"We are all connected, joined together by an invisible thread, infinite in its potential and fragile in its design." - Heroes


"—because you made me so complete, dear, but you left me so alone here—"

Matthew stretched, sitting up in bed, before shutting off his alarm. He sat there for a minute, not yet ready to face the full day ahead of him, but eventually picked his glasses up off of his bedside table, slipped them onto his face, and, after stretching once more, stood. He would need to shower, but first? His dog, Kumajiro, padded after him into the kitchen, seemingly agreeing that breakfast was the top priority.

The aroma of pancakes soon floated throughout the hockey player's home, as did the audio coming from his unwatched television—a music video of a British rock star.


"I'm sorry, brother! I hope we will be able to see each other again one day!"

Ivan watched as his eldest sister ran away from him, her cries fading as she went. It pained him to see her go as it always did, but he had long since grown accustomed to people trying to be free of him. His own sister was no exception.

His thoughts strayed to his other sister, the one that he was only free of at that moment because she was locked up in a prison, and he shuttered. As much as he loved Natalia, he didn't mind being lonely so much if it meant that she wasn't harassing him to marry her. His hands may have been soaked in blood, he may have tried to force others to stay with him, but the unfairness of the situation was obvious; they belonged in each other's positions. It should have been her that was in a straight jacket, that was watching their older sister leave once more, that had her back to the Yellow House. It should have been Natalia, not him, that was diagnosed as a mental patient.

He let out a barely audible sigh as he felt one of the guards clutch at his arm. He turned to look at the smaller man, along with his new home, ready to face his fate with a smile.

He wanted to escape the freezing temperature of Moscow, but as the gates locked behind Katyusha's retreating form and the wind hit him, he knew that the cold wouldn't leave, even after he was inside. It never did, after all. He was always cold.

At least he wouldn't be alone anymore, he thought as he was led down a stark white hallway. The workers seemed like they would be great company.

His smile grew as he read the name tag belonging to one of the orderlies he passed—Toris.


"Ve~ I hope we get to make pasta~ Ve~ Ve~ Lovino, do you think we will? Pasta, pasta, paaaaasta~"

Lovino openly rolled his eyes at his younger brother's antics. The idiot had been getting on his nerves more than usual lately—something he hadn't thought possible until it actually happened—and he was about to tell him so, but their cooking class—Feliciano's idea—instructer chose that moment to finally show up, flinging the door open in a dramatic jester, cutting the Italian's complaint off.

"Bonjour~ Bienvenue! What lovely faces you all have~"

A French, flamboyant, loud instructor. Lovino could feel his fists clench, and he knew that it would only get worse when his brother realized that there probably wouldn't be any pasta being made.

Stupido.

It wasn't like he got worked up easily over—

Fingers were pulling on his curl, and as he looked up, a scowl and a blush on his face, he took in green eyes and a warm smile. It was when the man started telling him how cute it—and he—was that Lovino finally lost it.