Author's Note: Just something I've been thinking about writing. I don't know if I'll continue it, so I'd love some feedback and thoughts. Enjoy!

In those days, they drank fire and played with gods. They hadn't known any better.

"Hickory, dickory, dock. The mouse ran up the clock," Arthur would sing as they glued their backs to the wall and watched the moon rise above the city that never slept. "The clock struck one, the mouse ran down. Hickory, dickory, dock."

Alfred dropped his weight into his big brother's lap, listening to the steady beat of his voice as Matthew fell asleep against the bedpost.

"Maybe, he'll be nice today," Alfred said in between the rhyme, wiping the sticky sweat off of his forehead. When New York had a heat wave, it seldom passed without leaving a few burns. "He doesn't mean to be bad—I know it."

Somewhere above his head, Arthur snorted with derision and scratched the sleep out of his eyes. He was Alfred and Matthew's senior by six years, meaning he may as well have been an adult. "Doubt it. Hickory Dickory Dock, the bird looked at the clock, the clock struck two, away she flew, Hickory Dickory Dock."

"He can be nice sometimes. He's not all bad. Nobody's all bad," Alfred persisted, poking his finger through a small hole in the sleeve of his shirt.

Arthur lowered his head to look at him. "How do you know that?"

"Mom used to say so."

"Well, Mum isn't here, is she? Besides, what would she know anyway? She ran away, and someday, I'm going to run away too. You'll see."

Technically, Arthur was their half-brother. They shared the same mother, but their fathers were from different sides of the globe. Though Alfred thought the men to be two completely different people, he'd someday learn that their paternal figures were alike in more ways than one.

Arthur's father had been a professor in England, and when their mother divorced, she remarried an American, which was a horrific ordeal in Arthur's opinion. Moving to America had been the last thing he'd wanted to do. Furthermore, he'd been very fond of his father, and when Alfred asked what became of him after the separation, he shook his head and said in that taciturn way of his, "The stars got him, Alfred. Too much starlight swallowed him up, and he faded into the sky."

Their mother left them a few years back, and the memory of her was already growing increasingly blurry. She'd woken up one day, packed all her stuff, and said she couldn't bear to be in a house with Edward Jones, Alfred and Matthew's father. Arthur didn't blame her for leaving, but that didn't mean he felt any affection for her, and if he did, he didn't make a point of showing it. Of the three boys, Arthur spoke of her the least.

"If you run away, can I come with you?" Alfred asked, full of hope.

"Of course not. You'll just be in the way."

"Would not!"

Arthur smirked at him, pleased to see that Alfred was still young and gullible enough to fall for his provocations. "Would too. You'd be crying to go back home before we even left the stoop."

"No, I wouldn't! I'm not some crybaby!"

"Shh, you'll wake up Matthew. When I run away, Matthew's coming with me. You can stay here."

Alfred flushed with jealousy and rose from Arthur's lap. "Fine. I don't care. Take Mattie! I'll live on my own."

"Oh, really now?"

"Uh-huh! And nobody'll be able to tell me what to do. Not Dad, not Mattie, not even you."

Arthur grinned and watched as the younger boy walked to the window, his brows creased with frustration. It was easy to get under his skin, mostly because the child regarded family matters very seriously, and he hadn't quite mastered the concept of sarcasm—a weakness that Arthur often preyed upon.

"Wouldn't you miss me, though?" Arthur inquired, stretching out his legs. He'd sprung up a few inches over the summer, and he used his superior height as another way to impose his rule.

Alfred crossed his arms and leaned against the dresser. "No."

"Not even a little bit?"

"Not even a little bit," Alfred affirmed, standing barefoot at the end of the room. "You don't care about me, so why am I gonna miss you?"

Arthur tried not to feel too bothered by his brother's words. He didn't mean any of it, and they both knew it. "All right, I guess it's settled then. We'll be going our separate ways soon enough."

"Uh-huh."

"You won't even send me a postcard?"

"Nope."

"Mmm…" Arthur hummed as he tucked Matthew's damp hair behind his ears.

They mused their escape plans in a comfortable silence, until Alfred snapped ramrod straight and squinted at a spot outside their window. "He's back, Arthur. He's back!"

"Get into bed. Quickly!" Arthur demanded before rushing to his own bed across the room. Alfred and Matthew shared a cot, and though the twins usually didn't mind the snug fit, the blazing summer made the sleeping arrangement a nightmare. Nonetheless, Alfred squeezed his eyes shut and pretended to dream.

Mr. Jones stomped up the stairs not a moment later and swung their bedroom door open with a bang, daring one of them to move from their feigned sleep. A bottle of whiskey hung from one of his large hands, and when he saw that neither of the boys budged at his grand entrance, he slammed the door closed and camped out in the living room.

"Arthur?" Alfred whispered when the coast was clear.

"What is it? Go to sleep. He'll be back later, and if he sees we're up—"

"He's scary sometimes, isn't he?"

Arthur sighed and fanned himself with a nearby book. It took him a while to find the right words, and when he did, he said them slowly. "Don't be scared of people like that, Alfred. They aren't worth the fear."

The next morning found them outdoors, telling tall tales and lying under the shade of their oak tree to cool off. Mr. Jones had plundered his way to work, somewhat sober as he put on his hard hat and overalls.

Alfred felt a little sorry for him having to hammer away at the construction site in such heat, but when he expressed his sympathies, Arthur pretended to vomit in the little square of grass that made up their yard and gagged.

"Maybe he'll finally be drafted for the war," the eldest boy murmured, swinging from a low branch of the tree. "It'd be better for all of us."

"What're they fighting for, anyway?" Alfred asked, pushing and shoving at Matthew playfully until they were both too tired to continue. His twin was a man of few words but had an impressive head on his shoulders. He was usually lost in thought, daydreaming. Alfred, on the other hand, had no time for such idleness.

"They're fighting the communists."

"Are communists bad people?"

Arthur dropped himself from the branch with a thud and shrugged. "I don't know. I've never met one. You wouldn't understand anyway, Alfred. It's all politics."

"I understand! I'm old enough!"

Seeing his opportunity, Arthur pursed his lips and resisted the urge to smile. "You're only seven."

"Seven's big!" Alfred cried. "Besides, Mattie's seven too!"

"But Matthew is wise beyond his years."

"What's that mean?"

"Maybe if you were older, you'd know," Arthur teased, unable to hold back a tiny chuckle.

Alfred reached new shades of scarlet and batted his fists at his older brother, trying to get a good shot in. "Why're you so mean to me? I hate you! I'm not talking to you ever again!"

Arthur easily deflected the half-hearted punches and cocked his head to the side. "Don't be that way, Alfred… Fine, if you don't want to talk to me, Matthew and I will play without you."

The oldest brother proceeded to make a show of himself. He climbed the oak tree and sat on one of the higher branches, eyes sparkling as his imagination ran untamed. The boy was a gifted storyteller, and all of the reading he did in his spare time fueled the depth of his fables.

"I am Zeus, God of the Skies and Master of All," he trumpeted, throwing his head back to look at the clouds. "I will vanquish all who oppose me, be they a god, man, woman, or child. Who dares to stand in my path? You there…"

He pointed to Alfred, who was still sulking, and said, "Ares, my son. We meet again. You reap chaos and destruction on our world with your rage. We must put an end to your madness. What say you, Hera, Queen of the Gods?"

Arthur looked to Matthew expectantly, and the younger brother narrowed his blue eyes. "Why am I always the girl?"

"I said, 'What say you, Hera?'"

Upon being ignored, Matthew huffed and twisted around to look at Arthur in his perch. He tried to speak in the articulate and formulaic manner that his brother did. "Our son's wars are a—a disgrace."

"Your mother is distraught," Arthur continued his accusations, settling a glare on Alfred. "Even she could not calm your fury." He waved an arm and pretended to strike lightning at Alfred's feet.

The boy was quickly losing his ire for Arthur, and he dropped to his knees in the grass, one arm clutching the front of his shirt as he faked his own death. When he had spent a sufficient amount of time lying on the ground, he lifted his head and looked at his elder brother, who was beaming a satisfied smile at him.

"Will you talk to me now, Alfred?"

"I guess."

That answer seemed to be enough because Arthur continued their antics and banter until the summer sun was so intense that they went inside in fear of getting sunburnt. With the taste of the outside still on their tongues, they dried the sweat on their necks with paper towels. Lunchtime arrived, and Arthur took the liberty to make them some sandwiches as the twins bustled around the kitchen and tried to help.

"Carry that to the table first," he directed Matthew before shaking his head at his more troublesome brother. "Alfred, you're going to drop something if you hold the plates and glasses like that."

And, as predicted, one of the porcelain plates slid to the kitchen tiles with a loud crash, startling them all.

"Alfred, what did I tell you?" Arthur seethed, yanking the boy away from the wreckage. "Don't touch the pieces, idiot."

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to!"

"Be quiet."

"I-It was an accident!"

"I said to be quiet!"

While Alfred whined and whimpered over the injustices of life, Arthur carefully scooped up the debris and threw everything in the garbage bin. He nicked his thumb at one point and sucked on it, blaming Alfred for all of his misfortunes. He also griped about how the boy couldn't follow directions and must've been dropped on his head as an infant, but then refrained from any other quibbling.

"Are you mad at me?" Alfred asked him after they finished the rest of their lunch in peace.

"No," he assured, having gotten all of his displeasure out of his system.

The younger breathed a sigh of relief and kicked his feet under the table. "Good. I don't like it when you're mad."

From beside Alfred, Matthew rubbed an itch on his nose and mumbled, "Dad's going to be mad when he gets home."

And mad was an understatement because as soon as Mr. Jones went into the kitchen for a drink later that evening, he noticed the broken plate in the trash and turned purple in the face, a vein sprouting up in his jaw. He barreled into the living room and towered over each of them, looking for the perpetrator.

"Who did it?" he growled in a dangerously husky voice. "One of you better fess up!"

Alfred bit his bottom lip and gathered his courage about him. He made a move to stand up, but Arthur beat him to it with a resolute ferocity in his eyes.

"It was me, sir," he said with great difficulty, trying to remain respectful. "I was making lunch and—"

"Should've known it was you again!" Mr. Jones hollered and held him by the collar of his shirt, knuckles white. "You ungrateful brat! I've given you everything and more! You're not my son, but when your mother left, I took you under my wing, and this is how you repay me?"

Arthur's brow twitched, and the twins prayed he wouldn't say anything stupid or rash. "I don't owe you anything."

And with that, the boy was knocked to the floor, a thick hiss escaping him as the palms of his hands scraped wood.

"Don't owe me anything? You wouldn't be alive if it weren't for me! Who was going to take care of you, your druggie of a father? It killed him, in the end, and he deserved it."

Alfred had never seen such resentment on Arthur's face like he did that night. The older boy was shaking, blinded by a tremendous hatred that Alfred couldn't begin to describe.

"The liquor will kill you some day, and you'll deserve it," Arthur snarled, not an inkling of fear in his body, even when Mr. Jones dragged him up by the arm and smashed a fist against his stomach.

"You've got nerve!"

Arthur suffered through a painful breath and brought his gaze to Alfred, pleading with him. "Go upstairs."

Though he didn't want to leave his brother alone, he knew he'd be of no help if he stayed in the middle of the fight, so he grabbed Matthew by the arm and sprinted up the stairs, wishing he were bigger and stronger. No one was allowed to put a finger on his Arthur, and maybe one day, he'd be able to protect him. But for now, all he could do was listen to the screaming match rumbling underneath him.

It lasted for another ten minutes, and then Arthur stumbled into the bedroom, hugging his left wrist close to his chest. Alfred could tell he'd been crying, but his older brother did his best to hide his tear-marked cheeks as he collapsed onto his cot without making a sound.

When he was lying down, Matthew rushed to his side and convulsed his shoulder. "Are you okay, Arthur?"

Their big brother nodded, but his eyes were tightly shut, and there was a reddish-blue bruise forming a bracelet around his wrist. He moaned into his pillow and hid the injury from sight, shooing Matthew away with his free hand. "I'm fine."

"It looks pretty bad, Arthur," Matthew went on, refusing to be dismissed. He could be as stubborn as the rest of them when times called for it.

"Well, I can't do anything about it, can I?"

"You could show Dr. Mathias. He's not far."

Arthur let loose a dark laugh. "As if Jones is going to take me to the doctor after what he did. Leave it alone, Matthew. Get ready for bed."

The younger boy frowned and hovered by the bed, unsure of what to do. Arthur seemed intent on not moving, so he eventually gave up.

Alfred, meanwhile, wallowed in misery as he watched his big brother endure the aches and tears in silence. None of this would've happened if he hadn't broken that plate—if he'd only listened to Arthur like he should have. He stood in the corner of the room and cried, guilt pouring out of every limb in his body and turning him into mush as Arthur clicked his tongue. The older child beckoned for him to come forward and scooted over to the edge of his bed.

"Do you want to sleep with me tonight, Alfred?"

The boy sniffled and jumped onto the cot without needing further invitation. If the least he could do was stay by Arthur's side and try to make him feel better, then so be it. He pressed himself against Arthur's chest and rubbed the other's throbbing wrist like a worried mother would. Arthur winced and yelped at the touch, but the flesh did become less tender after the ministrations.

"I'm sorry you got hurt 'cause of me," Alfred whispered, feeling awful and rotten to his very core.

"Don't be dumb," Arthur told him as a gust of warm wind brushed over their heads from the open window. "You had nothing to do with it."

Somehow, Alfred didn't believe that to be the truth, but he didn't bring the subject up again. He sunk into the creaking cot and said, "It'll be better tomorrow."

Arthur smirked and leaned his head against Alfred's. "Yeah," he sighed, a million ants crawling up his skin from all of the commotion. "It'll be all better tomorrow."

Of course, it wasn't better by the morning. In fact, it was much worse.

The three musketeers were in the yard again, but this time, Arthur wasn't up for telling any stories. Instead, he rested against the chain-link fence and tried to ignore the hot bursts of pain shooting out of his wrist, which had swollen up like a baseball overnight.

Matthew reasoned that he should tell Mr. Jones—he couldn't be that heartless as to let him walk around with a potential fracture—but Arthur wouldn't listen. He just laid out in the sun and plotted how he would run away. When he was old enough, he'd get a job and live on his own. He'd have a library of books and would be a thousand miles away from the past.

The twins let him brood. They let him dream because that was all he had left, and they didn't have the heart to tell him he'd be caged and stuck like the rest of them—that there would never be a life waiting for them outside their fence. Mr. Jones would make sure of it.

One day bled into the next, and nothing improved. Arthur moped and grieved, Mr. Jones went to work for most of the day and generally came home drunk, Alfred and Matthew roughhoused and tried to keep high spirits.

Matthew started to think Arthur would walk around with a bulging wrist for the rest of his life. Alfred had even joked and said they'd have to change his name to One-Armed Arthur, but then fate settled things for them.

At one point during their adventures in the yard, Alfred grew sick. He complained of fever and smeared his hand over an itchy ear, unable to sleep even when Arthur read him stories and murmured words of comfort in the dead of night. On the third day of the illness, when Alfred had fallen into a state of constant crying and hysteria, Arthur had informed Mr. Jones of the situation.

The man looked the sickly boy up and down before saying, "It's a cold. He'll be fine."

"In the middle of summer?" Arthur asked, his good arm wrapped around Alfred's broiling shoulders. "He needs a doctor."

"Don't got the money for that. He'll be fine."

Alfred didn't sleep at all the next night, and when they wandered into the yard on another stifling Wednesday, Arthur could take no more. He coaxed Alfred to his feet and they walked out the front door with Matthew in tow. He walked and walked and didn't look back.

"Are we running away?" Alfred bemoaned, teetering on his feet.

Arthur led them down the busy street, paying no mind to the looks of bewilderment they were receiving. "No, not yet. We're going to get you help."

They reached an intersection and turned right before stopping at the second building down the block. It was homely—a little brownstone with a cozy air to it and a sign that hung from the door saying, "Mathias Kohler, M.D."

Arthur rang the bell, and they were buzzed inside. He pushed the door open with his foot and rounded their trio inside, marching past the rows of sniveling children and over to the receptionist.

"Good morning," he greeted the woman, extremely polite despite the anger he'd been hoarding in his gut. "I need to talk to Dr. Mathias."

"Hello, sweetheart. Tell Mom or Dad to sign you in first, okay?" the woman replied with a bright smile.

Arthur furrowed his brows and muttered, "You don't understand."

He pulled Alfred closer to his side as if to shield him from everyone in the office, and then swept down the hall of exam rooms, ignoring the receptionist as she hopped out of her chair and chased after them.

Arthur continued his search and surged into one of the rooms, interrupting Dr. Mathias as he was examining a patient. Puzzled, the physician pulled one bud of his stethoscope out of his ears and looked down at the three boys.

"Arthur, Alfred, Matthew! What a pleasure. Why don't you sit in the waiting room with the other patients, and I'll be with you in a moment?"

The receptionist caught up to them, and she sent the doctor an apologetic look. "I tried to stop—"

"I need to talk to you, Dr. Mathias," Arthur reiterated, and he hoped he came off as very adult-like. "It's an emergency."

They'd never had a reason to visit the man's office before, and if they had, Mr. Jones hadn't gone through the trouble of scheduling them a visit. They knew Dr. Mathias from seeing him around the city. He sometimes passed by their house with a sad look on his face, and said, "You take care of yourselves, kiddos. Got that?"

So for the doctor to see them now, of all times, huddled around his exam room, was quite the shock. He apologized to the teenager he was tending to and exited into the hallway with the boys, thoroughly flustered.

Arthur wasted no time in explaining the predicament. "Alfred's ill. Very ill."

Mathias motioned for Alfred to come closer and put a hand on his forehead. The child was as red as a fire-engine and sweating profusely. After a moment, Mathias withdrew his hand and gave the boy a pitying look. "Where's your father?"

"Work. He doesn't know we're here," Arthur supplied, tugging Alfred back to his side. "Can you help him?"

The youthful doctor scrutinized the three for almost a full minute. "Do you know how much trouble I could get into for treating either of you without the consent of your father?"

Arthur lowered his eyes to his feet and began to lead Alfred down the hall again. "We understand."

"Now, wait just a second!"

Mathias rubbed the spot between his brows and motioned his hand toward a room at the end of the hall. "Bring him in there, and I'll see what I can do."

Accepting the small success, the boys filed into the aforementioned room and waited. They waited until it seemed like they could wait no longer, but then Dr. Mathias finally entered the room. He reached down to scoop up Alfred and deposited him on the exam table, but the boy exclaimed his protests the entire time.

"It's okay. I'm not gonna hurt you," Mathias promised, taking the boy's temperature before writing down the result in a folder. "We're gonna see what's making you so sick. Turn your head to the side for me. Lemme see that ear."

Alfred howled bloody murder as the man inserted an otoscope into the inflamed ear, but Arthur gripped his hand and squeezed it.

"Shh, Alfred. It'll be over soon," his old brother promised, watching as Dr. Mathias shook his head and debated what to do.

"It's infected, all right. Alfred, you're going to need some antibiotic eardrops, but I can't prescribe them to you without a parent."

Arthur kept his hold on Alfred's hand and gave him an encouraging expression. "We told our… father, but he said it was a cold and would go away." He said the words with distaste, as though they were sour and made his tongue recoil.

"Well, I guess there's only one thing to be done. I'll give him the antibiotics in a shot, and it should do the trick. It's not the best cure, but it's all we can do," Mathias decided, heading to the door to leave the room for a second. He paused midway and snatched up Arthur's baseball-wrist.

"I was wondering if you were ever going to show me this. Saw it the moment you caught my eye. It's not broken, I can tell you that much—just really bent outta shape. Rest it and put lots of ice and frozen vegetables on it when you get home, okay? Did Dad have something to do with this?"

Arthur didn't respond.

Mathias patted his back. "You've been a good brother. If you're ever in any trouble like this again, you can come and find me. It'll be our secret."

The man left the room and returned with the resources he'd need. He sanitized Alfred's arm, gave him the injection after a few tears on Alfred's part, had him drink some chilled water, and they were free to go.

Mathias took Alfred off of the exam table and placed him on solid ground once more. They were already out in the hallway when the doctor said, "Arthur, you take care of yourself and those boys. In a few years, you won't have to put up with it anymore; you'll be of age."

And though Mathias knew it was his duty to inform the authorities of what was going on in the Jones household, he couldn't bring himself to do it. He couldn't let himself watch the boys be taken away to face an even more gruesome life of shelters and foster care. So, he laid his license to practice on the line and let them go. As long as they had each other, they'd manage, he was sure.

Arthur looked back at the doctor, a twin clinging to each of his arms as they braved the world that was waiting for them. "I know," he said.

When Alfred gazed up into his big brother's eyes, he could've sworn the boy was much older than thirteen. He turned the idea over in his mind for a while, and then realized the meaning of the words "wise beyond his years".

And suddenly, life beyond the fence didn't seem so impossible anymore. Alfred smiled.

They were going to run away together.