I walk a lonely road
Alfred F. Jones walks alone, with just his bomber jacket and a notebook full of drawings for company. On his back is a grey knapsack, with a change of clothes and a wallet stuffed with coins. Other than that, Alfred F. Jones has nothing. Not a friend, not a place to stay, not a tomorrow to look forward to.
The only one that I have ever known
He doesn't even have a relative he can stay with. He doesn't know who his family are. He's been handed from foster home to foster parent and back again, all his life.
Don't know where it goes
Alfred has kept something from each foster parent. From Arthur Kirkland, a lonely drunkard with bushy eyebrows and a distinct English accent, he kept a moustached wooden soldier. From an alien fanatic Alfred only remembers as Tony, he has kept his beloved bomber jacket with the number 50 on the back. From a man named Steve Rogers, he has kept a comfy blue hoodie with a white star on the chest. From others, who aren't worth remembering in any specific detail, he has kept plushies, keyrings and novelty pens. He wears a cowlick in remembrance of a mother in Nantucket. He wears glasses in remembrance of a couple in Texas. Alfred will admit; he is nostalgic.
But it's home to me, and I walk alone
Alfred's never had a place to call home. He hasn't lived under the same roof for more than twelve months, not even as an adult. He keeps moving, travelling, as that is all he knows.
I walk this empty street
Alfred works when and where he can. He's babysat, stapled posters, even smuggled drugs. He's mixed with big crowds, small crowds, the wrong crowds, concert crowds, angry crowds, excited crowds and frantic crowds. Wherever he goes, Alfred tries to stay somewhere well-populated, to try and kid himself that he isn't alone.
On the boulevard of broken dreams
He hasn't bothered to dream big. He has his book of drawings, yes, but to him, they're just doodles he's scrawled to pass the time while sat in a cafe, or on the train to the next empty town in the next empty state.
Where the city sleeps
Sometimes at night, Alfred likes to wander aimlessly around whatever area he's staying in at that time. But it's never quiet; drunkards holler, young couples search for that clichéd moment of romantic beauty, and lovely ladies screech under the bodies of lusting men.
And I'm the only one and I walk alone
Alfred doesn't know where he comes from. He doesn't even remember his first foster home. He doesn't know who to ask about his origins.
My shadow's the only one who walks beside me
So Alfred has wandered through America, with only his burgundy shadow following him.
My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating
Alfred's shadow is red. And apparently, he's the only one who can see its peculiar shade.
Sometimes I wish someone up there will find me
Tony had believed that Alfred's shadow was sign, that it proved that we are not alone in the universe. Not that Alfred had ever understood a single word that man had said.
Till then I walk alone
"We are not alone in the universe."Somehow, Alfred struggles to believe that.
I'm walking down the line
Matthew W. Bonnefoy walks alone, with only his comfy red hoodie and a stuffed white bear for company. On his back is a long, thin bag containing only his hockey stick, and his passport and a credit card in a hidden pocket on the inside. Other than that, Matthew W. Bonnefoy has nothing. Not a friend, not a place to stay, not a tomorrow to look forward to.
That divides me somewhere in my mind
He doesn't have a relative to stay with. He doesn't know who his family are anymore.
On the borderline
Matthew grew up believing that the Canadian couple he lived with, Francis and J'eanne Bonnefoy, were his biological parents. When J'eanne died in a horrific fire, Francis had been distraught. In a drunken rage, he had cruelly told Matthew he was adopted. Francis was found the following morning hanging from the banister by his own belt, his nineteen-year-old foster son locked in the garden shed, badly beaten and presumed dead until he woke up in the morgue. Francis's death was written off as attempted murder-suicide.
Of the edge and where I walk alone
Matthew received thousands in compensation. Coupled with his foster parent's life insurance, the inheritance the well-off couple had left him, his job as a freelance semi-professional hockey player, and selling the house and most of its contents, Matthew had a small fortune on his hands. The money has gone into a bank, and Matthew simply carries a credit card.
Read between the lines
The small fortune is large enough for Matthew to live leisurely without having to work if he doesn't want to.
What's fucked up and everything's alright
Francis never told Matthew where he had been adopted from. Matthew couldn't find the documents. He has no way of knowing where he comes from. His only clue came from the Undertaker from the morgue. He had said that Matthew had a brother, somewhere in America.
Check my vital signs
Matthew wanders America, hoping that someone somewhere will know something. He checks libraries, he asks in hospitals and foster homes. For the last two years, he has come up empty every single time.
To know I'm still alive and I walk alone
Matthew walks in silence. People rarely notice his presence, even when he's right in front of them. It's like he's a ghost.
My shadow's the only one that walks beside me
The only thing that tells him he's still alive is his azure-tinged shadow.
My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating
Matthew's shadow is blue. And apparently, he's the only one who can see its peculiar shade.
Sometimes I wish someone up there will find me
Francis hated how Matthew would study his shadow. He said it was creepy and unnerving, just like his strangely violet eyes. He hated the fact that Matthew wasn't his own. And he hated Matthew because he thought it was Matthew's fault the fire had started.
Till then I walk alone
All this he made clear as he drunkenly beat Matthew. All this he made clear as he locked Matthew's unmoving body in the garden shed. All this he made clear as he'd jumped over the banister, his belt looped around his neck, vowing to see his J'eanne again.
I walk this empty street
Four children of varying ages watch as their father slumps down into an armchair, a confused, yet thoughtful, expression darkening his prominent face.
Their pretty mother rests a soft hand on his shoulder. "Ivan, are you alright?" she asks. When the Russian simply nods, she adds; "You're thinking about that boy again, aren't you?"
On the boulevard of broken dreams
"What boy?" Ravis, the youngest, asks.
Ivan smiles wearily, "Which of you can tell Papa what his job is?"
"An Undertaker," the eldest, Eduard, says matter-of-factly.
"That means you, like, dress up dead people and stuff," Feliks adds. Toris shudders.
"Da. Now, twenty-one years ago, a woman was having babies; twins, like Feliks and Toris. The first twin was born just fine, but he was large, and his poor mother was sick. She died before the second twin was born."
Where the city sleeps
"The doctors cut the second twin from her body. He died as they pulled his from her mother's stomach. The first twin was put into care. The second twin and their mother were given to me.
"The following day, as I arrived at work, I heard crying coming from the morgue. I found the second twin, apparently alive."
And I'm the only one and I walk alone
"The second twin was also put into care. Then, two years ago, he was given to me again. His foster father had beaten him to death. I knew it was him, because his eyes were a strange shade of violet.
"The following morning, he was somehow alive, and incredibly confused. As was I, as I had checked myself that he was dead. He was not breathing, his heart was not beating; he was not alive.
"He sold the house he had lived in, and left to find his family. He asked me first if I knew anything. I knew had a brother, in America somewhere. I told him that, and he left."
My shadow's the only one that walks beside me
A blonde woman stands alone on a street corner. On her left, an equally blond boy with a bomber jacket over a blue hoodie walks along the street towards her. On her right, an equally blond boy with a red hoodie and strangely violet eyes walks up the street towards her. The sun blares from behind her. Her reflection doesn't show in the window of the coffee shop before her.
My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating
She watches as, after twenty-one years of separation, her sons finally meet. A red-tinged shadow crosses a blue-tinged shadow, the shadows turning a murky purple-grey as they meet.
Sometimes I wish someone up there will find me
Out of the corner of his right eye, Matthew notices that there is only one man in their reflection in the coffee shop window. Out of the corner of his left eye, he watches as a blonde woman fades away. He begins to feel light-headed. The last time he'd felt like this was the night after Francis's death, when he'd woken up in the morgue.
Till then I walk alone
Alfred watches as this man, seemingly his brother fades away, taking his last chance of finding his family with him.
Alfred continues to walk alone along the street. He never even learnt his brother's name. He walks alone, finally believing Tony's words of "We are not alone in the universe." He walks alone with his now definitely, even to him, grey shadow.
A/N;
I have a headcannon that Alfred wears a blue hoodie with a white star on the front to match Matthew's red hoodie with a white maple leaf on the front. That's where the coloured shadows idea came from. And the whole Dead!Matthew thing? I have no idea. I have no idea where Psycho!Francis came from either. But you've got to admit, Undertaker!Ivan is a pretty cool idea. And I can't be the only Black Butler fan who got the image of Ivan in the Undertaker's clothes and hat stuck in their head. Also, I didn't name Ivan's wife, so it can be (the female version, if necessary) of whoever you ship Russia with.
I don't own Hetalia, or Green Day and their song Boulevard of Broken Dreams, or the Avengers and the character Steve Rogers (Captain America)
-Laurel Silver