Warning for this chapter — language, mention of drug usage, and nothing that important. Just the usuals, really.

Arthur still remembers back when he was a five-years old, all clumsiness and limbs like a walking wreckage waiting to be fulfilled. Those have been the good days, when he hated the rain back in London as every snotty-nosed kid stuck indoors should, instead of loving it out of some twisted sense of obligation towards his former country. America neatly messed that arrangement over. Up became down. Left became right. Hate became love, and love became a slimy black-eyed leech ready to suck your heart dry.

While he has never been in love, those words still ring true like a harbinger of what's about to come.

...Not that Arthur knows it. He only thinks the metaphor is aesthetically pleasing— a thought which he would wish to take back in the days to come.

The blond also remembers something that his mum has said to him back then. In those days, she didn't act like a glassy doll-eyed automaton with a cry too fake and a smile too wide. Once in a while, she would act like every other sane mother, cradling her children and fussing over their well-being. But the most memorable conversations happened when she was on antipsychotics, otherwise known in his childhood as Those Weird Pills That Makes Mum Act Even Weirder.

Vague memories flash before his eyes, until they transform into a full sequence.

"Sometimes the nicest people are the biggest meanies." She squeezed his cheeks, wearing that vacant drugged look. The young Arthur never understood his mum when she acted like that. "To be cruel, you have to be kind. To be kind, you have to be cruel."

"Does that mean I can take the biscuit?" he asked, fidgeting uncomfortably. That was all he wanted back then, really. That plate of biscuits on the kitchen table. His mother wasn't making any sense.

"You need to be meaner, Artie." Chipped nails stretched his pinched cheeks, causing him to wince slightly. "You need to be uglier. Be a monster. That's how you'll know people around you aren't pretending to love you, pretending to care."

He didn't understand, but what he did understand was that he really really wanted that biscuit on the plate. So he said, "Okay, mum."

Now that Arthur is twenty-two, he knows better than to trust his mother's words during an episode. The medication never worked. But little Arthur took his beloved mum's words to heart. He tried to be meaner, tried to make people hate him, and as a result, received a black eye the next day when he pushed a girl he liked into the sandpit.

Beneath the Bridge

... is both kind and cruel.

Chapter 4

"—ows? Hey, Artie! Artie? Arthur?"

"What?" Jolted out of his reminiscence, green eyes blink rapidly. His gaze lands on the frowning face of Alfred. A hand is still on his shoulder, as if about to shake him.

"You zoomed out there for a bit, man. You okay?"

He brushes the concern off. "I'm fine. Just remembered something..." Trailing off, Arthur raises an eyebrow at the other. "Shouldn't I be asking you that question? We are, quite literally, at your funeral, after all."

"Just," the American seems to struggling to get his voice to work, "—peachy."

The two ghosts stand together side by side behind the crowd of living, mourning for the dead. It appears that Alfred's corpse has been laid under earth already, but many people have chosen to dawdle behind. They are weeping openly, none of them even attempting to hide their sorrow. The tears are there for everyone to see, grief for everyone to share.

The variety of college students is quite the sight to behold. There can easily be over fifty people lingering behind, not to mention the amount that have left after the ceremony ended. All of them wears black. "Alfred F. Jones" says the resplendent new plaque, and Alfred certainly seems to be an exceptionally popular boy amongst his peers, loved by everyone.

By chance, Arthur catches sight of a familiar bespectacled blond with a white bear, standing near the front. Arthur frowns, struggling with his memories. Now where has he seen... the fast food restaurant...

Matthew!

It suddenly clicks, and he vaguely recalls the boy mentioning a brother who died. Matthew must have been referring to Alfred! What a coincidence.

"I'm perfect," the other ghost is laughing nervously. "I mean, I'm only just chillaxin' at my own funeral, talkin' to the dead spirit of a dude that I killed. I'm totally perfect and peachy 'bout it. No problem there at all. Nope."

"There's no reason to fear, you idiot. Nobody's blaming you." The Briton rolls his eyes. "Do you even listen to the things going on around you?"

And maybe Alfred hasn't, because that's the only possible reason he is acting fidgety and flighty like that. Nobody has ever complimented Arthur the way they praise and weep for the boy. His eulogy is emotional and personally crafted, instead of the half-baked version Arthur's family has ripped off from somewhere on the internet. The falling sunshine scorches against exposed skin, but none of the mourners makes even the slightest motion to move for shelter, all entranced by the solemn mood surrounding the grave.

"But—"

"No. Listen to me, you prat." Arthur grabs the other's shoulders and forces them to face each other. "Walk around here, and just listen. Hear what all of your associates, family and friends are saying about you. You'd be a fool to still think they are blaming you."

Blue eyes stare widely at him, and the fright in them makes him reconsider— makes him wonder if there's perhaps some other reason behind all of it. But slowly, albeit hesitantly, the boy nods.

"Alright." He swallows. "Yeah, okay."

"Good. Now get to it."

When push comes to shove, Arthur generally prefers slamming the poor bloke's face in the mud instead, if that's what it takes to get his point across. The younger blond appears to notice the viciousness in the glare, because he quickly scampers off like a bat from hell. Before entering the crowd, the boy abruptly skids to a stop, looking uncertain. But a face-plant into the mud does not seem obligatory, because he eventually slips into the crowd, if not somewhat reluctantly.

"Idiot," the Briton scoffs.

With nothing to do while he waits, his eyes meander through the sea of faces, surprised by the amount of people he recognizes.

Kiku, the polite Japanese boy who he often passed by while going to work, is standing near the side with Yao, a common face at the tea house Arthur went to. Two Italian twins huddle in the middle. One wails loudly and clutches the other's arm in a death grip, while the other snarls and snaps in response. Traces of wetness can be found on both of their faces, which look oddly familiar, but Arthur can't recall where he has seen any of them.

As he wades through the crowd himself, the sandy blond hears quiet, heartfelt talks about the deceased boy. He keeps his ears open, wanting to learn more about Alfred— the person who he would likely have to tolerate for the rest of his ghostly existence. From snippets of phrases here and there, he constructs a mental image of the American when the boy was still alive.

Alfred F. Jones is eighteen years old. He is— well, was— going to a prestigious local university on scholarship, studying general science. Rumour has it that he plans to go into aerospace engineering, and he dreams of becoming an astronaut. (Arthur nearly laughs out loud at that.) The future is bright for the boy, as he excels both academically and socially. Even his physique is envied by peers.

Several people mention how generous and kind Alfred is, constantly coming to their aid in their dark hours. Optimistic and motivated, he is always laughing and making everyone laugh. From the way they are mourning for the boy, it's as if their sun has died out along with him.

Alfred, their golden boy. Their hero.

Perfect.

Flawless.

Too flawless.

Such a flawless person doesn't exist, and yet Alfred does. It's as if—

A familiar clump of wavy hair catches Arthur's attention, successfully breaking his train of thoughts. He stops, spinning around. A glimpse of the man's face, hidden behind the back of a woman, gives him an unpleasant surprise.

Francis. What is that bloody frog doing here?

Twisting in between the array of people— because he still doesn't like materials passing through him— Arthur moves closer.

The woman's long brown hair drapes over her face, blocking her facial features. She and the Frenchman are situated far off from the other mourners, their body language suggesting that they're engaged in a private conversation. The woman is tense, and in any other circumstances, he would think that Francis is sexually harassing the poor young brunette. But the other man's voice is hushed and serious, lecherous hands kept to himself for once.

"—just like that incident, don't you agree?"

Fully within hearing range now, Arthur listens in. It's not exactly eavesdropping if you're not making an avid attempt to hide yourself, right?

Details become clearer now that he is closer. The brunette is wearing a black hair tie and an equally black dress. Her green eyes show tiny signs of puffiness, and her lips are curled downwards into a frown. But what confounds him is Francis's expression.

The mood of the conversation is strange.

"What do you mean?"

Very strange.

"Elizaveta, ma chère, pretence does not suit you."

"Who's pretending?" the girl says defensively, folding her arms. "I just don't know what you're trying to say."

"You do know. All of us involved knows. We're all thinking about it, but none of us wants to say it." Francis pauses, a faraway expression on his face as he watches the sun drift closer to the horizon. Then he blinks, smiling bitterly. "That incident two years ago was all over the local news."

Incident two years ago? Arthur blinks. What is the frog going on about?

Elizaveta also blinks innocently, but the tenseness of her shoulders gives her away. "I don't know what you're talking about." She laughs edgily. "Sheesh, Francis! Go away, you pervert. We're here in front of Alfred's grave. Bug me some other time."

She tries to push past him, but the man is unrelenting.

"Maybe I'll say it in a way that you can't avoid then," Francis says solemnly. "I'm talking about the reason why they implemented those useless suicide nets on the bridge."

The suicide net that saved Peter, but failed to catch Alfred and him— Arthur thinks, trying to warp his mind around the conversation. What...

"Stop. Don't say anymore."

"Two figures on a rainy night, standing near the edge of the bridge. Just like how it happened to Alfred, except this was two years ago. It's almost a pure mimicry of the event, actually."

"Stop. Stop. Stop..." Elizaveta's hands clamp over her ears.

What... is this?

"—Except only one fell that time, two years ago." A dark expression morphs Francis's face. There's a hiss at the end of his words, and he starts spitting each syllable out faster and faster as anger takes hold. "In the end, they ruled it as suicide, but no. We both know him. We both know he wouldn't leave Ludwig without a family. We both know he wouldn't have voluntarily jumped off that bridge. We both know Gilbert Beilschmidt was pushed—"

"Stop!" The sudden snarl quiets the entire crowd, and bewildered heads turn in their direction. "What are you looking at?" The woman sends deadly glares at the curious faces, and they hastily return to their own business.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, Elizaveta rubs her forehead, regarding the man as if trying to figure out what to do with him. She grabs him by his tie, pulling down so that they are face to face with each other. "Don't," she hisses, "mention that name, ever, if you know what's good for you. What's good for us all. What's over is over and done with. We need to move on."

"Not all of us are content to let the past rest," Francis says. But the venom is still evident in his voice, like cracks distorting his facade of calmness. "I won't sit still and let history repeat itself again. Mon dieu! I refuse to let the killer run freewhile my dearest friends were murdered— while they were drowned beneath that wretched bridge!"

The conviction behind those words startle Arthur, forcing the ghost to hover a few steps back. He has never seen his co-worker so wound up, breaths ragged and seething out of sheer bitterness.

Slowly, the tie slips from Elizaveta's hand.

"I can't stop you."

"I'm afraid not, ma chère." Francis smiles sadly, the strength draining from his body. With the weary look on his face, he seems years older than before. "Sorry."

"Just..." she struggles to find the right words. "Be careful, alright? Don't do anything stupid."

"Thank you. Coming from a beautiful lady like you, the concern flatters me."

The Frenchman offers her a genuine smile. She snorts in response.

"Don't think that I'm saying this for you," Elizaveta snaps, but her eyes soften. "It's just... there's been enough funerals lately. No need to add to the body count."

"I will keep that in mind, Elizaveta. Nonetheless, thank you for listening to me."

After the woman departs, Francis gazes off into the horizon again, a withdrawn look where his usual promiscuous smirk is supposed to be. Fingers are absentmindedly fiddling with a ring on his hand, delicately caressing the edges as if it's something very valuable. While Arthur would not concede they are close, only being regular drinking buddies, even he can tell that the frog is not being his usual self today.

Thoroughly confused and feeling as if he has witnessed something private, Arthur decides to make himself scarce. But one final, barely audible utterance slithers into his ears before he gets too far away.

"The killer shall not go unpunished. May you finally rest in peace after this, my love."

It isn't until later that he realizes that the direction Francis is gazing at is the direction of his grave. But when he does, a gut intuition tells him that maybe things aren't so straightforward as he initially thought. That maybe it's not simple coincidence at work, but some supernatural, unidentifiable force driving the cogs behind the scenes. That maybe they're all toys, at the whims of some sinister plot out there.

That maybe there's more to this absurd story of deaths and ghosts than it initially seems.

It's a while later that Alfred returns, his gait significantly lighter than before. It's like a weight has been lifted from him, rendering his demeanour cheerful and relaxed. While there's still strains of uneasiness, his smile is far brighter in comparison to before.

"Hey."

"I'm right, aren't I?" says Arthur.

The sunny blond grins. "Yeah," he admits. "Nobody hates me. They all said nice stuff about me, said they all miss me. They're all real kind about it."

Kind.

Arthur nods his head slowly, wondering just why that word sounds so wrong when—

To be cruel, you have to be kind.

The tiny trigger of memory causes him to freeze, and he sharply pivots around to face the other. Blue eyes behind rectangle frames blink innocently.

"They're real kind, you say?"

"Yeah." The confused look Alfred shoots him makes him doubt himself. Perhaps he is over-thinking it. What with that bizarre conversation between Francis and the young lady, his paranoia is probably just triggering overboard. "Said I was a good person, that I've really made a big difference in their lives. Said I really was a great help to them, and that I'll always be remembered."

It's probably nothing, the Briton decides. Of course. Why does some nonsense uttered by his mother over a decade ago still haunt him today?

"An accident. That's what they call it." Alfred turns away from the other ghost, hands in his pocket. "Funny thing, huh? I was tryin' to save you from going splat on the ocean surface, maybe talk you out of suicide or something. But look at how that turned out." There's a faint chuckle. "I ended up dunkin' us both straight into the afterlife. Hollywood style. 'S a shame it could 'a used some better sound effects though."

Arthur thinks he only imagined the tremor in those words, so he doesn't interrupt.

"But you never needed saving did ya, 'brows? You don't seem like the sort that lets life get 'em down."

"No. I'm too busy complaining about life and insulting every single living being to contemplate the merits of ending my life." He rolls his eyes, snorting softly. "Excuse me if I'm not a damsel in distress that requires saving."

"Naw, I figure you're more of a grouchy old fire-breathing dragon with bad breaths instead. Sure fits your temper, right?"

"Roar," Arthur deadpans.

Blinking in surprise, Alfred bursts out into uncontrollable laughter. His body is shaking, arms clutching at his tummy as if it's the funniest thing he heard in a long time. Tears trail from one corner of his eye, although whether it's remnant from before or from laughing too hard, Arthur doesn't know. It leaves the Briton faintly annoyed, wondering if what he said isn't clearly sarcastic enough.

But seeing the genuine grin, it's hard to stay mad at the boy.

By now, the mourners are beginning to disperse, each face wearing a various degree of tiredness. Meanwhile, Arthur keeps a distracted watch on Francis, who is currently wading his way to a small figure who sits alone on the grass in front of the new grave. The man crouches down, speaking quietly to Matthew. The boy seems to acknowledge the man, the clutch on his bear loosening as he stands up. Arthur really wants to hear what they're saying, but—

"You're hilarious, did I ever tell you that?" Alfred wipes a tear from the corner of his eyes, finally managing to compose himself. "Speakin' of which, where are you stayin' at?"

Attention momentarily diverted back, the Briton offers the perfectly intelligent response of, "Huh?"

"I mean." Alfred gestures with his hand. "Where did 'ja stay, these past few days?"

"I switched around different motels, residing in empty rooms." After all, there's no way Arthur plans to stay in his household, after what happened. Then, he adds darkly, "Until two wankers came barging in, eating each other's face out, undergarments flying everywhere before I can even get out! I swear, people lack decency these days."

"Sounds tough, man." Raising an eyebrow, the other ghost offers him a playful look. "Sure ya didn't barge into a brothel instead?"

"Yes. Well, no..."

He considers this. There did seem to be usually high numbers of wall bangings and bed squeakings last night, even for a typical— if not somewhat shady— motel. The women there also wore bizarre clothes, which he politely averted his eyes for. And those gaudy, tasteless displays and rosy lights...

Blimey. It was a brothel, wasn't it?

"Gawd, you've actually mistaken a brothel for a motel?" Alfred guffaws, looking at him like he's a real special snowflake out of the billion other special snowflakes. "You're a smashin' piece of art, aren't ya, 'Artie'?"

Rendered mute in horror by his blatant mistake, it takes a while for the Briton's brain to recover from its meltdown.

"...That has to be the worst pun I've heard."

"You must not hear many then, 'cause I got tons more up my sleeves." Leading the way, the sunny blond follows the flow of people as they begin to leave the graveyard. The two ghosts blend in perfectly, and if not for the occasional hands or shoulders that poke through their immaterial bodies, it would almost feel like they're still alive. "So anyways, I got this place near here. Used to be my uncle's house, but he's in Canadia or something right now, and—"

"Canada, you mean."

"Right. Ca-na-dia. So as I was saying, we can stay there. Maybe figure out what's going on with all this ghost thing, y' know? I mean, there's gotta be a reason why we turned into creepy weird non-existent beings. Haven't seen any other of us invisible guys cruisin' around, so there's gotta be something that's up."

"Sure." Arthur's ready to agree with anything at this rate, as long as it gets them out of there. The uneasy feeling from before re-surges, even as he tries to suppress it. "Certainly better than staying at a brothel."

Just as Alfred is about say something else, a large group of people interrupts and passes straight through them, earning surprised yelps from both ghosts.

The two Italian twins are bickering, followed by a distracted Antonio. The latter is, incidentally enough, another one of Arthur's acquaintance. Just how many mutual friends do he and Alfred share? Once in a while, the Spaniard would join Francis and Arthur at the pub. He is a good-natured man, constantly endorsing a smile on his face. But today, just like many other smiles, it's been turned upside down.

"Hey, Feli."

"Yup?" One of the twins tilts his head in a ditzy fashion.

"You're on the case with Ludwig, right?" Without waiting for a reply, Antonio continues with a hint of melancholy in his words. "Do you know what really happened to Alfred and Arthur? I just can't believe they both fell off the bridge accidentally."

Another boy, who Arthur doesn't recognize, chimes in. "Yeah, c' mon. Tell us what happened."

Gossip attracts people like bead-eyed insects to the flame. Words spread around, and soon, the group festers into practically triple its original size. Alfred fidgets beside him, nervously not looking at his supposed "friends" for some reason. They don't seem like very good friends to Arthur, at least.

Blinking in confusion, the Italian asks, "Arthur is the man that fell off the bridge with Alfred, right?"

"Yes. He's... a good friend of mine, actually."

"Oh. Um, sorry! I didn't know. That's horrible." The one named Feli hesitates. "Ve, I'm not supposed to say anything, or else Luddy's gonna get mad at me."

His voice becomes hushed.

"But someone saw it happen. We have, um, what's that word? A witness."

Whispers of "woah"s and "what"s follow, as Feli's attempt at secrecy crashes and burns. It's like a school game of telephone, the closest person passing the information onto the rest of the mass. The vagueness only seems to spark more interest, more gaps to be filled with outrageous not-lies.

"The witness said the smaller man was pushed," he explains. "And, ve, the Arthur man was a lot shorter than Alfred."

"Alfred pushed the other dude?" Someone in the crowd gasps.

Visibly, Alfred stiffens.

"No way Al would do something like that, right?"

"Of course not!" The other, grumpier, Italian twin snipes at the rest. "Remember who we are talking about here!"

Uneasy glances are exchanged, as murmurs fill the crowd.

"But there's a witness..."

"He wouldn't... would he?"

"—Maybe but..."

"—I...don't know..."

With each uncertain phrase, the sunny-haired ghost crumbles a little. The previous cheer are completely gone now, and the frightened look returns with a renewed vengeance. Blue eyes are concentrating on nothing in particular, and clammy hands are squeezed tightly into a fist. It's as if he's chanting, "I knew it. I knew it. I knew it..." in his mind.

"Hey," Arthur begins, a hand awkwardly stopping in the air midway. How are you supposed to comfort someone in a situation like this? "Al—"

"Alfred wouldn't do that!" One of the guys bursts out laughing. "Dude, he's a nice guy. He ain't capable of something like that."

The relief is great, as the crowd eagerly eats up this reasoning. They glance at each other, chuckling.

"Yeah, right?"

"I know! What were we thinking—"

"Actually, Alfred is very capable of something like that."

A lone voice pierces through the crowd. It's soft and nervous, barely audible. But the resulting silence creates a huge impression, as everyone simultaneously turns towards the source of the dissent.

A boy steps out, and— it's Matthew! Arthur's eyes widen. The frail blond is clutching onto the strange bear like it's a life line. The intensity of the squeezing makes it seem like he wants the Earth to swallow him up than be at the centre of attention. He opens his mouth, as if wanting to say something, but no sound comes out.

A reassuring hand clasps his shoulder, and Matthew gives Francis, who has came up behind him, a grateful smile. "Thanks," he mouths back.

"What do you mean?" Antonio is the first to break the silence.

"I-I..." It takes two tries, but the boy's voice stabilizes as he addresses the people around him. It grows clearer and more confident as he continues on. "You all k-know me as Alfred's b-brother. There's... something that you should all know. I didn't tell anyone because I was afraid, but it'd be unfair to the other person. To the other person who died along with my brother."

"Me?" Arthur gapes.

"There's something you should all know about my brother," Matthew says. "He was very much capable of pushing someone off the bridge out of malice."

The erupted shock that sears through the crowd renders everyone temporarily speechless, until the whispery gossips set in again like the noises of buzzing flies.

"What? But..."

"—Is his brother. He might know something—"

"Alfred did that? I thought..."

"—Not surprisingly, actually. Since—"

"Now that you think 'bout it..."

"Matthew wouldn't lie about this—"

"What are you all shitheads talking about?" Surprisingly, it is the angry Italian that comes to the rescue. "This is Alfred. That idiot meathead doesn't know how to kill someone!"

"Lovi is right," Antonio interjects, looking perplexed. "Alfred is nice and kind to everyone. Why would you say so, Matthew?"

Shakily, the bespectacled blond inhales a breath, as if to prepare himself for what he is about to reveal. "Yes, my brother's kind. But sometimes the kindest people are the cruelest. I know, because I am a victim myself."

To be cruel, you have to be kind.

This time, Matthew stares straight into the eyes of people. For the tinniest interval, those blue eyes gloss over Arthur's, and he is struck by the seriousness and vehemence of the boy's resolve. They are hardened steel, ready to see through his action to the end.

And he says: "Because when we were sixteen, Alfred purposefully pushed me down two flights of stairs. I received several broken bones, bruises, a concussion, and had to be admitted to the hospital for months."

Silence.

If people are surprised last time, this new piece of information receives even greater exclamations of astonishment. Everyone starts speaking, an agitated assembly of opinions and judgements broadcasted all at once. The views are beginning to turn against the deceased blond, increasing in negativity. Somewhere near Matthew, Francis is smiling in contentment, as if he has accomplished something to be proud of.

But Arthur's caring about none of that. He's trying desperately to find the ghost who has just been separated from him in the chaos.

It doesn't take long. Alfred is only a few steps away from him, frozen in place motionlessly like a statue.

Even as hurtful words drown out Lovi's indignant complaints and Antonio's appeal for peace, the boy doesn't move or utter a sound. His expression is blank, but in a different way than normal, like he's desperately trying to keep his face that way. Like he's desperately trying to hide.

The boy is a brilliant actor, but even he is not able to disguise it entirely this time.

If you ask Arthur, he would say that...

This time, Alfred looks betrayed.

A/N: Someone here is a liar. The question is who. -plants hint- The guesses are free, if you wanna take a shot at what's going on. Lots of emotional stuff this chapter. All these new characters (Elizaveta, Antonio, etc) you will encounter again in later chapters. Bwahaha, the plot is finally coming in. (After, like, what. 15k words?)

So, anyone confused yet? Drop me a PM or a review, and I can explain. Tell me if things are going too fast, 'cause I'm still new at keeping pace by chapter. Again, thanks to everyone who reviewed last time. It's nice to hear what others think, 'cause I myself don't know what to think.

-Edge