A/N: Now before the story starts, here's some warnings. This will eventually be US/UK, in no particular order, which implies homosexuality, bisexuality or whatever you'd prefer to call a slash of this nature. This is an AU fic because I'm a total AU whore, and let's say that there won't be much sunshine and fluff, if that's what you're looking for. Individual warnings will be put before each chapter. Apologies in advance for any mistake in my writing, because apparently, my proof-reading skillz suck.

Rated M for violence, language, gore, death, disturbing contents, and possibly ideologically sensitive contents later on.

If all of that didn't scare you off yet, please read on. :)

Warnings for this chapter — language, Artie's sarcasm, mention of suicide, and death (for an obvious reason mentioned in the summary)


Silhouettes flicker and writhe against the steel beams as the cars zoom by, one after another, headlights blaring and deranged windshield wipers humming.

Serendipity— he decides as he stares at the dark clouds— is a refined young lady.

The rain is crashing down like bullets on his face, dissolving upon contact and trailing down his cheeks like liquid metal. His clothes are soaked to the point of transparency, but this is necessary. This is exactly the type of atmosphere he needs. The man shields his eyes as a passing headlight nearly blinds him.

A hundred forty-eight, he counts. Or maybe that's a hundred and eighty-four. A hundred eighty-five with that gaudy American car. A hundred eighty-six with a suicidal motorcyclist driving way too fast to be safe— the wanker. A hundred eighty-seven with two giant bumper stickers that say "I Heart Zombies" and "Born 2 Fuck"— oh, that's real witticism right there. Profanity's always a charmer. A hundred eighty... wait, what is it? The man rubs his eyes, squinting at the trails of vehicles flying across the road, all so eager to get to the other side of the bridge.

Bloody weather.

He entertains himself with another bumper sticker that says "Insert Witty Statement Here", as if the whole motive behind its existence isn't conspicuous at all, before deciding that enough is enough. The man's bones ache underneath the soaked clothes as he forces himself to move. He heaves himself up the metal railing after three tries, nearly slipping from the rain.

Enough is enough.

Standing before the raging sea, he can't help but shudder at the prospect of jumping down, plunging into the cold nothingness.

Scowling, the man irritatedly brushes away a strand of drenched blond hair from his line of vision. Here, he's doing something serious, damn it! Nothing— not the irritating hair poking his left eye, not the blasted wind threatening to blow him away, not the rain making everything so damn slippery, not the indifferent automobiles zooming, and not the bars on the steel suspension bridge that he is clinging onto for his life— can stop him.

Counting to three, he forces himself to shift from his safe position and into the danger.

It isn't enough.

Breathing heavily— from fear, exhilaration, or some other unfathomably intense emotion— the blond hoists himself over to the other side of the railing. Okay, he tells himself. He can do this. He has to. Erratic nerves are screaming bloody murder in his head, but undaunted, he turns around. The deep water twists and churns below him. Waves crash unrelentingly into the beams that support the bridge, as if unimpressed that some man-made structure has the audacity to hover over the ocean like a god.

This time, he is going through with it. Slowly, green eyes close, and the man embraces the wind and rain swirling around him. Shaky cold hands grip the metal bars as the body slumps forward. Reasons and excuses of a thousand questions and a thousand why's clog his mind.

Today, he is going to greet death with an even gaze. Today, he is going to reach forward and grasp death by its bony, rotting hand and shake it.

Today, he is going to contemplate death.

And without any further hesitation, the inner monologue begins.


[Beneath the Bridge]
...is where it ends and begins.

Chapter 1


It starts like any other rare rainy day in the sunny death-trap known as America. He is Arthur Kirkland's little imbecile of a brother, here to end his life due to misplaced teenage angst and immature temper tantrums—

No, wait. That doesn't sound quite right.

Start again.

He is Peter Kirkland, a young idiotic teenager experiencing very severe depression, stupid enough to have the asinine idea of prancing off a fucking bridge.

Hmm.

That seems a little off, thought it's probably the closest he would get for now.

Continuing on, his life is a pathetic slump even though his older brother, Arthur, made wonderful breakfast for him every day, and because he's such a picky brat, he would always refuse to eat the wonderful breakfast. Instead, he would repay his dear brother by jumping off a bridge in a lovely imitation of a cliched tragedy. He has friends at school— maybe— and outside of his house, he always does the absolute most idiotic activities of—

Huh. What does Peter do outside of school?


The man shakes his head. Get your act together!

Facing the melancholic ocean once more and feeling thoroughly wet from the rain, the blond tries again.


He is Peter Kirkland, a normal teenage boy living in a disintegrating family environment. He has many older brothers, and they would often bully him because he is the youngest. His parents fight all the time, throwing things at each other. He laughs because nobody cares, so he doesn't either. Sometimes the projectiles hit him, but he doesn't cry. The shouting and verbal abuse are much worse. They are actually intentionally meant to hurt.

He would wake up everyday, ignore the lovely and delicious breakfast that Arthur is so kind to cook up, head to a prestigious school that he is forced to go to even though his brother would've jumped at the opportunity to go there in a heartbeat, do something nobody knows, and come home all bratty by the evening. So maybe he is feeling the blues at times, but why did he have to jump off the bridge even though his brother was so damn nice to cook him breakfast in the morning?! Why did the brat have to jump—


"No! Don't jump!"

Green eyes open in confusion, and the man wonders if it's only his imagination. The phrase is barely audible, obscured by the pitter-patter of the rain and the vroom of the cars nearby. Tentatively, head turns around, not really expecting anything. And blimey— he thinks dizzily, blinking and feeling somewhat withdrawn from reality— it seems like he didn't dream up the scream.

The blurry outline of a person is running towards him, shouting and making all sorts of frantic gestures that looks almost comical. Rain puddles splash in mimicry of exploding landmines. What a prat— he mentally scorns— running in slippery conditions like that. But whoever it is, the person certainly runs fast, because in almost an instant, the figure is only a few metres away from him.

Whatever or whoever gave that prat the brilliant idea of running on a very slippery bridge during a day where the rain practically attacks your eyeballs like knives, the blond doesn't know. It's like a catastrophe engineered to happen, just for laughs. There isn't even time to react. He can only widen his eyes as the prat slips on a puddle and crashes into the metal railing. He can only watch as the prat flies over the bars from the force.

And then it's as if he's blown over by a hyperbolic truck.

He can do nothing but watch as the prat crashes into him, making him lose grip on the railing and sending the two flying. He can do nothing but watch as they both plunge into the sea— the wind's howling and the alarms ringing in his head dissonant enough to hurt. He can do nothing but watch as they slam into the water, and he's barely cognitive of breaching through the surface as searing pain shots through his body. He can do nothing but watch as the cold nothingness engulf them, stealing away their breaths.

He can do nothing but watch as they both drown.

Feeling the last bit of consciousness tingle away, the man decides to take back what he said before.

Serendipity?

...is a cold-blooded bitch.


"Get away from me."

"Hey, wait up!"

Arthur Kirkland growls, fist clenched and eyebrows twitching. Of course he's going to stop and wait for the prat that ruined everything! Oh, why hasn't he thought of that brilliant idea before? He keeps moving forward in an aggressive pace, although the action is proving to be more and more trying. The cold bites at his innards like vicious worms, and it's taking all of his willpower, pride and hatred to keep his teeth from chattering maniacally.

There's zero chance that he won't catch pneumonia after that lovely little swim in the bloody freezing ocean, to add to his sour mood.

The blond sneezes, and that seems to be all the pause his insistent pursuer needs to catch up. Because apparently idiots don't suffer from cold like honest good blokes do, and the prat before him is just the dictionary entry for the word "idiocy".

"Listen! I'm really really sorry 'bout what happened. It was really slippery, and—"

It's at times like this when he can fully appreciate the positively American term of "No shit, Sherlock", even though it makes a fine mockery out of the brilliant British classic by Conan Doyle.

Taking a quick step, Arthur brushes by the prat, ignoring the babbling coming from that stupid, big mouth. He eyes the distance to the other end of the bridge. It's still rather far away, but perhaps he can somehow lose the annoying pest after he gets to the more populous area. Once he gets home, he'll lock himself indoor, make himself dry and warm, huddle in bed and just sleep everything away. God knows he deserves a rest. The roar of the ongoing storm beats at his ear drums, and the blinding rain is making him strangely dizzy.

Unfortunately, the prat's rambling is louder.

"—guess I slipped, or something. Pretty damn amazing how we're both uninjured though! Even though we were all epic head-diving into the ocean, Hollywood style! Then it was all BAM!, and..."

How is it that they survived? Arthur doesn't know, doesn't care to know, and would rather not try to know at the moment. He's hardly in the mood to put this bizarre miracle on a trial for the sole sake of scepticism.

"...So I was thinkin'— hey. You even listenin'?"

While the other's obnoxious voice and clanking footsteps follow him like an unwanted puppy, Arthur rushes ahead with renewed vigour. How long is this bridge anyways? It can't be helped that he, and unfortunately the git too, has washed up ashore in the side of the ocean his house is not on.

"He—llo? Earth to the grumpy, thick eyebrows dude. Ya listenin'?"

Snappily, Arthur swirls around, emerald eyes burning in spite. "First of all, don't you dare insult my eyebrows." He jabs an accusing finger at the other's face. "And secondly," he crosses his arms, "don't you have anything better to do than following me around like a lost child?"

Finally taking a good look at his pursuer for the first time up close, Arthur immediately notices the height difference between the two of them, being the, regrettably, shorter of the two. The person— bloody American, judging from the accent— is just as soaked as he is, jacket and jeans all very heavy and weighed down. Rain-blotted glasses result in the man looking absolutely ridiculous. That, along with sunny blond hair soaked to the point of hilarity, makes the man all the sillier to look at.

"We-ell! It ain't like I have a name to call ya by." The American idiot grins and sticks out a hand covered by soggy sleeve. "The name's Alfred F. Jones. And yours, eyebrows?"

Arthur stares at the offered hand— or is "offered sleeve" a more terminologically accurate expression?— as if it is the embodiment of all things asinine and evil.

Making a big show of turning around, he promptly walks off, all the more eager to get away. Sadly, this "Alfred" idiot is as literate as a prehistorical rock and can't read blatantly obvious clues, because he's still being stalked by the pathetic, drenched puppy of an idiot. Misery loves company, and this idiot obviously wants to make him miserable as well. Arthur's just about to turn around and politely give the stranger an earful, when—

What is that? He frowns. Police siren?

Red and blue lights flashing from a distance confirms it, but what's the police doing here? A traffic accident on the bridge, perhaps?

Then, the Briton's brain finally kicks in and mentally slaps himself silly. Of course the police would be here. Some responsible citizen has probably witnessed their fall and alerted the police. Searchers are probably being sent underneath, attempting to track down their bodies that have been swallowed by the waves. And being a responsible gentleman, he'd better go there and elucidate them on the matter.

He moves closer until he's within hearing distance. A police officer is talking to another one. The former keeps sighing and shaking his head, while the latter is making wide, distraught gestures.

"But what happens if they're still alive? If we call off the search party, ve, it'd be like killing them!"

"Feliciano," the blond officer says in a stern tone. "It is impossible for a human to survive a fall of that calibre, let alone somehow stay alive in water of that temperature all this time."

"Excuse me, gentlemen," Arthur interrupts as he makes his way to them. "But I am very much alive. Thank you for your concern."

The policemen don't even bat an eyelash at his manifestation.

"What about the young boy who tried to jump off a few weeks ago?"

"That boy only survived because he landed on the suicide nets that the city hall implemented some years ago, and he was still administrated to the hospital for injuries. According to witnesses, our current bridge jumpers got catapulted out of the net's reach. It's null."

"But this time might be an exception! Please, Ludwig. Give them a chance?"

Because these incompetent policemen of course need to debate over the likelihood of survival even though one of the very people they're searching for is standing right behind them. Patience running thin, Arthur raises a hand to tap the closest officer on the shoulder. "Excuse m—"

He freezes.

His arm drops to his side.

"Nothing human can survive that fall," the serious officer growls out at his brunet peer, patience also running thin. "Get your head around it!"

"Looks like they're ignorin' ya," a voice chuckles. Alfred appears and slings an arm around the shorter man. When he receives no response, the sunny blond waves a hand in front of the man's face. "You there?"

The hand is instantly slapped away, sending a resounding slap that's amplified even further by the rain. Alfred leaps back as if wounded, and he makes a mock effort of shaking the pain away. "Ouch. That hurts, y' know."

Arthur pays him no attention and instead, looks around.

As expected, none of the police officers has turned around. None of the spectators with umbrellas did either. The slap has echoed loud and clear, but it fell onto deaf's ears. Expression morphing into a dark, petulant frown, he pushes past the American. He needs time to think, preferably faraway from people and the rain that's beginning to send his nerves into a scramble.

This is just a dream— he tells himself— a horribly realistic nightmare. This is not real.

"Hey. Wha' cha doin', man?" And then, the annoyance is right beside him again, nagging and pulverizing his ears with those infuriating slangs and slurred words.

"Sod off."

"What're you lookin' so glum for?" The prat waves his hand widely, the gesture matching the grin that's equally wide enough to look forced on his face. "You're acting like your pet goldfish died or something."

Grits teeth.

Halts.

Spins around.

Surprised at the shorter man's sudden stop, Alfred trips over a step and has to back up. Suddenly, those grim eyebrows are right in front of him, emerald orbs burning acidic fires.

"Git, I'll show you who died!" And with that, Arthur summons up all the strength in his body, harnessing his anger and frustration to violently push the other off the sidewalk.

Unprepared, the American squeezes his eyes shut on instincts, probably expecting to hit one of the cars prowling across the bridge and die in a traumatic traffic accident that'll end up in some tiny corner of the tabloid or something.

Except, the thing is... he doesn't.

He sails right through.

Alfred looks down in shock, moving various body parts and watching in morbid fascination as they breach through the solid material without resistance. The car leaves, and before he can fully comprehend it, the next car comes slamming through him, like... like he's nothing but thin air. This continues for three more cars, until the blond is undoubtedly freaked up, jumping away from the line of traffic.

"Nothing human can survive that fall," the Briton reiterates the policeman's words quietly.

Alfred is still staring at the cars, expression frozen. And as if having the weight of the world on his back, he utters a single, shaky word.

"Ghost."

He looks up at Arthur, and Arthur gazes unsmilingly back.


At first, it is silent in the same way a funeral march is silent.

Unnervingly silent— Arthur decides, resisting the urge to fidget with his fingers like a teenage brat would fidget with a cell phone. There's something to be said about the rain pelting down on them, each droplet searing a mark onto exposed skin. The water is beginning to make him feel increasingly uncomfortable, and without the loud babbling of the American, all he can focus on right now is the rain.

There's something his mind is blocking out right now. The blond knows that the mind is a clever thing, so he decides to focus on the American who's sprawled like a silly buffoon on the wet cement.

There's a series of quick, indiscernible expression flitting through Alfred's face, each of them fleeting, as if his face can't decide on which one to express. Maybe he's having a seizure from attempting to think. That idiot— Arthur snorts, and the derisive noise is enough to finally make the sunny blond notice Arthur's scrutinizing. His face settles into a blank— almost disconcerting— expression.

Then he randomly exclaims: "No way! You're a ghost?"

Least to say, any accusation of the git possibly being a cognitive thinking entity is tragically obliterated from the Briton's brain, because he's having quite a hard time following the logic of that statement. How in the world did the idiot come to the conclusion of Arthur being a ghost when it is the idiot himself who phased through a car?

As if possessed by some form of paranormal— oh, the irony— fear, Alfred leaps back and yelps. "Stay a-away from me, g-ghost! I h-have a... uh." He quickly glances around. Finding nothing, he tries to make himself appear as tall as he can, and his face scrunches up into an expression that is probably meant to be scary. "A gun! Uh, yeah. I h-have a gun in my jacket, a-and I'm not afraid to use it!"

For realistic effects, the idiot puts one hand in his brown jacket, creating a lump that is probably intended to be in the shape of a gun.

Arthur raises an unimpressed eyebrow. After a few long seconds, he asks: "Are you serious?"

"'Course I am! I'm always serious."

Deciding to humour the American, he enunciates each word slowly: "And you're going to hit an alleged ghost with a gun."

"It's, uh." Alfred looks down and up. "It's an awesome gun."

"An awesome gun," the other deadpans.

"Yep." Even the idiot himself doesn't seem convinced. "It's magically— nah, genetically engineered! That's right, since science is way cooler than magic. The awesome gun is genetically engineered to be capable of hitting ghosts."

Arthur stares at him.

He stares back.

"And you honestly expect me to believe that?"

Alfred shrugs. "Science is supposed to be convincing, I think."

...Just where is this elusive concept known as common sense nowadays? Arthur's head is spinning. Perhaps it has gone extinct along with the various animals that pollution has killed off in the 21st Century. Any more of this... this absurdity, and he might as well do the world a favour and push them both off the bridge and into their death. Oh wait— he resists the urge to laugh harshly— he can't!

"Bollocks."

Groaning and rubbing his temples, he decides to walk away right there and then. God knows how frequent he has done it for the short period he is forced to interact with the git. He has enough to deal with right now, without being coerced into entertaining the other.

Bloody hell, he just died!

"H-hey, wait! Ghostly eyebrows dude!"

...His nickname is just growing more and more ridiculous within seconds, isn't it?

"Not that I don't want 'cha to stay the hell away or anything, but where ya goin'?"

"To hell," Arthur replies curtly.

He will try to get the hell away from the bleeding rain and the American idiot first, then maybe he'll drink some tea and take that long belated nap he still owe himself for. That is, if he can still do such things now that his body is nothing more than ectoplasm and ghostly apparition. What can a dead bloke do in this situation?

A hand clasps his shoulder, and with a lovely touch of déjà vu, he finds himself flying all over again.

"Fuck!" Already suffering from a headache, dizziness and the stupid rain, the new impact against something as sturdy as a concrete wall is enough to make his head explode. Arthur sees a nauseous spectrum of colours and stars as he staggers. Isn't he dead already? Why does he have to suffer more? Oh, what is this— Torture Arthur Day?

As it turns out, said concrete wall happens to be the prat, and said prat doesn't appear to be affected by the impact at all. The damn brute.

"Oh hey. I can touch you!" Alfred exclaims, looking thoroughly fascinated by the fact he's touching a ghost. But Arthur's taking in none of that bullshit. Just who does the idiot think he's fooling?

"Of course you can, git." Brusque is the reply, as the shorter man disentangle himself from the other's unintentional headlock. "We both fell into the ocean together."

Everything is irritating him and wearing him down— the oblivious policemen going about their 'rescue' in the background, the curious but callous spectators peeking over the barriers that the police put, the suffocating rain, and the American's little charade of pretence. It makes him want to snap. Frustrated, he grips the other by the American's jacket collar.

"Are you gonna kill me?" asks the American, looking fearful but not really.

"Oh, I don't know. I can't exactly murder you, as much as your idiocy is practically vouching for it."

It's time to put an end to this farce.

"Shall I spell it out for you?" Arthur pauses for dramatic effects. "I can't possibly murder you, and you know it."

Oh, look. It's almost theatrical!

"Because you are already dead."

The blank stare he receives makes him sigh in irritation. Oh, the git wants to continue, does he?

"What?"

"You. Are. Dead." The Briton repeats seriously. "Which part of that do you not understand?"

"Uh. The dead and you part. Oh, and the are that connects them together!" Alfred laughs as if there's something horrendously funny about this situation that's worth laugh about. "Aw, aren't you funny, ghostly eyebrows dude? It almost sounds like you're telling me that I'm dead!"


A/N: And so, the fun begins. Don't be misled by the first chapter. There's a reason behind the rating and the genre. Just sayin'.

Posted this because inspiration is diving off the deep end without any feedback. The original version of this is written a year or two ago, and I decided to revamp it because I liked the idea. If you find the writing style inconsistent at some parts, then that's probably why. Reviews, comments, constructive criticisms, suggestions, etc. are welcomed and much appreciated.

Penny for your thoughts? ;)

-Edge, 17/08/2012