Chapter 2

"And reach down," the leather-faced lady with waist-length graying brown hair intoned from the front of the room, "and touch your toes… bring it up…"

Bring what up? Alfred couldn't help but wonder, but he straightened up as instructed, allowing his fingers to trail up the front of his legs until he was standing tall once more, his fingers touching the middle of his breastbone.

"Reach out in front of you…" the woman continued, "And take all of your anger, your regret, all of your unwanted emotions, and put them into a ball between your hands." She demonstrated by cupping her hands as though there were a sphere between them. Subtly, Alfred looked around, inwardly snorting at the looks on some people's faces. Varick looked a bit irritated at the futility of having a sociopath participate in this activity. Matthew had a look of intense concentration, as though literally pulling feelings from his skull and placing them within his pale, shaking fingers. Alfred inwardly sighed, and made a mental note to pay extra extra attention to his brother today. Making Mattie laugh was now officially his Heroic Mission of the Day.

"Bring that ball in…" the woman tucked her cupped hands to her breast, "And push it out." She flung her hands in front of her, fingers splayed as though she had dispersed the sphere out into the air.

Casting a glance beside him, he caught Francis leering at his crotch. Then again, 'caught' implies that the Frenchman was being secretive, while in reality he was blatantly licking his lips and raising his eyebrows like they were the last two guys left in the shower. Oh well. Getting checked out by Francis was a daily trial that ceased to affect you once you're used to it.

"There now, don't you all feel calmer?" Varick rolled his eyes, but most everyone else nodded, albeit a few reluctantly. Should they be ashamed that this kind of crap actually worked a little?

So of course the Gilbert and Ishmael chose that moment to come in.

"Okay everybody, lunchtime!" Ishmael crowed, "No running, got it?"

All the patients filed out of the room, with Alfred dashing to the front as soon as the Cuban turned his back. Matthew sighed as he brought up the back; for a moment, he actually thought that his brother was going to wait for him.

"Jones!"

Matthew sighed, staring at the ground as he waited for his brother to get yelled at again, when a pair of shoes stepped directly in front of his. Startled, he looked up only to see Ishmael not a foot from his face. "Don't think I don't see you lurking, Jones! What are you up to?"

"But I'm not Alfred…" Matthew tried to protest, but the orderly didn't seem to hear him.

"Come on, you're sitting right in front of me so I can keep an eye on you." A push to his shoulder was added for emphasis; it would have been nothing to his strong brother, but it was enough to send Matthew stumbling forward. Tripping over his own feet, he flung out his arms to cushion his impact to the ground –

Only to be caught and easily set upright by Gilbert. Matthew could feel his face heat up, and resumed staring resolutely at the ground. I'm so graceless, so stupid, so weak… Still, he could hear Gilbert snap at Ishmael, "Dude, what the hell! You can't go around pushing patients!"

"Jones was up to something! Honestly! I was just trying to get him to move, it's not my fault he's suddenly pathetic enough that one little nudge bowls him over!" Matthew's eyes filled with tears at that. Pathetic, pathetic… the word repeated in his head, each rotation stabbing his heart more painfully than the previous one. He sniffed, wiping his nose as it suddenly prickled with the feeling of mucus beginning to flow alongside the slowly dripping tears.

"This is Matthew Williams, you idiot! He's Jones' fucking twin brother! They aren't even completely identical!" In contrast how harshly the words were spat, Matthew was dully surprised at the gentleness with which the albino orderly brought his hand under Matthew's chin to bring his head up to show the Cuban. The blond sniffed harder and roughly wiped his eyes, ashamed of his tears.

"Now look what you've done, you asshole! You made him cry!" He heard Gilbert hiss.

A quick glance upwards showed Ishmael's shamed face to Matthew.

Ishmael's brain was clearly frantically scrambling. "Oh fuck, I'm so sorry, Matthew! I didn't know! I thought you were your brother and–" he was cut off as Matthew began to sob and cry even harder, upset that now Ishmael was upset and Gilbert was mad and it was all his fault because of his stupid face and he couldn't stop crying like a little baby…

He heard Gilbert growl at the Cuban just fucking go and help Berwald and 'Tonio, you're making it worse before, to his surprise, he was lifted up and carried swiftly into his room. He was deposited on the bed and heard the door shut.

He had no idea how long it took him to get a hold of himself, but got one of the worst shocks of his life when he realized that Gilbert was sitting patiently, straddling the desk chair and watching him. Matthew froze and stared right back, eyes glassy and doe-wide in surprise.

The albino broke the silence, voice strangely gruff and humorless in contrast to his usual cackle. "Feeling better?" Matthew nodded, still silent.

Gilbert leaned forward. "I don't mean do you no longer feel so absolutely crappy that you need to cry. I mean, do you actually feel better."

Matthew's eyes grew a tiny bit wetter as he shook his head no.

The white-haired man rubbed at his forehead. "I thought not." A pause. "Do you want to see Tino? I don't think he has any appointments right now…" Matthew shook his head again. Another pause. "Do you need anything?" Another head shake.

Gilbert stood from his chair, but rather than leaving as the Canadian expected, he walked over and knelt in front of where Matthew was sitting on the bed. "Is there anything that you want?"

Matthew made to shake his head again, but stopped. Before he could stop himself, his voice cracked as he asked, "C-could I please have a hug, please?"

The albino looked struck for a moment, but a slow smile spread over his face, his eyes glinting with their usual mirth. "You want a cuddle? Keskeskeskes! That is soooo cute!" He sat on the bed and pulled Matthew into his lap, wrapping his arms around him and slightly rocking him back and forth. Matthew sunk into the embrace immediately, burying his face in the man's neck as he listened to him talk. "I give awesome hugs! I haven't given a good one since West was little, though!"

Matthew sniffed, the feeling of being held so securely after so many years feeling alone enough to make his eyes water again. "Who's West?" He enquired softly, not really expecting an answer, but Gilbert surprised him again by actually hearing him.

"West is my little brother! You know him as Ludwig, aka Captain OCD."

Shocked, Matthew straightened to look Gilbert incredulously in the eyes. "Ludwig's your brother? But – you-"

"Yeah, I know," Gilbert chuckled, "I got all the looks, right?" He smirked and winked flirtatiously. Matthew blushed and embarrassedly looked away, but couldn't hold back a (embarrassingly girly) giggle, nor resist peeking back every few seconds to see if Gil was still looking at him that way.

He was.

And then he suddenly smiled instead of smirked, and kindly commented, "I really like it when you laugh, Birdie."

"Umm," Matthew stuttered, cheeks hot, suddenly very aware of their proximity, "I-is it allowed for you to be, um, hugging me like this?"

Gilbert shrugged. "Arthur'd probably get his panties in a twist, but if Sir Smokes-A-Lot can push people," an ugly look suddenly crossed his face, "I don't see why I can't give them awesome cuddles to make it better."

Matthew smiled softly, ducking his head just a bit to watch his fingers lightly brush against Gil's white orderly collar. "Thank you, Gil. I really do feel… better now."

"Anytime, liebling." Gilbert said sweetly, gently knocking their foreheads together. "If you're ever feeling down, you know where to find me, okay? I'll keep an eye out for you from now on." Matthew nodded, and Gilbert lifted him up slightly and placed him back on the bed, heading for the door.

"Oh and by the way, if you could do me a favor?" Gilbert paused to request.

"Anything!" Matthew replied eagerly.

"I don't want to mess up your therapy or whatever, but if you could maybe not tell everyone about the hugging? It's just that… being able to be around West is pretty important to me, and I'm liking this job more and more, if you know what I mean… I'd really hate to lose it."

Matthew's eyes went wide with understanding. "O-of course! I won't tell anyone, you can count on me!"

"Whoa, hold on." Gilbert held up a hand, "It isn't life or death. You could tell Tino if you want to during a session – he's a good guy – I'm just worried about Kirkland and Roderich. Arthur won't like it, and Roderich lives to tattle on everything I do, so he'll definitely tell Arthur. And even if it does get out, don't worry about it. My grandfather is friends with the owner of this place, he won't let me get fired. I'm just saying, don't… advertize. After all, my hugs are only for the most awesome of people." He finished with a wink. Matthew smiled a little and nodded in understanding.

Gilbert gave a half-salute and a mischievous grin and left, closing the door behind him.

Matthew flopped onto his bed, smile spreading across his face as he curled onto his side and wrapped his arms around his teddy bear, already thinking about ruby eyes and a curved smile.

It wasn't until rounds that night that Gilbert managed to catch up with Ishmael.

"Hey man," he leaned against the corner. Ishmael startled, but calmed down after seeing who it was.

"Shit, man, you're like a fucking ghost or something," The dark skinned male said. "And before you say anything, I feel fucking horrible about earlier. I honestly had no idea. I'm gonna get the kid some ice cream to try and make it up to him…"

Gilbert held up a hand. "I get it, it was a case of mistaken identity. 'S cool on that front. The real issue is why you would be treating Jones like a fucking criminal in the first place."

The Cuban scowled and rubbed at his eyes. "It's just… fuck man, I know this is fucked up, but I just can't help it. I know the kid has that 'hero complex or whatever, but…" he trailed off.

"I'm not a fucking mind-reader, Fishy." Gilbert reminded him.

"Don't fucking call me that, you 'tard." Ishmael growled. "It's just that… I'm always the fucking criminal with him! Like, more than half the time. I try to help a patient, and he swoops in saying that I'm going to hurt them! I try to help him and he tries to beat the crap out of me, saying I'm evil! And that motherfucker is strong, man! It's fucked up, but I'm just so fucking sick of him saying I'm a bad guy for no reason at all! I just get pissed off!"

Gilbert sighed. "I get it, dude. You just got to remember, the kid's sick in the head. It's not his fault. But… maybe you should tell Kirkland, 'cause it sounds to me like he's having delusions beyond a hero-complex here… it's sounding kind of…" he lowered his voice, "paranoid schizophrenic. Just saying, it might be in his best interest to get that checked out."

Ishmael nodded. "Thanks, man."

They stood in silence for a while. "…You can pay me back with some of that awesome weed you had last week."

"Hell no! Fuck off!

A/N: AHHHH! This chapter took on a life of its own! Still, I'm really pleased with it. I completely forgot how much I love writing.

And about Ishmael's nickname… Fishy… what? You don't think that Ishmael rhymes with Fish? *shot*

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