Disclaimer: Never, ever, ever.

...

It was cool in here. Damp, even. But was it, really?—Yao frowned into the dim, reptilian light. Was this the new temple? The golden Buddhas stared down at him with smiling gazes, the light gleaning from their sides; slick and yellow, like the candles themselves. He stared at them for awhile, at the wood of the shelves, the incense tickling his nose.

No, not damp—incense is dry.

He inhaled a bit, the smoky aroma wavering in the air, and continued. He was looking for something here, if he had not found it already; was it in the walls, that echoed his steps down the maze?

He was looking for something here.

He padded off a little, shoes soft against the floor. Continued walking, inhaling woody air. A scent that one would never grow too old to love, if indeed age could dispel fondness; the thought of it sent a tease into his brain, a feather brushing against the organ (with the vagueness of an itch). The ceiling was high above him, with rafters. He was looking for something here, and he turned a corner, his unfrayed clothing swishing about the ankles: There was darkness here, in a doorless chamber. He gazed at the portal; it was a maw.

And he called, and, somehow, found what he was looking for, here.

He called the name and waited. He would not remember how exactly it happened, the opening of the lights—by candle, by switch, he would not remember, and, indeed, perhaps he used neither—but, he knew that it was by his own will that the light turned on, just as he was answered, and far, far too late—

No, not too late. Late, but not too late, the difference just there by the seconds leading to too late—it was his own fault, too, he would think, more than the other's; otherwise, the scale was, perhaps, equal.

"Kiku?"

"Yao."

Fwip, fwip, a séance was held, and the possessed woman had latched herself to Yao before Kiku himself could narrate it.

-

The alarm took five seconds exactly to peter out as Yao lay awake in bed, the dream drifting away like the unreality it was; it went with his breath as his breathing slowed. It could not be—it would not be—would it—

There was a fear gray like her skin; there had been a pentacle glowing a relativity to green, and it matched the gray; it was encircled, and it had shone from her forehead, and he saw it as she bit him. It was just a dream—but spirits could enter dreams.

Spirits could enter dreams, his mind said, afraid of abandon, and repeated thrice more; spirits could enter dreams, and she could have him, now...but it was just a dream, pressed the side of him that believed in technology, and not magic. But are they not the same?—he lifted one tanned hand in the darkness, looked up, just to make sure, saw Kiku's body rising from the bunk, still quiet and asleep; he looked back down at his hand, at the conjunction of the wrist, and felt for the bite. Clear skin.

Smooth, even; he felt it briefly before lying back down.

He could not sleep now—how could he sleep?—his mind was in panic: But, yet, he sank, still sleepy, and blurred the gray of the dawn into the blackness of his own eyelids. Sleep won panic over; it tided, magic versus technology.

-

Thwack, thwack, thwack. Thwack.

"Robin Hood, bitches," said Arthur Kirkland, sliding another arrow onto the string. "Suck on that, Alfred." Thwack, thwack. Six arrows embedded. The students on either side of him stopped to stare.

"Clear," called Yong Soo. There were groans as everyone surged forward to retrieve their arrows; for most, the target was littered in a messy tangle of arrows; for Arthur, with a smug smile and a half-glance at Alfred, each arrow was one atop the other. Six?—"I'm English," he said to Alfred's unimpressed inquiry. "That's how we shoot frogs like Francis."

Yao shook his head at them; "My Yong Soo can shoot better than them, dui ma, Yong Soo?" He nudged the Korean.

Yong Soo blinked, as if rather astounded at the attention; he recovered quickly. "You know that for sure, Aniki!" He grinned, and Yao, looking at the most familiar face, found regret niggling at the back of his throat; how typical, only in the blink of an eye. "We Koreans could get more than six—we could get TEN!"

"Yes, well, arrows are expensive," said Yao in a considerably stiffened tone; his own arrow came tauntingly closer to the string, as if he willed himself to nock it and, when the bow tilted by his wrist, shoot himself. So quick a change—and he knew it. He forced an inward cringe; it had been waiting to strike.

Blessedly, Kiku emerged at the corner of his eye—Yao looked to the right, saw him. "Aiyaa, there's your brother!" said Yao, not restraining the pride in his voice. He eyed Kiku, and so did Yong Soo.

"Clear," called Yong Soo again, and the line of archers nocked their arrows, fitting the strings into the slits. He had shot four arrows in a neat formation around the bulls-eye—teasing himself, for he tired of perfection—before realizing that Yao, beside him, had not even raised his bow. The quiver was lying by his leg, dangling from his hip flatly; the arrows trembled with his breath. But Yao had not moved; in fact, he was staring at Kiku, and it became so apparent to Yong Soo that he had been doing so since they had begun the new shooting round.

Yao was enraptured; it was quite a way to define—he stared at Kiku, admiring the angles. He felt Yong Soo's shifting behind him, but did not register—without attempting to remember or even know, he would not remember—and continued staring at his oldest brother.

Kiku's form—Yao flicked his eyes downward, saw his heels were indeed perfectly aligned, as were his toes—the back of his entire body straight as a board, it stood; one long, slim arm stretched the bow outwards with the wrist jutting out attractively, the other with the elbow notched upwards, thumb touching his jaw, string touching his cheek; there was a ferocity in the black eyes, a spark of ink touched to ashen paper. Yao allowed himself one blink as he marveled.

When he released, the bow cried out with a sound—the sound snapped thickly, and Yao watched the arrow, not quivering once, stream across the air and thwack—in the target, thoroughly immersed within the bulls-eye.

Yao blinked, smiled proudly.

Like a mother duck.

Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwackthwackthwack—

Everyone in the courtyard jumped, turned around.

Thwackthwackthwackthwackthwackthwack—!

"Yong Soo!" Yao and Kiku exclaimed, in a sort of harmony with the arrows; more people turned to look:

Yong Soo, his face a brilliant pink, did not cease once—not at all—and continued shooting, arrow after arrow; eyes a brilliant black steel, brow smooth as marble; Yao could hardly see him draw and nock, he was so fast—one, two, three, four—spare a glance at the bulls-eye, as many Robin Hoods as could be managed before they dropped away in splinters. And then, he continued shooting, not at the center, but now at the rings—aligning them in circles so straight and precise the crowd gasped.

(Anger, it seemed, was a weapon for Yong Soo; anger gave him power.)

One ring finished, now the next, a bigger circle—

Twelve studded arrows in a ring, another layer—

"Yong Soo!" Yao had not been enraptured by the arrows for long—hao kuai de shou, he breathed, before recovering—and he lunged forward and seized his brother's bow, forcing it downwards. "Yong Soo!" and the boy looked up, the pink fading to a feverish white; had this terrible look not been so evident, the display would have, perhaps, been so much the more entertaining. As it was, the tension burned.

"Yao."

Kiku stepped forward.

"Aiyaa, look at you, aru!" Yao scolded, loudly. "I don't know how many arrows we lost today, and you know how expensive they are, aru! The club funding can hardly pay for all of them...what's gotten into you?"

Yong Soo's brow was wet.

He blinked. Pulled back.

"Aniki," he said, and let out a breath. "I—I hit the target several times...see? Aniki?" He beckoned across the field at the tattered bulls-eye.

"And several arrows! Are you trying to milk out this club's money?!" Yao's brow furrowed.

Kiku turned quickly, silently beckoning at the other club members. "It's four now," he said, relieved that, at three forty-five, the timing was accurate enough. "You should all go to class."

"But...I don't have class," Alfred piped out. "Can't I just, like, shoot some more—I won't break any arro—"

"We're going to the rifle team now, if that makes you happy," Arthur said, loudly, effectively cutting him off; the blue eyes brightened at once. "Let's go." And, once Alfred's back was turned, he looked at Kiku with a face of long-suffering, frowning; Kiku nodded gravely when he brought his finger slitting across his throat.

It did not take long for the students to drift out; five minutes, if anything. Only then did Kiku proceed to hover over his brothers, watching them.

"Fifteen," breathed Yao, wrenching another arrow from the board. "Fifteen arrows, tian a, first the five you broke the other day, now the fifteen—"

"That wasn't me, that was Leon," Yong Soo mumbled. A pause—he looked Yao in the eyes. "If you can look at Kiku just because he's so good at shooting ONE arrow, you can look at me shooting fifteen even better! Archery is a Korean sport—"

"I am sorry," said Kiku, flushing pink. "But that should be no reason to—absolutely not—"

"You." Breathing turned harsh as Yong Soo turned to him. "You, always getting everything, worrying Yao-hyung half to death because you're such a hard worker—" The last words were spat out, and Kiku blinked as if something really had landed.

"Enough."

A pause.

"Enough."

They turned: Yao's eyes were glittering, mouth half ajar after saying it a second time. A rare fire snapped in the pupils; unconsciously, Yong Soo and Kiku both resisted stepping back.

"You. Are brothers," Yao said, "and you don't fight. Especially over something so stupid. You don't fight. Kiku, you should know better."

He could hardly describe to himself the rage, the fear crawling in his gut; as if something had soaked it in wine and set it ablaze. Insides burning. He stared forward, feeling afloat in his own mind. "You don't fight. At all," he said again, feeling vaguely that he was being repetitious, even empty. "Yong Soo, I want you to pay for those arrows. Each and every one of them. You have until the next general body practice."

"But that's—"

You dare talk? Yao wanted to say, but instead used silence to cut Yong Soo off; his glare was sharp. "Next practice. Now clean up those arrows."

He turned on his heel and walked away.

-

His footsteps were light, his legs like lead; he lifted each one, consciously rolling the joints, the skin. He had no qualms about leaving his brothers to gather the equipment: Yong Soo was the president and, anyway, Kiku was there. Any mess would sort itself up, then.

He turned a corner, breathed a little. A little. Pressed his back against the wall, looked up.

The soccer field where they had been practicing archery had was long; Yao had walked himself, from there, halfway across the campus into the library, skirting the crowds by taking the back stairs up. Fourth floor—the number of death, really, he thought, but what have you? The institution has regard for number thirteen only. He shook his head.

The library vaulted upwards into glass panels for a ceiling; it sloped downwards, meeting the walls, the stone of them crawling down to the tiles. Government funds, or student tuition? Yao could not quite tell as he walked to edge of the balcony. He looked across at the painting on the wall, then walked into the cloisters of the Chinese Literature department. As he walked into the office, he reached out and brushed his fingers against the calligraphy on the wall. He had never dared to buy such fine paper.

"Shen ti hao ma?" he said by way of greeting. "Aiyaa...Arthur's here, ahen." And, sure enough, despite Yao's fast rhetoric, Arthur was sitting at the table, quite alone. The office was empty but for him.

"Sh—shut up!" Arthur fumbled with his fingers before pointing out the door. "I finally got away from that wanker, you don't need to be that loud—"

"Alfred, ahen?" Yao strolled, casually, back to the doorframe, peeking out. "Where, ahen?"

Pause.

"What...are you trying to do?" Arthur asked, his voice very near a hiss. Yao could feel a smirk making its way to his lips; his cheek pulled, and he allowed himself that much. Trust torturing Opium to lighten his mood.

"Alfred!" he called, and could practically hear Arthur breaking: The chair retorted as the Briton ducked beneath the desk. Scattering footsteps to the left; Yao retracted his cheek as he saw Alfred running around the corner.

"YAOOO, HAVE YOU SEEN ARTHUR?" Tian a, he isn't breaking a sweat. Alfred, hair a little more wild than usual—baby hairs poking at the air—stopped before him. His eyes, big and blue, stared and glowed; are you excited or worried, even? Yao thought. "I've been looking for him, he slipped away on the way to the supply room...where all the rifles are, and have you seen him, I swear, he could've gotten abducted by aliens or something—"

"Well, ah—aru." Yao paused, relishing the eyes trained on him—four, not two. He knew it was in his mind, but he could feel Arthur's quaking beneath the desk. "I think I saw him going out the exit, said something about the chem. building..." He pointed.

"Thanks, dude!" And Alfred was off. Yao watched the door clang shut behind him before turning back to Arthur.

"He's gone now, ahen," said Yao. "You can get out now."

A pause, then shuffling; Arthur's head popped out over the desktop. "Bloody hell, you—bloody Asian...," he muttered.

Yao chose to ignore that as he strode to his own desk, pulling out the binder from its corner. "Get out from under Xiao Mei's desk, aru."

"It's Mei's?" Arthur scrambled out from underneath the desk, glancing at the photograph sitting on its left. "It's Mei's."

There was an awkward pause; Yao chose not to say anything more. The excitement was over, and again he was thinking of Yong Soo and Kiku. Boys will be boys, he thought, but was not appeased.

He flipped a page. It was louder than he would have liked. Running script, the page was headlined, Han Dynasty.

"Yes, well...Yao. Actually I—er—"

"Yes?"

Another flip, this time many pages. Opium Wars. "What else do you need, ahen? I'm not cooking for you just because your meal points ran out and neither of you can cook for shit."

"You never cooked for me, and I can cook perfectly we—"

"Of course you can. What do you want?" A few pages back, Ming Dynasty.

"You never cooked for me, a'right? Listen, Yao—I need you to do something for me."

"I'm not testing your weed, ahen."

"It's not bloody WEED, a'right?—I smoke better, more high-class stuff than that. ANYWAY—by the way, stop it with the 'ahen' business, what does it even mean—I need you to, ah...it's Gilbert."

Yao allowed himself to pause, right over War with Japan. "Since when did you care about Gilbert?"

"There was that one time with Roderich..."

"Yes, I remember," said Yao hastily, eyes drifting over Japan. "So you're worried about Gilbert. Why?"

He did not look back; he did not need to to feel the hitch in Arthur's breath. "He's been sick, lately, and Francis hasn't been too happy about it. Ludwig's been worrying too. And, Alfred, that damn prat, has started to notice. I think once it actually drives itself into that thick skull of his, he's going to start a riot over 'saving the day.'"

"So it's an issue about Alfred not being annoying, ahen?" Yao said, mockery tracing his voice.

"Absolutely! You think I want that prat banging on my door every night wanting to go over plans with me?"

"What do I have to do with it?" Japan. Japan. Japan. Gilbert was sick? Japan, Korea. Japan. War with Japan.

"I think Kiku's involved."

Japan, Japan. Japan.

"Why would he?" Yao blinked.

"I don't know. But Kiku's involved. I know it."

"That's rather vague—"

"No, but Kiku...I don't know what's going on, but I think he has to do with it. He's always with Ludwig and Feliciano, in that newspaper club of theirs..."

"I believe your Napoleon said that he fears journalists more than bayonets or something like that, but I don't know what this has to do with anything."

"...Not MINE, FRANCIS'S. You bloody— Well, they're working on ghosts right now, you know? Because of that story about the Roman ghost wandering around."

Yao turned.

Japan—

And the attention flexed into a knot. "Yes?"

Arthur blinked, apparently confused before deciding that the focus pleased him. "And I don't know why, but...ever since then...Gilbert's been...he's been coughing a lot. And sometimes he comes up with fever.

"It's not a common cold," he added at Yao's raised eyebrow. "There's just something about it... Something's wrong. I know it. And Kiku is talking to ghosts."

"What?"

"I knew you'd react like that. But no, not really, he's just been...he's probably trying to talk to the Roman ghost," he finished, and to say he finished "lamely" would have understated; it was so weak, Yao felt that he could drown in the shame. (He would have loved to; seeing Arthur ashamed was a treat.)

Yao let his nostrils flare, only because he breathed deeply. Thought about it.

He had done nothing about the Roman yesterday. But what was he to say about it?—what was he to do?

"...How does that connect?" he said finally.

"Talk to Kiku."

He laughed. Threw his head back, coughing it out into the air. "I do, Arthur—talk to him, every day."

When he tilted his head back downwards, Arthur was eyeing him. Such a green, Yao thought. "You know what I mean, Yao. Talk to him about it. The way I see it, there's no one else who can talk to him. Heracles is out of the country right now, and you're his brother." A beat. "You're his brother."

Was this fear now? The air thickened down Yao's throat, pinching his breath.

He coughed another laugh, and his mind felt cold. The fakeness was so real. "But I just did you a favor, Arthur, shooing off Alfred. And now you're asking another thing today. Just like you white people, pushing around the Asians." Another pause; Arthur was, by now, used to Yao's half-joking passes.

"What do you want?"

"I want you to," said Yao, mind pedaling forward, "watch...over...Kiku.

"And by that," before Arthur could ask, "I mean watch over him. If you think he's toying with spirits, maybe your little magic club can work something out. But watch over Kiku. I see him talking to you more and more now, don't deny it. Take that time to watch over him. I'll do my part, you'll do yours. Make sure you can see what Kiku's doing."

And with that, he flipped his binder closed. He could not study here; he would go to his dorm, he thought; it would be empty anyway.

"Atheist China, atheist Yao—it's like you represent your people's Godlessness," said Arthur, the strain of shock overcoming his mockery. "What makes you suddenly believe in my magic?"

Before he knew it, he had taken large strides into the hall. "Mei should be here soon for interning, so I suggest you hold the fort until she comes. Locking this office is too much work, ahen."

Arthur said something else, but Yao did not hear it. It was only once he had gone halfway across campus, beside the lake, did he realize that he could not breathe, and that he was walking with such unusually long strides. Asphyxiation, as if his throat had closed.

He took a deep breath, willing the numbness away.

The Roman ghost.

My dream.

Kiku.

He would not talk to Kiku. Not yet.

...

PT: Archery actually is a Korean sport—in that, Koreans have a reputation for it. The same way Chinese people really can't keep away from badminton and ping pong (something that passed over me!).

Again, trying not to take the story too slowly. I've realized by now that while I've regained much of my adeptness at writing, there still remains the factor that makes writing this so hard for me—it's a huge and complex plot. Many characters involved. Haven't done that since I started on FF net, and, you know, many years ago, writing wasn't that great, beginner, yaddayaddayadda. I am definitely going to have to work carefully to see this to the end. Bit off more than I've been able to chew, really.

Also, college. I'm in college now. So...really busy. I'm finishing this instead of studying as we speak. (Sacrificing sleep in return to study as well, though—thank God for the weekends!)

So thank you for reading! Critique is always encouraged!