hitches. "You're just as beautiful as I thought you'd be," he says with a silly grin.

And Matthew does look beautiful in the glow of the moonlight.

"I don't have much time." Matthew finds his hand underneath the sheets and intertwines their fingers. He keeps his gaze steady on the floor. Something flickers through his pretty indigo eyes - sadness? "Arthur's supposed to have cast the spell again by now."

Noticing the slight tone of urgency, Alfred sits up a little straighter. "What does that mean?"

Matthew smiles humorlessly. "Without the spell, I can't live any longer."

Alfred grips his hand just a little bit tighter. "How long?" His mind is already running at a thousand miles per minute with ideas: He would take up magic, find that spell, and somehow he would find a way to cast it - anything to keep Matthew by his side.

"I sneaked in three days ago and have been waiting for you to wake up since."

Three days?

"Tomorrow would mark my one hundred and second anniversary being immortal," Matthew continues softly. "Tonight's my last night, Al."

The words hit him with a strong sense of finality; Alfred feels strangely calm. "Oh," he whispers.

"I'm glad you woke up. I wanted to say goodbye." Matthew only offers him a small, bittersweet smile.

Without another word, Alfred manages to move over to make room. Matthew understands the gesture and sheds his cloak, revealing worn Victorian-esque clothing underneath.

Alfred ignores the pain in his legs and shifts in order to hold the other boy, tucked safely in his arms.

"I love you, Mattie," he mumbles into his hair, and then it's as if a dam has been broken: The tears flow. He closes his eyes and bows his head, inhaling deeply, inhaling that sweet smell that reminded him of home, love, and Matthew.

Matthew doesn't answer and he doesn't need to - Alfred knows by the way he buries himself deeper into his chest, seeking warmth from that cold that is reality.

(Truth be told, he's kind of glad he doesn't say it; somehow, it makes it hurt a little less.)

And when morning comes, the sun rising all too quickly from the east, they're still laying there in a tangle of limbs and sheets. And Alfred never once closes his eyes, keeping his gaze locked intently on Matthew's own indigo irises in a desperate attempt to remember how he looks.

Sunlight begins to filter in through the window, and Alfred doesn't need a warning. He just holds Matthew tighter, lips pressed together tightly to suppress anything that might dare to come out (and show how weak, how vulnerable he feels), and waits.

"I love you, Alfred," Matthew finally says. His lips grace into a quirky smile, eyes bright, and Alfred feels a brief flicker of that boy behind a curtain he met nearly just a month ago.

And then Matthew's gone, leaving Alfred with the faintest trace of lavender.

Morning arrives and the doctor eventually enters the room to find the boy laying by himself.

. . .

"You almost died," Gilbert comments off-handedly sometime later. The silver-haired boy has come to visit his friend with some food that was apparently from his mother. "Was it worth it? Whatever was up there, I mean."

Alfred pauses and considers this question for a moment.

"I heard that when Kirkland first came back from the tower," he says slowly, "he told everyone that there was something beautiful in the tower." He ignores Gilbert's confused expression and continues, "If I had been in those villagers' place, I would have probably called him insane, too. But the funny thing is..." he laughs lightly.

Gilbert blinks. "...And?"

His tone indicates indifference. Ignorance. Obliviousness.

But all Alfred can see are soft blond tresses and pretty smiles and pink lips that he wants to kiss over and over again.

All he can think is, Matthew.

"Funny thing is," he begins again, smiling fondly, "I think that I finally understand what he meant."

Gilbert looks at him blankly.

Alfred glances down at his empty arms. Then he finally shakes his head at his friend and gives another soft laugh. "Never mind."

He remembers those beautiful indigo irises that had rendered him speechless the first time.

And then:

"You wouldn't get it."