My Mirror Speaks, a hetalia - axis powers fanfic

Trigger warnings: Cases of mental illness and physical abuse. Also, just a tiny, tiny bit of noncon. I'll put a warning down there though, so you don't need to read that bit if you don't want to. Although it does offer a bit of insight.

1939.

Enjoy.

The camellias were nice, he decided. Nice, in a synonymous way to that of a smiling child in front of a burning building. It was comforting, but out of place.

Alfred felt it necessary to whistle appreciatively as his eyes followed the towering building's structure to its tip. The place was huge, and he felt as though he was staring the sky in the face as he scrutinized its monstrosity. It was beautiful, too, but hauntingly so. Its red brick was dressed in ivy and its windows were barred with a rustic, winding trellis that blended in with the organic rolls of green and pale yellow. Its Gothic stigma was only aided with the perfectly timed cawing of a crow, one that flew over them with jet black defiance.

Still, again, he looked down to see a variety of bright camellias in the flowerbed in front of stark mahogany doors. They were nice.

"Alfred, there isn't any need for you to do this."

The American glanced at his brother and best friend side-long. Matthew, too, was sizing up the building's intimidation, wide eyes scoping out the place with mouth slightly agape. When his round, wired glasses began slipping far too close to his eyes, Alfred fixed them. Matthew blinked back to reality.

"'Course there is." Alfred said with a smile. He pulled his priceless leather jacket around himself and shuffled on his feet. "I'll be out of there in no time, just you wait."

Matthew frowned.

"But you don't need... you could just stay. You're fine."

Alfred gave his brother an aloof look before venturing away into the neat lawn of the place.

"Al?"

The blue-eyed blond simply shook his head and padded closer to the building through the grass. He stopped in front of a colorful flowerbed, and picked a white, plump, blooming flower, one with a faded yellow center. He spun the bloom in his hands, and its petals flared about like a sheet on a clothesline. Matthew watched silently as his strange brother strode back to him with a grin.

Alfred stuck the camellia in his brother's hair, and patted the honey blond locks, bothering his springy curl. Matthew stammered and batted his hand away.

"What is this?"

"It matches your skin, 'cause you're so pale right now. Lighten up, just a bit for me. Like I said, I'll be back before you can say maple syrup."

"Maple syrup."

"No, Mattie! I have to leave first!"

"That's the point, I won't let you leave! I hear terrible rumors about these places, you know, and I won't have you being a part of it!"

When Matthew almost took the flower out of his hair, Alfred pushed it back in.

"See..." Alfred huffed. "See, you're so worked up. Just calm down. I'd rather go through whatever... whatever this place will put me through than have anything like that happen again."

"Al... it's okay."

"No, it's not okay. It's everything but okay. But you know what? This," he gestured animatedly to the towering building, "this, will make it okay. They have stuff to... to cure things like this, the paper said! They've got new medicine for it, Matt!" Alfred's smile was so bright, so hopeful, that Matthew found he simply couldn't bring up the cons of the situation. It was times like those, when his brother was just so desperately happy, that Matthew couldn't find anything negative to say. Over the years, however, he had gotten the slight idea that it was all a ruse. One could plainly see it in Alfred's eyes.

Matthew smiled, too, but his was more wan, and it was watery. The backs of his eyes were beginning to sting.

Apparently, it was noticeable, because Alfred's smile fell and he seemed to falter. Immediately, Matthew rubbed at his eyes and sniffed, stumbling away from Alfred. He heard the American huff.

"Oh, don't cry, Mattie."

"I-I'm not..."

Alfred suddenly enveloped Matthew into a tight hug. The smaller brother hiccuped, but otherwise stayed silent. Salty tears flowed freely from his eyes, and they rolled down Alfred's leather jacket, leaving slight stains. The camellia fell from his hair and landed uselessly onto the perfect lawn. Now that he noticed, from his angle over Alfred's shoulder, it, too, was stained with droplets of water. Dew, perhaps.

"I promise, I'll be back before you know it." Alfred murmured.

Matthew shook his head and pushed him away. "Alfred... Alfred, you don't understand. People scarcely leave from these places, I-"

"Oh, sure. That's why they're putting ads up about it."

"They're not advertising the hospital, they're advertising the medicine! Alfred, please, say we'll just go home and forget all of it. Next time it happens, I'll... I'll run, okay? If you really..."

Once again, Alfred patted Matthew as if he was an ornery child.
"That, I can't do. We've already worked everything out, remember? And besides-"

"I couldn't care less. You're leaving me alone, you know that? I'll have that house all to myself because you up and decide to-"

"Mattie-"

"I swear Al, I'll burn it down just so you'll run your happy ass home. I'll do it, don't think I won't!"

Matthew's violet eyes were now leaking freely now. Alfred just frowned at him, and he wouldn't stop frowning.

Just then, there was the ominous, yet majestic sound of an old, decrepit door creaking open. Both brothers' heads whipped in the sound's direction, and found the building's mahogany doors, with the golden, feathered handles, were slightly ajar. Between the two doors was a rather grim face, one framed with a flurry of golden, wavy hair.

"Excusez-moi?"

Alfred blinked, and Matthew hurriedly wiped at his eyes, sniffling and hiding his red face. The man in the doors looked at them both rather oddly, before sighing and leaving the building. He stepped onto the lawn, and he had a slight grimace plastered across his face.

"You are... eh, upsetting some of the patients." the man said with a fold of his hands and another glance to the weeping Matthew. "May I ask who you are? This is... not a place to be loitering about."

"We're not loitering!" Alfred piped up, and the man immediately shushed him.

"Even so, this is a hospital, and some of them can hear you and see you. I do not know what you are doing here, but I would like to ask you to do it elsewhere."

With a wave of his hands, Alfred began to speak, quieter than the last time.

"No, no, see... er. I'm, ah..."

"He's checking in." Matthew said bitterly, regaining his composure. The blond man near the doors blinked and glanced at Alfred once again, eying him up and down.

"Are... are you sure?"

Alfred nodded, and limply, Matthew shut his eyes and bit his lip.

"Very. Everything's already been accounted for." Alfred replied, and even through closed eyes, Matthew knew that his brother was grinning with his hands in his pockets.

"Ah, well... your name?"

"Jones."

"First?"

"Alfred."

The blond man hummed in thought for a moment. Then, he sighed.

"Alright... are you ready?"

Matthew felt eyes on him. The stranger cleared his throat.

"Knock when you are." he said, and the rickety doors opened and shut once again.

Matthew's eyes creaked open, and he found himself looking at his own dirty shoes. He jumped when he heard his brother's voice again.

"You won't be alone for long." he said with a smile. Matthew shuddered.

"Didn't you see how unsure he was? Alfred, he doesn't think you need to-"

"Well, he doesn't know me very well, now does he?"

Then, it was quiet for a while. The silence was only broken by occasional barks from crows, and once, there was an ominous pounding on one of the windows that stopped soon after it started. Matthew considered that the walls might have been thick enough to prevent sound, but then, how would any patients have been able to hear them?

"I'm going, anyhow. I would like you to see me off with a smile."

When Matthew just stood there, staring at the grass and his shoes, Alfred sighed and patted his head for the third time.

"Love you, baby brother."

Then, his footfalls faded into the perfect lawn. Soon, they were on the steps, and there was a vapid knocking. The doors creaked open once more, then they closed. Matthew watched as his tears melted into the partially hidden soil, the life of the lawn. With a shuddered breath, he knelt down and retrieved the discarded white camellia. Cupping the flower in his hands, he sniffed it. The dew tickled his nose, and with another sob, he clutched it in his right hand, tearing his left away to smear away his tears. His hand then drifted to his side, where a myriad of deep bruises lay under his shirt. He squeezed, and it brought pain, but he thought it was necessary.

"Love you too, big brother."

The man, who was called Francis, excused himself momentarily to get Alfred's info. He did it with a flourish of his hand and a slight scowl that made the American feel uncomfortable. Still, Alfred waited patiently in the lobby with his hands in his pockets. Despite his own promises, he had the inevitable urge to leave the building once more and go home with Matthew. He stayed, though, curiously glancing up the grand staircase. It was old, rustic, and more than anything, it was intimidating. The potted plants next to its base were hardly any comfort, especially when a sharp, sudden yowl tore from the halls.

Francis returned, and sighed when he saw the American jump. He held in his hands a thin stack of papers, written on in a messy scrawl.

"I must have you know that it is... rare for such measures to be made, in this day and age. You do know that it was everything but necessary?"

Alfred gave him a blank look. Francis sighed.

"There was absolutely no need for you to schedule with us beforehand. We have no policy, and we do accept everyone. Although, luckily we are secluded, and therefore... not overly crowded. Still, I'm baffled as to why you took the time." He then gave Alfred a glare, before continuing. "Not only that, but your condition has not been... ah, diagnosed."

Alfred shrugged and smiled wryly. Francis grimaced at this, and shook his head, causing his blond locks to sway rhythmically.

"Do you ever do anything but smile? I doubt you have the slightest idea of what you're getting into."

When the American didn't answer, Francis once again glanced at the papers.

"I will take you to your assigned room if that is what you wish, but I still can't help but be uneasy. You seem perfectly well. And in comparison to some... well. Is it odd that I feel like I'm talking to a brick wall?"

Alfred laughed lightly. "Sorry. Bit nervous."

Francis tutted. "Honestly, according to this, your symptoms are... rather dramatic mood swings, insomnia, and depression. Is it possible that you're just stressed? I can't be sure, because I was not there, but we do get people coming here who simply want free essentials. If that is what you're after, I have to tell you that an able-bodied man like you would be much better off as a working nomad."

The Frenchman's eyebrows rose when Alfred's smile faded. The American seemed to take a moment to process his words, before looking at the ground and fixing his glasses. His fists clenched and unclenched, and he sighed.

"It's more than that."

"Oh?"

When Alfred simply gave him a pleading look, Francis blew a strand of hair from his face and shook the papers in his hand.

"I will see you to your room, but know this: if you were looking for a pleasant experience, you've come to the wrong place. I am a kind man, and I'm not nearly as cryptic or sly as my colleagues, so I'm giving you a chance to leave while you still can. I'm not saying that people never leave here better than they came, but I am saying that those that managed to did not leave unscathed."

Alfred, like a child, puffed out his cheeks.

"Fine, fine." Francis chided, venturing up the stairs and signaling for Alfred to follow. Another wail resounded from within the hospital's winding halls, and Francis chuckled when Alfred jumped once more. It was when they passed a few closed doors that Alfred had the urge to hold his breath.

The air smelled odd. Not revolting, per se, but definitely odd. It was like a mixture of medicine and morning breath, and more than anything it simply made the building feel old and stale.

"Your room is at the end of this wing. Luckily for you, I'm rather acquainted with your roommate."

Alfred looked away from a gray stain smeared across the off-white walls.

"Roommate?"

Francis chuckled. "Now, now, we're not overcrowded, but we're not empty, either. As I was saying, I'm rather acquainted with him, and let me tell you that he is one of the better people in this place."

Alfred nearly bumped into Francis when he stopped in front of a worn looking door close to the second stairwell.

"Even so, if he gives you any trouble, let me know."

Alfred eyed the door timidly, then huffed. Whoever this roommate was, the gaudy American was sure he could handle him. When Francis made no further move to open the door, though, Alfred raised an eyebrow in question.

"But." He said sternly. "If I hear that you've given him any trouble, I'll have your head."

In his pockets, Alfred squirmed his hands about. He nodded soundlessly, and Francis let out a long breath.

"Truly. Be kind to him, for I'm sure he won't take this very well."

Alfred eyed the door as it slowly pushed open. Francis leaned silently into the room, and Alfred stared at his back as he seemed to peer into its confines.

"Arthur?" he called softly before fully opening the door.

There was an eerie quiet, and Alfred shivered. Now he could see inside, too, and the dim room appeared empty. Inside was a single table, as well as two rather small, thin beds on adjacent walls. They didn't look comfortable in the slightest, nor did they look warm, for the only bedding on top of the rickety mattresses were thin, ragged blankets.

Still, putting aside the fact that the room appeared less than comforting, or sanitary, for that matter, there was the fact that it appeared empty.

"Arthur?" Francis called louder this time, stepping into the room but still staying near the door. Alfred stayed outside, finding within him the odd sensation of an imposing feeling.

Suddenly, the door was wrenched away from Francis, and the graceful man was reduced to flailing when a limp pillow was shoved into his face. His shocked cries were muffled as he was shoved harshly into Alfred, who stumbled back in shock.

A lithe form slithered around both of them, descending into the hallway and immediately sprinting toward the building's center.

"Hahaha! I got you that time, you bloody old frog! This is the last you'll see of me, I swear it, I'll get out just yet!"

Francis sputtered and tossed the pillow to the side, racing after Arthur down the hall. He stopped a few feet away, though, when a gaggle of caretakers seemed to appear out of nowhere, all in stark white coats and pale skin. One of them had a coat smeared red near the shoulder. Alfred thought it seemed like something out of an edgy comic.

The one with the stained coat produced a silver syringe from his pocket while another easily gripped Arthur by his shirt, unaffected by his thrashing. Silver seemed to gleam as the large syringe was plunged into the escapee's pale arm, and Alfred watched, confused, bewildered, but a little amused as his supposed future roommate was sedated in the middle of a filthy hallway.

Soon Arthur relaxed, and he was practically dragged back to the room by the nurse with the bloody apron. Francis whistled lamely, eyes following Arthur's sock-clad feet as they dragged across the splintering wood.

"That was a record, he usually doesn't get more than five feet away. It's a shame, he went the wrong way. The stairs are right there. Ah, but... I assure you, he isn't usually so incorrigible."

Arthur was unceremoniously dropped onto one of he beds in the room, where he mumbled something about tea before passing out.

Alfred had been instructed to simply wait in his room for a while. As he sat stiffly on the bed, he mused about how cold the room seemed. After a few minutes, he had fetched the threadbare blanket resting on his bed and draped it over his shoulders. It didn't help much, and he still felt the threat of goosebumps on his arms.

There was also the issue of boredom. Normally, this would be no big deal, as Alfred was never satisfied and was always complaining about boredom. However, in this case, he was both bored and anxious. The pasty walls made him tense, and the bars attached to the single, small window in the room made him feel like a trapped animal. Not that he felt like an animal in the first place, but still, the concept of being contained made him grimace and hunch his shoulders. Still, on top of dreadful boredom and irritating anxiety, he was bathed in a mollifying quiet, one that would have been completely maddening if not for Arthur's even breathing. He couldn't help but wondering if the silence would have been better when he realized that Arthur was a rather prominent sleep-mumbler.

Francis had been gracious enough to lend him a book to pass the time, but as he wasn't much of a reading type, he just sat with his knees to his chest, watching the stainless wall.

If this was what he had to look forward to every day, Alfred would, perhaps, toy with the idea of kicking the bars away from the windows and making a heroic escape, shouting a so long to Francis and landing in the camellias.

As he began to picture what Matthew would say to him breaking out of a mental hospital, Arthur began to stir. At first, he simply turned on his side with an incoherent murmur. Then, he wiggled his legs, and finally his eyes slid open, shining slivers of green. For a while he stared at the ceiling, as he usually did, and sighed. He lifted a drug-weighted arm and stretched, humming, before shutting his eyes once again.

However, when he heard shuffling to his right, Arthur's eyes immediately flew open again and, upon seeing Alfred, he at first felt surprise. Then, his expression fell in what he knew was absolute vexation. The blue-eyed blond just stared right back, with widened eyes and tensed shoulders.

Arthur simply sighed and turned his back to him, trying to sleep once more, but failing miserably at doing so. After about ten minutes, he grew irritated at the fact that Alfred's presence had yet to disappear.

Now coherent enough to sit up, he did so with a deep breath and glared Alfred's way.

"Go away." he sad simply.

Alfred blinked. Through tousled hair and tired glare, Arthur was bluntly asking him to do something he certainly couldn't do. He didn't know how to respond to that either, after considering Arthur's brave escape earlier, as well as the stability of the smaller man before him. Francis had subtly warned him about Arthur's tendency to say and do odd things, as he was a thoroughly diagnosed schizophrenic. In fear of the unknown, Alfred just sat silently and wondered why the hell they had roomed him with Arthur while he himself was undiagnosed.

Arthur grew agitated and waved his arm in Alfred's direction.

"Please, by all means, leave." he commanded, and his annoyance grew when Alfred flinched.

After a long stretching silence, Arthur huffed and brushed his own thin, green blanket aside, padding across the small expanse of the room before stopping in front of Alfred. The American attempted to move away from Arthur's approach, but considered the fact that it would probably be rather hard to do so, what with the miniscule amount of moving space.

A pale hand drew near, and Alfred squeezed his eyes shut in childish fear. When all he felt was a little poke against his forehead, he opened them again.

"Huh...?" he breathed. He had been expecting worse.

Another poke. Arthur drew his hand back and looked between it and Alfred. The American carefully watched the Brit's iris move between the two, before registering on Alfred once again.

"How strange." Arthur murmured before poking Alfred once again.

"Why... why are you poking me?"

"Because you should be gone by now, you pesky thing."

Alfred watched Arthur study him curiously, blinking when he was poked for the umpteenth time. When he received no further response, Arthur finally stepped back and looked him in the eye.

"Hi there." Alfred said, giving a nervous little wave and smiling slightly. Arthur said nothing and simply gazed at him.

After an awkward bout of silence, Arthur's blank expression turned into that of anger. He drew his hand back, and Alfred had the horrifying realization that he was about to be slapped. Before he could, though, Alfred caught his wrist and ducked. Arthur struggled against the grip for a while, and as he did so, Alfred didn't fail to notice the tiny pinpricks lining his arm. Were those all sedatives, or something else? He didn't have time to wonder when Arthur finally wrenched his arm away and looked at him with the most bewildered expression he had ever seen.

"What on Earth!" Arthur exclaimed, rubbing his wrist where it had been harshly grabbed. "What was that for?"

"You were going to slap me!"

"If you would just leave, I wouldn't need to have even considered it!"

"I can't leave, the door's locked!"

Arthur glanced at the door.

"Ah, yes, bloody dreadful that door, but to you, that shouldn't even be an issue! Just... just go away like you usually do, I can't be bothered right now!"

If Alfred could have, he would have torn away the bars from the window and fled the place then and there. Not only was this downright strange, it was also a bit humiliating.

"What are you even talking about?" he asked, finally lowering his volume. Arthur glared at him before sighing through his nose and kicking him in the shin. Alfred resisted the urge to complain further, simply because he was a nice person, and Arthur couldn't help himself. Even so, the kick hurt quite a lot.

"Who are you?" Arthur finally asked.

Alfred took a moment to register this before creating a false smile.

"I'm Alfred!" he said, and he said it in a tone one would use on a child. It only made Arthur twitch.

"Congratulations. What I meant is, what are you doing here?"

Alfred shifted on the thin mattress, causing it to creak. He clutched the blanket around his shoulders and looked into Arthur's eyes. He wanted to seem honest, because he didn't want him to lash out again. He had heard stories about people with schizophrenia, and those stories often came with a stigma of straitjackets and padded rooms. Little did he know, that wasn't the case at all with Arthur. Quite the contrary.

"I'm your roommate." he said, still looking earnestly up at Arthur, who blinked at the words.

"Roommate?"

Alfred nodded.

"I don't have a roommate." Arthur replied stubbornly.

"Not until today, you didn't. I just got here."

Arthur scowled and folded his arms. He seemed to judge Alfred with his gaze before looking away.

"Why is it that I hadn't heard of this arrangement?"

Alfred laughed a bit and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Yeah, about that. I think Francis was going to tell you, but you shoved a pillow in his face and ran off, remember? You were yelling something about frogs, I think, and got, er... well, a bunch of nurses or doctors or whatever stopped you."

Arthur stared at nothing for a while before turning his back to Alfred and slowly moving to his own bed. He sat, flattening the thin mattress, and when Alfred caught sight of his face again he realized that it was red as a cherry.

"Ah..." Arthur said simply. "Really?"

Once again, Alfred nodded with an earnest look.

"In that case... I apologize that you had to see that. You must think I'm a loon."

The American suppressed the urge to laugh at that. Weren't they all loons in a mental hospital? Although, that may have been a bit harsh. He didn't consider himself a loon at all, it was more along the lines of... sickness. He found that that made a bit more sense, and that it was more fitting, and less morbid. Basically, it wasn't his entire person, and he figured the same applied to Arthur.

"And I'm also sorry for poking you, and... almost hitting you, and kicking you, you see..." Arthur continued, looking at the wall with red still tingling through his cheeks. He squirmed nervously where he sat, and crossed his legs. It was then that Alfred noticed he was wearing striped pajamas. He hadn't noticed before, what with the drama of prior events. The sleeves fell loosely around his arms, and Alfred thought it looked like the kind that would come with a limp nightcap, with a tuft of cotton at the bottom.

"You see," Arthur said, clearing his throat, "I, ah, well... I thought... you weren't real."

Alfred lifted his eyebrows and smiled a little. "Oh?"

Arthur just shook his head and finally, his cheeks lost a bit of their color. He ran a hand through his hair and uncrossed his legs, sighing.

"Yes. I thought I was hallucinating... I'm..."

"Schizophrenic?"

"That, yes. It's rather difficult for me to say it casually."

Alfred nodded. That he understood, and related to wholeheartedly. Sadly, though, the room now held a somber air. It was as if they had come to terms with the fact that they were in an asylum. Alfred, being new, didn't let it get him down, but that wasn't the same for Arthur. After weeks and hours of rereading books, sleeping, eating slop, and venturing to the gardens to do nothing, it started to get a little dull, and his mood slowly became vapid.

"I know what you're thinking." Arthur murmured. "Padded rooms, syringes, right?"

Alfred's eyes widened and his shoulders hunched, and although he shook his head quickly, Arthur still caught him red-handed.

"I don't blame you. Is this," he gestured to the dank living space, "really all that different than a padded room?"

"Yeah, it's a lot different." Alfred shrugged.

"Really?"

"M-hm. See." He stood and walked to the window, tapping the thick, impenetrable glass. "You can see the sky. And if you angle your head just so," his head strained uncomfortably against the window, "you can see the flowers down there."

"Your point?"

"I don't think anyone could see things like that from a padded room."

The camellias were still sat in their bush, smiling at the sky with little puffy parachutes of color. Alfred glanced at the spot where he had picked the white one and scanned the lawn, happy to find that it was missing. Did Matthew take it with him?

Arthur spoke up.

"There are flowers in the back garden as well. Roses. It's strange, they always have people back there shaving them of thorns so we don't prick ourselves. I say they should just plant something else, not that I mind roses in the least."

"Back garden?"

"Yes. Sometimes, they let us out there in groups. I don't see why, we just wander about out there with nothing to do."

Alfred finally leaned away from the window and looked down at Arthur.

"Of course, it's probably for fresh air." Arthur said.

Alfred sighed. "Well, secondly, it's different from a padded room because we're not alone. And hey, maybe they let you go out there so you can see the sky."

It was at about 3 AM, when the wails from within were the worst, and when the rooms were filled with the most eerie quiet, that Alfred once again found he couldn't sleep. The useless mattress didn't aid in his slumber, nor did its rocky stand or the paper-thin pillow. There was a crash from below, and a series of shouts that made him finally huff and throw his pillow to the ground. It sat limply folded on the splintering wood, visible thanks to the moonlight from the window.

He shut his eyes hopefully, but alas, sleep did not claim him. Arthur's soft snoring was both comforting and infuriating. Why was it that he could sleep, but not Alfred?

His thoughts stopped short when there was a set of footfalls, treading down the hall outside their door. He felt his heart palpitate when the steps stopped in front of their door. Quickly, he retrieved the pillow and put it under his head, shutting his eyes and feigning sleep.

At just the right moment, the door softly creaked open, letting a soft yellow light into the room that contrasted with the window's blue. There was a deep breath from the entryway, and the door closed again. The intruder quietly padded into the middle of the room, and Alfred gathered the nerve to barely open one of his eyes in hopes to see who was sneaking into their room at the middle of the night.

His eyes met the back of a male nurse, whose brown hair was tied into a ponytail. It was the one from earlier, the one who has sported a thin veil of red upon his apron. He sighed and fiddled with something in his hands before kneeling next to Arthur's sleeping form.

Alfred's eyes opened fully when he caught sight of a syringe. He shut them tightly again when it disappeared from his view, and heard Arthur mumble in his sleep.

Silence reigned. Soon, the footsteps retreated, and the nurse was gone. Arthur's soft snoring was still present, and his heart was still beating wildly.

"Arthur?" he whispered, but of course, he didn't get a response.

Cautiously, he sat up and ventured a look at his sleeping roommate. The Brit was on his back, hair a mess, with his mouth slightly agape. His arm hung off the edge of the bed, and sure enough, it was dotted with pinpricks.

"Arthur?" he tried again, this time a little louder. Arthur mumbled a bit, but otherwise, did not respond. There was a yell to their left, and minutes later, one below again. Alfred sighed and waited for morning, knowing there was no way he'd get an ounce of sleep, especially in such a tense place. To him, it felt more like a place of punishment than a place of healing.

"What are you here for?" Arthur asked the next morning over a breakfast that consisted of porridge, porridge, and more porridge. He had his head pillowed on his palm, and he kept glancing at something behind Alfred. The American watched curiously as Arthur's eyes widened at nothing, before settling on his again. Now in the bright lights of the makeshift cafeteria, he realized that Arthur had freckles that rather resembled the wounds on his arms. Shaking his head, he decided he had better answer the question to the best of his abilities. Looking into his altered reflection on the slimy porridge, he sighed. Arthur perked up.

"I don't know." Alfred said with a shrug.

Arthur quirked one of his large eyebrows.

"You don't know? What, did you just wake up here one morning without a clue in the world?"

"No. I mean, I haven't been diagnosed yet." he replied as he stared at a painting of a tree, hanging in the corner of the room. The tree seemed to stare back at him from its knothole, and the birds on its branches glared at him accusingly. Why would they put a painting there, in the corner of the cafeteria? He stirred his porridge and grimaced.

"Ah. That's rather strange... have they asked you questions much?"

"Yeah. Said they couldn't decide, or something."

Arthur smiled wanly and glanced at his empty bowl. Personally, he rather liked porridge, even if the porridge there sort of tasted like dishwater and mud.

"As if that's for them to decide."

"Well, they are experts, right?"

After a shrug, Arthur looked at Alfred again, but once again his attention was grabbed by something over his shoulder. For a long while, he stared, and Alfred had the urge to glance behind himself and see what it was.

"What are your symptoms?" Arthur asked as he gazed intently at the thing behind Alfred.

Alfred turned around to see nothing but another table of quiet people and an empty wall. He furrowed his eyebrows and looked back at Arthur, who appeared not to notice.

"I'd... rather not talk about it." Alfred muttered, taking a spoonful of rancid goop and dropping it back into the bowl with a thick, sticky plop.

3 in the morning seemed to be a rather lively time for them. Not lively in the sort that everything was flashy and exciting, but lively in the way that that was always the time when anything vaguely abnormal happened.

It was a crow that woke him. As his eyes opened to the ceiling, he had the urge to jump through the window's bars and strangle that damn crow. He hadn't had decent sleep in so long, and a stupid bird just had to remind him of it by waking him.

He stared at the ceiling, and involuntarily, he began to cry. Muttering curses as he wiped away the tears with his sleeve, he turned to the wall and sniffled. It wasn't really that he was particularly sad, it was the issue of stress over lack of sleep. It resembled that of a restless day, a day without a single break, those days when the urge to cry the moment you got home took over your mind with rampant determination. With a groan, he wiped at his eyes.

Then, he heard a whimper. He blinked, and strained his ears, still facing the wall. Momentarily, his tears stopped.

Silence.

Sighing, he shut his eyes, and willed away the stupid tears in favor of more sleep. Berating himself for imagining sounds, he actually managed to drift off. Maybe it was the stoic presence of the wall, or the stillness of the bed, but either way, the room was put into a stiff silence that allowed him to lose consciousness.

Then, he realized, it was too quiet. Was Arthur not asleep and snoring? To answer his question, another whimper was choked out from behind him, followed by a choked gasp. Slowly, he blinked awake, before turning in a dreamlike state away from the wall. His hands searched for his glasses, yet even without them, he could see that not all was well. Expecting to see Arthur simply lying in bed, he was a little bewildered when, through his nearsightedness, all he could see was a huddled lump in the corner of the bed. Finding his glasses, he tiredly perched them upon his nose, where his eyes adjusted to the dark. When he caught sight of Arthur, he frowned in confusion.

The green-eyed blond was in his usual striped pajamas without the nightcap, except this time, instead of old and wise in them, he looked like a frightened child. His legs were dragged up and pressed against his chest with his arms wrapped around them tightly, and his green eyes cast an acidic stare above the striped fabric. Curled into the fetal position in the corner of the bed, with eyes rather unreasonably wide, and with nearly silent tears streaming down his cheeks, he truly looked to be in a state of absolute terror. His eyes were wildly darting about the room, and suddenly he flinched before curling in on himself even more.

"Arthur..." Alfred said quietly, slipping out from under his blanket.

Arthur jumped and quickly looked up at Alfred before glancing somewhere else once again. In the dark, his beady, green irises reminded Alfred of fireflies.

"Are you alright?" he asked, standing and offering a bracing look to Arthur. The Brit didn't even look at him that time, he just coiled himself tighter and shuddered, shaking his head. When he hesitantly tried to touch his arm, though, Arthur breathed in sharply and looked up at him with wide eyes. Alfred immediately took a step back with his hands braced in front of him.

Arthur took a deep breath and seemed to calm a bit, loosening the crushing hold he had on himself with a shiver and a stretch. However, when he looked back to that empty, dark spot in the room again, Alfred found himself covering his ears and calming his racing, astonished heart.

Arthur was screaming. It was louder than it should have been, thanks to the entrapping walls, and the tiny, tiny size of the room, and yet, it was out of place. It didn't sound like the ceaseless cries that echoed through the walls and plagued them at night; no, it was startling, rippling, and Alfred found himself needing to sit down because it nearly knocked the wind out of him. Helplessly he watched Arthur scream and cry at nothing, curled into a useless heap on his bed. He grabbed his blanket and draped it around his shoulders, assuming a similar position to Arthur.

Then, the door was wrenched open, and in stumbled Francis, looking tired and winded. The American found brief amusement in the fact that he hadn't heard him coming, when usually the footsteps outside the door were a primary source of entertainment.

A small stream of light was flowing into the room from where Francis left the door cracked open. He seemed to ignore it, though, and instead knelt in front of Arthur, expertly staying in his line of vision. Alfred couldn't discern what he was saying. In fact, he was rather certain that it was French, but still, he was impressed with the way Arthur seemed to calm. Could he understand the words?

In any case, his screams had subsided, a fact which Alfred was grateful for. With a tired breath, he rested his head against the wall and simply watched the scene play. The Brit's breathing was still ragged, as if he had just recovered from hyperventilation, and his eyes were still wide and pouring. Most concerning, though, was the way he kept trying to look around Francis, who simply wouldn't let him.

Alfred looked up when there were more footsteps outside, but neither Francis or Arthur seemed to notice. They stopped outside their door, paused, then continued on their way. He breathed a sigh of relief.

When he looked back, Francis was dabbing away Arthur's tears with a ghostly white handkerchief and murmuring quietly in broken English and French. He watched as Francis told Arthur to shut his eyes, which he did, and that it wasn't real, which Alfred wasn't sure if he believed or not. Arthur sniffed, shook his head, and Francis sighed and muttered something under his breath.

Then, something strange happened. Alfred found himself blinking, startled, when Francis brushed aside Arthur's messy bangs and leaned forward, brushing his lips across the damp expanse of his forehead. He found himself turning away and looking at the wall, frowning in worry and confusion. Then again, it was none of his business.

At breakfast the next day, Alfred couldn't concentrate on his grits. For one thing, he had found a hair in it and refused to eat them, but mostly it was because Arthur seemed to reek of a tense atmosphere. He had his elbow resting on the wooden table with his palm cradling his forehead, fingers tangled in his unruly hair. His eyes were wide, and underneath them was a thin, weak shadow that was emphasized by his pale complexion. With his shoulders rigid and eyes unblinking, he swallowed a spoonful of gravelly mush.

Alfred wondered if he should move tables to give him some space. It had become a sort of unspoken assumption that they would sit at the same table during meals, and he figured he may just break that principle and sit somewhere else. Where, though? There was the table with the black-haired guy who wore an eye-patch, and there was the one with the rigid blond and loud brunet, but neither of those seemed like very good choices. He sighed. Should he just wander until he found somewhere? None of the tables were ever empty, so that wasn't an option. Grabbing his grubby bowl, he made to stand up. Arthur didn't even bat an eye and just stared at the wooden grains of the table.

When Alfred was about three feet away from the table, though, a small voice made him pause.

"Wait..."

He looked back to find Arthur now gazing up at him with the same wide eyes.

"Huh?"

"Wait." he croaked and looked back at the table.

Slowly and hesitantly, Alfred sat back down, folding his arms on the table. He swallowed and looked Arthur in the eye, which was a strange feeling, because the Brit was usually looking over his shoulder when they talked.

"I'm sorry, I'm not very pleasant right now." he murmured. "I can understand you wanting to sit somewhere else."

"No, no, it's not that." Alfred said, setting his bowl down and holding back a grimace when its contents jiggled. "I just figured you might want me to leave you alone for a while."

Arthur cast him a meaningful glance before sighing and rubbing his eyes with the bases of his palms. He stared at his own bowl of slop before blinking and looking up again.

"That's very considerate of you, but actually, I find myself in better conditions when I'm not alone." he said quietly with a shrug.

Alfred smiled a small smile and set about stirring his grits until breakfast was over, and they were sent back to their rooms like cattle.

Arthur wasn't lying about the back garden. Of course, Alfred never doubted him, it had just seemed like a farfetched thing for, well, an asylum.

The large expanse of perfectly cut lawn was engulfed in an ominous, barred fence, painted black with winding curls and pointed ends. It seemed like the kind of thing to shine on a summer day, framed with the drooping red, yellow, and white roses, and dressed lavishly in decaying ivy. However, in the general overcast of their area, with the squishy, muddy cushions for the lawn, and with the miniature ponds of rainwater, they didn't shine. If anything, they simply rusted, obscuring the place even more from brightness and beauty. The fences were also relatively useless. The garden wasn't in the back as Arthur had said, but instead in the center, locked in by the building. One would only be able to see it from an aerial view. Along with roses and wiry fences, the garden was dotted with shade trees and benches, making it feel like a park on a rainy day.

When in the yellowed lighting of the hospital, patients appeared unblemished and sightly, so outside in natural light, their pale skin was a bit disheartening. To Alfred, they looked like zombies roaming an open field without reason, groaning with visible wounds, as well as wounds concealed by clothing. For a brief second he wondered how they got them, but he left the thoughts alone.

He was sat on a bench with Arthur next to him, dozing in the blanketed sun. From his peripheral vision, he could make out the thin silhouette of Francis, and with that came the feeling of being watched. Not only by him, but by the other nurses, doctors, and whatnot, all of whom seemed like they would like to be anywhere but where they were. Idly, he thought, Francis was probably one of the most optimistic employees in the building.

With his eyes closed, Arthur sighed.

"Honestly, if they want to entertain us, they should let us listen to the radio, or at least pass out embroidering hoops. I feel like this place is just making me go mad with boredom."

Alfred laughed a bit.

"Embroidering hoops?"

Arthur opened an eye to glare at Alfred.

"It's a solid hobby."

"Doesn't that involve a needle? There's some sort of 'no pointy things' policy here, right?"

"Ah... yes, you have a point." he murmured, shutting his eyes once again.

In comparison to some of the other patients, Arthur looked less like a zombie, and more like a porcelain doll. While the benches were taken and many simply wandered around the grass, some with a purpose, some without, he realized that the reason they appeared as zombies, was because many of them were wounded. Some sported purpling bruises, others layers of gauze, and a select few actually had pinking bandages. Arthur, though, was not.

"They're all hurt." Alfred said aloud, not bothering to conceal the fact that he was watching the other patients. What else was there to do, anyway?

Once again, Arthur was disturbed from his rest.

"You say 'they' as if we're not one of them."

Alfred huffed and mirrored Arthur's actions of looking at the sky.

"I was just meaning that they're hurt and we're not." he said, hearing Arthur shift next to him.

"What makes you so sure that I'm not?"

Alfred bristled and turned to look at him directly.

"You're not, are you?"

Arthur blinked glumly and stared right back at him. His hands inched together in his lap and he tensed his shoulders. He watched Alfred's worry grow, and grew just a little happy that he would concern himself with him. Losing his resolve, he smiled a bit and looked away.

"No, I'm not."

Alfred sighed, and again, laughed a bit in that lighthearted way of his.

"Gee, for a minute there I was real worried. Why are they hurt, though?"

Arthur gave him an odd look and craned his neck to the side, stretching and sitting up straighter. His smile had since faded, and now it was replaced by an estranged frown, one that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Our part of the building holds a lot more... ah... solace than the others, I suppose." he murmured, and at Alfred's confused tilt, he tutted.

"You see how they mix us with people from other sections of the building when they do things like this?" he explained, gesturing to the lost-looking patients wandering about.

Alfred nodded.

"Well, you see, our hall in particular is where Francis is in charge. He has a lot more... tolerance."

"Tolerance?"

Arthur was beginning to grow uncomfortable at having to explain the concept to Alfred. Every time he would clarify further, the American would just tilt his head to the side and blink in question.

"Tolerance, yes. When patients are in a tizzy, he uses a much more optimistic approach. We are quite lucky to have him."

When Arthur said it, Alfred noticed his eyes flick to the Frenchman. It wasn't really a look, just a quick glance that could almost go unnoticed. The fact remained that Alfred noticed it, though, and he sighed. He had a feeling that Francis was a bit more than 'tolerant' of Arthur, if the previous night's events were anything to go by. The notion made him uncomfortable, in a way that he was not used to such things. Unless Francis was secretly a woman (which wouldn't actually be all that surprising if he wasn't sporting a semi-beard), Alfred found it a bit... unsettling. Then again, maybe it was a French thing.

"Tolerant, eh?" he played with the word.

Arthur furrowed his eyebrows.

"Yes, Alfred, I believe we've been over this."

"I'm just saying, it seems to me that he's a bit more than tolerant. Of you, especially."

The small furrow of his eyebrows then turned into a complete scowl.

"I don't know what you're implying, but-"

"I saw him kiss you!" he hissed with a grimace. "He's a man, you know."

Arthur just looked at him blankly for a moment. Then, his eyebrows drew upward and his mouth parted slightly. The bewildered expression stayed pasted to his face for a while, before he was glaring daggers at Alfred.

"It's a French thing, first of all." Ah, that explained it. "And secondly," Arthur hissed, and he stood up. Alfred noticed, then, in the sun's bleak lighting, how red his face had become. "I did not think that you would be so close-minded. Honestly, even of that were the case, what would be so blasphemous about him being a man?"

The Brit stormed away with his fists balled at his sides, and Alfred blinked. What had he done wrong? Slowly, he stood too, and followed after Arthur with determined strides.

"What's blasphemous about it?" he repeated aloud. Arthur looked back at him and began walking faster. Alfred felt Francis' eyes boring into the back of his head. "Did you really just ask me that question?"

"Yes, I did!" Arthur called over his shoulder, still storming past the roses and under a weeping willow. The grass crunched under his cheap shoes, and Alfred found the sound infuriating.

"You know the answer to that! Everything! It's disgusting to-"

At that, Arthur abruptly stopped and turned on his heel. Alfred only had a moment to register Arthur's cherry-red face and set jaw before his cheek burned horribly.

The sound of the slap rang out through the quiet garden, and it echoed around the walls of the asylum. It seemed to bounce off the windows and weave through the fences, to flurry away from the roses and travel through the trees, sending a flock of crows flying into the sky. Strange, the birds had been silent.

Alfred held a hand to his stinging cheek and glared at Arthur, who glared right back, breathing hard.

"I should have done that the first time I saw you." he growled, and that was the last thing Alfred heard before strong arms gripped him from under his armpits and bodily dragged him away. His eyes clung to the sight of Francis running to Arthur and talking hurriedly to him, probably in French. The last thing he saw before the doors closed in front of him was the sight of both men glaring at him, Arthur with acid dripping from his green eyes, and Francis with ice. Why weren't they dragging Arthur away like he was some sort of maniac, he wondered. He hadn't been the one slapped, after all.

The man who had dragged him away was Spanish. Alfred learned this when the first thing he asked him about was whether it was tomato season, to which he responded he didn't know, and that if he were so concerned about it, why didn't he know himself? Unbeknownst to him, though, this was sort of running joke the brunet had. In any case, when Alfred was sat down in the chair of a cozy office, he found himself glaring into green eyes that were a lot like Arthur's, except they were framed with alarmingly tan skin and dark brown hair.

"He slapped me." Alfred said simply. The man at the desk grinned.

"Oh, I know. They made me drag you away because you're bigger and scarier."

He scoffed and looked around the room, holding a bracing hand to his still red cheek. It was amusing, how hard Arthur could hit. He didn't seem like the type.

"And no one's mad at you, amigo." the brunet said. "Eyebrows is just having another fit and they wanted to get you out of there. There was this one time at dinner, where he was all alone at his table, talking to no one. And the next thing we know, he smashed his plate onto another patient's head!"

Alfred blanched.

"Really?"

"Hahaha, no, but that would be pretty freaky, right?"

He wasn't sure how to respond to that. The oddly tan man bounced in his chair a bit and grinned, balancing his face on his palms. Alfred read the name tag leaning on his desk. Antonio Carriedo.

"So," Antonio, or at least, Alfred presumed that was his name, said. "what are you in for? Or are you just another bum looking for free shelter? 'Cause if you are, get out of my office." At the end of the sentence, his face turned strangely grim. Alfred quickly shook his head.

"No, I..."

"Yeah?"

"I, uh, am... undiagnosed?"

Antonio frowned, then.

"Well, what are your, uh, symptoms, I guess?"

Once again, Alfred grew pale. He stared at the wall for a while, and his eyes traced the patterns in the wallpaper. Flowers, nice. Tomato blossoms? There was a pot of them on his desk, too, and Alfred had a feeling that Antonio would know whether or not it was tomato season. The more he stared at the wall, the more he felt Antonio glare.

"Are those tomato blossoms?" he said neatly.

"Yes." Antonio replied. "And don't dodge my question. If you are a bum, you sure don't look like one."

Alfred finally looked away from the wallpaper, instead busying himself with staring at the painting behind Antonio. A small boy with dark brown hair and a strange curl, painting. A boy painting within a painting. He snickered.

"Why are you laughing?"

"No reason. But, uh, my symptoms? Hm, that's a tough one." he tapped his free hand on his knee. Antonio's frown deepened.

"Look, I'm not a bum. And if I was, I wouldn't come here for their terrible porridge. Found a hair in mine this morning."

At that, Antonio regained his happy stigma and laughed. He kicked his legs under his desk and bounced in his chair once again.

Alfred continued. "People keep asking me what my symptoms are, and all I know is that I can't sleep at night."

Antonio quirked an eyebrow.

"You're here for insomnia? Bit of an extreme choice, don'tcha think?"

"No, it's not just that..." he said, and lost his nerve, once again looking at the painting behind the Spanish man. Why wasn't the boy smiling?

Antonio's fingers tapped the brass typewriter on his desk, and he tilted his head to the side with a frown. Accidentally, he keyed a letter, and sighed when it processed, shuffling, dinging, and finalizing. The paper jumped.

"Well, what is it?"

Alfred fixed his glasses.

"Why are you asking?"

"Well, for one thing, they were gonna collect you and ask you later today anyway. I just thought I'd make it easier on you. But if you don't want to tell me, then..."

It was at that moment that Alfred grew a little reproachful of Antonio. Why couldn't he just say it outright? And, why hadn't they just squeezed it out of him when he first arrived? If they thought he was a bum, why waste so much time? With a deep breath, he massaged his temples.

"I gotta say, frowns don't suit you, amigo."

Alfred looked at him and gave him the most false smile he could produce. It stretched his cheeks uncomfortably, and made his lips feel like they were being pulled apart by sharp hooks. Antonio winced.

"Okay, frown. That's creepy."

Grimly, he laughed.

"As I said, I don't know my... er, my tendencies. My brother, he..."

The brunet nodded, and Alfred breathed deeply, glad that the sting in his cheek was cooling down. He simply couldn't wait to see what they would do about that issue. Still, he continued explaining to Antonio to the best of his abilities.

"My brother. Yeah, okay. I live with him, see? Just the two of us. He just turned eighteen. Anyway, back to me. So. Gee, this is hard to talk about." he coughed, "Well, one day I woke up, and..."

Ah, there it was, that familiar sick feeling that settled into his gut, as if he had just gotten the flu, or seen something revolting. Which, to him, he had with his mind's eye. It made him shiver, and his stomach filled with flurries of snow and dusty moths, because butterflies were too positive and adolescent.

"One day I woke up, and Mattie, my brother, he was... he was lying in the attic. I mean, I found him there later, after searching the house like a lunatic. His nose was bloody, and his eye was purple... black, I guess. And his glasses were broken."

The Spanish man's eyebrows shot up and he weaved his fingers together, gently setting them in his lap. To him, the accounts and and tales of patients were always interesting, sinfully gripping, and most of all, morbid. Needless to say, he felt that listening to them was like hearing a drama.

"What does this have to do with you?"

"I'm getting to that. So, I picked him up and carried him back downstairs. But then, when I set him down, I looked at my knuckles, and..."

"And?"

Alfred's shoulders hunched and he looked at the wood of Antonio's desk.

"And they were all red. Worn. Like... like I had dragged them across a rug. I also realized that my wrist hurt. Really, really bad. Then, Mattie started waking up. At that point I felt a little like puking, but I didn't 'cause the first thing he did when he woke up and saw me was smile. But then..." he briefly wondered is he should be telling anyone this, before deciding that Antonio seemed friendly and trustworthy enough. "But then, I guess he woke up a little more, and he started to cry. Not only that, but he tried to run away. He... my little brother, he was limping away from me, with really, really weird bloody tears coming from his eyes, 'cause ya know, black eye. He was afraid of me, and I didn't know why."

"You think it was you?" Antonio said softly, clutching his hands together tightly. Frankly, he had heard much, much worse, but he wasn't going to deny this being outlandish.

"He said it was me."

"Do you remember doing it?"

"That's just the thing. I can't remember anything of it, but I could see the blood on my hands."

When Alfred returned to his shared room, he was a little surprised to see Arthur inside. However, he was relieved to find that he was asleep. He considered the idea of feigning sleep himself when Arthur awoke, simply because he didn't really want to face him or his patronizing green eyes, but immediately diminished the thought when he realized how... just how terribly meek that had sounded. Why would he need to be afraid of facing Arthur? He hadn't done anything wrong at all. Or at least, he told himself so. So why was he feeling even the slightest bit guilty?

Arthur stirred, and Alfred found himself unable to look away from the simple infuriating gesture of the Brit's thick eyebrows drawing down into a frown while he slept. When he really looked at them, he realized just how hideous they were. For a short while, he considered poking them until Arthur became annoyed, just as he had done to him, but decided against it. He and his little green eyes would probably just go whine to Francis again.

With a huff and jut of his lip, he sat on his own bed and kicked his legs out in front of him, angrily watching Arthur breathe his stupid breaths and draw down his stupid, gross eyebrows. Maybe he should ask for a mirror to be put into their room, so Arthur could see just how hideous they were. Of course, he knew he was being childish, but it didn't faze him in the least.

Far too dramatically, he threw his body onto his bed, ready to bury his head in his pillow and sleep. That failed, though, and instead he hit his head on the wall. Hard. The vibrations reverberated through the room, and silently he prayed the sound hadn't woken Arthur. As his mouth sprayed a chorus of oh fuck, ow, and shit, he turned to the side to see him still asleep.

Sighing out of relief, he cradled the new goose-egg with his hand and rolled over, nursing the astonished tears in his eyes. Why was it that on that day, everything was just given a hefty goal to harm him as much as possible? Perhaps, he considered, it was karma. For what, he didn't know.

They no longer sat together during meals. While Alfred had found his way to the black-haired guy's table with the eye-patch, Arthur had stayed in isolation. This didn't sadden Alfred much. After all, he had only known Arthur for about a week, and in that time the only bond he had really forged with him was a meager acquaintanceship that could easily be replaced. That meager bond, however, was severed with the sound of a resounding slap.

Still, there was the issue that they were roommates. Nights were awkward, to say in the least, but since the incident, they hadn't spoken a word to each other. Alfred, because he was stubborn, and Arthur, because he simply didn't want to. What did it matter, when one of them would surely leave the place one day? Maybe then Alfred would a get a new roommate, one that pissed him off a lot less.

Idly, he stirred his brown soup, wondering if they ever served anything solid to eat. The black-haired man with the white, padded eye-patch didn't speak much, but Alfred was fine with that. He wasn't really up for chatter, anyhow. On that particular day, however, he was surprised to see him with a small smile on his face.

"Something good happen?" he asked casually, stirring around murky broth. The man looked up with chocolate eyes.

"Ah..." he murmured, before looking away. Yes, ever the chatter-box.

After a bout of silence, the petite man spoke up.

"I am feeling better today, so yes."

Absently, the American hummed in reply, feeling eyes on his back. Stealthily, he looked over his shoulder, to find Francis gazing at him with a dull expression. Honestly, it was getting just a bit creepy. He decided to cover the sensation with more idle chatter.

"What happened to your eye?" he blurted suddenly, berating himself because he meant to talk about something like the weather, before realizing that was a bit odd considering the circumstances. Confirming his fears, the man looked offended for a moment, before calming and regaining his normal, aloof demeanor.

"It is the byproduct of an operation." was all he said, before lifting a lukewarm spoonful of soup into the air.

Alfred was, once again, dragged away to have yet another unscheduled 'talk'. This time, however, it was not with Antonio, nor was it with anyone else he would rather. No, instead, he found himself sat in a creaky, splintering chair, glancing away from the sharp gaze of Francis.

The Frenchman was alternating between looking at him and the papers on his desk. Yet, every time he looked at Alfred, he almost... smirked. That smirk would turn into a simper soon after, one that fit his whiskered face much better. Alfred just sat in his seat and felt small.

It had been a week since he and Arthur had fought, and he did have to admit, he felt like he was losing himself. Sometimes, at night, he would poke and prod at the windows. It was a strange gesture, he knew, and he was also aware of the fact that he rather resembled the ebony ravens outside, pecking at the ground, but still, he did it with a hopeful light in his eyes. He had also noticed that when he did this, Arthur would look at him strangely. Most of the time he only did it when the Brit was asleep, but really, he couldn't help himself if he was awake. He wanted to see the sunset, to remind himself of the world outside, and to grasp the reality that was himself. To him, the asylum, so far, had done more harm than good. He felt like he was losing himself in the restraints and the shaven roses.

When Francis sighed, he blinked and was once again brought into focus. He looked up, expecting to see a distraught, annoyed expression, but was only met with that same smirk. Now that he thought of it, that sigh was anything but negative. Shrinking in on himself, he quirked an eyebrow and wrung out his hands.

"Matthieu." Francis said finally, still smiling. Alfred jumped.

"... Huh?"

"Your brother, Matthieu."

Immediately, Alfred flew into the defensive. His hands gripped the seat of the chair, and he darted up from his curled position, sitting straight and fiercely looking into Francis' eyes.

"How do you know his name?" he said, and was alarmed at the amount of ferocity in his own voice. He hadn't sounded so alive in a long while.

Francis stood, and began smugly circling around the desk, as if he was in on some wonderful secret. Which, he was. But he decided to start with the bad news, just to rile up the recently dubbed cantankerous American.

"He..." Francis said, turning his back to him. Alfred wanted to kick him in the shins. "He may have... started a fire." he murmured tentatively, and lost a bit of the smile to his voice.

Once again, Alfred was confused. Francis took the duty to clarify.

"If I do recall, as it were, you two were loitering about in front of this place. He seemed to have a flower in his hair, and I relish in the fact that it accentuated his pale complexion deliciously, even more like the moon than our dear little Arthur."

Alfred was beginning to grow a bit uncomfortable.

"As I remember, he said that, if you did, indeed, check in here, he would... set fire to your home. And, ami, I do feel the need to, and not with the least bit of regret, inform you that he did just that."

Francis' face was positively set aflame with a grin. He ate up Alfred's dumbfounded expression as if it was sweet, liquid gold.

"But, no, that is not my favorite part of the tale..." he murmured, but broke off when his shin was kicked. "Ouch, what is it with you two and the shin kicking... four years old, the both of you... as I was saying. As I just so happen to live near, stroke of luck, oui? As I live near, I noticed the smoke, both in smell and in sight."

Was that a tear in Alfred's eye? The Frenchman wondered why, but he kept talking. This was far too enjoyable, and true, nonetheless!

"I rush to the fire, as I am a kind soul. Your home, two floors, summer porch, and porch swing-" Alfred fixed his glasses and tried to hide his shock over how accurate the description was, "-was completely charred when I arrived. And would you like to know who was in the front yard, watching it melt into the ground, carrying two silky felines? Why, none other than a violet-eyed Canadian, who speaks the most beautiful French I have ever heard."
The Frenchman sat again, but not without a smug sway of his hips and a chortle.

"But alas, he has nowhere to go! I let him into my home, and the first thing he does is cry about how his big brother didn't 'run his happy ass home'!" Alfred flinched, but still, he feigned disinterest. It was a true fact that he was not expecting the next nightmarish statement, leaving Francis' lips like a malevolent purr.

"And do you know what I did, after a week of offering him shelter?"

Alfred didn't respond.

"I..." he tapped the desk rhythmically along with his words, "I charmed him into my bed."

The Frenchman grinned and watched the so-called wonderful big brother's reaction. At first, the American remained apathetic, but it was impossible to miss the slight dilation of his pupils, the widening of his irises. Then, a violent red bloomed to life across his cheeks, and finally, his jaw set into an unreadable stature. Francis watched as his shoulders shook, as he sweated, and as he flushed violently.

Alfred's livid face was burned into his memory as the American suddenly jumped from his chair and clattered across the desk, with a purpose, a set purpose of solely beating Francis into a pulp. The man only smiled up at him, though, and suddenly, for the second time since his stay, the American was gripped under the armpits and dragged away bodily. He yelled, thrashed, screamed, and kicked. How dare that pompous bastard insinuate such a thing about his brother! Matthew was wonderful, he would never do such a thing! His little brother had the soul of an angel, wrapped up in a small, Canadian body, one that would never do something so sinful. And yet, as he felt a puncture where his most vital veins lay, as the world grew hazy, and as his fighting spirit dimmed, he found himself recounting the accuracies of Francis' descriptions, the lazy, gaudy sparkle to his eye, and the way he nonchalantly told a tale of sin and lies.

As Alfred's limbs numbed and as his vision faded, the last thing he saw was the closing of office door's, and Francis' relentless smirk, stretching across his dirty, rotten face.

Arthur was glad he didn't have to read the same book for the thousandth time. It had gotten to the point where he had actually asked for a pencil so that he could scribble in the margins, even if this went against everything he learned prior. However, he had been refused even that small privilege. Something about pointy objects and possible harm, he had stopped listening to the explanation halfway through.

Still, as he sat in the chilly, rainy afternoon muck of his room, he found immense relief when he realized that Francis, in his half-hearted acts of charity, had given Alfred a book as well. The Brit figured it was the only good thing ever to come of the American. He idly flipped through the pages with a strange light to his eyes, and, lounging on his bed, he opened to the first page, feeling absolutely giddy.

He hoped Alfred didn't come back from wherever he was. It was a cruel thing to hope for, but, to him, Alfred was a cruel person, so, of course, that made it justified. Of course. He turned the page. Even so, he felt a frown flit across his features. Would he be thinking the same if the issue had not come up? … No, no he wouldn't. If his recollection served him correctly – which it often didn't – then the American was actually a rather decent man. Realizing that he was only scanning the printed words with his eyes and not actually reading them, he sighed and shut the book. Better to save the story for a happier day anyhow. Still, the fact remained that Alfred was at least better than some of the people cooped up with him. It never ceased to faze Arthur that he had reacted so rationally when he first met him. And he was considerate, too, at least with those that followed the times. Yes, if only it wasn't for the times. Arthur often thought to himself of how irrationally he, himself, had acted. Of course Alfred wouldn't be accepting of such things. It was rare to find anyone who was, and even then, those few and far in between were mixed in with the effortless persecution of the decade, with the narcissistic demeanor of the common people.

At least the American hadn't hit him instead, he thought mirthlessly. It wouldn't have been the first time someone had hit him for such reasons. Glancing at his pallid hand, he recalled the sting he felt when he had slapped him. Arthur prided himself in his ability to knock sense into imbeciles, but still, it often backfired. Especially in the case of broad Americans.

Shaking his head for reasons he didn't know, he opened the book once again, tracing is finger along the words until he found his place. With a sigh, he buried himself in the book for a while.

That is, he tried to, but his efforts were quickly halted when the door to his room burst open, jarring the walls. Strange, he thought, he hadn't heard any footsteps.

Antonio, the warden who sort of gave him the chills, barreled into the room, dragging with him a limp and drooling Alfred. Arthur blinked at the spectacle, but otherwise stayed put. Alfred was dropped onto his bed without a single inkling of grace, and his head lolled to the side in an amusing way. His mouth was wide open, and a bit of clear drool was escaping from there as he snored rather loudly. Arthur shut his book, set it aside, and quirked an eyebrow as Antonio said something in Spanish and stretched, complaining about how heavy Alfred was and how he didn't look it.

Arthur cleared his throat.

"Oh!" the Spanish man turned, and offered Arthur his trademark sunny grin. "Hey, Eyebrows!"

Arthur scowled darkly.

"Hahaha, just kidding! Kidding!" Toni cheered, before bouncing on his feet and preparing to leave.

"Wait." Arthur said. Antonio, already at the door, blinked and turned to face him.

Arthur took a moment to glance at his incapacitated roommate, before turning confused eyes to Antonio.

"You had to sedate him? What happened?"

The brunet man chuckled, and his limelight eyes turned into happy little crevices as he did so.

"Man's got a wild temper, let me tell you. Almost busted old Frankie's nose. Had to drag him away and use a lot of stuff on the way, I didn't want him to be freaking out in the hall and disturbing anyone."

Arthur paled slightly, sitting straighter, before glancing at Alfred again with angrier eyes.

"Francis? Is he alright?"

Antonio scoffed and waved his hand about in a dismissing manner, preparing to leave the room and attend to other things. He was the only warden of their section, after all, and he had a busy job.

"Yeah, yeah. He's fine, I'd say. Fine enough to cut that guy deep though, if you know what I mean."

The Brit nodded, not quite understanding, but allowing himself to accept that vague explanation. He moved to pick up his book again, expecting to hear the door creak shut with Antonio's exit, but when he didn't hear it, he glanced up once again. Had Toni left the door open? … Could he try to run away again?

When he only saw Antonio still standing there, though, he wanted to cry out in frustration. He stayed obediently silent, though. His chance would come eventually.

The Spanish man seemed to be pondering something as he stood in the doorway. Arthur blinked at him as he rubbed the back of his neck confoundedly. Toni sighed.

"Eyebrows," he started, but shook his head when Arthur glared. "Sorry, amigo. I know you can't help how gross they look. But anyway," he nodded to Alfred right as he let out a loud snore, "the kid's got issues, okay? Don't treat him too badly. I know he probably drives you insane, but I bet you ten tomatoes that whatever he did, he's got reason. He's got issues, but we all do, si?"

With that, Antonio left the room. The door clicked as it shut, and Arthur found himself staring at it, before turning to Alfred. Reasons, huh.

The next day, Alfred learned that the ebony-haired man with the cloudy eye-patch was called Kiku. Kiku, and apparently that meant chrysanthemum, was stirring his oatmeal with dull eyes.

Alfred jumped when he stopped altogether, and his pale, off-white hand limply fell onto the table with a sickly smack. His visible brown eye was blank, as if one could not discern pupil from iris, and his breathing was labored. The hand that went limp twitched.

Kiku stared at his bowl and at the table, and he began to sway. His breathing became labored, and he shuddered.

Alfred asked if he was alright, but he didn't get a reply. Hesitantly, he raised a hand and called over a warden, one from another section with his brown hair tied into a loose pony-tail. The feminine man patted Kiku on the back, before bringing him to his feet and escorting him into the halls.

Alfred slept well that night. Perhaps it was the aid of the sedative from the previous night, or perhaps it was the odd silence the halls carried. Either way, he smiled blissfully as he slowly drifted off, staring at the ceiling he hadn't noticed had cracks. He heard Arthur move across the room, but he didn't dwell on it, instead listening to the silence, letting the leftover sleep do its work, allowing the dark to consume him into a heavenly dream-

"You snore like a mammoth, I'll have you know."

His eyes darted open and he blinked. Arthur had said it so quietly, he almost hadn't noticed. However, it was loud enough to break the silence, and for that, he was miffed. A crow cawed outside. Yes, he was definitely miffed, just as he had been all day. Thinking of Matthew hadn't helped in the least, and that made him angry, too.

"You're no better, jackass." he muttered, turning to face the wall. He heard Arthur sigh, but eventually that turned into soft snores. No, Arthur's snores weren't like that of a beast, they were more along the lines of shuffling gasps. It was a strange sound.

Yet, even so, it filled the silence with a white noise, and Alfred was able to find sleep, bitterly thinking of his brother's smiling face. Francis was a lying pig.

Arthur found that when Alfred awoke the next morning, he was no longer himself. As usual, Arthur faced the sun's rays first, stretching and scratching at his sides tiredly. Glancing at the slumbering American, he reached under his bed and retrieved his book, opening it to the dog-eared page and giving it a small smile. It even offered enough blind entertainment for him to ignore the ceaseless, crawling murmurs around the room, even intercepting his line of sight enough to keep from glancing upward, to see what he knew was there, to, to... he sighed and kept reading, massaging his temples. At the rate he was going, he'd be around for a long while. That is, perhaps, until a new doctor joined their ranks. He sincerely doubted it, but he was hopeful. They were remote, quiet, but not quiet enough to be off the map. They were bound to get an expert.

His thoughts were interrupted when Alfred grunted and squirmed in his sleep. Arthur offered him a glance, curiously watching him mutter things in his unconscious state, before returning to his book.

It was when he felt cold, lingering touches on his arm that he bolted upright and squirmed away. He braced a hand where the chilling contact had been, eyes darting around the room, expecting to see a trick of his mind, but for once finding nothing. He brushed off the phantom touches with a shudder, and looked up to see Alfred with the most curious expression written on his face. The American was standing eerily close to the side of Arthur's bed, and his eyes were wide, chillingly so. His hand was open and splayed out in front of him, right where Arthur had been. He didn't say anything.

Slowly, Arthur shut his book and set it aside, squirming away from Alfred. The American lifted his hand and blinked, staring at the pads of his fingers. It was then that Arthur experienced the uncomfortable realization that Alfred had, more or less, woken up bright and early for the sole purpose of stroking his arm.

"Oh..." Alfred breathed, backing away slightly. He clenched and unclenched a fist, before looking Arthur in the eye. "Who are you?"

Even in the garden, Arthur could still feel the lingering touch across his arm. He couldn't stop holding the spot, as if it were a bleeding wound. He was sat on his usual bench with a stony, bemused expression plastered to his face, watching Alfred idly sniffing the scentless, thornless roses.

The Brit shut his eyes for a moment, perhaps it was in thought, or perhaps he was just tired. He breathed deeply, in, out, before settling against the wiry wood of the bench. He should have expected as much, but his own doubts had gotten in the way. He had thought Alfred was a perfectly healthy nomad looking for shelter and the like for a while. This theory was disproved, however, when after the American greeted him like a ghost in the morning, he proceeded to stammer about random things with excited hand motions, smiling all the while a smile that suited his face quite well. When they were selected to go to breakfast, Alfred had followed him enthusiastically, looking down at him as if he were looking up at him, and actually clutching his shirtsleeve like a child. Then they had sat together, and he continued the tangent he had started in their room, this time griping about the stars, and, of all things, cats. Needless to say, as Arthur nodded along, he was sorely confused. Where was the arrogant arsehole he had grown to avoid?

Sighing, Arthur contemplated reclining on the bench and napping, but decided it wouldn't be a nice idea in a garden of fellow disturbed individuals. When he heard one of the sets or rustling footfalls grow near, he cracked one eye open, to find Alfred once again standing far too close for comfort. With a scowl, Arthur wormed his way to the other side of the bench and looked away. Apparently this was misunderstood, because the blue-eyed man then sat next to him with a plop.

The Brit refused to dignify him with even a glance. He just huffed and stared at the trimmed grass for a long while.

Much to his chagrin, though, Alfred decided to start up another headache-inducing conversation.

"You never told me who you are." he whined, kicking his feet. Arthur tensed and craned his neck to look away more than he was, if it was even possible.

"You know who I am." he grunted, before standing to leave. Fine, then, if Alfred as going to take away his peace and quiet, he ought to seek the company of the wilting roses. Better them and their browning stems than Alfred and his taunting act.

The grass whistled under his feet, and he stopped directly in front of the winding bushes. He didn't have to turn to know that Alfred had followed him, nor did he have to listen, because, of course, he was close enough that they were practically touching. Arthur stepped away, and for once the American stayed put.

Arthur pretended to be interested in the roses. They were the same, of course, petals fraying and browning with demise, stems leaking sticky oils from being shaven, leaves stiff with cold, or age, or both. Yes, the same as always. Or, maybe, they were different in every season. He wouldn't know, he had only been there for a month and a half, while Alfred had been all of two weeks. Yes, Alfred. The man who was slowly inching closer to him. Again. Inwardly, Arthur groaned, and prepared to walk away once again, but before he could, something gripped his sleeve, like it had on the way to breakfast.

"What?" he snapped, ripping his arm away from that grip.

Arthur scowled and observed as blue eyes widened slightly, then a hurt expression flitted across his face, before he regained his purpose. That wide smile returned, and he thrust his other hand right in Arthur's face. The Brit had to blink and go cross-eyed to see it, but when he did, he noticed the dying rose cupped in his callous palm.

"Er..." he mumbled, before grabbing Alfred's arm and lowering his hand. "What is this?"

"It's a present! You're English, right? Don't you guys like flowers? I know we like flowers here, especially roses, I mean, it's both of our national flower thingies, right? Right. You know, we're a lot alike, even if the Atlantic is really, really huge-"

"Alfred."

"-but I mean, gee, I thought if I gave you a nice present, you'd at least tell me your name! And like I said, we're a lot alike, and-"

Arthur felt the need to slap him again. He felt his eyelid involuntarily twitch as the American's relentless onslaught of blubbering words blended in with the usual murmur of his own psychosis.

"-where am I, anyway? Where's Mattie? I want food. Can you make me food, Mr. Eyebrows? I'll call you that if you don't tell me your name. Yep, decided. That's your name. Anyway, I hope you like your present. I tried to look for the best one, but when you started looking at the other ones it made me a little sad, so I thought I better give this to you now. Also-"

"Alfred."

"Call me Alfie, that's what Mattie calls me! And you seem nice even though you're grumpy, so you can call me it too. Oh! Are we at school? Is this recess? This recess is boring. Where are the swings? My recess has swings. Did I switch schools-"

With finality, Arthur quite literally ripped the rose out of Alfred's hand and twiddled it in his own fingers.

"Yes, Alfred, this is a very nice rose. My name is Arthur, which you already know, and I haven't the slightest as to why you've suddenly decided to act like forgetting. And I swear to the heavens, if you don't stop acting as if you're seven years old, I will hit you again, and this time it won't be a simple slap!"

Alfred winced at the sudden shouts, as if he were about to be struck. His eyes screwed shut and his shoulders tensed. Arthur blinked at this, slightly lessening his scowl. When Alfred's eyes opened again, his smile returned, if a bit more falsified than before.

"Haha, gee... don't hit me, please, Mr. Arthur Eyebrows. And I'm not seven, I'm ten." he punctuated the statement with a meek opening of his hands, displaying ten fingers. "See? Ten."

Arthur blinked. Once, twice, before groaning and covering his face with his free hand. Honestly, the things he had to deal with. He could still feel Alfred's gaze on him, and even that irked him, not to mention his very, very sudden, and incredible drastic change in demeanor. It was beginning to look like less of an act.

When a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, Arthur gasped and his eyes snapped open once again, only to meet those of Francis.

"Is there a problem?" the Frenchman asked, looking between him and Alfred. Arthur wilted and shrugged his hand away.

"Nope! Hey, Arthur, who's this?"

"You know who this is! It's Francis!" he exclaimed, and froze when the man's clammy hand landed on his shoulder again. He shrugged it off once again, this time with more finality, and huffed.

"Aah... yes." Francis hummed. "Yes, Antonio told me a rather strange story about this one."

Arthur folded his arms and scowled when all Alfred did was rock on his feet and grin. He crushed the rose in his hands, feeling its decaying nectar seep through his fingers. The soft, velvet petals were twisted and turned into threadbare, empty silken sheets, and the bloom itself was picked apart as it was forced in on itself. Everything about this was infuriating, the way Francis kept insisting on touching him, the stupid, silly, innocent grins Alfred kept giving, and the fact that his headache worsened with each passing second. He wanted to go inside and sleep, but he knew the American would follow.

No one seemed to notice his state of distress, though, as Alfred just kept smiling, and Francis hummed and explained himself in that furiously gaudy way of his, complete with expressive, dancing flails of his hands, and followed by a languid stroking of his stubble as if it were a real beard.

"Yes, Antonio has told me much about you, Alfred."

"Who's Antonio?" the American piped up.

The Frenchman faltered and paused, but with a shake of his head he began to pace slowly, like that of a bored thinker. "Antonio is a good friend of mine, one that you may not remember confiding in. He tells me that you, ah... forget yourself, or rather, you forget who you are."

"Francis." Arthur hissed when another hand was placed on his arm.

The man with the ocean eyes just smiled sweetly. "Do kindly shut up, cher." Arthur sputtered at that, but obeyed, looking distraught and slapping the man's arm away. He then walked away, dropping the demolished rose in his haste. Alfred moved to follow, but Francis grabbed him and kept him in place. The American looked from the rose to Arthur's retreating back, and frowned.

"You're not very nice, Francis." he whined.

At that, the French doctor laughed. "In comparison to Arthur, I am a saint. Now," he pressed, "as I've said, Antonio tells me that you forget yourself."

"What does that mean?"

Francis seemed to ignore the question. "Matthew worries for you. I confirmed this with him, and he says it is true, you... switch, we'll say, in a matter of days. This is why you are here."

Alfred huffed. "Matt's a dummy. He doesn't know what he's on about. I don't know how you know him, but you shouldn't listen to him all the time. I mean, he can be smart, and he reads, but most of the time he talks about mountains. I don't get him a lot of the time."

Ocean blue calculated in sky blue for a while, before Francis drew his eyebrows downward.
"Alfred, how old are you?"

"I'm ten!"

"Really? Because our records tell us that you're nineteen. Do you know where you are?"

A crow cawed overhead, and Francis lost Alfred's attention because of it. The American craned his head upwards and his eyes traced the branches, looking for the supposed bird in the tendrils of branches. It was nowhere to be found, however, so with a sigh he once again looked at Francis. "No idea. I'm bored."

"Yes, it is rather boring here in your situation. Well, you're in a hospital, Alfred."

"A hospital?" Alfred gasped, but then, he looked skeptical. "But we're outside." he muttered. "Are you trying to fool me?"

"Not in the least." Francis said with a chuckle. Yes, he had his suspicions as to what Alfred's ailment was, but at that point in time, it as far too wide to clearly discern a single point. He passed the rest of the time with idle conversation, and occasionally he felt Arthur's eyes on them. Still, he remained passive, letting the overzealous American steal most of the conversation. It was interesting, the way his eyes seemed to widen in excitement behind his glasses just from the notion of talking, the way his voice actually managed to reach a higher pitch, and most curious, the way he kept referring to his brother as an eight-year-old.

"Your brother, Matthieu... he is eighteen now."

To that, Alfred adamantly replied that no, Mattie was eight, he would know, because he was the big brother who protected him from Mommy's scrapes. At that, Francis paused, but then, he shook his head. That would be saved for another day.

"He is only eighteen, and I am twenty-six. Is that wrong?"

Alfred frowned. "Er... huh?"

Francis sighed and stuck his hands in the pockets of his signaling white coat. "Your brother is very sweet, and I like him very much. He tells me you are sweet as well, but... that you're special. Is that right?"

When all Alfred did was fidget where he stood, Francis tried again, this time more to the point.

"How would you react if I told you that I love your brother?"

He watched the American's face change. At first, it stayed confused, but after a while, his eyebrows drew downward and he puffed out his cheeks. Then, he looked down at Francis with bewilderment.

"What... what kind of love? 'Cause I love him too."

Francis smiled. "I am in love with him. I must say, it happened after he made me breakfast."

The American child blinked, then looked at the ground, shuffling his feet.

"Well, that's real sweet, is what I'd say." he murmured. "But I've never heard of... hey, are you a lady with a beard?"

"Ha- no." Francis scoffed.

"Hm. Well, I've never heard of... of that with another boy, and I just wish Mattie would tell me himself. But uh..." he trailed off, looking to the side. "I guess that's okay with me."

The smiled returned to Francis' face, and he couldn't resist glancing back at Arthur, who was asleep on his bench.

Alfred knelt down and retrieved the broken rose, frowning as a ruined petal fell from its bulb. Francis watched idly as the American began rifling through the harmless bushes again. Yes, he certainly liked this Alfred much better. What he still did not understand, he lamented with a frown, were the faded bruises dotting his Canadian's porcelain skin.

The next time Alfred was sent to Francis' office, he had a small pot of lilacs on his desk. Their blushing purple was flattering, for some reason, and they spent the day talking about Matthew.

When Arthur awoke to find a plump, red rose on the side of his pillow, still attached to the stem by a small bit, he groaned. He stared at it for a bit, wondering how Alfred had even gotten it inside, before turning away with a quiet grunt. There was still enough time to sleep, anyhow. After all, there was no young morning light looking into their window, and there seemed to be a startling absence of sound filling the building. Yes, now that he really listened, the usual groaning creaks of the structure, as well as the endless groans and moans, were gone. Curiously, he sat up, failing to feel or see when the rose on his pillow fell to the floor with the motion. Its petals spilled onto the splintering wood, and it lay on its side, completely limp. Arthur fidgeted with the thin covers for a moment, antsy because of the silence, but also because of the absence of his conscious thought. It seemed that thing he could compel himself to focus on was the silence. Even the nasty murmurs were gone.

What an incredible case he was, they said. Able to actually discern reality from manic fiction, able to stay stoic, sane, while plagued with such things, such things that were often rather dreadful. In fact, for a while they shunned him, deeming him a fantastically creative and dramatic individual with a niche to live by false means.

But no.

In the silence of the night, when he woke up in cold sweats at an ungodly hour, or perhaps when he just awoke of his body's own calm accord at a reasonable time, Arthur had to convince himself that he wasn't lying. Of course, he knew he couldn't help it when his train of thought, or perhaps just his mind's eye just happened to take a turn for the worse, or at least, the strange. Deep down, he knew that he couldn't help it, yet there was the lingering thought that he was an awful person, that he was simply fooling even himself for the benefit, for the escape from saccharine smiles and cold, foggy days. It was like a nagging creature in the deepest crevice of his mind, telling him that they were right in the beginning, that he was an awful person. And yet, he found himself alike to that of a pathetic old man than than a vile narcissist. He thought this of himself, and he was only twenty-three, to which Francis said, no, you're too young for that. Of course, they were finally convinced on his first outburst. They had remarked that no sane man could be capable, that they were wrong about him, that he was neither remarkable nor pitiful. No, he was nothing special. They needed a specialist, of course. Then, perhaps he could leave. Maybe then they would stop slowly disarming him with insulin, and maybe then he could see a real, lethal rose, one with its prickly defenses still intact.

Yes, all he wanted was to see a real rose, or perhaps to see a rainy sky without craning his head around rustic bars.

The sun still had yet to rise. Arthur, in his reverie, had no idea how long he had been simply sitting there. In fact, he hadn't an idea of much at the time, just that a lot of things were red, and that they were telling him to run, because he couldn't fly out the window, and that the red was slowly enveloping the vast majority of his vision. Lines no longer existed and the ceiling was no longer cracked. In his head, like a soundtrack, there was the murmur of a dying violin, or at least, that was what it sounded like. There was that, and there was them, and there was red. There was also the morning chill, but that was hidden in angry red.

He hardly registered that he was moving. He thought that whatever it was, it should leave him alone, because he was thinking. Things were being born of the red. But no, he wasn't moving, something was making him move. His mind, maybe? No, not his mind. Another ghastly hand on his shoulder. Was it Francis again? He wished he'd stop that, it made him feel insecure. The red turned, and with it came a dizzying haze and an ascending rush of blood, like that of the heat waves traveling from the earth of vast western deserts. Oh, but no. Was he bleeding, was that it? If so, why could he only see red? Had he been struck? The hand on his shoulder tightened, and it was warm with the red, like that of a fever without congestion. Or was it with?

The red broke. As if it was a thin veil, or a melting sheet of vermillion glass, or maybe he should stop being so poetic and admit that it was contrast. What was poetic? It didn't matter because of floating blue. They didn't remind him of the ocean he was used to. Instead, the blurry, shaking, and pinking blue orbs reminded him of the sky he longed to see so much.

For the second time, Arthur awoke. He had an absolutely outrageous headache, and he was tired beyond belief. Although this was normal, he couldn't help but notice an oddity, or rather, a surplus of them. Firstly, the light filtering into the room was a deep amber color, so much so that its fiery hue was visible even on the wooden floor. Accompanied with the deep cawing of crows and what he had learned was the iconic sound of mourning doves, he assumed it was evening. Secondly, he was drenched. Under the blanket it was rather hard to feel as he had been still for so long, but he could tell that the sticky, transparent sheen of sweat across his skin and seeping into his pajamas was the cause of this. And thirdly, he was warmer than he should have been. In the confines of his weak sheet of a blanket, he had never felt so cozy. Which was when he realized the presence of roaring snores echoing into his ear canal.

Flailing a bit, Arthur scrambled to get a proper understanding of his surroundings. He propped himself on his elbows and gaped at the large manchild in his bed, who was currently snoring and twitching in his sleep, one of his arms loosely slung across Arthur's clavicle, the other pillowing his own face and catching the bit of spittle that always seemed to escape. Cautiously, Arthur tensed and raised a hand, grabbing Alfred's wrist and slowly, painfully, set it on the bed to escape. He breathed a sigh of relief when he thought he succeeded, but when that arm moved, he found himself flinching and staring into awakened blues. He shrunk away and moved to get off the bed, not that he knew what to do if he did. It wasn't as if he could leave.

"The was scary." Alfred muttered. Arthur froze.

"... Scary? What was scary? And why on Earth are youin my bed?"

Alfred mumbled and rolled to the side, stealing Arthur's blankets.

"I get your warm spot." he whined, to which Arthur scoffed at but didn't reply to.

Sitting on the foot of his bed, he pointedly watched Alfred's back rise and fall with each breath. What he thought was a comfortable silence settled, but soon he noticed Alfred's trembling and sighed, breaking the quiet.

"Alfred?"

"You yelled at me."

"Oh, did I? I can't seem to recall that."

Alfred made a whiny sound, before burying his face in Arthur's bed. He said something into the mattress that Arthur couldn't hear.

"I'm sorry?"

"Yeah, you'd better be sorry. That was really really scary." Alfred cried, misunderstanding.

"No, er, I couldn't hear you just then..."

He looked up from the cushions, and Arthur was glad to see that he wasn't crying. His face, however, was rather red, and his eyes were bloodshot. The frames of his glasses had pressed into his face, and he had little red ovals beneath both of his eyes. Arthur thought he was probably used to the sensation.

"I said, you yelled at me and you were crying and I didn't know what to do so I just... and you stopped after an hour or so, but... that was scary. I was too afraid to move after, so um..."

Arthur frowned a bit and once again looked at the floor with calculations in his eyes. "Well, then, I am sorry." he murmured as if he could have helped it himself. He massaged his temples in an effort to mollify his pain, but it didn't do much. He considered stealing Alfred's bed, for it was probably past dinner and they wouldn't need to leave again. Then, a thought occurred to him. Had someone come to get them and seen them on the same bed? … Yes, inevitably. Had they assumed the worst? Definitely. Groaning to himself, he did just that and strode over to Alfred's bed.

"Well, now that that's all well and done, I'd like to get some sleep. So either you leave my bed, or I take yours."

"But you've been asleep for hours!" Alfred cried, standing up and claiming his own bed. "I had to miss going outside because of you."

"Well, I'm sorry, once again." Arthur droned sarcastically, climbing into his own bed with a grateful sigh. It was still warm.

Alfred grumbled and Arthur heard his bed creak.

A crow cawed outside, and it was no longer silent, he found. The crazed wails from the halls were actually a bit of a comfort, in comparison. A morbid comfort.

"But hey, Arthur?" Alfred whispered. Arthur flinched and rolled his eyes. "What was it? What was wrong? I get sad sometimes too, but it's never like that."

Arthur, conflicted, pulled the sheet up to cover half of his face. He took a moment of contemplation, then sighed, shutting his eyes and hoping for real, restful sleep.

"Nothing that concerns you, Alfred."

"Ivan is a man with many talents." was the first explanation Francis gave. Skeptical, Arthur narrowed his eyes and huffed. A specialist, they said. Just the sort he had been waiting for, although he wasn't exactly first in line. At first, when he had received the news, he had brightened and sat up straight in his seat. At that time, however, he was unaware of the spectacle he'd witness at an early lunch.

Many talents, indeed. The rather large man with the striking violet eyes had taken to the idea of claiming the staff table all his own. His big-boned strides were a show of how he owned the place, and when he worked with his hands in anything, he had vain, nimble fingers that didn't fit his hulking stature in the slightest. It was a necessity that he wear his cream colored scarf over everything, even though it was a hazard to both himself and others in the hospital. He had managed to intimidate three servings of the rancid meal from the staff, which he, evidently, enjoyed wholeheartedly. A strange accent lilted his voice, too, and no one could seem to place it, although there were rumors that he had, coincidentally enough considering the culturally diverse population of the facility, come from the domineering northern half of either Europe or Asia. Not a very sound rumor, everyone thought, but it gave them something to gossip about. His hair was like the snow of his unknown homeland, and his eyes were like the lilacs on Francis' desk. Pale, sickly skin framed his constant smile and radiated an aura of absolute intimidation. Ivan, everyone decided, was like a freakish toddler who smiled as he burned bugs with glass and the sun.

Arthur was indifferent, or at least, he tried to act that way. In reality, he was incredibly disappointed. Francis, who had been scared away from his table, was obviously fearful. He had not expected his workplace to be put in the hands of such a man. Alfred, in his mental age, was quaking in fear and staring at his toast. The three of them sat together at a table, pretending not to feel the sudden cold aura of the room.

When Arthur kicked Francis under the table, the Frenchman jumped and squeaked a bit before composing himself and catching his glare.

"What do you want from me?" he hissed. "I wasn't the one who employed him, cher. Alas, I am but a lowly medicine man! And would both of you stop kicking me!"

Alfred looked up from his toast for a moment, before fisting his hands in his lap and glaring at it. The edges were grossly charred. Arthur took a moment to think of a reply.

"If you're so of the medicinal variety, why do we even need him?"

"Oh, you know the answer to that! Don't act so wounded, I have done nothing."

Under the table, he crossed his legs. Alfred shifted nervously next to him, and he sighed.

"Yes, I know, but..." he glanced at Ivan, who was seated somewhere in the crowd behind Francis.

"What is it, is he looking at us?" Francis blanched.

"No, no... I just... even if you're no specialist, I'd still rather it be you than him. And not just for me, I'm at the back of the queue. He doesn't seem trustworthy, and it makes me nervous."

At that, Francis became more subdued than he had been before. He lost his haughty defenses, and instead thoughtfully stroked his imaginary beard, mimicking Alfred and looking at his own burnt bread.

"You seem to overestimate me." he said mirthlessly.

Arthur mumbled useless words at that and, effortlessly, ate his disgusting toast.

"I'd say, you seem to underestimate yourself. Although I do agree, you have absolutely no right to incapacitate someone purely for the purpose of sliding an oversized icepick into their skull. I take that back, I'd rather do it myself."

Francis just gave him a long look.

"Your sense of humor is disgusting."

Alfred felt the vibrations when Arthur kicked Francis again under the table, replying something about Francis in general being disgusting. To that Francis smirked, shaking his head and mumbling something in his native tongue. No one seemed to notice, though, as Alfred shrunk away from Ivan's gaze.

Unconsciously, he tapped Arthur on the arm, who immediately blinked and glanced around. Luckily, he, too, caught Ivan smiling at them. Once again, the idle chatter died and the table was silent.

The day of Ivan's arrival passed with a tense atmosphere. Even though they didn't see the powder-haired man at all after breakfast, the three blonds were all stricken with a strange sense of fear that seemed to simply follow them. It was noted, too, that they weren't the only ones affected. In the garden, the anxious dwellers were shivering in their skins, and the manic and moody were snapping more often and with more severity than usual. Arthur, surprisingly, stayed perfectly composed, standing starkly by as his American Roommate shuddered with every passing second.

Hours of this went by, and soon the lights were dimmed and the sky was a dark violet. Arthur slept soundly, and Alfred, even in his diminished state, had only meager troubles finding sleep. It seemed that Ivan's curse brought with it a sort of sedative, a melancholic solace that permeated throughout the confines of the building and spread like a fungus. Arthur, Alfred, and even Francis, in the back room of his office, slept an empty, dreamless sleep.

As was tradition, the morning gave a fresh start. To everyone, Alfred especially, the light smiled upon them and washed away Ivan's violet fog.

He sat up in bed, yawning louder than he needed to and stretching his limbs, before reclining back again and resting on his side. A bird, one that was thankfully not a crow or its cousin raven, chirped happily and tattered against a worn branch. Alfred wondered how the sound could get through the windows, or into the room in general. Was there a hole somewhere? The bird chirped again, and soon he heard the sound of it rapidly flying away.

"Bye..." he said quietly to himself, before staring at the ceiling again for a while. He wished he knew what time it was. A simple clock or a cheap pocketwatch wouldn't be too much to ask for, would it? No, certainly not. Those things were a lot less dangerous than the potential of their mattresses breaking their backs.

He jumped a bit when their door suddenly creaked open. Arthur immediately awoke and sat up, darting his eyes to the door. It was only cracked open an inch, and there seemed to be no one on the other side. Slowly, the two blonds looked at each other, then back at the door. Alfred jumped when something white ghosted through the crevice, but he relaxed when he realized it was only paper. Something was murmured on the other side of the door, and the white sheet glided onto the wooden floor, rocking back and forth in the air for a bit as it made its descent. The door shut with an ominous click.

Arthur, after a bout of quiet, stood up and stiffly picked up the paper. His eyes scanned it for a bit, and his expression was unreadable. Alfred tensed when he saw him frown a bit, but when a small smile suddenly broke that frown, he relaxed.

"It's for you." he said softly, dropping the paper onto the bed before collapsing back onto his bed and going to sleep again.

Cautiously, Alfred picked up the stationary with only his index finger and thumb, as if it were about to snap at him. He unfolded it again, as it had partially folded on its own when Arthur dropped it. When his eyes first fell upon the paper, he realized that it was a letter, taken out of its envelope and carelessly handled. He wondered how he had even gotten it. Surely, other patients had letters sent their way, but he had never heard of any reaching them. Why was he special? Not that he wasn't elated to see his brother's neat handwriting in high quality ink.

Alfred,

I told you to run your happy ass home. Those were my exact orders, and you didn't follow them! How dare you!

There was a spot on the paper where several things had been scribbled away.

The first day you left, I went home and made so much food. I felt like if I ate enough dinner for both of us, it would feel like you were there. I think you'll be amused to know it didn't work and that I was very ill for a while after that.

I still have the flower, the one you put in my hair right before you left. It's sitting on the table, dying. The edges of the white petals are yellow now, and I hope if you see it again you won't say it matches my complexion like you did that day. Actually, about that, now that you're gone I have to do all the work, and being outside so much has given me a bit of a tan. It's not much, but I can see the difference between my shoulders and my arms. I'm not so pale anymore, and I'm happier even though I did some terrible things. One of those terrible things is being happy while you're away. Another is that I burned our house down. I told you I would, Alfie, and I did. And I've never been happier.

Alfred had no idea what Matthew was even talking about. Yet, a little nagging voice in the back of his mind was enraged.

I met someone. They're a wonderful person, and they stayed with me as it burned to the ground. Don't worry, I saved the important stuff. But I did let Mom's picture burn. Oh, and don't worry about any damage, because I know you fret over things like that. That person I met helped me put out the fire.

They live close by, and that's where I am now. Don't worry, you can trust them. But I can picture you wondering why I keep using 'they'. That's because he's a man. And when I say I met someone, I mean I've fallen in love.

I'm telling you this because I know I can trust you to accept it. His name is Francis, and I learned that he works where you are now. I do hope you meet him.

I've been tending to his garden while he's away, which is most of the time. He says he has a sleeping quarters at the asylum too. Oh, but he grows the loveliest flowers I've ever seen, especially the lilacs. Do you know what he said to me? He said they remind him of my eyes.

I hope you're doing well. He tells me that I've nothing to worry about, because it's a place of healing. I still can't help but be skeptical, because he always has this cryptic look on his face when he says that. If there's a way, I hope you can write me back.

I miss you,

Matthew.

When Arthur awoke again, morning had passed and made room for midday. The birds he had heard in his sleep that morning had vanished, and it was raining. The relentless pebbles of water exploded onto the glass of their window, dirtying it with the stains of a storm. It was raining rather hard, for the droplets made their way through the cracks between steel bars without a problem.

Alfred was eerily quiet. He was curled in on himself, lying on his mattress in the fetal position with his back to Arthur. A bolt of lightning flashed outside, and the water in the gutters sounded like a natural stream. Alfred's white shirt was illuminated with the sudden, fleeting light, and his quiet was complimented by the sound of flowing water. He was so still, too, like there was no way he was asleep or awake. Arthur couldn't even see him breathing.

Panicking, Arthur stood and shook him on the shoulder.

The American flailed and sat up immediately, which both relieved Arthur and surprised him. When Alfred's blue eyes appeared feral, though, he immediately stepped back and braced his arms in front of himself in a shielding manner.

"I was just seeing that you were alright-"

"Don't touch me."

Arthur had to wince at the harsh tone. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't, but this was so unlike the kind, childish American he had grown used to in a matter of days. It almost hurt.

"Fine. I won't." Arthur said, sighing and turning on his heel to return to bed. Before he did so, though, he noted the crumpled ball of paper in Alfred's hand, the pink rimming of his eyes, and the fact that his glasses were resting haphazardly on the floor.

Arthur felt distraught. He couldn't focus on his reading, and he was too disconnected to care about the irritating crows outside. Evidently, Alfred wasn't, because he threw a pillow at the window, effectively scaring away the ebony birds. This was done with an angered grunt that made Arthur wince, and when Alfred immediately curled back up on his bed, he resisted the urge to sigh. That would have probably angered the American, too.

Still, Arthur was a bit frightened. That outburst with the birds was the only movement he had made that day. For hours, Alfred had simply been nearly catatonic on his bed. Arthur had to admit that he had become rather used to the childish, giddy Alfred, the one that asked questions and picked roses, the one that didn't lash out at crows, but rather whined at them affectionately. He had been a nice substitute from this close-minded, brooding American. Arthur almost missed him, which he berated himself for. He felt that feelings like that were far too luxurious. Of course, if Alfred felt he deserved to pout and mope about nothing, Arthur supposed he was probably allowed to miss the sweeter byproduct of his peculiar illness. Which brought about the question, what did Alfred have? Francis had lamented that there had been similar cases to Alfred, but that the dissociation was a side-effect. He had said that there was usually a secondary or tertiary symptom to the problem, such as hallucinations or mood-swings, that often determined the diagnosis. However, in the case of the American, all he had was bothersome insomnia and recurring depression, which, really, could mean anything. This notion made Arthur question the accuracies of the system. He did know that he didn't have the right to question it, though, so he stuck to his books and his breakfast. Even if the occasional doses of insulin to his poor abused veins were terribly unnecessary and illogical. All they did was make him tired, but he counted himself lucky that he wasn't receiving the sketchy static therapy.

Alfred moved a bit. It was small, but Arthur noticed it, the slight twitching of his leg. Things were so tense that it made him jump. The American then curled in on himself all the more, and either he forgot how to snore, or he was simply staring at the wall. None of it made sense, anyhow. The lights were still on. Arthur had to wonder if he knew where he was. How far did his memory span? Although, he was certainly rather ornery for a confused person.

A crow cawed outside, and Alfred sat up with the speed of a wayward train. Arthur flinched, which didn't go unnoticed by the American.

Without something effective to throw at the window, he just growled and ripped up the tattered letter in his hands. Arthur watched morosely as the little shreds of yellowed paper fluttered to the ground. With his eyes he searched the scraps, seeing little lines of black ink that Alfred's brother had written. It made him a bit sad. Matthew sounded like a nice boy, and Alfred was his own brother. Surely, he should be more accepting. Many people were avid believers in their so-called righteousness, yes, but no one should take it as far so as to shut out their own family, and even then, wasn't there some divine rule about loving thy neighbor? Or in this case, thy brother. Still, he thought rather impishly, Alfred didn't seem like the type to stretch something so far.

"He is your brother." Arthur murmured, after which he immediately felt icy daggers boring into his skin. "Really now, I don't see why you're being so vile. Even if you can't give him the only thing he wants, which is your acceptance, you should at least not rip up his letter. I doubt you'll be getting another one."

When Alfred's heavy footsteps approached him, Arthur started to regret his words. Not in the way that he didn't mean them, but in the way one wouldn't want to insult a serial killer's mother in fear for their own life. He braced himself, and couldn't choke back a gasp when a strong, frightening, and calloused hand gripped his hair and harshly turned his head so that he was gazing into steely blue. Arthur squirmed and yelped, but there was nothing he could do. With remorse, he realized quite dully that Alfred was much, much stronger than him.

"You don't know anything." Alfred spat, to which Arthur flinched.

Sucking in a breath, he bravely shifted to kick Alfred in the stomach as a means for escape. The larger man doubled over, and Arthur quickly slithered off his bed, darting near the dreadfully locked door. Honestly, shared captivity was not the best way to heal a mental ailment. He stood straight and, terrified, waited for Alfred to recover.

His headache was worsening, and when Alfred once again locked blue onto him, it felt like a nasty vicegrip, accelerating the pain and making his thoughts throb.

"What, you think slapping me knocked any of your disgusting sense into me?" He, in his baby blue pajamas, strode to the door. Arthur once again shrunk away, glad for his lither form. He shortly wondered if they'd just be chasing each other around the room until dinner. "You think," Alfred continued, "you think you know just how bad of a person I am? You think I'm just so, so awful that I won't accept you?"

Arthur wondered if it would be more effective to hide under his bed, but decided against it. It was hilarious, really, the way they were just running in zig-zags throughout an eight foot expanse. He wondered if the people below them could hear it.

With everything Alfred said, his voice heightened in pitch, as if he was hysterical.

"You think I'm just so vile that I would hate Matthew so suddenly?" he lunged, successfully snagging Arthur's mint green pajama top. No, not only were they shouting and running around an eight foot expanse, they were doing it in old man pajamas. Despite this silly circumstance, though, Arthur was becoming more frightened by the second, and Alfred more manic.

With his newfound grip, Alfred turned Arthur and shoved him against the wall. He ignored the weak pulling of pale hands on his wrist, and he didn't look into the frightened green eyes.

"Really!" he laughed crossly, shoving Arthur so hard his feet nearly lifted off the floor. "You think I'm so ignorant, it's funny!"

"Stop..." Arthur said weakly.

"No, I don't think I will, Artie! I think I'll keep talking, because if we're going to be shut up in here together like this, I need to make a few things clear."

Arthur was seeing red, and he was sick of Alfred's breath spewing all over his face. He gave up on pushing Alfred away, instead resigning to claw against the wall at his sides. It was a bad decision on his part, because Alfred gripped him tighter, and his knuckles were digging into his chest, right where his heart was beating wildly under his ribs, its palpitating matching the throbs of his head.

"I'm not some idiot who won't take a look at your new world, and I'm not so stupid as to reject something because it's new. I don't hate my brother, because he's confused. I could never hate my brother. I'm reacting the way I am because it's disgusting, and because it tears normal, happy families like mine apart." he spoke fast, and Arthur had a hard time hearing everything because he was losing control of what was happening.

"How are you so certain of what's normal?" Arthur retorted quietly, to which Alfred reacted by shoving him, bumping his aching head so hard against the wall it would probably bruise.

"Shut up." Alfred growled. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"No, you're the one who doesn't! If you'd actually get a bit of perspective-"

"Perspective! Oh, he thinks I lack perspective! That's rich. Well, maybe if he'd put himself in my perspective, he'd see the hell I had to go through because of people like him."

It was a bit late for it, but as Alfred shoved him again, Arthur realized that this was probably one of the dramatic mood swings Francis had mentioned.

"Arthur." Alfred said. The Brit glared through his headache in reply. "Arthur," Alfred said again, "my mother used to beat me until I bled because my bastard of a father left us for another man. She would burn me with dripping candles and she would threaten my baby brother if I didn't let her. She lost any bit of sanity left in her because of that man. You don't have the right to tell me what's right and wrong, what's disgusting and what's not." as he talked, his insanely high pitch grew lower, and lower, and subdued, and... quiet. "Don't you dare imply that I don't know what I'm talking about because I sure as hell do. I saw what I'm talking about with my own eyes that night in the basement. I was twelve, Arthur. I was twelve years old and I... I saw that, and they just kept... they kept..."

Alfred's grip weakened, but Arthur didn't move.

"They just kept at it, and the man who wasn't my father saw me, and I... he left after that. It was almost Christmas, and he disappeared. I was the only one who knew, and I had to... I had to fucking clean the basement. Mom couldn't know, and neither could Mattie. She didn't hurt me because he was with another man, she did it because he left. None of them even knew. So when my very own brother, when he... I..." he seemed to choke on his own words. "It's disgusting. All of it. It's putrid, and I don't appreciate you, of all people, belittling me and, for the love of god, slapping me because I just so happen to be in the right mind. But I..." he breathed, then lost the words. Alfred let go of Arthur, and for a long while he just stared at the wrinkled spot he left on Arthur's shirt from crushing it in his fist. The Brit in question didn't say a word.

"I..." Alfred choked, and he found he couldn't look at Arthur anymore, but instead he could only focus on the floor.

"I'm sorry." Arthur said. Alfred looked up, frowning, and seeing nothing but blurs. He briefly registered that his glasses were on the floor. "I am sorry that you had to witness that. I'm sorry that on that night, near Christmas, when you were twelve years old, you had to witness that. I'm sorry you had to clean the mess they made so that no one would know. I'm sorry that you were burnt with wax, and I'm sorry that you were beaten until you bled. But that doesn't change my own perspective. What happened to you is awful, yes, but do you really think I'm such an awful person, too? Do you hate Francis, me, or your brother for something so petty, something they can't help? Those things may have happened to you, but they didn't happen to me, Alfred. You can't classify people as a single, family-wrecking group. I'm sorry I slapped you, truly, I am, although you seem to have gone through much worse, but really. Do you think I'm so horrible, never mind what you think of your father and that man? What they did was wrong, and to continue while they knew you were there, they deserve to be locked up. You have no right to call me, or your brother disgusting. You're incredibly naïve to think that you have the right."

Alfred furrowed his eyebrows and finally found the strength to look up at Arthur, but when he did he was surprised to find that he was no longer there. There was a sliding sound filtering into the room, and, surprised, Alfred watched at Arthur slid down the wall and cradled his head in his hands. He wasn't sure what to say when, along with being curled into the fetal position, Arthur fell to the floor on his side.

"I'm sorry all of that happened, and I feel sorry for how naïve you are. But please, for the love of god, never yell at me, or any other person like me, ever again."

Arthur shivered in his crumpled heap, and Alfred wasn't sure how to react. He did feel a bit guilty, but he also needed to get that off his chest one way or another. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so drastic? He introduced the idea to himself, but as he knelt down next to Arthur, he knew he had to stop the Brit's snide remarks.

With an odd mixture of apathy and empathy, a feeling that was an oxymoron in itself, he sighed and rocked on his heels, still kneeling. As Arthur hid his face and shivered on the dusty, dirty floor, with his knees to his chest and his shoulders wracked with tremors, Alfred thought, with a bit of disinterest, about what he had said. No, no, they were disgusting. Each and every one of them, no matter how they acted. His mother's troubled frown and his brother's naïve smile, her worried murmurs and his invitations to go outside, the pallid, dried mess on the concrete, it was all rancid, outrageous, and most of all, vile. Yet, he still felt pity for Arthur, seeing and hearing god knew what, just shivering on his side. Alfred wasn't sure whether to help him to bed or to just leave him there until someone came to get them. Would they just inject him with something, or would they take him somewhere? If Arthur had not run, would he have hit him like he did his brother in the missing space? Alfred wondered if he would remember the current day the next.

He tried to lift Arthur and drag him back to bed, but that only earned him a little yelp and a succinct flash of feral green, followed by a wild squirming that landed his small body in an even more obscure spot than he had been before. Yes, even though he could see the slender blades of his back trembling through his shirt, and even though he was now freely crying, Alfred hated him. He hated him because he was pitiful, and to the American, he was sick in more ways than one.

He still felt he couldn't get up and leave the Brit alone, however. He hated him so much he wanted to be around him for the sole purpose of irritating him, because surely, after that outburst and everything else, Arthur hated him in return.

After a long span of minutes passed, Arthur had stopped crying, but he hadn't moved. Alfred fell asleep with his head against the wall.

A day later, Alfred learned that Kiku had died. It was a somber word passed from patient to caretaker to doctor and so on, yet he somehow managed to hear of it in the murmurs of a nameless crowd. Apparently, they had been expecting it. The American learned of a warden of another section, Yao, who had taken the new particularly hard and left the hospital.

The man with a name made of flowers had been much liked, but no one ever bothered to socialize with him, be it from fear or from gaudy status. He and his chopped ebony hair had been soft-spoken upon his arrival, so much so that no one noticed him. This passiveness had granted him an esteemed reputation, because passiveness was neither extreme or nonexistent.

The crowd had murmured that he came with the eye-patch, and that his eye, just as brown and warm as the other, was still intact. No one reasoned as to why it was covered, no one but Francis, who on the sidelines had left the room at that. Someone guessed that it was deformed, and another figured that it was blind. A manic voice had wondered aloud where it was gathered from that it wasn't missing, but they were immediately shushed. A small voice joked that it was in Ivan's desk drawer, to which Arthur laughed.

A feminine lilt chimed in that Kiku had transferred from another facility, and at that the crowd burst into their own individual conversations. From where, then? Was that where he lost his eye? Was there an operation?

Ivan, who no one had noticed, had confirmed that with a chiding yes. Most of the crowd shut up immediately.

"The chrysanthemum came from a place where people like me were not in short supply." he said in that sugary tone of his. "Yes, it was an operation, and would you all like to know what happened?"

No one said a thing, and in his seat, Alfred shifted uncomfortably.

"They slipped." Ivan said with a smile, smug over the fact that no one knew what on Earth he was talking about. No one except for Arthur, however, whose skin grew damp and clung to his clothes, and who wished desperately that Francis hadn't left the room.

"I don't see why I have to do this." Alfred grumbled, twiddling the pencil in his hands. He wrote messily along the lines, glancing at the copy written for him, and turning back to his own paper to write the words in a crudely done fashion. His shoulder automatically twitched upward to fix his glasses, and just after that he heard Antonio sigh.

"It's Frankie's idea. What I don't understand is why you're not in his office. I have busy work! There could be a rabid monster in the halls for all we know."

"Frankie?"
"Francis. Haven't we been over this?"

At the mention of the bearded blond, Alfred scoffed. He glanced at the copy, and continued writing the simple phrases. Ha, Frankie. It didn't suit him at all. Lost in his thoughts, he barely realized that in place of the word thank, he had written Frankie. With a small laugh, he scribbled away the word.

"Anyway," Antonio said, "he says he's done this before with people like you. They say it's a running experiment."

"People like me, huh."

"Si, people like you."

When he finished writing the line five times, he huffed an set the pencil on the desk with a tap.

"Well, I'm done. Can I go now?"

The Spanish man shook his head. He leaned forward in his chair and sniffed, as if he had allergies, and narrowed his dancing eyes. It was a humorous expression upon his sun-kissed face.

"Stay for a while. Frankie also told me to explain it to you."

Alfred groaned. He was beginning to like Frankie even less as the seconds flew by.

"Shoot." he said.

Toni smiled, then, and it suited him.

"Do you remember being ten years old?" he asked, smiling but not allowing it to reach his eyes. He had been told to watch for reactions carefully. The American shifted in his seat, eying the tomato plant on his desk warily.

"Of course?"

Antonio nodded briefly. "Right, of course you do. But do you remember it like it was yesterday?"

Like a bemused dog, Alfred's head shifted to the side. The boy on the painting scowled at him as if he had committed a horrendous crime.

"I think so." he answered, eyes tracing the brushstrokes creating the fabric of the boy's pink garment.

"Literally." Antonio said.

"Huh?"

"Do you remember it like it was literally yesterday?"

Alfred blinked and fixed his glasses, a nervous habit he never managed to break. A dry leaf fell off the tomato plant.

"No, not really."

Antonio's green eyes burned into him for a moment, like they were made of acid. Then, they softened, and one again reminded of him of summers. "Great."

"This explains what, exactly?"

"Never mind that. In a few days, and I can't be sure when that is, you'll come here and write it again five times, okay? No questions. Now go, Eyebrows is lonely. Go, go, amigo! Heh, that rhymes."

Alfred laughed dryly as he was quite literally pulled from his chair and pushed from the room.

"Ha, he can be lonely all he wants, I won't care-" the door slammed in his face, and he was left to stare confusedly at the wooden grains of Antonio's door.

They were both incredibly skittish when a large, furry spider managed to skitter its way into their room. Arthur had whispered that Alfred, being taller, should stand on his bed and punch it with his American enthusiasm. The not-so-enthusiastic American had refused, saying that Arthur should just stare at it until it burst into flames thanks to his searing cynicism. Needless to say, they just sat and stared at it in horror for a while as it explored their ceiling.

When it found its way into one of the jagged crevices, they weren't sure whether to be relieved or terrified of its eventual return.

Francis, of all people, thought that they were both four years old as he crushed its body under his boot. As its legs spasmed and as it bled yellow, they could swear they heard it scream a sickly little scream.

Alfred's head was hazy and his thoughts were rampantly uncoordinated. Everything seemed to be turning, changing, and the walls themselves appeared to be spinning and jumping. His rickety mattress was more comfortable than it usually was, and the cracks in the ceiling seemed to have vanished. That, or in his haze, he could no longer see them.

When something gently brushed across his fringe, he turned to the side to find silken lace curtains, swaying into the room in a gentle waltz. What looked to be a spring breeze breathed into the room, which was odd, considering it was nearly autumn. More peculiar yet, the entire room was different. There was no second bed on the other side of the room, and the floors weren't a raggedy wood, but instead a polished one, clothed with a fine woven rug. The walls were still off-white, but they didn't seem to be a stoic as before. In his haze, Alfred hardly registered the fact that he was no longer in the hospital. His idle, tired mind could hardly comprehend the birds that weren't common finches or bewitching crows, singing outside the open window. His thoughts weren't active enough to feel not the rough gridlines of a threadbare blanket, but instead the powdery cotton of a thick, warm duvet. If only he was truly awake, he'd realize how much he truly missed the warmth that had been absent his entire stay.

His head turned of its own accord, and his cheek was met with the cool, untouched side of his pillow. Alfred blinked at the wall and sniffed as his nose and mouth were met with a pliant, soft surface. He huffed in the way that a confused animal would sneeze, but found that he couldn't move. Quietly and to himself he wondered if this was some strange case of sleep paralysis. He wanted to move away when the soft surface rustled around, but found that, once again, he couldn't. The soft sound of it brushing against silky pillows reached his ears, and he didn't dare look down. Surely, the wall was much more entertaining than whatever was in bed with him.

Something warm ghosted about his waist, and he inadvertently shivered. Alfred wanted desperately to leave, but he couldn't. He tried to move his limbs, to wake himself, but it proved useless, even more so when he realized that the warm thing about his waist was a soft hand comforting his side. No, no, he needn't look down. Of course, it didn't matter if he did or not, because soon the soft thing, now dubbed an unruly mop of blond hair, moved into his vision along with a smiling pair of bright green eyes.

Not only needn't, but he found that he mustn't look down any further, lest he move past the unmistakable eyebrows or the faint freckles. No, not even when that soft face rested upon his shoulder did he let a coherent thought reach him, and not even when a slender leg twined with his did he allow himself to think or say a single name.

And to him, with the proximity and the relentless softness, and with the bird singing a minuet, with the season's breath stroking his hair, it was but a dream. Of course, it was meaningless, and soon he would wake and forget it within those waking moments. It was true that to him sleep was rare, so he cherished every bit of it, but dreams like the one he experienced at that moment were best to wake from.

Even as he grew warmer by the second, and even as warm little exhales found their way to his neck, and as that hand stopped and eventually rested lazily upon his back, he refused all of it.

He couldn't accept his dreams or the stifling, moist heat, and he couldn't accept the sounds of spring. He couldn't accept the warmth of the bed or his companion, and he certainly couldn't accept the lingering euphoria that somehow wormed its way into him. The tip of a cold nose and the drag of warm lips found his throat, and he did manage to find the strength to breathe a little sharply.

It was as if he had suddenly developed claustrophobia; he wanted to leave that bed.

The leg wrapped around his traveled upwards, and his body seemed to stifle sounds of protest as that lazy drag of lips grew, as he was flipped onto his back and as a weight settled about his middle. Everything grew warmer than it had been, and Alfred felt feverish as what was already hazy grew in and out of focus, and as the spring, as if going back in time, made a cold change for autumn. The seasons was cold but he was warm, too warm, and the next thing he knew he was whining quietly to himself in a scratchier, and much smaller bed.

Alfred's only blanket was clutched tightly in his hands, and he breathed deeply as he unfurled from the position he had slept in. He rolled his shoulders so as to relax them, and he kept breathing in hopes of calm himself from whatever it was he had just experienced. The blanket clung to his skin with the stickiness that came with cold sweat, and he noticed, with an utterly horrified exhalation, the tent in his pajama pants.

Arthur dismissed Alfred's inability to even glance at him as having something to do with their earlier confrontation. It was at least refreshing to not have to bother with him, what with the only instances being when he was either glaring at him from across the room, or mentally ten years old. Yet, it was strange. The fickle American wouldn't hesitate to be near him. He'd sit on the same table during meals, and he'd be nearby in the garden. When one of them had to leave for something, he looked stricken. Arthur thought it odd, but he didn't mind it. It was like being followed around by a duckling.

One day, when Alfred was, once again, out being interviewed by someone, Arthur caught something unusual in their room from the corner of his eye. Or rather, something that wasn't of a pastel hue. No, it was a dark blotch in the middle of white expanse, and Arthur wondered how he hadn't noticed it before. Standing slowly from his bed, he knelt on the floor and wormed his way under Alfred's bed. It was hard to see, and the floor was crawling with dust and dead insects, but he didn't mind. The angle he had to stretch to reach the object was utterly painful, and it bullied the muscles of his back and shoulder, but he managed to grab the ruffled object with a grunt. Quickly, he drew back into a natural position, grimacing at the filthy streaks across his shirt. His back popped painfully now in a sitting position, and he had to wonder if being in a hospital was accelerating his age. Not that he was old. Heavens no, twenty-three was still as young as the early bird! Or at least, as he turned the object in his hands, he convinced himself of that.

When a wine-colored petal crunched off the bloom and dropped to the ground, he sighed. The rose's natural beauty was still preserved in its death as a macabre sort of masterpiece. It wasn't quite to the stage when it would yellow and disintegrate, but the tell-tale signs of that were there. Its petals were a bleeding, almost black red, and what was left of its stem and leaves was wrinkly and fragile. In his hands, it made a constant crunching noise, and with that he decided he should put it down before he accidentally crushes it.

When Alfred returned, he glanced at the dead flower left on the windowsill, but said nothing about it. Briefly, he wondered to himself how Arthur managed to pick a rose and smuggle it inside.

Three days later, Alfred was convinced that he had to hide under his bed. Francis, after being told about this by Arthur, dismissed it with a wave of his hand, muttering to himself a stale, "What else is new?"

When the Brit came back from dinner to find him still hidden under the thin piece of furniture, he actually grew a bit worried. It wasn't any of his business what crazy schemes the American's disheveled mind could come up with, but he reasoned with himself that it couldn't have been comfortable under there. Not only that, but from what he saw, Alfred hadn't left all day. He had had nothing to eat at all, and he must have been incredibly dehydrated. Not only that, but he probably had to take a wicked leak. Yes, Arthur thought, Alfred was a rather unique sort indeed. To anyone, he would appear perfectly sane. That is, unless they knew him for more than three days. It seemed that his 'switches', as Francis had so curiously called them occurred over a span of days. The Frenchman had then gone on about how good that was, and that it would make it easier for everyone that they weren't happening every few seconds. The Brit wondered, then, that if Francis was so sure of himself, why had there still been no diagnosis?

He knelt by Alfred's bed, and in the dark, stared at his completely still back. He wasn't sure how long he sat, just staring at him and waiting for a response, but after a while he cleared his throat. This only granted him a twitch.

"Alfred." he said lamely. The American didn't reply. "Alfred, get out from there. You'll catch your death."

All Arthur got from that was a strange hiccuping sound. He wondered if he was crying. With a sigh, he thought about calling for Francis again. In the end, he dismissed that idea. The Frenchman was probably busy, or maybe he had already gone home.

"Alfred." he said again, this time stern instead of gentle and chiding. The blue-eyed blond didn't react, but when Arthur had finally had enough and wondered aloud whether he was dead, he quickly turned, bumping his head painfully in the process.

"Ah, damn." he grunted, shielding his head with his arms. "It's sensitive there, too. Did I hit my head earlier?"

"That's not a place befitting a grown man. Of course you'd hit your head a few times under there. Now get out from there. I'll not have an American corpse lying in my room."

"I'm not a corpse." Alfred defended, scowling at Arthur. Where were his glasses? "Not yet, anyway." he said, sulkily.

Arthur sighed exasperatedly. "Oh, what is this now? So down you think you really will catch your death?"

"Of course not! Under all rights and purposes, I think I've been pretty damn optimistic so far, Limey."

Arthur sputtered. "Limey-"

"Yeah, Limey! And if you didn't have limes for brains, you'd be hiding from them too. Haven't you heard?"

With hands to his temples, Arthur took a moment to compose himself.

"Heard what, exactly?"

"About them."

"Them?"

"Them! Wait... are you one of them? Oh, hell, you are!"

At that, Alfred shrunk even farther into his crevice, breathing erratically and blinking feral eyes at Arthur, who blinked too, a bit less excitedly. Arthur had to peer into the darkness to see Alfred clearly.

"Have you gone mad?" he said. "Oh, wait, of course you have."

Alfred just stared at him with wide, beady eyes. "Yes. We've all gone mad, because of them."

"Of course, of course." Arthur scoffed. "Now Alfred, I'm going to ask you again to get out from there-"

"I don't know who Alfred is, and it would be really, really great it you'd stop talking!" the American cried, wrapping arms around himself with a sniffle.

Arthur, for about three minutes, comprehended what Alfred just said, then slowly leaned down so that he was closer to the American's level.

"You're Alfred." he said slowly, and Alfred just shook his head. "Look," Arthur said, "it would be really nice if you lost just a bit of your lunacy and came out from there for a moment. If I'm uncomfortable kneeling here, I can't imagine how you must feel. You've been there all day."

That was the point when Alfred stopped talking. After a while, he turned around once again so that his filthy back was facing Arthur.

Arthur took a moment to stare at that back, coated with dust, dirt, and the crushed corpses of insects. He grimaced before standing, and Alfred allowed himself a sigh of relief.

The sigh of relief was short-lived, though, as before he knew it, his shield was being ripped away from him. He screamed, and Arthur winced at the sound combined with the screeching of the bed against the floor.

"Oh, shut up!" he cried, and surprisingly, Alfred did as he was told. He looked like he had just seen a ghost, and both of his hands were tightly covering his mouth, perhaps in an effort to keep any screams from escaping. His shoulders shook and small streams were leaking from his eyes, but he was silent, and for that Arthur was grateful. "What has gotten into you?" he said, breathing deeply. Since when were the beds so heavy? He felt a tickling sensation at his back, and he heard static.

Alfred sniffled and removed his hands, leaning up and feebly trying to drag the bed back to where it was.

"No!" Arthur scolded, as if Alfred were a misbehaving dog. Alfred's reaction was amusing as well, for he whined and shrunk away like just that.

They stared at each other, Alfred with terrified, half-lidded eyes, and Arthur with furious, vivid greens. Then, slowly, Alfred sat up, stared at Arthur a bit more, then stood. The Brit watched him cautiously as he padded across the room, crying silently all the while. His eyes widened when Alfred moved to the door, trying the knob but finding it to only jiggle uselessly in his hands.

"It's locked." he whimpered.

"So it is." Arthur replied.

"Can you unlock it?"
"I'm afraid I don't have the key." he said sarcastically, but apparently this Alfred didn't have a sense of humor.

"Oh..." Alfred said, turning again, but this time, when he moved to walk, here was a startling crunch. He blinked and lifted his foot from where it fell, looking confusedly at the crushed thing on he ground. "Those." he said lamely, gazing at the crushed frame and lenses of his glasses. The glass was completely ground to dust in places, a silvery, sharp dust, sinking into grains of wood. The frames were bent at strange angles, too, and it was obvious that they were completely out of commission.

"Oh, no." Arthur sighed. "Now you're annoying and blind!"

"They aren't mine, though." Alfred said bemusedly.

"Alfred..." Arthur said, approaching him slowly. The American flinched away from him. "Alfred," he said again, "you look as though you've just emerged from a forest fire, covered in ash. And there's simply no way you're alright, having been under there all day. Go to sleep. I'll get Francis or someone to help you in the morning, alright?"

Slowly, Alfred nodded and shuffled to his bed, dirtying the bare mattress as he reclined and ruffling the threadbare blanket. Arthur, bewildered, listened to him cry quietly for a while before eventually falling asleep. After that, he slipped under his own limp blanket and turned away from the odd display.

It was funny how at first, Arthur thought that, out of the two of them, he'd be the one viewed as odd. When he'd first met him, he'd considered Alfred pretty level-headed, if a bit flighty. Yet, he felt like he himself was becoming far more wise than many of the other patients, Alfred included. He wondered if he'd be able to leave soon. Maybe there would be no need for Ivan, and maybe there would be no need to end his life.

"Who are you? Your hair is long. Are you one of them?" Alfred murmured, tense as he was dragged through corridor after corridor by Francis.

"Non, I am a friend." Francis said crisply. "Now come along, you strange man. I need you to fill out some paperwork."

Once again, the American tried to jerk his hand away from Francis' wiry arms. Surprisingly, though, the Frenchman had a stronger grip than what was expected. He himself was rather proud of it, and he chalked it up to carrying around several cases of walking disarray. Yes, he decided, sometimes, it was like carrying five crying toddlers at once. Quite the exercise.

"Paperwork." Alfred tested the work on his tongue. "Paperwork, hm? It that what you call torture nowadays? I ain't buying it, Frenchie. I may not be able to see you and your gross face, but I sure can hear you, and you sound evil. You're one of them, don't deny it."

"Honestly, you've been spending too much time with Arthur. He's putting strange ideas into your head."

Francis stopped in front of a thin mahogany door, opening it with a push and bringing light to his office. He took pride in the fact that it always, for some reason, smelled of flowers. With a glance to his desk, he reminded himself that he would need to water his lilacs later, lest he face the wrath of Matthew. They were a gift, after all.

Forcefully, he pushed Alfred down into the chair adjacent to his. He sat with a flourish, unsurprised when the American darted upright and bolted for the door.

"Ha! You all are so vain, thinking I can't open a door, and-" the handle only jiggled limply, signaling that it was locked.

"Ah yes, the locked door. Quite handy around here, I must say." Francis lilted. Alfred turned with his head hanging down and sat in the chair that creaked with his weight.

"So," Francis said, retrieving a paper with simply written phrases. "first you're a stubborn yank, then you're an adorable child, and now you're... this. Alfred, what even is this?"

"What's what? And I'm not Alfred."

"You're Alfred. And what's this? This stigma, this personality, if you will. Tell me, are you in there?" he leaned across his desk to knock a fist gently against Alfred's forehead, as if he was hesitantly jabbing at a door. When all Alfred did was blink, Francis came to the conclusion that nobody was home. "Tell me, do you know where you are? And does the name Matthew mean anything to you?"

Alfred squirmed in his seat and decided to gaze determinedly at the crinkling pot of lilacs. They were a sweet lavender, and he thought they smelled nice. Obviously, they were a clever ruse to lure out his feelings of comfort. He knew, however, that he simply would not be bested. No, he was too clever.

"I"m being held captive in some dangerous facility." he answered bluntly, deciding to bite the bullet and simultaneously shoot the man in the face. Yes, surely, it would surprise them that he knew their master plan. He was practically giddy with just how greatly he was weaving through the obstacles.

All Francis did was click his tongue.

"Alright." he sighed. "For now, then, just... write these simple phrases."

Alfred accepted the paper and glanced at the words written. How strange, he thought. Perhaps it was some alien reading device? Nevertheless, he played along and began to write the words in a neat, curvy string that never ended.

"If you're not Alfred, then who are you?" the American glanced up from his writing, before gazing at the paper once again.

"That is classified information."

Francis wanted to laugh.

It seemed that the world was set to conspire against him that day. And not only was it determined to plot a never-ending sea of problems his way, but it also seemed hellbent on gifting him with the sourest of headaches and the driest lack of letters in his post box.

Francis had not heard from Matthew for at least a week. Of course, that caused ailment to his mood, and normally he'd be willing to push it aside. He was the gracious sort of person that understood how heartfelt declarations of endless love took time, and he understood that, surely, the ickle Canadian was fine alone in his extravagant abode. Still, he found that it always made him snap a bit easier.

That morning, not only did he have to deal with the strange enigma that was called Alfred F. Jones, but upon delivering the paranoid American back to his room, he was faced with a nasty kick to the groin and gaudy laughter to match. Or perhaps it was a punch. Either way, Arthur had surprising strength when it came to harming people.

Alfred, as expected, had written the simple, easy phrases differently than he had before. Instead of his messy scrawl, the lilt comparable to chicken-scratch, this new, terrified Alfred wrote in a much neater fashion. This time, the curls of his penmanship resembled that of a twisting unit of ivy instead of the clawmarks of a rabid feline. In fact, it was a cursive worthy of being an old scribe. Impressive, to say in the least, and Francis would have complimented it had Alfred not spat on his desk right after.

That led him to dragging him, once again, through rancid corridor to slightly stinky corridor, and into plain hallway that was his section. Yes, the Frenchman was also quite proud of his neck of the building. Not only was it more sanitary than the others, it was also a lot more... bearable, in all senses of the word. For example, he was not the anxious wreck that was Wang Yao, the man whose spirit had left his Kiku Honda. Nor was he the false smile of Antonio, and he certainly wasn't the murderous aura of Ivan Braginski. Francis Bonnefoy prided himself in the way that he knew how to handle people. All people. And those people didn't hate him. He was happy that he was able to make a difference, and that half of his patients didn't end up dead or with missing teeth. Of course, he'd never admit to his gaudiness and say that that was partially the patients' doing.

As it were, when he finally made it to the door of Arthur Kirkland and Alfred Jones, he was lost in thought with the American's warm arm caught in his grip. Perhaps, since he had been doing so well, lately, he could indulge in a visit to Matthew. Some voluntary time off, he could say.

He was snapped out of his reverie when it felt as if is midsection was imploding upon itself thanks to the swift kick of Arthur's heel.

"Merde-" he nearly sobbed, sinking to his knees and clutching at what he considered the most important part of his body.

Alfred watched as the man from before, the limey, broke into a sprint down the stairs just to his left – or was it right? He couldn't be sure, he could hardly see the door. The blur that was Arthur dashed down, and his footfalls were loud, awakening as he clambered away. Francis made a breathy sound on the ground, and suddenly... Alfred got an idea. As the clambering steps faded and grew far, far, down, down, he thought that Arthur wasn't one of them. Of course, he and his beady green eyes were as desperate to escape their torturous clutches as he was. He and his voice of the Thames and his face as pale as the London sky, he wanted to go home. Alfred wasn't sure of how this epiphany struck him, but suddenly, he found that he, too, was bolting down the stairs, falling over his own feet and his own curses, stumbling over his downward obstacle. The sound of Arthur's escape was long gone, and down the stairwell Alfred went, mimicking it to the best of his ability.

Dread settled in his middle when he heard louder sounds, booming, staggering footsteps that roared after him like an unruly beast. Wait for me, he wanted to call, I don't want them to kill me either, but when he finally reached the bottom or the stairs, and when his arms were finally seized, he watched in horror as his only ally was restrained so close to his goal.

Arthur struggled and flailed, and his valiant efforts were for naught, his kicking and screaming was all for nothing. Alfred watched, still, stricken, and restrained, as fat tears raced down his reddening cheeks, and as his big green eyes never left the open doors of the lobby. They matched the grass, Alfred realized. They and their white highlights were sisters to the bushes and the white camellias, and his ambition to live was as keen as the sky.

"That was the greatest thing I have ever seen." Alfred whispered fervently, staring Arthur in the face. The Brit gave him an odd look, and he hupped, turning on his side and away from the American's prying eyes. His shoulders wouldn't stop quaking, and by that time it was immensely irritating. What was done was done. He failed yet again, and surely, within a few weeks time, he would die.

"Hey, hey, really..." Alfred said, and Arthur heard him bounce in place. The American was sat directly next to Arthur's bed, less then a foot away from his face. It was far too close for comfort.

"Really!" Alfred repeated. "That was so great. Wow. I really look up to you. Ha, I mean, you kicked him where it hurt! And, wow. I'm sorry I thought you were one of them. Should have realized that these rooms are where they keep us captive. But- but- wow!"

Arthur groaned and covered his head with his useless blanket.

"Hey, I get that you're sad you didn't get out, but we'll get another chance. I'll help this time! I bet I'm stronger than you. I could probably knock at least three people out with one throw of my fist. Like, bang!"

Stronger than him, indeed. Even through the blanket, he could see just how thin Arthur was. Quietly he wondered how on Earth he had managed to defeat Francis with a mere fling of his socked foot, and he came to the conclusion that underneath that fluffy accent and pale skin, Arthur was pure determination. That and a bit of tea, probably.

"Like bang." Arthur repeated from under his blanket. "Yes, like bang. If you don't leave me alone, I'll kick you like I did Francis. Like, bang."

Alfred flinched.

"Now, I don't want any trouble. But really, you couldn't kick me. Like I said, I'm stronger! And anyway, I really will help you."

Arthur just grunted and stayed quiet, deaf to all of Alfred's yammering.

Francis thought himself a coward. After three days of bed rest and space between himself and certain manic Brit, he had returned to the hell that was his workplace. At least, he reasoned, he was with Matthew, the light to his life that glowed the color of maple syrup. Yes, it took three days to recuperate. It wasn't his fault that Arthur had a mean kick, and nor was it his fault when he arrived to find his office in absolute shreds.

"Merde." he uttered for the second time that week. He stared at the ceiling, hoping it would go away, but it didn't. No, it did the opposite of that.

From the shadows, a tall figure emerged, and the Frenchman heard himself squeak out the last of his manly pride.

Ivan Braginski was a monster of a man. He and his sticky muffler and his sand-colored hair stood there, in that giant white coat of his, smiling at Francis with sugar on his lips. His hands were clasped behind his back, and his eyes were slivers of midnight. He stepped forward, crushing part of what used to be a clay pot for a certain bunch of lilacs, and strode past Francis with the smile plastered to his face. His hulking shoulder bumped the Frenchman's, and he didn't miss the tremble that went through him. His smile turned into a smirk, and he left the ruined office.

Francis stood in place as the door shut behind him. After what was probably about half an hour, he sighed and toed inside, careful not to step on anything. The flowers were ruined. The baby violet petals were ripped from their bases, and the stems were twisted and squeezed until they suffocated. All of his papers were strewn about, ripped, some of them with filthy, sticky footprints adorning them.

The blond considered himself a kind soul, and he didn't often become angry. However, he could not deny the set in his jaw at the tattered flowers, and his eyes did not miss the neat little note set upon his upturned desk.

Good evening, comrade.

Francis found that, in the time he had been gone, a lot had changed. It seemed that, unbeknownst to him, the asylum in itself was a domain, a place to be reckoned with between himself and Ivan. He, frankly, thought that Ivan should sooner be a patient than a surgeon.

On that day that he returned, Francis slowly began to hate himself. It started with the revelation of finding Arthur alone in his room, sleeping. At first, this was nothing new, and he hardly noticed the fact that Alfred was missing. After cleaning his office to the best of his abilities, he had taken a cool syringe in hand and set off to find the Brit. The drug that was insulin sloshed about in the syringe, and Francis scowled. He thought the treatment was awful. Not as bad as that dreaded surgery, which the world seemed to be praising to no end, but still. Injecting a chemical of sugar into that of a mind-addled man just seemed pointless. Sure, there were small bits of proof that it did help on occasion, and he should feel lucky that Arthur was not comatose, but all the same, it didn't feel right with him. Not only that, but the chemical was incredibly expensive.

The Frenchman sauntered into the room and knelt next to the sleeping Arthur, only slightly happy at seeing his familiar face. Of course, he harbored resentment for him. After all, the Brit quite possibly could have disabled him from ever having children – not that that was of concern. Still, the fact remained that he had been out of work for three days thanks to a single kick.

Gingerly, he moved aside the blanket, and with an incredible precision, he pulled away the sleeve of Arthur's pajamas. The usual faded pinpricks greeted him, but he had to do a double-take. Along with them, there were the tell-tale whispers of gray bruises.

As if he was burned, Francis dropped the fabric and simply blinked at the bruises. He stared, and stared, and stared. Bruises, and, in far more extreme cases, open wounds were not uncommon. He was just surprised to see them on Arthur. Arthur, the small, but not too small Brit, with the green eyes and the scowl, one of the most well-behaving patients, with the exception of his rebellious streaks. Someone had beaten that patient, the one with the little freckles and the bursting eyebrows.

Francis' jaw set and his eyes flew to the empty bed of Alfred.

Completely forgetting to give Arthur his daily dose, Francis bolted from the room. He didn't even bother to shut the door in his haste.

Alfred was in the garden, napping on a bench. Francis, purely enraged, strode over to him in what might have been considered stomps. Grass pulled from the earth with his weight, and when Francis reached the American, he gripped him harshly by his shirt and yanked him into a sitting position.

The American's eyes flew open and he shielded himself with his hands.

"Oh, no! You're back! Does that mean they're gonna kill me? Ah, gee, I hope Artie gets away-"

"Shut up, Alfred!" Francis cried hysterically. Alfred obeyed, but looked around nervously at the attention they were gathering. Many of the other patients were looking their way, some even taking the time to wander over to them.

"I told you that if you gave him any harm, I would have your head, and now you've done the same to him that you did Matthew! I will not tolerate this behavior, and I-"

"Shh!" Alfred hissed, waving his hands about. He kept peering over Francis' shoulder, but as the Frenchman was used to such situations, he stayed withing Alfred's line of vision.

"No, I will not! Arthur may have his problems, but you have no right to- to torment him so-"

"A good day to you all." Ivan chirped, neatly stepping into the conversation. Francis halted his tirade, and Alfred just looked pointedly at Francis. The monstrous man's creamy muffler swayed behind him in a distracting dance, and his fringe bounced with his steps. He smiled a sick smile. "Lovely sun today. Back home we have no sun. Only cold. Lovely day, yes?"

Alfred sat stiffly on his bench, and Francis looked down at him with frozen eyes. It was as if the two of them were having a mental conversation consisting of prayers that the large man would leave.

"Ah, well," Ivan said, patting Francis a bit too hard on the shoulder. "It would be shameful of you to take any more time off. As you see, this place needs you and your kindness. And," he looked rather imploringly at Alfred, who shrunk. "And, as you have seen, some of your precious patients have gotten a little out of hand in your off time. It is disappointing, the way they rely on you, comrade."

At that, Francis was put at a terrible ease, and his eyes sparked Alfred's way. The American shrunk more. Oh, if looks could kill...

Alfred actually took Francis' anger rather well. His eyes simply followed the man's smaller frame, pacing his office and speaking loudly with animated hand gestures. In fact, half the time, he couldn't even understand him, as Francis seemed to have a recurring habit of breaking into furious French. The American sat glumly in his off-balance chair, gripping the seat with his sweaty palms.

"That is final." the Frenchman growled, and as he had broken into French, Alfred had no idea what was so final.

"What is?" he asked dumbly.

"Were you not listening to me? You will get your own room, so that you will not harm anyone, and-"

"Whoa, hey!" Alfred exclaimed, accidentally swinging his foot and stepping on a crushed lilac. "What did I even do?" he cried, leaning forward in his seat. Francis narrowed his eyes until they were little blue crescents.

"I know that a little part of you knows what you did."

Alfred huffed. "Alright. For one, this anger does not suit you. At all. You're the sort of person I expect to see flaunting about in a silky robe with embroidered roses, not yelling in my face for something I didn't do. And by the way, your breath smells like garlic."

At that, Francis started pacing again, like an agitated mother hen.

"My anger does not suit me, hah! And yours does, I presume? I wouldn't be surprised if this was all some sort of ruse to hide the fact that you become giddy from harming other people! Yes, I know how it is, ever since I have left Europe and joined the crowd of all these raucous Americans, it has just been prejudice after prejudice, and you people are all so condescending! Tell me, why is it that you do not strike the face? Do you not want people to see that you- you-"

"Frankie!" bellowed a voice from behind, and Francis noticed just then his door closing behind Antonio. Alfred just sat quietly in his seat and stared at the tattered flowers on the ground.

"What! What is it?" Francis cried hysterically.

Antonio stepped into the room with confident steps, and when he reached Francis' scraped up desk, he slammed his hands harshly onto the splintery surface. It seemed that that day was a day of uncharacteristic anger.

"This is not like you." said the Spanish man sullenly.

Francis bristled and sat in his chair.

"Why? So suddenly, because I defend innocent people, I-"

"No. It is not like you to be this way. You are on edge, and I think it has something to do with a terrible parasite this place seems to have contracted."

Alfred shifted away from Antonio, as the man seemed to be radiating a cold aura. Francis just glared at his colleague with indifference.

"It's not like you to use big words, Toni." he remarked blandly.

"Si, that is because I'm as tense as you, if not more. I don't know what makes you think you can assume the worst, but Alfred didn't do anything except hide under his bed."

When Antonio tried to place a tan hand atop Alfred's shoulder, the American shrugged him off.

"It's the only safe place there is around here." he piped up somberly, but was silenced at Francis' furious glare.

"He hasn't switched at all since you left, and I know for a fact I've seen Ivan going into patients' rooms at odd hours of the night. Arthur has been having many fits, and with you not here, it's daunting to try and calm him. All he does is cling to Alfred like a security blanket. We've tried asking him what's happening, but he doesn't answer, and neither do any other patients."

"But Toni," Francis argued, "the bruises, they looked just like the ones on Matthew, I-"

"Frankie."

"Don't call me that awful name! You haven't seen- I mean, there's no way for you to know-"

"I've seen more than you have."

Alfred was beginning to feel out of place. In his little creaking chair, he began swinging his legs to pass the time, and in his head he sang a little song.

"Well, what is it then? Is he just creeping into the rooms and beating our patients for no good reason?"

Antonio ducked his head, and found that he could no longer look Francis in the eyes. Both the Frenchman and Alfred thought that seeing such a normally cheerful person become somber was disheartening.

"Have you not heard the stories? The ones in other places, of patients killing each other? Not only patients, but doctors, too? They find them buried in the ground, and in some cases, they have to hunt for the dismembered parts. I know that this place has been safer than others, but I swear to you that Ivan will never do anything good here."

Francis casually wiped away a sheen of angry sweat from his forehead. He leaned back in his chair, and it creaked more than Alfred's.

"How morbid of you." he drawled.

"I am onto something, and you know it. Do not think badly of me, but I've been following Ivan at night. So far, we've kept this place safe, but in our search for a surgeon, I think we've recruited a maniac."

Francis sat up again.

"You've been following him?"

"Yes, I have. He has been going into Arthur's room, Feliciano's room, and, strangely, Kiku's vacant room. So far, he has no assignments that require him to do so. Also, Toris has gone missing."

"And all of this happened since I was gone."

Toni nodded. Alfred stared at the flowers on the floor. At least, he reasoned, they seemed to caught up in their conversation to make an attempt on his life. He began kicking his feet again.

"And Feliciano?"

"He received a physical just the other day. He's got the same bruises. Ivan got him his own room, and he's no longer with Ludwig."

Francis picked up a pencil and began to chew on it. Perhaps it was in thought, or perhaps his nerves got the best of him.

"And Arthur has not said anything?"

Toni shook his head.

"No. He's either having a fit, or he's silent. It worries me. The only person I see him talk to is Alfred."

At that, Francis turned to the American in question. Alfred immediately perked up and blinked, shoulders stiff and jaw squared.

"Do you know anything?" Francis asked slowly.

Alfred turned his head to the side.

"About what?"

"About Ivan."

"Is he the tall one?"

"Yes, he's the tall one."

"Oh, him. Well, I know that he kind of smells like old potatoes, and that he wants to kill me just like the rest of you."

Francis glared.

"Oh, come off that already. Have you seen him coming into your room at night?"

Quirking an eyebrow, Alfred shook his head no.

Escorting Alfred back to his room was a tense affair. Francis had stayed in his office to think, and honestly, Antonio didn't blame him. He had had some thinking to do himself, most of which involved staring at his tomato plant and cursing Ivan's name.

Alfred was surprisingly willing, something he hadn't been in a while. Most of anything that involved taking him somewhere was done dragging him by the arm and yelling at him to shut up. That time, though, he just walked by Antonio's side with his eyes on the floor.

It was when they left the stinky corridor that things began to go awry.

As a black spider skittered into a crevice near the ceiling, both Alfred and Antonio could hear the shrieks from far away. Antonio hurried his steps, and Alfred was forced to keep up with him. The sounds got louder and louder, and soon they were nearly jogging. Antonio didn't seem to care that their hurried pace might bother some of the patients, because he knew, just as the devil spoke, the voice that was doing the screaming.

To his surprise, Alfred actually began to run, flying ahead of Antonio down the corridors as if he knew where he was going. The Spanish man huffed and puffed to keep up, but it was useless. He didn't think it would be worth much effort, anyhow, as he reasoned that the American was simply following the shouts.

That was confirmed when, with the effort of a left turn, he found Alfred barreling straight into Ivan. The hulking man was forced against the wall with a bang, and suddenly Antonio grew nervous when Arthur raced down the stairs. He berated himself for being so stupid, and immediately followed behind the speedy Brit. He did still manage a bitter glare to Ivan, however, who was actually struggling against Alfred's rivaling strength.

In his descent, Toni heard Ivan shout something in a peculiar language, then he heard a bang. He didn't bother to check what it was, however, when he gripped Arthur by the back of his shirt collar.

The blond-haired Brit struggled pathetically, and Antonio was stricken. Usually, it was rather hard to contain him. He didn't look it, but in his small package, he packed a lot of strength. So why was it that he was so weak?

"Let me go!" he shouted, but Antonio dragged him back up the stairs. When he returned to their floor, Ivan was unconscious on the ground with a bleeding nose, while Alfred was panting with blood on his hand. No one was sure what to do. Francis, Antonio, Arthur, and even a few straggling nurses stared at the display with eyes the size of dinner plates, some of them gaping. Ivan, on the floor, made a pathetic sound, and a small, hanging droplet of crimson fell from Alfred's knuckle. The sound of the blood tapping the tile could almost be heard throughout the entire corridor.

Before the hall could break into an uproar, Arthur took Alfred harshly by the elbow and dragged him into their room without a word.

Nothing got better. It should have occurred to Antonio that, in a place such as an asylum, any sort of solace or peace was short-lived, and any chaos or disorder would stay stagnant for a long, long time.

A day after Ivan had been attended to, only a single, measly day after that incident, the Spanish man had tiredly lurked into his office, hanging his head and hardly managing a smile at his beloved tomatoes or beautiful painting. Lovino, in his scowling, ever-present painting form, just glared at him as if he was the worst person in the world. Toni sighed as he sat, stretching, only to blink at an oddly pristine paper on his desk.

With reluctant hands, he picked it up, and it flourished in the air. His eyes slowly scanned the sheet, and, ever-so-slowly, they widened. It was the final, dancing signature of Francis that made an unfamiliar tension settle in his bones, and it was that same spinning line of ink that made him want to tear his hair out and lash out at thin air.

It seemed that, as Francis was rather sharp, he saw to it that Antonio get a neat, nice, exact copy of his resignation letter.

Slowly, the Spanish man settled his head atop his desk. He thought of repeatedly banging it against the wood, then got rid of the idea. What good would that do? No good, that's what. No good whatsoever, without a colorful Frenchman to chastise him for it.

Feliciano breathed in dry, chilly air, and after those stale breaths, he laughed giddily. Moisture clung to his legs through the soft, comforting feel of his white pajamas, and he sat on the grass with a smile adorning his face that stretched his muscles to where they shouldn't go. Ludwig sat with him, as he always had, watching him with those icicle eyes as he laughed to himself. Underneath his weight, his legs began to fall asleep, so he moved until he was sitting on his bum in front of the rose bush.

"Look, Ludwig! Look!" he said, and his voice matched his smile. Slowly, the blond nodded in acknowledgment, but didn't say anything more.

Dead petals, or rather, crushed remnants of it fluttered uselessly onto the damp grass. Feli kneaded them in his hands as if their entire being was nothing more than the dough used to make his precious pasta. His burly German friend picked his own rose, and with a single clenching of his fist, it disintegrated into the grass. Feliciano applauded.

"Oh, wow! Lud, you're so strong! How are you so strong, ve? Tell me your secret! I want to know, I want to know!" he cried, clapping his hands all the while. Ludwig only smiled.

"I guess it's just a flower, but still! I can't do that!"

Feli picked his own whole rose and readied it in his palm. With a deep, steady breath, he clenched a weak fist, only succeeding in tearing off some petals with a nasty sound.

"Aw, see? It actually kind of hurts, ve, it poked me." he murmured forlornly. Ludwig took the dead bloom from his hand, shaking off the debris it shed from the rough treatment, before putting it in the buttonhole of Feli's pajama top. With an unreadable expression, he leaned forward and, with unexpected softness, he kissed Feliciano atop his head. The young Italian giggled.

Ivan, perched on his bench, the one no one seemed to use whose wood always felt like a pile of bones, watched the scene play out from afar. In his lap, he twiddled his thick, calloused fingers, calculating.

Arthur's rose, too, died over time. Normally, at about the hour of the day it happened to be, he would have been napping. However, when he tried to find slumber, he found that something roused him. In the orange evening light, his eyes had creaked open, and he had breathed in the fabric of his pillow. It caught on his inhales, but his eyes stayed locked upon the bloom.

The noise that had woken him, strangely enough, was the crackling sound of a petal leaving the center of its own accord. Of course, this happened often enough in nature, but it was rather hard to see it occur in a still life sort of manner. His hand clutched his sheets, and he quietly sighed.

He wished Alfred still snored in his condition. The disruptive sound probably would have helped him sleep. Now, though, the American always managed to sleep silently.

Suddenly, Arthur found himself wishing that Francis hadn't taken the day off. If his one other acquaintance was going to not be himself in the slightest, even if that American was a bit of a git in nature, then he wished he at least had someone to talk about.

Arthur picked up the rose and held it above his head. It was weak, frail. Holding the dead flower almost felt like holding a fragile corpse.

Arthur learned the hard way that the new paranoid Alfred was also a lot more violent. He may have seemed calm and collected, like a somber, bittersweet soldier who wished he was anywhere other than where he was, but in reality, he was a ticking time bomb. Arthur felt he should have expected as much. A stable man doesn't normally consider hiding in unsanitary places a hobby. Francis – and oh, there he went thinking of the frog again – had said that this odd Alfred had beautiful penmanship. On several accounts, Arthur had seen that what he considered to be Alfred's truly arrogant identity write in something similar to chicken scratch. The concept was amusing, to say in the least. Arthur wondered what would happen when he switched again and found himself with a distinct lack of spectacles. The paranoid Alfred said they weren't even his, but when Arthur saw him squinting in the garden, he knew that was a blatant lie.

As it were, they were sitting calmly in the garden, listening to the crows sob. It was the usual activity that occurred on a day-to-day basis, minus the presence of Francis. Rather, Arthur was sitting stoically on the bench, while Alfred was sprawled out in the grass.

"Quite the vulnerable position you're in, Alfred." Arthur chided, not meaning it seriously in the least.

Of course, Alfred immediately sat up on the defense.

"Right you are, Limey." he said quickly. "My mistake. Your mistake, too. My name isn't Alfred."

"Yes it is, Alfred."

The American only huffed and began idly picking grass.

"If you're so hellbent on me calling you your real name, you should call me by mine. I don't enjoy being called a limey, you know."

"But you are a limey." Alfred defended.

"And you're Alfred." Arthur shot back, and at that, Alfred groaned.

After a bout of silence, Arthur shut his eyes.

"The roses are dying, Alfred."

"So they are, Limey."

Arthur tutted, and his eye twitched.

"Are you simply here to take everything I say and throw it right back at me?" he asked drolly. Alfred grinned.

"Nah, that's part of the experience."

And so it stayed like that a while, the crows cackling and the two blonds bickering. Soon, patients began to file inside, one by one, to avoid any traffic or complications. They learned from a bored nurse that it was time for dinner, and that they would, of course, be serving stew. This was no surprise, because stew really meant brown slop. Oddly enough, Arthur liked the slop well enough.

They sat together, as was the alternating custom, and Arthur quietly ate his food while Alfred just stared at his disapprovingly.

Alfred never liked that room. The seats felt like they were made of hot metal, and the meandering chatter was ceaseless, like a metronome. It rubbed him the wrong way, and made him wince. Not to mention, the foul smell of the food and the people. Not only did it irk him, it often made him feel sick.

That was why, when a cruel patient with an awkward smile and pasty pajamas pushed Arthur off his chair in a rather comical way and then mockingly said sorry, as if that was all his sense of humor added up to, Alfred approached him without delay and swung his fist into his jaw. Arthur simply watched from his new seat on the floor, not sure how to react.

The one sure thing, though, was that he was happy to see that mocking smile crushed.

For once in his life, Arthur was glad for the asylum's obsession with caring as little as possible. Or rather, for the vast majority of it, anyway. Of course, people like Francis and Antonio cared, but the rest couldn't care less about a rooming arrangement.

That was why, even though the American could obviously be dangerous, no one bothered to get him away from Arthur, who most certainly was not, they thought. Arthur was glad for this. Not because he had a likeness for Alfred, considering that was a rather hard thing to have, as Alfred was many, many things. No, it was because he couldn't bother to waste away alone again. At least, if Alfred was around, he'd have entertainment. Although it was an odd sort of entertainment, watching a clumsy, near-sighted man have battles with himself day after day, the fact remained that it was something to busy himself with. The company was nice, too. Or rather, it was only nice when Alfred was being somewhat bearable.

Ivan dubbed himself a kind man. When he would sit in his office and write busy work, scribbling down nonsense names and planning appointments, documenting, researching, and everything in between, he got to thinking.

The foreign man with the heart made of ice sat along in his office, day after day, because even if others were forced to speak to him about work matters, they would avoid him. Often, documents were merely slid under his door, as if he was nothing but an unruly beast ready to lash out at them. Perhaps, he thought, with wan humor, that was exactly what he was. All Ivan had to do was smile, and the world would tremble before him. That, of course, had its benefits, but it was also a little saddening. The pale man prided himself in being rather experienced in his line of work, and it was often insulting how no one seemed to take that part of him seriously. No, no one sought to make a decent reputation for Ivan. All he was, according to the rumors, was a maniac, sent from a frozen wasteland to perform everything short of a miracle. People talked of his habits of sneaking into patients' rooms at night, and, as Ivan signed his name onto yet another document, he shook his head, having absolutely no idea what they were talking about.

With a huff, he nursed the bruise that painted his jaw a sickly purple.

The roses were willed away the same day that everyone learned of Francis' resignation. If Arthur was going to be a sap about it, he'd say that their old, fraying bodies were washed away with the bitter wind. However, in reality, he was simply watching glumly as Antonio hacked away at them, occasionally tripping over a dead root.

"Is there any reason for you to look like you're fighting your way through intense jungle overgrowth?" he chastised lightly from his spot in the grass. The Spanish man gave him a dull look, and continued on with his task.

"Is there any reason why you're not over here helping me? I just don't like the thorns!"

Arthur grinned sourly.

"Yes, great idea. Give the lunatic a knife."

At that, Toni groaned uselessly and uprooted the heart of a bush. Arthur pulled his knees to his chest and simply watched the meager source of entertainment. Normally, he would be distracted by Alfred, but the American happened to be elsewhere at that moment. Bored, Arthur began to tie knots into the grass.

"You know," Antonio said, flinging up a pile of roots and soil, "this is really pretty sad. I liked these roses."

Arthur didn't answer for a moment. He merely concentrated on tying the knot in the grass until it was taut. When the strand broke in half, though, he sighed and dropped it back into its bed.

"Yes, so did I, but they died. What more is there to do?" he asked, and when he said it, he wasn't looking at Antonio, but at the grass.

"Nothing, I guess." shrugged the lax man. "But I mean, when something dies, it's alright to be sad, si?"

"That depends on what has died." muttered Arthur. He picked up two more pieces of grass, and they ripped from the soil with a tiny, unnoticed sound. Sniffing the cold, muggy air, he set about tying them into a knot.

When Arthur returned to his room, he was faced with bright blue eyes that were bigger than they should have been.

"Oh, Eyebrows!" Alfred exclaimed, ambling up to the Brit the moment he entered the room. "I am so. Bored."

Arthur blinked and held up a hand to stop the American's invasion of his personal space.

"Uh..."

"But, hey, why am I in the hospital again? No one ever told me. I still think it's some really weird school. It was raining earlier and there were a lot of people yelling outside. Oh, where have you been? I've been really, really bored. I tried to read your books, but they have big words and kind of smell like old milk. Were you with Francis? He smells like old milk, too. Is he with Mattie-"

"Alfred." Arthur sighed exasperatedly.

"Yeah, that's my name. Pretty great, right? Were you outside in the rain? That's bad, Arthur! You could get sick! I once got sick in the rain. Mattie had to drag me back home. Poor thing, he was only six-"

Arthur kicked Alfred lightly in the shin, as was habit.

"Ow!" he squeaked, before righting himself. "Ow, as in, I mean, ha! That didn't hurt. Heh. But uh. Why'd you kick me?"

"Because your mouth moves faster than your mind." Arthur said sweetly, patting him on the head as if he was a thoughtless puppy. He then weaved around Alfred, ducking under an arm that had been raised for enthusiastic hand gestures, and fell into his bed. "Now, if you don't mind, I have been out in that muggy weather all day. I swear, you Americans have it so easy in that regard... still, I'm rather tired, and you'll have to excuse me."

He was grateful for the silence that followed that statement. With a pleasurable sigh, Arthur buried his head in his pillow, tickling his cheeks with his lashes, and breathing out warm little gusts of air. He seemed to just melt into the mattress, like it was made of clouds, of feathers, of a lot of other soft things. His thoughts faded into a blissful emptiness, and soon he was faced with the familiar feeling of falling asleep. Of their own accord, his hands grabbed the blankets, and he felt like he was falling. Everything was so, so comfortable. Far too comfortable. He reminded himself that his mattress was about as flat as a board, and that his blanket had the thickness of paper. Yes, this was the kind of comfort the universe gave to those who had to lose it seconds later. It was the kind of warmth that came with falling asleep in one's nice, warm bed, only to realize that they left the sink running.

With hopes that he would be able to keep the comfortable spot, he cracked open his eyes to observe the room. There was the cracked ceiling, the dead rose, the corpse of a spider on the floor, the sobbing Alfred- ah, yes, the sobbing Alfred. That was the issue.

Apathetically, he blinked in his bed as he watched a grown man's lip tremble, and he listened to him sniffle. It was almost adorable. Almost.

"For fuck's sake..." he grumbled, sitting up.

"That's a bad word!" Alfred cried, stuck in a tizzy. He stubbornly wiped at the tears racing down his face with the cuff of his sleeve, and sniffled once again.

Arthur almost felt a little bad for cursing in front of someone who was mentally ten years old. However, he was well aware of nineteen-year-old Alfred's tendency to do it himself, so he didn't bother. When all Arthur did was sit and stare at him, Alfred began to grow embarrassed.

"Aren't you going to ask why I'm crying?" he said pathetically. His voice sounded so small.

"Why are you crying?"

"Because... because I've been alone in here all day! And when I thought you came back to keep me company, you just want to sleep..." he said, trailing off.

Arthur wanted to laugh. He didn't, though, to humor Alfred just a little. Instead, he pinched the bridge of his nose and counted to ten.

"And!" Alfred piped up, hiccuping, but nevertheless keeping his voice louder than necessary. "And I still don't know why I'm here." he said, sounding weak.

In his hands, Arthur clutched his blanket, sighing an airy sigh.

"Stop your complaining, then. I'm awake." he said, giving Alfred a blank and slightly patronizing look. The American seemed to shrink under the cold gaze.

Both blonds were quiet for a while, Alfred huffing and wanting to curl in on himself, Arthur slightly amused but mostly annoyed. After that while passed, though, Alfred managed to offer a small smile, peeking through his ridiculous tear tracks.

"Do you still have the rose I gave you?"

Arthur blinked, then looked away with a frown.

"I'm not sure. I won't be getting another one, though."

"Why not? I could get you one! I sneaked the first one in under my shirt."

"No, no, they got rid of the roses..."

"What!" Alfred cried. He seemed to fret over himself for a moment, starting up the tears and sniffles once again, before giving Arthur a desperately questioning look.

"Yes, they did. They were dying with the season. It was dangerous to have such sickly, sharp things in our midst. Antonio is out there cutting the bushes as we speak."

Alfred looked like he wanted to get up and start pacing around the room. That, or sob and scream simultaneously, the former of which he was already doing.

"Today is a bad day! Today is really, really bad day!" he said hysterically.

"They're just roses, Alfred. Don't hurt yourself." Arthur chided sarcastically with a dismissive wave of his hand. Alfred's eyes showed nothing but sadness and desperation.

"Aren't you sad?" he said quietly. "They were really pretty, and I sneaked it in just for you."

Arthur found that, with the somber, dreadful mood of the day, followed by Alfred's stressful outburst, the only answer he could dignify that with was a shrug.

"How old are you, Eyebrows?" Alfred asked the next day, his mood considerably better after getting a night's rest. Arthur mused that the American he had labeled 'paranoid Alfred' had an even harder time sleeping than the original one. So, it did relieve him a little that the younger one seemed more prone to slumber.

"I will not speak to you until you stop calling me that." Arthur said, taking in a gross spoonful of bitter porridge.

"Fiiine. Arthur. How old are you?"

Yes, even though Alfred was in a better mood, that did not make him easier to handle in the slightest. Especially when he was stubbornly refusing his daily dose of breakfast goop and kicking Arthur under the table.

"I'm twenty-three." he murmured, setting his spoon down with a clink. He refused to look up at Alfred or to even gaze around the room, simply because that day was one of those days, the ones in which he had the mentality of a radio that couldn't pick up any signal. His thoughts were the equivalent of static, at least, they were if he only listened to his owl will.

"Wow!" Alfred chirped, and Arthur jumped at the outburst. "Gee, really? I thought you were, uh, sixteen!"

Arthur still didn't look up, but he had the will to frown.

"Really."

"Yeah, really! I mean, you could really pass as sixteen. You're all lanky and short."

"I'm hardly any shorter than you, Alfred. A centimeter, is it?" he said quietly, and when Alfred didn't answer he worried that the American hadn't heard him. "Wait." he said suddenly. "How old are you?"

"Ten!" he said happily, and Arthur would bet a large sum of money that Alfred was splaying his hands out, showing ten fingers. He didn't look up to find out.

"Ten, yes, of course you are. Now, since when were ten-year-olds taller than sixteen-year-olds?"

Once again, Alfred didn't answer that, and Arthur was worried he hadn't heard him. Finally, he looked up, and was relieved to find that nothing blew up in his face. What did strike him as odd, however, was the way Alfred was staring despondently into his porridge.

"That's..." Alfred said. He shook his head, then, and ran a hand through his hair. "I don't..."

And for the rest of his breakfast, Arthur stopped eating. Instead, he watched curiously as Alfred stared into his porridge, because now, he found, he couldn't look down.

"This is... this is so amusing." Antonio said, chuckling. Now that Francis had left, he was temporarily in charge of keeping their section under control. It was basically the same, as the Spanish man and the Frenchman shared a similar personality. The only difference was that, for some reason, everything kind of smelled like tomatoes. Arthur thought the man bathed in tomato juice. All that truly mattered, though, was that it kept its livable demeanor.

Arthur had seen him off that morning, because Alfred, being an early bird, had woken him bright and early, chirping cutely that he had to go for a little while. He had given him a huge, bright smile that seemed a bit odd, but Arthur didn't question it and went back to sleep. The American was escorted to Antonio's office, and although he was thoroughly amused at the American's antics, he constantly held within him an aura of dread. All the same, he could not suppress a smile.

"How do you spell... uh. How do you spell spectacular?"

"It is written on the paper."

"I can't read it. You have weird hand-writing."

"Francis wrote that."

"Francis, huh. Where is he? He touches Artie too much."

And once again, the dread returned. Yes, before his final departure, foreshadowed by his three-day disappearance, the Frenchman had seemed anything but approachable. For him, that was monumental. And coincidentally, Ivan had been fantastically chipper. It made him worry, even more so than he already had been with the issue of Feliciano and Arthur, not to mention several other patients. Now, not only him, but other nurses and wardens reported seeing the large man sneaking around the halls at night. Still, whenever he asked Feliciano, the only answer he got was a lengthy rant about the importance of red paint. Arthur, he was too afraid to ask. The blond had a rather prominent history of concealing anything that was actually important. He had a nasty habit of staying on the sidelines. Not only that, but he was stubborn to boot. Antonio didn't even want to bother, and to make himself feel less guilty, he dismissed it as not wanting to stress the Brit out.

"S-p-e-c-t-a-c-u-l-e-r." Alfred said, quietly. "Yeah, it's an e." he murmured, and Antonio grinned as 'spectaculer' was etched onto the paper.

"It's an a." Antonio argued.

"Oh."

The American set about erasing it, and in its place, he wrote, 'spactaculer'.

Matthew Williams was a rather nervous fellow. He fiddled with his hands in the lobby, and his feet were completely glued together. The light from the windows made his hair look like honey, and the white of the walls washed out the sweet violet of his iris.

He found instantly that he didn't like the aura of the place. It was false, and he sensed that it wasn't so bad, but... it had an underlying air of something else. Nevertheless, he tried, and desperately failed, to stand confidently in the center of the lobby. Puffing out his chest, he waited for someone to attend to him. Francis had advised him to stay sharp, and that was just what he was going to do.

The only thing bringing him down was the Frenchman's warning about one man called Ivan.

That was why he was relieved when his eyes met not blackening purple, but instead friendly green. The girl, who he guessed to be a nurse, blinked when she saw him. When she stopped, a man came out of the hall behind her, bumping into her back.

"Eh?" the man said, and the nurse just kept blinking at Matthew.

"Y-yes, hello." Matthew stammered. "I, um-"

Suddenly, the nurse, whose brown hair was tied behind her with a ribbon, hustled up to him and grabbed his arm.

"Antonio, it's happening again!" she cried, and the brunet man, who Matthew guessed was called Antonio, blinked, much resembling her moments earlier. When Antonio didn't do anything, Matthew could tell she was beginning to panic. "Antonio, what are you doing? Get a sedative!"

Antonio stared at the spectacle before laughing a small laugh.

"Ha, Liz... Liz, calm down."

The nurse tensed, but she did loosen her grip.

"S-stop touching me." Matthew shuddered, because the woman's hands were a bit sticky.

"Lizzie, that isn't Al. Liz... Liz, yeah, stop touching him with your bare hands, that's gross, you just dislodged a pebble from a patient's throat-"

At that, Matthew jumped away from the woman with a disgusted glint in his eyes. He wiped at his arm with the hem of his shirt, grimacing. The nurse with the green dress said something in a strange language, tightening her hair with her sticky hands, before bustling away. Matthew watched her go, keeping the grimace glued to his features.

"Haha, yeah, sorry son, we've got these two dinky patients who like to try to escape, and you look like one of them. So what can I do for you?"

Matthew gazed down the hall Liz disappeared into, before huffing and turning to the man with the odd tan. When he saw him again, however, he lost his resolve. That always happened when he was around people, no matter who they were.

"Er..." he stumbled, and Antonio lost a bit of his smile.

When all Matthew did was stare at the ground, Antonio frowned.

"Everything okay?"

"Yes." the blond squeaked. "U-um... did you... did you mention an Al?"

"I did. Quite the colorful patient, he is. Why?"

"Does he have a full name?"

"M-hm. Alfred Jones."

"Oh." Matthew said, and just hearing his brother's name actually brought a smile to his face. "Yes, him. He's my brother."

"Ohh. Are you Matthew?"

"I am."

Antonio gave him an odd look, before glancing at the wall. It had an odd green stain on it, and it was rather an eyesore in the quaint space of the lobby. At least, he thought, the floors were shining there.

"He got your letter. I slid it through the door to him in the morning." he said lightly, and with an uncharacteristically polite tone to his voice.

"Oh, did he? I worried about that. Was he not allowed to reply?"

"No, no, we would have let him, but, ah... that was not a good day."

Antonio thought he might let Matthew see Alfred. It was only a thought as of yet, though, because throughout the days, he found he had a hard time keeping track of Alfred's explosive personalities. He was also cautious to let the little blond anywhere near the American. Of course, that was irrational, as Matthew was probably more acquainted with Alfred's tendencies than anyone else in the building, but still. Antonio had a knack for sorting out brotherly issues.

"I see." Matthew said quietly, clearly knowing that there was more to it than that. He remembered what he had written in the letter, and cursed himself for being so foolish. Of course Alfred wouldn't take it well. Who knew who he was that day. Matthew, in his obsessive need to communicate with his brother, had just written the most word-worthy thing he could think of in that letter. "Does... does he hate me?"

"Ha? Why would he do that? No, he talks about you all the time, amigo."

"Which one of him does?" Matthew said bluntly, and it seemed to catch the Spanish man off guard. Antonio faltered, then, he looked at the ground. Yes, it seemed, Matthew was well-acquainted with Alfred's tendencies.

"Do you want to see him? I can arrange that. Is that what you came for?"

Mathew shook his head, swaying his honeyed locks.

"No, I came to take him home."

"Arthur, they're so, so, so evil!"

"Yes, wretched."

"Why would they do this?"

"Because they're wretched."

The American, with his sturdy build and height, was wrapped tightly around Arthur, who just stared blankly into space. He felt like he was being crushed by an enthusiastic child. Then again, maybe that was exactly what was happening. Still, he didn't complain. It was chilly, and Alfred was warm.

Alfred was mourning his precious rose bushes, sobbing loudly into Arthur's shoulder. Such spectacles were not unusual, but they did gain their fair share of interested glances. He did have to admit, though, that the tight hold was irritating his wounds. He didn't dare offer Alfred a comforting hand, however. No, he just stayed stiff as a board. He could clearly see Ivan watching them from over Alfred's shoulder.

"Evil..." Alfred whimpered, and Arthur thought he might ruin his shirt with his ceaseless tears. All the same, he didn't move a muscle.

Suddenly, with an overzealous sniffle, Alfred pulled away from Arthur shoulder. The Brit could swear that, thanks to the puddle of tears, the sudden motion created a sticky sound.

He looked ridiculous, really, with his sticky, salty cheeks and his blubbering bottom lip. Still, Arthur kept a stony face. His face was red as a cherry, probably from the tears, Arthur thought. It was rather cute.

"I can't see you." he said suddenly. "Where are my glasses?"

"They're broken."

"Whaaat?"

To that, Arthur didn't say anything. He could see perfectly clear, unlike Alfred. Suddenly, a heavy weight slammed onto his shoulders.

"Ow-" he grunted.

"Arthur!" Alfred shouted out of nowhere, and Arthur knew he would need to get used the the American's spontaneity.

"What? What is it?"

Alfred's lip trembled, but the tears had stopped. He tightly gripped Arthur's shoulders, but when the Brit winced, he loosened the hold a bit.

"Arthur, I..." he mumbled, and if it was possible, his cheeks reddened further. Arthur raised an inquisitive eyebrow. Blue eyes squinted, and Arthur thought he might be struggling to see something.

"Oi, Alfie!" bellowed the booming voice of Antonio, and whatever trance they were both in was broken. The Spanish man ran up to them, catching the attention of several other patients. He caught him on his shoulder, panting. "Quick, Arthur! Who is he right now?"

"Ten years old."

"Ah, great! Okay, buddy, you're going home!" cheered Antonio, with a doubtless grin. Arthur blinked. He wasn't sure how he felt about that, nor could he get over Ivan's constant eye. For a moment, Alfred looked incredibly happy. A smile that could light up a room glinted onto his face, but, then, it faded into a more subdued stretch of the lips.

"Oh, okay. Are we all?"

Antonio blinked, and so did Arthur. It seemed that that was the new way to express bewilderment.

"No, just you."

"Ah..."

"Aren't you exited? Matthew is here!"

Indeed, at the mention of Matthew, Alfred regained his smile fully. Still, though, after a moment, it faded. He shuffled on his feet, ruffling the scruff of the dying grass.

"Just a moment." he said, before looking back at Arthur. Not expecting the sudden attention, Arthur jumped. Alfred gripped his hand tightly, and Arthur jumped for the second time. The American broke into a jog, dragging the confused Brit along with him the entire way. He pulled him behind the trunk of a weeping willow, face terribly conflicted. He was ignorant to the way he accidentally flung Arthur against the trunk of the tree, and instead of talking, in one swift movement, he gathered the smaller man into his arms. Gingerly, he leaned forward, and quickly, he pecked Arthur on the cheek with an exaggerated 'mwa'. He delighted in how soft that little freckled bit of skin was.

"Wha- huh- oi!" Arthur screeched, pulling himself from Alfred's grasp. He wildly wiped the spot where he felt the kiss on his cheek, grimacing and coughing for emphasis. "What is wrong with you?"

"Nothing!" Alfred said hurriedly, and he looked behind the tree to see Antonio rapidly approaching. "Nothing, but since I guess I'm going home, I really, really had to tell you-"

"Alfred!" Antonio called sarcastically.

"No, no, I need to tell you, I have a really huge crush on you!" he practically squeaked. "You're really weird! And I like that! Weird people are great-"

Arthur wanted to slap him. He wanted to, for the second time, drag his hand back and create a wonderfully red wound on his cheek. He wanted to kick him in the shin, he wanted to scream at him for being a git, a wanker, a yank, some other insult, but he couldn't, because Alfred kissed him again. Arthur wiped away the spittle on his cheek again.

"Oh, for god's sake, you're ten. You don't even know what a crush properly is- and who even says that? A... a crush. That is so stupid. You'll only forget you said it tomorrow, you... you git." he defended uselessly. Alfred gave him a weak look, and in his skin, he felt like he was five instead of ten. Arthur didn't even bat an eye when the American was taken by the back of his shirt and dragged away. Ten years old, and he was already shot down by his first crush. Damn Francis. Ever since the man had told him that it was okay to like another boy, he immediately started warming up to Arthur. Of course, who wouldn't? Those striking green eyes, that sweet, rare smile, and even his slender little self. Alfred thought it was adorable, and he kept telling himself that Arthur was lying about his age to gain a higher status. Ha, vain people, were so, so... vain. Yeah. His thoughts were a flurry of nonsense as he was dragged inside the building by Antonio's accursed hands.

Arthur didn't like being alone. A new, fat spider had wormed its way into his room, and it was skittering about on the ceiling. He wished Francis was there to kill it and accuse them of being children. He wished Alfred was there, so they could be childishly afraid together. He wished a lot of things.

However, when the door creaked open at the usual hour of the night, and when the clunking of Ivan Braginski's boots met his ears, he knew that wishes were for hopeless people.

"Eat your peas."

"No!" Alfred cried. He pushed the plate away with an exaggerated movement, glaring at the table. A bit of cloudy green pea juice sloshed onto the table, creating a temporary stain.

"Alfred, they are good for you."

"Francis, they taste like ick. Mattie!"

When he received no reply from his brother, who was currently upstairs, Alfred kicked Francis in the shin.

"That won't do anything. I'm used to it. Now, eat your peas."

Francis' words seemed to trigger something within Alfred. He grabbed the fork set before him, hitting it onto the table with a metallic sound, and dramatically stabbed the pile of peas atop his plate. They squished, and green mush came out from them, mixing into the juice.
"I hate peas! I want to see Artie!"

Francis grimaced, and in his head, he steeled himself. He tried to ignore it. Tried to ignore the ceaseless, breaking sound of Alfred repeatedly hitting his plate with the fork. Clink, clink, clink. The man was trained to handle odd things. However, on that day, with the current predicament at hand, he, for the first time, wanted to kill someone. Alfred just kept stabbing. Clink, clink.

"Shut up." he said, but Alfred didn't hear it. With in inward growl, Francis left the room.

All throughout the night, he was forced to listen to it. Clink, clink, clink. It was as if he had never left work in the first place.

All around him, people were leaving. Arthur pretended he didn't notice it. He pretended that, after Alfred and Francis left, nothing else had changed. Antonio was still there, with his bouncing energy and his grins. Ivan was too, unfortunately, with his tainted energy and his salty smiles. Kiku was still gone, but his friends, the quiet blond and the loud brunet, were still there, too. He didn't pay much attention to them, though. No, he couldn't care less.

He had finished Alfred's book the day after he left. Arthur always took his time reading, and, he decided that if was ever to escape, he would never take the progressive action for granted again. No, he'd discern the symbolism behind every word, he'd judge the appearance of every adverb, every noun, every syllable. He would spend as much of his time reading into new things as possible. He could see it, sitting in a plush, green chair that smelled of rain and mothballs, sipping watery tea and flipping through pages that reminded him of home. Maybe he would have radio murmuring in the other room, and maybe, in his wildest dreams, he would run a vast library. Yes, there were so many maybes for him, so many what-ifs.

Every crush of boots against floor made him worry that it was Ivan. However, another side of him didn't allow himself to worry. No, what was happening was merely expected, and he knew that there were others like him.

Arthur wished desperately that Francis was still around. Antonio was kind, and he meant well, but it seemed as if he didn't genuinely care. Francis, on the other hand, was just a margin kinder. The man spent his time doing charity work instead of holing away in his office, signing document after document. He thought that, instead of standing idly by, Francis might have done something about Ivan Braginski.

Evidently, he was wrong. Ivan's tyranny was as rampant as ever. The nurses catered to his every command, and even some wardens and doctors haled under him as if he was some dark overlord. Yet, Ivan was a surgeon. His skills with an ice pick and a scalpel must have been positively divine, for the people leaving the hospital that Arthur pretended not to notice were actually faring a bit better than they had been before. They were a bit dazed, but they were better. If Arthur should be trusting anyone, it was Ivan. He just simply could not bring himself to do so.

Poor, poor Feliciano, punished for his naivety. And, poor, poor Arthur, reduced to dirt because of a misunderstanding.

Yet, he knew he was stronger than that. He withstood every single belittling thing, he let himself be lashed out at, and as they hacked away at him, he plotted their demise. Yes, truly, he was the boot, and Ivan was the ant.

So why, in his little bed, in the middle of the quiet night, did he feel so small?

Ivan was a murderer. He was a big man who healed with poison.

That was the topic of lunch that midday, and, as Arthur sat alone with his brown soup, he listened with an idle ear.

Feliciano is dead, Feliciano is dead, Feliciano is dead. Ivan killed him.

It was like a mantra, flowing throughout the room like a dead, perishing song, counting down to zero. It was as if everyone insisted on repeating the words. Feliciano is dead.

Arthur, frankly, had had enough. Another manic voice whispered it, and someone offered a sickening laugh. He was a nuisance, they said. He was a child in the skin of a man. Arthur gripped his spoon much too tightly.

They found him in the cellar. He was at peace, said a kinder voice, but suddenly that kind voice broke into tormenting giggles. Arthur felt jittery.

He breathed deeply and tried to listen in on the silence of the cafeteria. He tried to focus on the quiet clinking of dishes, the occasional wheeze, but he just could not bring himself to focus. The voices would not relent.

A man sat at his table, and Arthur blinked, putting them in the back of his mind as if it was the most simple thing in the world.

The man had no food in front of him, and he had no expression upon his face. His large shoulders were rigid, and his tense, bloodshot eyes were the color of an arctic sky. He was too large in his pajamas, and he was too alone to sit anywhere else. With Feliciano gone, his table had been stolen.

Arthur pitied the man, but didn't say anything. He didn't comment on the bitter tears climbing down his face, either.

"Can we go get Artie?"

"No, Alfred, we cannot discharge Arthur."

"Why not? It's 'cause you want him all to yourself, don't you? Oh, I can read you Frenchies like a book."

"No, it's because Arthur is still sick, so he cannot leave."

Francis flipped a page of his book. What with Matthew leaving so often lately, he had found himself reduced to the meager position of babysitter. Which was fine with him. Anything for his little Canadian. Anything. Even putting up with Alfred's relentless need to draw on furniture.

"Artie's sick?" Alfred asked quietly. Francis looked up from his book, finding Alfred sitting on the sofa with a heartbroken look on his face.

The Frenchman clicked his tongue, snapping his book shut. He didn't need to comment on the fact that Alfred was perhaps just a bit more sick than Arthur. Anything for his Canadian, he reminded himself. Anything.

"Yes. He's sick."

"What is he sick with? Can I bring him flowers to make him feel better? He liked it when I brought him a rose."

"I'm sure he did, Alfred."

"Can I, can I?"

"No."

Alfred pouted, folding his arms with a huff. He kicked the table. Once. Twice. Three times. Francis didn't know how he was going to stay sane.

"You will never leave."

"I know."

"You'll be here until you die."

"I know." Arthur ground out.

But he didn't know. No, he didn't understand it at all, because Ivan was spouting complete and utter bullshit. He would get out alive. He'd get out more alive than ever, singing a little tune and proud to say that he killed Ivan in the best way possible. Oh, just he wait.

The basement was a terrible, terrible place. Arthur had always hated basements. One would think that he, being a lover of the dusty and the ancient, would appreciate their archaic beauty. But oh, no. Not in the least. Basements were a place of terror and monsters with violet eyes.

Everyone knew the monster was there, but they were also too scared to prove it. Arthur was also guilty of that fear. Oh, but how he hated being belittled. How he hated that he was always underestimated. He wanted to spit blood onto Ivan's boots and bite his binds until they dissolved, and oh, how he wanted to kill him. But he had to wait.

No one knew about the basement. Ivan had discovered it behind bookcase, swinging away the literature to make way for a cobwebbed staircase. It smelled of death, and he instantly loved it.

"And you will die soon." Ivan cackled.

That, Arthur didn't agree to. Because it wasn't true. Ivan would die before his feet.

Those damn boots. Those damn, fucking boots. That damn grin. They all pummeled into him like he was a punching bag.

When his head was slammed into the wall, he found he could no longer see.

"You look like hell." Antonio whistled.

"No... you look like hell." Arthur murmured.

"Ha, ha... amigo, seriously, what the hell happened?"

Arthur pillowed his head onto the wall.

"I want..." he said suddenly, and Antonio furrowed his eyebrows. "I want a rose. Alfred, could you get me another one?"

The sap was white and sticky on the pads of his fingers, and, experimentally, he sniffed it. It smelled bitter. Alfred watched the seeds of a dandelion float into the sky, spinning in a euphoric dance as it went, higher and higher. He picked another, and instead of letting its seeds float with the breeze, he shook it around wildly until they jumped off the bloom, spinning into the grass.

"Hehe..."

"It's gonna grow more, Alfie." Matthew said idly.

"So? They're pretty."

He stood on his feet, running around with the poor weed and watching it lose its seeds in little clumps so that they didn't fly. With his heavy footsteps, the grass rustled.

He watched curiously as the seeds tangled in with the grass instead of finding themselves in the soil. He wondered, if that was what always happened, how did they find their way down?

It was on that very same night that Francis learned of the true terror that was Alfred Jones. In every sense of the word, he wanted the American out of his house.

Steam settled into his pores and he smiled over the boiling water, waving it about in his hands like it was the smoke of a fireplace. He set about fiddling in the cabinets, humming a small tune to himself as he did so. He found a ladle, some spices, and at long last the ingredients for a broth. However, the moment he dashed the water with salt, there came a loud clatter from the second floor.

Francis looked to the ceiling, blinking as if it would give him all of his answers. Then, there was a second crash, a bang, and the sound of something glass shattering onto the floor. Quickly, he turned off the flame, shrugging out of his frilly apron and jogging to the stairs.

In the blink of an eye, he was whisked to the side by a sprinting Matthew, who dashed around the corner where Francis could no longer see him. From his spot at the foot of his stairs, he could hear the Canadian's ragged breathing, and with a frown he peered up the stairs, only to see nothing. For a while, the house was silent but for Matthew's breathing and the simmering water.

Then, like an explosion, like an eruption of sound and vibration, the door to their bedroom burst open. It actually flew off the hinges, which Francis, with wide eyes, watched fly into the wall and tear a bit of the wallpaper. The door slammed into the ground, and he heard Matthew scream and clatter into another room.

Before Francis could even think about moving, Alfred tore from the doorway, sprinting through the hall with a wild look on his face. He raced down the stairs three at a time, and Francis thought he should move, lest he he crushed into the ground, but found he couldn't. No, he was frozen where he was, staring into a madman's eyes.

That was why. That was why he had been locked away. Francis dubbed himself foolish for allowing Matthew to take him from where he rightfully belonged. He berated himself for the fact that he, in a moment of weakness, had let his lover's guilt eat him alive. These thoughts raced through in milliseconds, as if time had stopped and he was frozen at the sight of Alfred's irrational rage.

However, time did inevitably speed up once again. All he could do was choke out a gasp as he was shoved roughly into the wall, hitting a corner, and falling to the ground in a useless lump.

Arthur wanted to see the camellias. He nearly broke his neck, trying to see past the bars and into the supposed bushed Alfred had mentioned on his first day. Were they red? Or maybe, were they white? Yellow? He didn't know, and he was beginning to think that Alfred had been lying to him to cheer him up. Oh, how like him that would have been.

In his peripheral vision, Arthur caught sight of a tiny, forest-green leaf protruding from the very far corner of his vision. He couldn't see what color they were, but just knowing that Alfred had told the truth was enough.

He unconsciously scratched at his arms, because it felt like spiders were crawling into his pajamas.

Francis awoke to a bag of ice on his head, and terrible, ceaseless throbbing. What made it worse were the terrible sounds coming from the basement.

He sat up far too fast, making himself dizzy and nauseous. He was forced to sit still for a moment, agonizingly so, clutching his head and praying that he wouldn't retch. He did cough a bit, but that was all. Sadly, it still hurt terribly.

"Francis..." came a meek voice from beside him, and he was relieved to see Matthew, completely unharmed, sitting on a chair next to the sofa. The blond was wringing out his hands, and he had very noticeable tear tracks on his cheeks. He hiccuped. "Francis." he said again, and the Frenchman wanted to pull him into his arms. He knew he couldn't, though, as he was still stuck motionless, trying not to be ill.

"I locked him in the cellar, Francis." Matthew choked out, and he began to cry again. A terrible bang came from below them.

"He's... he's like a rabid animal..." Francis found himself saying, and he hated how scratchy his voice was. Matthew whimpered audibly.

"Francis..."

"Yes, cher?"

"I am such... such an idiot, I..."

Glass shattered in the cellar, and Matthew winced, halting whatever he was going to say. He set his jaw and grit his teeth, glaring intensely at the floor.

"We will take him back." Francis said bluntly.

Matthew began to sob loudly.

Arthur was not alone in his torture.

Every time he was brought down to the basement by cold hands, he was not alone. No, there were at least six cells in the basement. His contained a chair with odd restraints.

Ivan often shoved him into the chair, and he didn't fight it. Like a belt that suffocated, the restraints were far too tight, and the chair was always suspiciously wet.

He didn't dare fight it, though. No, he had it easy. When he sat in that dastardly chair and waited, waited, listening to the light bulb buzz and to Ivan's manic breathing, he watched others like him go through agony far worse. He watched as teeth were pulled, in the back where no one would notice, as hair was ripped, and as poison was shed. Yes, he had it easy, in his quaint, rancid chair, in the rusty, rusty cell.

Every blow to his tattered body was like the first part of a race, where he went on strong until he dried out.

When Alfred returned, he was a terrible, drugged mess. His hair was disheveled, and he seemed unable to speak, just staring at the ground. Antonio wasn't sure what to make of it.

He was being led by the arm, in the tow of Matthew, who looked like he wanted to fall into the ground and die.

"He's been sedated." Matthew explained quietly. Alfred blinked at the floor.

Antonio took a moment of comprehension.

"Decided to act on the warranty, eh?"

Matthew only looked at him with hollow eyes.

(warning: noncon/violence ahead)

The night of Alfred's return, Arthur had slept soundly. Ivan had left him alone that night. Arthur had a feeling he only took him into the basement in case, or perhaps to keep anyone from ratting him out. Either way, he was glad that no new wounds had been added, and that he could fall asleep on his disgusting, raggedy bed without wincing quite as bad. The room was empty, save for him and his voices.

He did receive a nasty awakening, however.

It was barely 3 AM. The front of his shirt was gripped and he was ripped from his cocoon of blankets, opening his eyes blearily. He flailed and readied himself to scream Ivan's name and bloody murder, because it was hardly morning, damnit, he wasn't ready, until he found himself looking into eyes that did look an awful lot like Ivan's. They weren't the same color, but they did have the same intensity. Ivan's were a wild violet, while the eyes of the man in front of him were a vibrant blue. The unfamiliar man sneered in his face, and Arthur found that, in reply, he could only blink astonishingly. He started to say Alfred's name, but before he could get it out, he was shoved harshly onto the wall by that hand holding his shirt, as if he weighed only ten ounces.

He hated himself for crying out at the sudden brunt put on his bruises, and he absolutely despised himself for trembling in his own skin.

Alfred breathed in his face like a caged animal, which is just like how he was acting, and Arthur found that his breath smelled like mint. Mint, and a little bit of something he couldn't name.

It hadn't occurred to Arthur that he should be frightened.

The American's hair was tousled and his eyes were wide, dangerous. His cheeks were flushed as if he had contracted a sweating fever, and his shoulders were rigid. His entire being was so, so tense, that he was like a time bomb, ticking, ticking, watching Arthur as he ticked, waiting to explode. And yet, the Brit was not afraid. Alfred did not frighten him. He was trembling in an instinctual fear for his life, but no, he would not let himself fear Alfred. Not ever.

Not even when that time bomb exploded, and he could swear he felt his ribs bend. He was in searing, intense pain, but no, he'd never shy away. His skin, where it wasn't already, was dyed a sickening purple, and thanks to Alfred's grip, he felt he couldn't breathe.

He was not afraid. He was not. He would be brave, like he was with Ivan.

He was afraid. He was screaming, crying, but it went unheard.

Arthur was not afraid of Alfred. He was terrified of him.

Alfred would tire himself out eventually, Arthur told himself.

He was so numb. Oh, why did people hurt him so? He didn't understand what he had ever done wrong. At least, he reasoned, Ivan would pale in comparison to Alfred's strength. It was like being thrown in front of a truck. The pain, at first, was the worst in the world, but once you lost yourself, you couldn't feel a thing. Arthur simultaneously felt like he was two inches tall, and that his entire body was nothing but jelly.

Alfred did tire himself out. But he was not done. Oh, no, he was not done at all. When he finally, finally found the end to his relentless need to maim, he did a rather strange thing. He gripped Arthur's collar like he had before, and the Brit looked up at him with dead eyes. Arthur blinked slowly, lazily, not showing a single ounce of emotion, his face a sharp contrast to his wounded body.

Then, the American began to smile. It was a derogatory, unhealthy smile that made Arthur cringe, but it was a smile none the less.

"Are you quite finished?" Arthur croaked out. Alfred smile widened, and before Arthur could get out another word, he was shoved onto the wall again.

At first, he didn't realize it. At first, when he felt the wall to his back, it was already warm from where he had previously been. He expected more wounds, more bruises, more pain, but that wasn't what he got. No, Alfred did quite the strange thing, and it took Arthur perhaps a minute or two to realize just what was happening.

His skull was forced to adapt to the cold, harsh surface of the wall. The back of his head slammed into its flat expanse, and for a brief second, his vision cut to black. He gasped and coughed, but that gasp was quickly forced away when that awful, predatory smile fell upon his lips, too. At his sides, Arthur's hands clawed at the walls, and feebly, he tried to pull away. However, he didn't dare push him away. He shook and he felt unborn tears cling to his eyes, refusing to fall.

Alfred was harsh in his ministrations, incorrigibly so, and whenever Arthur turned his head to the side, his lips were bitten. Whenever he tried to pry himself away, without laying a single hand on the American, his hair was pulled. And so, he didn't dare to even move. He clenched his hands into fists so tight that he was probably bleeding, and it was a sort of trance-inducing high to get away from the pain that thrummed throughout his entire body.

It wasn't that he was afraid, he told himself. No, this was just like with Ivan. He had to wait. He had to wait, and he had to seethe, until he could escape and burn the place to the ground, until there was nothing left but ash, smoke, and debris. Now that Francis and the roses were gone, he had nothing to worry about. Everything in the place could burn to hell. Alfred, too. Even throughout all of Ivan's torture, he had never wanted to kill anyone as much as he did Alfred right at that moment. How dare he violate him so. How dare the American shove his way back into their room, barreling about as if he was some sort of monster. How dare he kiss him in such a way, how dare he to even come into his life. The American had to have some nerve, he decided, to waltz on in and make Arthur trust him. He had trusted him. It was a bitter sort of trust, but it was a trust all the same.

The tears fell.

It briefly occurred to him that Alfred had yet to say a single thing.

Alfred breathed heavily through his nose, and it brushed across Arthur's face like a soft caress. The feeling was far too ironic, and it made him want to puke. Still, he did not move a muscle as his lips were attacked, as he was bitten, crushed. As a tongue forced itself between his lips, he let out an agonized groan and tightly shut his eyes. He kept telling himself, he had to wait. He had to wait until he could effectively stop the American. Wait, he told himself, but his body was screaming at him to kill with his bare hands.

He sobbed audibly when Alfred pulled away, taking a breath. His eyes stayed glued shut. With a throaty breath, he was pushed into the wall once again, this time less sudden, but more fluid. It still hurt, all the same. Everything hurt.

That dastardly minty tongue dug into his mouth, toyed at his to respond, then gave up. Alfred's hand stayed in his hair, but it didn't pull, like he was simply playing with him.

Suddenly, his mind flashed to the roses, the smile Alfred had given him when he picked one specially for him, that kind, little smile, and those same lips upon his cheek with a sweet, bewildered confession. Those sarcastic arguments exchanged between them, back from before Ivan's arrival, before Alfred's return. It was maddening, and, as if in a burst of adrenaline, a raging, screaming storm, he tore away from Alfred. Damn waiting to hell, it could burn with the asylum. He slammed his throbbing forehead to Alfred's, feeling dizzy again, but not terribly so. Priding himself in the way the American stumbled back, he began to hyperventilate. He could only stare.

What had he done? Damn waiting to hell, yes indeed. And damn him, too. He could not get away from Alfred. The American breathed heavily and clutched at his head, looking at the ground.

He gripped wildly at his hair like he had done to Arthur earlier, and the smaller blond was bewildered to watch a few transparent droplets fall from his hanging face, landing on the wooden floor and giving is speckles. Arthur thought he was witnessing him have a battle with himself.

However, either he was disproved, or the real Alfred had lost, because soon Arthur could only be limp as he was grabbed with a seemingly inhuman strength, and promptly received a face full of mattress. At least, he reasoned, it wasn't the floor.

Horror did strike him when he felt a too warm presence at his back, and as a strong hand found his upper thigh, grounding him. He breathed deeply, biting into the blanket and trying to deny the existence of Alfred's breathing on his neck, of his wandering hands, and, worst of all, the way he was forcing his sick arousal onto him.

He cried and set about grabbing handfuls of the blanket, sobbing. It didn't hurt. It wasn't as though he was being raped, but he was being horribly, horribly violated. Alfred was breathing heavily into his ear, and Arthur could very clearly feel his, thankfully, clothed erection pressing against him, grinding as if it had consent. Arthur quivered from exhaustion, but there was simply no way he would be able to sleep, even when the hell ended. A warm, wet, shuddering breath was released onto his neck, and Arthur found he hated the sound of Alfred's voice when he was like this.

"Haa... it's a shame I can't see your pretty face..." he murmured with the nerve to bite his neck, and once again, Arthur really, truly wanted to murder him. That warm arousal pressed between his thighs once more, and shakily, the hand on his thigh moved up and down, stroking as if was supposed to bring him pleasure, but it only sickened him.

"You're sick." he managed to grunt, even with his mouth crushed against the mattress. Alfred probably couldn't even understand him. Either that was the case, or it went ignored, because he soon sped up his pace, and Arthur was absolutely horrified when the bed began to creak. Alfred's hand tightened on his thigh and brushed the inside, teasing, so, so close to his groin.

Alfred said his name in a breathy voice, rocking the bed and quickening. He panted into his ear, using the grip he had on his thigh to thrust harder, deeper.

Arthur, on his knees with his head pillowed in his hands, could only assume that Alfred finished when he went rigid, making a whiny little sound. He breathed deeply after his release, resuming his task in massaging that spot he held captive, thrusting slowly, small, before stopping. He leaned down, pressing his nose onto Arthur's back.

"Arthur..."

"Shut the fuck up."

Alfred shuddered and played with the grip he had on Arthur's thigh. The Brit had stopped crying a while ago, as it seemed that he had no more tears. At least he wasn't being beaten anymore. He had an inner debate with himself on which of the two was worse.

(end noncon/violence)

A crow cawed outside. It flew away, and even in the night, its shadow whisked past with the highlight of the window, illuminated by the moon.

"Arthur." Alfred said again. Arthur didn't respond. He had resumed his quiet. If Alfred was going to keep up his goddamn ridiculous attitude, then Arthur wasn't even going to dignify it with a response. The face that was pressing into his back moved, and soon Alfred had let go of him. Arthur's legs were still shaking, made even worse by the added exertion.

"Arthur... who hurt you, Arthur? Hey, what are all these bruises?"

Silence.

"Hey..."

Arthur swallowed and buried his head in his hands further. The silence stuck for a while.

"You're so pretty. No one's allowed to hurt you but me."

Strong hands took his shoulders and let him lie on his stomach. It was a relief, because his shaking legs were about to give out. His face was still pushed into his pillow, though, and it was uncomfortable. Those same strong hands traced nonsense patterns into his back. He wanted to rip them off. Alfred grabbed hold of the blanket and covered Arthur's still form, getting under the covers himself. Another bird flew by outside.

"I love you, Arthur..." he breathed, laying partially on top of him and getting a face full of his hair. "So, so much."

Yo.

Brb with part 2. (And by that I mean you have to wait like a month.)

It's gon' be cool.

And a bit less depressing.

Hope you enjoyed(?) part 1. Hope the last bit wasn't too brutal. Hope you stick around for part 2. Please. It gets better. Sorry for butchering the song's meaning. That's just how I roll.

Just a quick info, here. Alfie has DID. Quite the extreme case, as you can see.

See you around, friends.