Arthur leaned against the doorframe looking into the bedroom. His arms were crossed tight across his chest, pinning the medallion of Saint George against his sternum in a vaguely uncomfortable way. A gift from his son, it hung heavy around his neck as he watched the boy sleep.
Alfred was curled tight under his striped and star-strewn blankets. His long, blond lashes fluttered lightly over plump cheeks. He was dreaming; Arthur was sure. He prayed that Alfred only dreamt tonight.
Arthur turned from the room, closing the door after himself and starting down the stairwell. In the light at the bottom, a friend stood, looking up at him. Arthur descended the last of the stairs. They stood there, not looking at each other, until Arthur stepped into the lit kitchen. He fumbled through the cabinet under the stove for a clean tea kettle.
"You said the medicine wasn't helping?"
Arthur shook his head, "Not in the slightest. I keep thinking maybe it's my fault he's getting worse - my insistence on finding him help is putting more stress on him." He filled the kettle and set it to boil on the stove. "I'm running out of options, Antonio. The doctors don't know what to do - I don't know -" He cut himself off, leaning over the stove.
Antonio took a seat on the opposite side of the island, leaning his elbows on the cool laminate. He watched his friend compose himself before he spoke, choosing his words carefully. "Maybe it would be best for the boy if you put him into a hospital."
Arthur's expression darkened: "I'm not sure I could stand doing that. Not when he's so fragile already."
"…Perhaps it's something he inherited from his parents? What did the orphanage say? You did call them, si?"
"They didn't tell me shit about his parents. Left on their doorstep as an infant - from West Virginia - the nun who answered kept quoting to me their policy on not revealing the identities of those leaving their children for adoption." Arthur scowled at the kettle that refused to boil. His gaze was hot enough, but the water refused to roll.
Antonio sighed quietly through his nose, "And they won't budge, even if it would be for his well-being."
"…I'm thinking of taking him there. The place he keeps talking about in his sleep."
"That isn't a good idea, amigo," Antonio said. "You've told me about that town, what you found of it on the internet. The underground fires are bad enough, but all those people who've gone missing over the years trying to find it?"
"I've nowhere else to turn, Toni. I have to try," Arthur said. He pulled the kettle off of the stove, giving up on making tea.
"…Arthur, I really think you should reconsider -"
"You would do the same thing for your boys, Antonio. If Lovino and Feliciano were sick, you'd do anything to help them. Don't deny it!"
"Arthur, I'm not saying I wouldn't do whatever I could in your place, but even so, going there is not in Alfred's best interest." Antonio reached for the hands of his friend.
Both men were startled from their conversation by a loud crash from upstairs.
"Alfred!"
They shot from the kitchen, bolting up the stairs as fast as their legs could carry them. Arthur ripped open the door to his son's bedroom. The room was empty.
"ALFRED!"
They ran from the house, screaming for the little boy who unknowingly was sleepwalking in the direction of Silent Hill.