"Alfred! What do you think you're doing?" Matthew Williams yelled as he practically tripped over himself trying to reach his brother. The younger was able to swat Alfred's hand at the same time he pulled the trigger. This caused the pistol to miss its target and instead graze across the side of the American's head. The bullet embedded itself in the opposite wall. When the sound of the shot faded into silence, Alfred slowly turned toward Matthew, the question of why he wasn't dead yet in his jaded sapphire eyes. Matthew didn't even pay heed to the inquiring eyes and instead used the moment of confusion to wrench the pistol out of Alfred's hand.
"Would you like to do the honors instead?" Alfred quipped, offering the Canadian a weak smile. When shock etched itself onto Matthew's features, he challenged "Go ahead, kill me."
"Like hell I will!" Matthew snapped, pocketing the small firearm into his tan winter coat. There really was nothing more he could say at the moment. Surely Alfred was perturbed after what had happened…but for his personality to be so out of kilter…
"Then why are you here?" the older asked flatly, obviously disappointed in the turn of events. "How did you even get in here?"
Matthew kept quiet, his attention more on Alfred's left wrist than his questions. Blood still flowed from the cut, slithering across his palm and spiraling down the fingers until it trickled onto the wooden floor in tiny crimson orbs. "What did you do to yourself? Doesn't it hurt?"
Trailing his gaze to the bloodied wrist, Alfred simply shrugged. "Not really," choosing to ignore the first question.
Matthew left the bedroom and returned just as quickly with a first-aid kit in hand he got from the bathroom. Seating Alfred on the edge of the bed, the Canadian proceeded to bandaging the gash as best he could. "I know you're not being yourself lately, so I thought I'd check up on you…but I never thought it would be this bad,"
"That doesn't really explain how you were able to find me in my bedroom…" Alfred stated quietly, shamefaced.
Not taking his violet eyes off the injured arm, Matthew answered rather harshly "As if leaving the front door unlocked wasn't bad enough, you left a bloody trail to follow from the kitchen," with a final tug on the bandages, the Canadian stepped back from his handy work. The white cloth immediately dyed crimson wherever the wound touched it.
Alfred examined the area himself with vague interest, pressing his thumb into the patched wound in hopes of spurting more blood onto the bandage.
"Eh? Quit that!" Matthew quickly chided, holding onto Alfred's uninjured wrist. "We need to get it stitched up. Let's go to the hos-"
"I want to visit Arthur's grave."
Matthew was appalled at Alfred's sudden and irrational request. "No Alfred, we're going to the hospital first,"
"I want to see Arthur first," the American retorted, his gloomy eyes filled with childish obstinacy.
If he sees Arthur's grave now…he'll definitely try to…and succeed…Matthew had to think fast.
"You may want to see Arthur, but does he want to see you?" the Canadian questioned, knowing that the only way to make Alfred think otherwise was to use the very subject he cared about against him. A low blow, but it just showed how desperate the situation was. When Alfred responded with a cocked eyebrow, Matthew continued "Have you seen yourself in the mirror, Alfred? Arthur would not want your blood dripping on his grave or see you looking like a wreck,"
"…I guess…" the American conceded, lacking the tenacity he once had.
"Don't worry; we'll visit him as soon as your stitches heal. Plus, we can visit Toris while we're there at the hospital." Matthew added softly.
Alfred only nodded to indicate that he was listening and walked past Matthew to retrieve his leather bomber jacket thrown carelessly on a chair next to the drawer. The two brothers descended the staircase, Matthew careful not to get his boots in the small pools of Alfred's blood; Alfred, on the other hand, looked like he was purposely stepping into the crimson ponds with his bare feet, leaving red footprints in his wake. Matthew shuddered at the sight, but said nothing as his brother covered his feet with white socks, instantly turning them red as well and lacing up his boots.
The trip to the hospital was nothing out of the ordinary, but Matthew couldn't help but throw quick glances at Alfred as he drove down the early morning highway. For his part, Alfred said nothing during the entire trip. All he did was look out the window, wincing or fidgeting every time they went by a tree.
It didn't take long for Alfred to receive medical attention, seeing as though by the time they got to the hospital, Alfred's bandages were soaked with blood, some of it dripping on the hospital grounds. When asked how such an injury occurred on his wrist, Matthew offered that it was a freak accident. The staff believed the story enough, and told Alfred not to exert himself too much and rest. Before exiting the infirmary, Matthew and Alfred stopped by the room Toris resided in, finding that another person was already there. Feliks Lukasiewicz sat next to the unconscious Lithuanian, holding his hand firmly. The Pole didn't even notice the twins' presence until the two were right next to him on the edge of the bed.
"Alfred? Like, what happened to your arm?" Feliks asked, pointing at the American's wrist.
"How is Toris doing?" Alfred tilted his head toward the figure in the bed, trying to avoid the question thrown at him.
"He's not waking up!...He's still in a coma…" the blonde answered, tightening his grip on his friend's hand.
Toris Lorinaitis lay unmoving on the hospital bed; the only sign of life was his heartbeat being monitored on a screen. Although, the brunette looked like he would have been better off dead. The injuries inflicted on him were so severe that the doctors had to assist him with his uniform still intact. The hand not being held by Feliks had fingers bent in unimaginable angles; the middle one forming a zigzag line while the thumb lacked a nail, revealing raw, red flesh beneath. Cuts ran along the Lithuanian's body, indicated only by the tears and frays of the material of the uniform and dried blood underneath. Injuries from the size of a needle, probably puncture wounds, to lacerations adorned Toris's legs, torso, and arms. Only his face and neck were spared from the carnage.
"My god…what happened to him?" Matthew spoke up.
Feliks gave him that look that showed he wasn't really sure who the Canadian was but answered him nonetheless. "Another one of Ivan's bout of insanity…but this time he went too far damn it! He must have known that too and killed himself…that bastard took the easy way out," the Pole paused to wipe a hot tear running down his already wet cheek. "If he was still alive, I would have totally killed him myself!" Although with his accent, those words carried weight when Feliks finished the statement with a scowl, green eyes darkening with anger.
"He's awake!" Alfred exclaimed, running to the other side of the bed to get a better look at Toris's face.
"What are you talking about? This is like, totally not funny, Alfred,"
"But I just saw him open his eyes! He was mouthing something-"
"Alfred, Toris hasn't moved a bit…" the other blonde retorted, looking at the brunette with scrutiny. "He hasn't opened his eyes since he arrived at the hospital."
Matthew peered at the American worryingly as he backed away from the bed, muttering that he must have been seeing things. "We should get going now, Alfred's stitches took longer than I thought and it's getting late. What about you, Feliks?"
"I'm gonna stay a bit longer," the Pole replied, giving his full attention back to the one lying on the bed.
X.X.X.X
When they returned to Alfred's house, the sun has already disappeared behind dark clouds. Matthew made them a quick dinner of pancakes and offered Alfred a bottle of maple syrup along with a plastic fork and knife. "Would you also like coffee?" the Canadian suggested, trying to make Alfred forget about the stitches on his wrist.
The American looked up from his arm and nodded.
"Alright, and don't play with those stitches eh," Matthew reminded before retreating into the kitchen to make the coffee. When he was sure Alfred couldn't see him, Matthew whipped out a bottle from his coat pocket and took out a couple of anti-depressants from it to place into Alfred's drink. He waited until the capsules sunk to the bottom of the dark drink before coming back into the living room to give his brother the mug.
"The coffee tastes weird," Alfred commented.
"That's because, you didn't put anything in it," Matthew hesitantly replied, not expecting the American to have such a keen sense of taste.
Alfred half-shrugged, looking back at his left wrist again.
"You should go to bed Alfred," Matthew spoke up, again trying to divert Alfred's attention from the wound. "The doctors insisted that you do," he added when Alfred showed signs of protest. "I'll clean your mess up just this once, so you can repay me by going to sleep."
Alfred's mouth twitched into a small smile for just a second before he got up from the chair and ascended the staircase, Matthew's amethyst eyes watching him.
"What? Here again…?" Alfred opened his eyes, only to see the looming manor in the desolate snow. No one answered him but the howling of the wind. Bewildered, it took the American an additional second to remember what happened here before.
Arthur…
Closing the distance between himself and the manor, Alfred once again entered through the double metal doors of the entrance. There must have been an odd mechanism in the doors, because right after Alfred went through them, the doors swung close with a hollow thud. Brushing off the snow on his brown bomber jacket, for the first time Alfred took note of his surrounding in the manor. He was in a living room devoid of any furniture. The fireplace has long burned out, ashes scattered among where the logs would have been burning. The walls were stained with smudges and smears varying between copper and red; some blotches even formed hand and fingerprints. A distinguishing trail of crimson ran along all four walls of the room, as if a child ran along the side with a crayon and into the hallway ahead. Only the moonlight lit the entire manor through the slits of the wooden window shutters. They seemed to be blinking at him whenever the wind ran through them, flipping the individual blinds up and down. Walking up to the destination where he last saw Arthur, Alfred couldn't help but stare at the wall in front of him.
Didn't I make a dent there?
Running a gloved hand over the pale wall, Alfred couldn't feel a single crack or indication that he ever punched the wall the last time he was there.
"It's my fault…"
"Who's there?" Alfred whirled around. There was nothing but the empty hallway, and beyond that the shutters continued to blink at him.
"The pain won't go away…"
Panic setting into him, Alfred ran back into the living room, only to find that the metal doors wouldn't budge.
"Make…make it stop…"
"Damn it!" Alfred shouted in frustration, giving up on the door after manhandling it and running back down the hall to find another exit. All the while the voice floated and repeated pleas for help. Taking a right turn at the intersection, Alfred rounded another corner and came across a wooden door that was slightly cracked open. The voice was louder there, and from where Alfred was standing, he could see a crouched figure. "Arthur! Is that you?" he yelled, catching sight of a green uniform as he slowly approached the door. When there was no response from the other side except for the incessant muttering, Alfred mustered what was left of his courage and stepped into the room. Horror-stricken, it took Alfred a few moments to find his voice. "T-Toris?"
The Lithuanian was huddled in a corner, his knees brought up to his scarred chest. He appeared to be weeping, unaware of the nauseating stench of his own blood all across the walls. "He'll find me…because it's all my fault…"
"What are you doing here? Who'll find you?"
"Feliks…Eduard…"
"Toris, answer me!" Alfred grabbed the brunette by the shoulders and shook him.
"Raivis…I'm sorry…" Toris continued to babble, keeping his head down.
"…"
"Even after death, Ivan will continue to torment me…" he muttered under his breath.
"What was tha-"
"Leave this place!" Toris hissed, snapping his head up and making eye contact with Alfred.
Stunned by the response, Alfred tried to back away from the huddled figure when a bleeding and broken hand grabbed his wrist. Gnarled fingers wrapped itself around the American's left wrist, making him grunt in pain. "That hurts! Let go Toris," After prying the hand off, a ring of blood was left around his sleeve. "What has gotten into you?" he questioned after examining the stitches.
"He's here!" Toris screeched.
Spinning around, Alfred saw nothing but the stained and cracked walls. "What are you-" when he turned back to face Toris, the brunette wasn't there…just a puddle of red took his place.
"Hello there, Alfred~"
He cringed at the sound of his name being called. Almost not wanting to turn around, he did so slowly to see a certain Russian gaze down at him. Ivan Braginski stood before Alfred, his violet eyes cold and frozen deep. The blonde did everything he could to prevent himself from gagging from the smell of decay suddenly pervading the small room.
"Have you seen my Toris?" Ivan asked, ignoring the disgusted reaction of the American.
"He's not yours," Alfred managed to say, covering his nose.
"Oh? Even after all I did just for him?" the Russian replied, pointing at the bullet wound on his head. Above his right ear was a mess of brain matter and skull fragments entangled with platinum-blonde hair. The center of the wound welled with so much blood that it turned black. "So why are you here, Alfred? Would you and Arthur like to stay here with me?"
Fear turned to rage at the sound of his deceased friend's name. "What do you know about Arthur? Why is he here? You'd better not lay a hand on him or I'll fucking make sure you experience another death you bastard!"
Ivan's cheerful expression grimaced at this, his amethyst eyes losing its childish spark and replaced with quiet rage. "What a shame," he mumbled, raising his water pipe well over his head and sending it down on Alfred.
