DISCLAIMER: This story and some characters in it are based on the 1991 movie Beauty and the Beast. I do not own this movie; all rights and credit goes to Disney. The characters in this story belong to the anime and manga Hetalia, written/drawn by Hidekaz Himaruya. Once again, I own nothing, all credits and rights go to him.
It was cold.
The chilld were seeping through Matthieu's coat and into his bones. The wind shrieked as it tore through the trees, ripping Matthieu's hood off his head and sending his hair whipping into his face. Still, he stumbled forward, determinedly holding his lantern aloft and replacing his hood with his other hand.
He had been travelling for hours, pack weighing him down and feet dragging in the thick, unyielding snow.
The first hour or two had been fine. Light snow, friendly, familiar woods that he knew like the back of his hand after living near them for five years. Spurred on by the heat of his spontaneous decision and the forbidden thrill that came with this adventure, he had made quick progress.
Then, the environment had changed. The very air itself seemed different, eerie. It set Matthieu's nerves on edge, a tingling feeling creeping through his whole body.
There was something very, very wrong about this forest.
Still, he kept going, deeper and deeper into the dense collection of looming trees and heavy snow. The air was beginning to get thick with fog, clouding Matthieu's glasses. After a few stops, he gave up and decided to just leave them in his pack. He could barely see without them, but even if he could, it wouldn't have mattered. The dim glow of his lantern was the only thing managing to keep him on the path, a thin line of trampled weeds that was barely even there.
Matthieu refused to give in to despair or weariness. This was his moment - his chance for adventure, for freedom, to truly act on what he wanted and be independent of others' wishes. He would keep going until Death himself was sent to stop him. I don't think anyone from our village has been out this far into the woods... who knows? Maybe I could discover something new? At this point, he was just attempting to distract himself from the situation, trudging onwards. Or maybe I could find some good hunting spots for Alfred? He does need-
And then a sound came, ringing loud and clear through the trees, that stopped both Matthieu and his thoughts in their tracks, frozen for one panic-stricken moment in the snow:
A howl.
The piercing cry was soon joined by many others like it. One, two, three, too many to count. A pack of wolves, wild, powerful and above all, hungry.
At the brief, deafening silence between the first round of howls and the next, Matthieu's brain sprung into action.
Wolves.
Predators.
Deadly.
Hungry.
Run.
He sprinted forward, gasping for breaath and stumbling over roots, crashing into branches and leaves, thorns scratching his hands and tearing his coat, vines tangling around his feet as if the forest wanted him to be caught and eaten by the ferocious beasts. Tears welled up in his eyes as the pain burned in his lungs, cuts and grazes stinging like needles; the howling growing ever closer, ever louder, ever clearer.
Please, please, someone save me, let here be a town, a house, anything, please, I don't want to die, not here, not now, please-
A thought came to his panicked mind, a saving grace cutting through the chaos, a beam of light in a void of darkness: there was a hunting knife in his pack.
Clumsily, without slowing his pace, Matthieu let go of his hood and reached into the pack, pulling out the big, wicked knife, gleaming in the lantern's light.
The fog was closing in, getting thicker. It was hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to move - the snow and ice was grabbing at his boots, his legs were getting heavier.
A gust of wind.
A fatal gust of wind.
The fire in the lantern died. Matthieu was blind, the darkness and fog taking over his vision. The tears were gushing now; cracked, hoarse, breathless sobs escaping in between desperate gasps for oxygen; and the wolves were ever approaching.
He ran.
A snarl.
He ran.
A howl.
He ran.
A thud as he crashed into the ground, hands cut and bleeding, a surge of determination mixed in with terror as he got back up.
He ran.
And by some miracle, as he ran, the fog cleared. Slowly, agonisingly slowly, the thick sheet of chokingly dense mist lifted. Matthieu let out a strangled, crazed laugh that scared him almost as much as the wolves' howling, following by a heavy fit of coughing.
He could see; by the light of the moon, faint, dark silhouettes were visible and in the distance, Matthieu could see something rising up, majestically climbing far above the canopy of the forest. Thank you. Thank you. He wasn't sure who he was thanking, exactly, but somehow, some force must have heard his cry - there was no other way. The timing was too perfect.
Every bit of elation he felt soon disappeared. With his newfouns sight, not only could he see what had to be some kind of building, but also exactly how near to him his pursuers were.
The wolves; the hungry wolves. He could hear them - howling, growling, snarling, snapping - behind him, and made the terrible mistake of looking back to see the threat.
They were massive, hulking, ferocious creatures: thick fur matted with grime and blood; luminous yellow eyes, the light of deadly intelligence clearly present in them; razor sharp claws, pawing eagerly at the snow; and large, gaping maws, filled with vicious, bloodstained teeth, ready to attack their next meal. They were still fairly far away but...
...there were just so, so many of them.
This is it. This is where I'm going to die, in the middle of some forest where no one'll ever find me. I should have stayed, oh God, I should have stayed - why did I go? Alfred, I'm so sorry, why was I so damn stupid?
...no. I can't give up. I'm going to make it. I'm going to do this, and I'm going to come back in time for Alfred and Sakura's wedding, because damn it, that's what I said I would do.
Refueled with determination and sheer stubbornness, he sprinted through the trees with new vigour, his passion for survival rekindled. Closer and closer, towards the mysterious building in the distance, hunting knife clenched firmly in his hand. If it came down to it, he was willing to use it.
He was almost there, the pack of wolves nearly on his heels. He pushed his lungs and legs further, one more breath, one more step, just a little further-
And there it was. A massive, dark castle; cold, unwelcoming walls standing around it. Matthieu found himself in front of a thick, sturdy portcullis, the grill impossible for even him to slip through. The wolves were catching up, and immediately, Matthieu knew what he had to do. He stuck his hunting knife into his pack, threw his useless lantern to the floor and slipped his hand firmly into a gap in the grill and began to climb.
Higher and higher he went, wincing and crying out as his bruised, cut and bleeding hands were met by cold, rough metal. Higher and higher; with every desperate swing of his arms he managed another few inches. High and higher; there were a few times he nearly lost his grip and fell to the mercy of the wolves, who had gathered below, snarling hungrily at their prey.
Eventually, he reached the top of the portcullis, holding on precariously to the edge. There was a good foot of wall left above him; there was no way he could swing himself up and over it, unless...
Carefully, slowly, he reached over for his pack and pulled out his hunting knife. Summoning every last bit of his strength, he lifted his arm to ram it into the mortar in between the large stone bricks. No. Don't be stupid. You've made it this far, I can't afford to mess up now. Slowly, like how Berwald chisels his projects. He took his blade and lightly, firmly, began chipping away at the mortar. Dust began to fall, a crack began to form.
Eventually, as his strength was waning, Matthieu decided it was time for the final blow. This time, he did smash his knife into the crack. A cloud of dust; the blade splintered into pieces that spiraled down to the ground. It wouldn't be used again, but that didn't matter. There was a hole, just big enough for Matthieu to slide his fingers in and hoist himself on top of the wall.
Matthieu sat there for a moment, splayed out on top of the thick wall. A feeling of elation spread through his chest and he choked out a hoarse, ecstatic laugh. Somehow, he had made it; he was alive. The wolves were howling angrily below, clawing at the gate, deprived of their night's meal. Matthieu, though he knew it wouldn't mean anything, spat down at them spitefully. He had won this battle.
Still, he wasn't done. He had to get back down, to the castle. He needed shelter, he needed medicine, he needed rest. Matthieu looked down at the pure white, snowy ground. It was a long way down; he wasn't sure if he wanted to risk jumping, ever if the snow looked safe enough to break his fall. He didn't think climbing was a good idea either - he couldn't reach a handhold from his position, and he definitely didn't want to jump to catch at the portcullis; dislocating his arm didn't sound fun.
But they were the only two options - he had to pick which one was safest.
A vague memory came to him - something his father had taught him when he was a child:
'When you fall, never try to land on your feet, your back, arms, anything. Don't try to land elegantly. Get enough momentum you need to push yourself into a tumble forward. It'll absorb most of the impact and you're less likely to hurt yourself. Or perhaps next time, you should just avoid climbing trees in the first place, eh?'
An irrational half-smile tugged at the corner of Matthieu's lips. Well, I couldn't exactly avoid climbing this, eh, Dad?
It was a stupid idea, but if he fell, he might be able to get away without injuring himself. The snow did seem rather soft...
This is it.
First, he tossed his pack to the ground a few metres ahead of him. Next, he carefully stood up on the wall, taking a deep breath. You can do this, Mattie. Remember what Dad showed you. Arms out, legs over head. Arms out, legs over head. Arms out...
And with that, he launched himself forward, headfirst off the wall.
Matthieu felt weightless, suspended in midair, as he extended his arms and prayed a silent prayer to anyone who was listening, and fell.
He landed in the snow with a soft thud, the impact stinging his wrists, but true to his plan, he tumbled forward, until he was sprawled out on his back, covered in snow, dirt and blood. His pack lay next to him, the both of them safe and sound. Matthieu was too exhausted to even think, but exhilaration was coursing through his veins at the realization of what he had just gone through, what he had done. He was amazed that he was even alive.
Slowly, with immense difficulty, he stood up. The wolves were still attacking the gate viciously, but Matthieu was no longer afraid of them. He was safe now, and he could find shelter in this... castle?
He couldn't help but stare. It was made of firm, dark grey stone, and appeared to be sturdy as a mountain, a true fortress of a place. It was amazing, yet...
The gardens and grounds around him were neatly kept, yet they did not seem used. The portcullis wasn't rused, yet it was firmly planted into the ground and buried in snow, as if it hadn't been opened in years. And the biggest mystery of all - who would build a castle in the middle of the forest? It was strange, but if it would give Matthieu what he needed, he didn't care. He grabbed his pack and staggered weakly to the door.
He prayed that someone would hear him - it was the middle of the night, the moon glowing high up in the sky, and anyone in their right minds would be fast asleep in a warm bed. Still, someone had to hear him. They just had to.
When he opened his mouth, no audible sound came, so he settled for lifting the heavy brass knocker and rapping it against the wood loudly, hoping it would be enough to rouse whoever was inside.
No one came. He waited for what seemed like an eternity, and knocked again. The adrenaline rush he had been running on was fading; he could feel his exhaustion catching up on him.
He looked down at his hands. Red with blood, blue with cold, grimy with dirt. They were wet, and trembling as he raised them to knock one last time. Please... Please let someone be there, please let someone hear me.
Just as Matthieu's head began to feel light and he began to feel dizzy with exhaustion, the door opened. The world spun as he collapsed to his knees, teeth chattering and tears of equal joy and pain spilling from his eyes. The last things he heard were slurred, anxious voices, worried words before his eyes fell shut and the world turned black.
.
"...by God, I feel awful, Francis, what if we had left him outside?"
"Arthur, I have told you three damn times, it was not your fault! Now stop being a self-pitying idiot and help me change this cloth."
"You two! Stop arguing, and- oh! He's awake!"
Matthieu looked around blearily, his surroundings vague and blurred. He could make out a warm fireplace, and a little tea-cart next to him, holding a teapot, tea cup, candelabrum and mantel clock. What the hell...? Where am I?
And then it all came back to him: Ivan, the woods, the wolves, the castle... that had to be where he was. Someone must have brought him in, and...
He looked down. He was sitting in a cosy chair, surrounded by soft cushions, covered with a warm duvet. His hands were bandaged and he was... cleaner? His feet were resting comfortably, boots removed, on a golden ottoman. There was a damp, lukewarm cloth on his forehead, which fell off and landed on his chest. Slowly, he raised an arm to move it and immediately cried out in pain. His arm was on fire, and tears formed in his eyes at the sudden movement. "No, no, no, stay still!" cried a male voice, the second one that he had heard earlier. "Your arms are very bruised, moving will hurt."
He tried to respond, but his voice wouldn't work. "Don't try to talk, sweetie, you'll only hurt yourself more. You've been through a lot, just rest and let us do the work, okay?" Who... who's saying all this? That one was female. She was the one who had noticed he was awake, but he couldn't see any people, let alone three. "Here, have some tea. That'll warm up your throat. Use your left arm, not your right. I think that one's a little better." He heard tea being poured into a cup. "Slowly now."
"Can I say hello to the guest, Miss Eliza?" A new voice - a child's.
"Not yet, Feli, we don't want to bother him. You remember how the last one reacted. Just stay quiet for now."
"Okay, Miss Eliza."
Slowly, Matthieu did as suggested, and raised his left arm very gently, moving it towards the teacup. He winced, but it wasn't that bad, and he gratefully sipped at the tea. It tasted like heaven - warm and sweet and perfect. His throat felt better, and this time, he managed to croak out a weak, "Thank you."
"Don't worry, cher, it's no trouble," reassured the male voice.
"Don't speak too soon," grumbled the very first voice, a decidedly grumpier one that spoke in a strange accent. "When the furball finds out, he won't be pleased."
"Now, now, Arthur," said the second male patronisingly. "Be nice. The 'furball' is royalty, after all, and he is one of my best friends."
"Oh, he's royalty, all right, a royal pain in my ar-" The voice froze mid-word, realising that he was in front of a guest, a woman and a child. "...neck. I say!" he exclaimed. "No wonder the boy hasn't reacted to us yet, he needs his glasses!"
"Ah, for once, the clock is useful. Hand them over, Kirkland."
"Francis, no, wait-"
He felt a sudden thud of weight on his chest and suddenly found his glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. He blinked, only to be faced with the candelabrum he had seen earlier, standing on his chest. How did it move? It was on that tea tray a second ago. To his astonishment, as he looked closer, he could make out a little face on the wax and intricately carved metal holdings of the candles. Two distinct eyes, a wax nose and an opening right above the metal body resembling a mouth. The candelabrum gave him a friendly grin. "Hello."
Matthieu screamed - or tried to. The most noise he could make was a scratch, hoarse cough that somewhat conveyed his terror. The clock now joined the candelabrum and smacked it with a stubby little wooden arm. "Now look what you've done! Gone and scared the boy, you have. The last thing he wants to see after nearly dying is your hideous face."
"I hardly think you can talk about hideousness, cher," replied the candelabrum dryly, flicking the clock to the floor with a candle, who landed with a shriek.
"Why, you little-" began the clock, advancing on the candelabrum, little pendulum swinging wildly in its case, much faster than before, but was interrupted by the teapot, who had opted to stay put on the tea tray.
"You idiots," she exclaimed exasperatedly. "You're disturbing the poor thing, he's been through so much already, and there is no need to force any more sudden realisations-"
"Can I say hello now, Miss Eliza?"
Matthieu looked down at his hand to see the little teacup looking pleadingly with a face of its own at the teapot, and promptly fainted.
.
When Matthieu awoke for the second time, he was sure that he had been dreaming. He would wake up in a little bed, in a little cottage, in a little town, a quiet village. He would feel the wooden frame through the straw, groan sleepily and stretch out the kinks in his back and neck before stumbling out of his room to dunk himself into the river to clean himself up and come to a rather rude, uncomfortable awakening from his sleepy haze. Alfred would have already gone out into the woods for a walk, and Matthieu would, once he had returned to the house and gotten dressed, go out and shop, before preparing an edible breakfast, compared to Alfred's disgusting, oily meals that Matthieu and his poor stomach had now forbidden. He let out a sigh of relief. Thank God. That was weird; my dreams are usually pretty sensible. That one was just... I don't even know what to say about it.
However, when he actually did open his eyes, he was instead awoken in a familiar room, in a familiar chair, with four worried figures next to him on a tea tray - none of them even remotely human.
He opened his mouth in shock, jaw dropping at the realization: It wasn't a dream! He tried to find something, anything to say, but no words came.
"Before you say anything," interrupted the candelabrum, "let us do our job properly, and offer you a meal. You look absolutely starved, cher, and I promise, after we do this for you, you will have all the explanations you like." An explanation sounds nice, and... His stomach rumbled at the thought of food, and the candelabrum smirked at the sound, taking it as agreement. "Très bien. Now! To the dining room!"
"Not so fast, matchstick," interjected the clock, glaring at the candelabrum. "He can barely hold a cup of tea, let alone walk. Use whatever little brains you have before you open your mouth. Besides, there is absolutely no way I will allow you to host another one of your dinners." He spoke the word with utter disdain and contempt. "Let's not forget what happened the last time that happened. Hmph. 'Dinners'. Loud, bothersome affairs."
"But, Arthur," protested the candelabrum, looking wounded. "I was overexcited then, and the lady herself said that she found it amusing. Come on, I promise I'll keep it very professional."
"Absolutely not. I forbid it." The clock stood firm, crossing his arms and glaring at the candelabrum, who glared right back.
The teapot rolled her eyes and hopped closer to Matthieu. "Would you like us to bring you some soup, dearie?" she suggested quietly, smiling up at him. "I woke the pots up about an hour ago. I think some good chicken soup would do you good."
Matthieu nodded gratefully. Well... they're not that bad. They've been nothing but kind to me - they must've been the ones that brought me in. Besides, this is all rather magical. I kind of feel bad for my reaction earlier. Oh, no, I probably offended them.
"-you insolent candlestick!"
"Rusted, stuck-up rosbif!"
"Wax brain!"
"No brain!"
"Excuse me?!"
Matthieu cleared his throat softly, causing the two to stop bickering and look at him. He managed to whisper hoarsely, "Thank you-," he broke into a fit of coughing, "-for everything. You're very... very kind." His voice was returning, and he was slowly speaking, stopping whenever he felt a cough building. His throat still felt raw and dry, but the tea earlier had helped a lot. "Sorry for... reacting so rudely... earlier. I was... startled."
The candelabrum gave him a charming smile. "It's no problem, cher. In fact, I am sorry for surprising you earlier."
The teapot let out a happy squeak. "Oh, it's my pleasure, darling. It's been so long since we've had a guest, we love having you here."
"No wonder you were startled," muttered the clock, although he too looked rather proud of himself. "We aren't exactly the prettiest sights. Still, I'm pleased you're enjoying our service, my boy, we do try." He seemed to realise something, and gasped. "Oh, heavens, we haven't introduced ourselves. My apologies for that. I am-"
"-not handling this," finished the candelabrum, knocking the clock out of the way and fixing himself in the centre of Matthieu's attention. "I shall deal with the introductions. Firstly, this lovely lady here," he gestured at the teapot, "is one Miss Elizaveta Héderváry. I have to give credit where it is due - she is the one who masterminded your care, despite the fact that she was quite soundly asleep when we found you. She is the chief maid of this castle and a very good one at that."
"Shush, Franny," giggled Elizaveta, fondly smacking him with her handle. "And just call me Lizzie, or Eliza, darling, everyone does. It's lovely to have you here, really. It's been so long since we had a guest. Please make yourself at home."
"Et moi!" exclaimed the candelabrum with a flourishing bow, little flames flaring up from the little candles on his arms. "Je m'appelle Francis Bonnefoy, I am- er, was the royal chef and best cook in the land-"
"And the most humble," mumbled the clock grumpily.
"-and I am absolutely delighted to meet you," continued Francis, ignoring the clock. "If you ever need anything, please let me know, cher, I am at your service." Another sweeping bow and a swishing of the flames. The clock and the teapot both rolled their eyes at that.
The clock cleared his throat. "I think you're forgetting someone, Bonnefoy," he said pointedly.
"Hmm?" The candelabrum raised an eyebrow in mock confusion. "Oh." He waved an arm offhandedly down to Matthieu's feet. "And this is Aster. He's one of the dogs."
To Matthieu's alarm, his footrest, at the sound of 'Aster', started bouncing up and down, yapping excitedly. Matthieu's feet fell to the floor as the 'dog' starting prancing around the room, raising quite the racket. This occurred much to the panic of the fussy little clock, who immediately began leaping up and down, shushing the dog. "Quiet!" it hissed. "Aster! Quiet down, boy, you'll wake the whole bloody house- oh, Lord, please, stop!"
The dog only began barking louder when it noticed someone paying attention to it, and immediately noticed Matthieu, pawing at his lap with two stubby little legs. Matthieu let out a hoarse little laugh; he liked dogs - he had owned one when he was young, a fluffy white dog that, as Matthieu had realised when he was older, hadn't cared about him very much. Still, he had adored it. This... was certainly weird, but surely a footrest-dog wasn't that different from a normal one? Matthieu reached over to it and tentatively scratched at the golden, adorned material covering it. The dog was thrilled; it yapped excitedly and nudged against Matthieu lovingly.
Francis chuckled quietly at the scene. "Aww," cooed Elizaveta delightedly. "I already like this one better than the last," she whispered to Francis, at a volume that she thought Matthieu couldn't hear. The compliment warmed him, and he couldn't help a little smile as Francis nodded in agreement.
"Well, now you've done it, Francis!" snapped the clock, jumping back up onto the tea tray. "Splendid! Just peachy! The prince is going to wake up and then we're all done for! Except perhaps Elizaveta, but the point remains that-"
"Arthur," began Francis, draping a placating arm around the clock. "Please, calm down. No one enjoys hearing you speak like this. Or at all. This," he turned to Matthieu, shoving the clock forward as if to present him, "is our resident worry-wart, Arthur Kirkland."
"Head butler!" corrected Arthur angrily. "Head butler, and I am in charge here, as certain candlesticks-"
"Candelabra," interjected Francis.
"-candlesticks seem to forget." He took a deep breath, closing his eyes as if to compose himself, and reopened them with a polite smile. "It is wonderful to welcome you to our castle, sir, and a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Please let me know if there is anything at all I can do for you. I must apologize for As- the dog," he amended hurriedly, noticing the pup itself look up at the almost-sound of his name, "and also Francis. May we know your name, sir?"
Matthieu winced at the use of 'sir'. "Matthieu," he whispered. "Matthieu... Williams." He had always preferred to use the 'Williams' half of his last name - his father's name, in contrast to Alfred's use of 'Jones'. Alfred had always gotten along better with their mother.
Francis smiled gently. "Well, it's lovely to meet you, Matthieu. We hope that-"
"Francis? Who're you talking to? Jesus Christ, man, it's the middle of the damn nigh- is that someone in my chair?"
A new voice, behind him. One that brought fear to Arthur's face, widened Francis' eyes and made Elizaveta hop forward protectively towards the voice. "Now, Gil," she said calmly, a threatening edge to her voice. "Don't overreact. I think you should go back to sleep."
A fierce growl. "The hell, Liz? I thought I told you that no one else is allowed to enter this castle?"
Matthieu felt a thrill go through him - not one of excitement, but one of fear. The earlier magic was gone, replaced by this voice, threateningly low tones, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Not again... what's happening? He tried to turn in his chair, but the candelabrum touched his arm lightly. "Don't worry, cher, everything's fine," he whispered.
"Everything is not fine, Francis!" That voice again. "Why is he here? To steal? To kill me? What's the reason this time?"
"Gilbert, he was dying,"pleaded Francis. "We had to take him in. The wolves nearly got him-"
"Your Highness," interjected Arthur, stepping forward and bowing. "Deepest apologies for waking you, but this boy is harmless. He can barely move, and he doesn't seem like a thief at all. Although, just for your information, this was Francis' idea," he added quickly.
"Save your speeches, Arthur," snapped the voice. "I'll ask this guy myself."
"Gil," began Elizaveta, hopping towards the voice again. "Use that tiny brain of yours, this could be- hey!"
A shadow. A massive shadow, a huge shape, moving too fast for Matthieu to get a clear view. Eventually, it settled in front of him, towering over the boy in the chair, huddled up in his warm blankets which no longer felt quite as warm. Matthieu felt horror building up in his stomach and the cold hand of fear gripping his heart. The creature bared its teeth at Matthieu in a malicious grin. "And I thought I looked like garbage."
Hey guys!
I'm so sorry this chapter took so long to upload - there were a few incidents and I actually lost the entire thing at one point, not to mention the amount of thinking I had to do to think of the best way for Matthieu to meet Gilbert (I'm still not happy with it -_-) and loads of stuff in general happening in my life. But it's up now! And from here, it should be pretty smooth sailing when it comes to writing.
And now, for the thanks:
Firstly, random Matthew Williams on shamchat! Thank you for listening to me rant about my writers' block and helping me think of the best way to write Gilbert. That last line was for you ;)
Secondly, everyone who followed, favourited and of course, reviewed! It honestly made me so happy aaaaa thank you so much.
That's all for now, but that second thank you leads me into my last thing to say - I absolutely love reading reviews, whether they are positive or constructive criticism (if you're going to leave constructive criticism, please mention exactly what it was I did wrong so I can fix it, because hate messages aren't helpful), so feel free to leave a review telling me what you thought!
I hope you've enjoyed my story so far, and the second part of this chapter didn't turn out as well as I wanted it to, but don't worry, I promise I'll edit and the next one will be so much better.
Thank you all and I hope you have an awesome day!
- Cass
EDIT: I AM SO SORRY OMG THE EDITING WAS TERRIBLE BEFORE I'M ONLY JUST GOING TO AND FINDING ALL OF THESE MISTAKES WTF
